Outside the Bastion, the howling wind tried to force its way inside. Breezes clawed at reinforced glass, rattled the panes. Even with the windows closed and barred, he could hear the crashing surf. Stone buildings covered any flat space on the island, huddling against the persistent wind.
Even as rain streaked through the air, people continued their daily business. Women were still out planting herbs and succulents in cracks in the cliffs, using every small patch of fertile land. Goat herders grazed their animals among the mosses and lichens. Fishermen came in with their catch, braving the waves. Grieve would feast on fresh fish, as he did each night, while most of the catch was salted and preserved, or pressed into tanks with cabbage and vinegar that could ferment during the worst of the stormy season.
Out in the narrow harbor sheltered by high cliffs, wood-and-iron docks held the larger serpent ships that came in to deliver the plunder from Norukai raids. His people were not so weak as to worry about the weather, and this was just a small storm.
As he listened to the wind and thought about war, Grieve heard the clang of iron bells from the harbor cliffs. Sentries hammered the long hollow cylinders to announce the approach of a ship. It was not an alarm, because no one would dare attack the Norukai archipelago, a hundred islands on the charts and others too small to be worth recording. Each one was a fortress. The iron bells rang to spread word that some raiding party or explorer had returned to the harbor.
Grieve scratched his cheek, felt the long gash scar that ran from the corner of his lips to the back of his jaw—an intentional cut that had widened his mouth, the skin sewn up to leave his face looking serpentlike. Tattooed scales on his skin did even more to honor the serpent god. The king had other enhancements to his body, bone spines implanted in his shoulders, a sharpened hook through his left nostril. Rather than a belt, he wrapped an iron chain around his waist, and over the course of his life, Grieve had added one link for each man he had killed in personal combat. Now the chain belt circled his waist more than three times.
Grieve frowned at the white sticklike figure that pranced in front of the fireplace. The great hearth looked like the mouth of a dragon ready to breathe fire at the shaman who hovered there absorbing the warmth. He leaned so close to the flames that his albino skin reddened.
Hearing the bells, the pale figure cocked his head and jittered his arms. “It’s Captain Kor! Captain Kor has returned.”
“How do you know that, Chalk? It could be anyone.”
“I know. The bells ring in my head. The voices tell me what I can’t see with my own eyes, and my eyes see what I can’t imagine.” Squirming with energy, the shaman left the roaring fire and danced across the cold stone floor. “It’s Captain Kor, I know it.”
Those who saw Chalk for the first time often cringed, but Grieve saw only his friend. Chalk was naked except for a loincloth of stitched-together fish hides. His own skin was ghostly pale, as it had been since birth. His family had called him an abomination, shunned him.
His body was covered with countless small scars, where his skin had been ravaged with innumerable fish bites. When Grieve was a teen, his father King Stern ordered young Chalk to be thrown into a pool infested with man-eating razorfish. Their fangs tore his tender skin, drawing blood, tasting his flesh. But for some unknown reason, except that it was a blessing from the serpent god, the razorfish did not devour him. Young Grieve had dragged Chalk out of the pool and suffered savage bites while saving him.
The fish had eaten any soft and tender flesh: Chalk’s ears, part of his lips, his eyelids, his privates. The young albino recovered, thanks to Grieve’s tending—but he was never the same.
As a young man, Grieve had sensed Chalk’s power. King Stern was disgusted with the outcast, but Grieve befriended the scarred and half-mad youth, listened to his babblings. The horrific ordeal had awakened some strange manifestation of the gift in him, some kind of premonition.
Chalk had foreseen many things and even told Grieve when to challenge and kill his father. Since then, the albino had been at his side as his shaman and advisor. Even though Grieve often questioned his bizarre pronouncements and tried to clarify what Chalk saw in order to make the predictions useful, he never actually doubted the veracity of what the shaman knew.
“Are you certain it’s Captain Kor?” he repeated, knowing Chalk would not change his answer.
“It is Kor. Three ships. He’s back. I know it, my Grieve! King Grieve! They’ll all grieve!” He chattered the refrain like a mantra. He hopped from one foot to the other. “You’ll see. Listen to the bells. The ships will dock soon. Kor will come up, and he’ll tell you about your new war.”
“What war? I haven’t decided on a war.”
“You will, and you will know.”
Grieve crossed his arms over his sharkskin vest and leaned back in the throne. The storm continued to whistle and howl, and cold rain slashed against the glass windows. “If you’re correct, I’ll give you a treat.”
“More fish? Can I have more fish for my tank? I like the pretty fish.”
“We’ll see,” Grieve said. “But if you’re wrong, I’ll find a suitable punishment.”
Chalk skittered away, holding up his hands, touching his rough skin. “Don’t feed me to the fishes. Not the fishes. Not again. I am your Chalk. You are my Grieve. King Grieve. They’ll all grieve!”
The look of abject terror on the shaman’s face gave the king pause, and he spoke in a softer voice. “You know better. I would never feed you to the fishes.”
“Not to the serpent god either. Don’t chain me to the cliffs.”
“Not that either. You’re too valuable, and you’re my friend.”
“Grieve’s friend,” Chalk said in a quiet whimper. “They’ll all grieve.”
Trusting Chalk’s prediction, he knew that Captain Kor would come bearing a report of what he had seen at the city of Ildakar. Grieve looked forward to the news. Maybe Chalk would be right about the war, too.
In a bellowing voice, Grieve called for five slaves, who rushed into his throne room. With jerky movements they shuffled reverently toward the throne, two women and three men. During their training, many of the slaves serving in the Bastion had bones broken and then set improperly as a reminder. Grieve kept the slaves he needed here, while some were pressed into service throughout the Norukai islands, and the more valuable ones were sold. Anyone here in the Bastion was replaceable and worthless.
Grieve growled at them. “Prepare a meal to welcome our brave Captain Kor back so he can report on his expedition. Do we have enough fresh fish in the kitchens, or must I slaughter one of you so we feast on human flesh again?”
“A celebration!” Chalk cried, excited by the possibility.
Moaning, the slaves skittered backward. “We have fish, King Grieve,” said the oldest male slave, a man who had survived for nearly ten years in service. “Smoked fish and fresh fish. You need never resort to human flesh again.”
“What if I enjoy it?” Grieve asked, partly meaning it, but mostly to intimidate them. “One gets tired of fish. I like other kinds of meat.”
“I’ll have the kitchen prepare fish,” said the older slave. Emmett, yes, that was his name. The man always seemed to be here, though Grieve paid little attention to him. He wondered how adept the slave must be. Emmett was a survivor. Grieve didn’t normally like survivors, since that type often caused trouble. Maybe he would execute the man and roast him after all, though seeing Emmett’s gnarled hands and wrinkled face, the king suspected his flesh would be stringy and bitter. No, it was not worth the effort. He’d let the old man continue in service.