On the Back Foot

With much of the aquatic life taking refuge from the lurking sea serpents, Anfer soon had a living rainbow thrashing vigorously inside her bucket. Hefflin, having started a fire, would occasionally scoop out exceedingly exotic catches and hurl them back into the ocean.

“Aren’t you the fisher?” opined Hefflin. “You’ve even caught dinner.”

“Oh I—I had…” stammered Anfer, blushing. “Thanks.”

Claire, having just finished gutting a purple fish, snickered. Anfer was a terrible flirt and if the stuttering reply was any indication, she was not about to improve. Hefflin, however, seemed a different person. With the tanned skin and broad shoulders of a warrior, the skirt-chasing boy was now a man. He smiled politely at Anfer’s disjointed banter, occasionally responding to keep the conversation alive. Even as he entertained her friend, he stole glances at the horizon while his hand tinkered with his belt of sidearms.

“Is it true?” asked Hefflin as he skewered an eel. “Did the Zunarkians really demand the return of a wench during the summit?”

Anfer retrieved her rod. “Y-yeah. Claire, what was her name?”

“Sera Solwind. Daughter of the Eighth Apostle, Kuros Solwind. Weren’t you there?”

“Claire, you and I both know I can’t remember such trifles.”

“So trifling it might result in total war,” said Hefflin. “Well, if she’s half as beautiful as the stories—”

A screech abruptly ended their discussion. Though she had never heard it before, she knew what that sound meant. Sea serpents. Suppressing a shudder, she unleashed a battle cry and stomped the sand. A weak quake pulled her gaze to Anfer, who had mirrored her efforts. Unfazed, Hefflin rummaged through his backpack and handed each girl a pair of tinted goggles.

“You girls are lucky,” said Hefflin with a grim grin. “Watch this.”

Claire had barely donned her glasses when the Sol Tower hummed. She squinted as a beam—brighter than a hundred Sunbrands—tore a chasm in the sea. She covered her ears as the roaring ocean closed its gaping wound, slamming two walls of boiling water together.

Anfer narrowed her eyes into the distance. “Was that a snake?”

“Still feel like meeting one?” asked Claire.

Anfer shook her head.

“Rising pitch,” said Hefflin. “Probably a hatchling.”

Anfer creased her forehead. “That was a small one?”

Hefflin grunted. “Certainly. Stealthy, lithe, perfect for scouting, comes in dozens, unlike their leviathans.”

“Was it hit?” asked Claire.

Hefflin pointed at fishermen swarming a distant jetty. Some of them paused to tip their conical hats in his direction.

“If the tower stays quiet,” said Hefflin, “they’ll fight over the carcass. Slim pickings these days.”

Claire took another glance at the line of Sol Towers. From afar, they resembled a row of giant swords thrust into the earth. With these dotting the rocks and isles, it was no wonder the Garshaluks couldn’t reinforce Zohrenburg. Yet, something was amiss. This thought hounded her, so much so that her lunch lost all flavour.

“They’ve had more than a decade to learn the range,” said Claire, pointing to a tower. “Why would they risk coming this close?”

“We’ve been asking the same thing,” replied Hefflin, “and before you ask, the priestesses are working day and night deciphering the tapestries.”

Claire traded an anxious look with Anfer. Isabelle had predicted this. The Zunarkians would inundate the entire contact line with activity, concealing their main thrust in plain sight. Could all the disturbance here be a feint? Would the Divine Finnardi make her wishful thinking reality? Her god did not dispel her anxiety. Instead, the sky crackled.

“Odd,” said Anfer as she lifted her head. “I heard we produced the Sunvial here because it never rained.”

Hefflin made a face. “Come. I know a good place out of the rain.”

The trio hopped through a gate linked to the central island, a sizeable landmass encircled by winding, narrow inlets only native ships would brave. The sudden downpour had emptied the usually bustling hub. Even here, among the liquor, cuisine, and baubles, the spectre of war manifested itself as four towering Aquaveils.

With a winning smile, Hefflin led the girls to a tavern tucked at the end of winding alleyways. Drenched locals, huddled around a furnace, lifted their tankards at the Guardian, a reception usually reserved for his father, the heroic commander of the First Fleet with countless victories against the Garshaluks on the open sea. Yet, disquiet was pervasive. Every Finnardian this far west had learnt to fear the rain.

Claire nudged him with her elbow. “Man of the people.”

“Guardian Hefflin Kirston is well-liked here because this is where he squanders his silvers,” laughed Hefflin. “Dad doesn’t allow a drop of booze in his unit.”

“So can I drink you under the table now?” asked Anfer.

“Not today, fair lady,” said Hefflin. “Need to be sober for the rain.”

Parting the portiere, Hefflin beckoned the girls into a private booth nestled in the corner. Claire first noted a faint aroma, then the Finnardian glyphs that lit the interior, and finally, a teak table so polished she could not resist running a hand over it.

Hefflin pulled open a drawer under the table. “Do you girls play Clash?”

Anfer beamed. “Belle insisted.”

Claire vividly recalled this as Isabelle’s first lesson. Without a single sword pinned to her blue collar, she had expected to be pouring tea, saluting dignitaries, and shuffling dossiers. Instead, the Grand Guardian produced a hexagonal board inlaid with ebony and ivory triangles, demanding that she learn the game.

Hefflin unfolded the game board. “Is there any truth to the unsavoury tales about our Grand Guardian?”

“You’ll need to be more specific,” replied Anfer with a shrug. “Belle slighted the Lufeirs by awarding them the fewest seats at Aurael. Old Isondre surrendering his allotment to them only made it worse.”

“Well deserved,” said Hefflin. “Somebody has to check old Lufeir before he appoints the next Grand Guardian.”

Claire lifted a finger to her lips and shot Anfer a stern look. Her friend swallowed. Fortunately, their drinks arrived before the silence could ferment into something more awkward.

“I’ll play the winner,” Claire hastily declared. “Try not to lose too quickly, Heff.”

Anfer slammed a white piece onto the centre tile. Hefflin matched it almost as quickly. Relying more on reflex than calculation, they filled the booth with rapid clattering.

With each distracted sip of her spiced wine, Claire leaned closer to the board. Hefflin’s opening—that she had written off as mindless play—was coming together. Slowly at first, but with growing haste, Hefflin captured the white pieces, replacing them with his own. Anfer battled on, perhaps not yet aware of her inevitable defeat.

“You really sold your brother short, Claire,” complained Anfer as she tentatively added another triangle to the board.

Hefflin peered sideways at his sister. “Claire is a lot brighter than me.”

With her most recent deployments swiftly adopting the hostile colour, Anfer resigned with an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in her chair. Claire, trying not to laugh, pulled the board over when an epiphany stayed her hands.

“Heff, have there been any reports of missing fishermen or sailors?”

“No more than usual.”

“And what’s the best ingredient for a convincing guise?”

“Fresh corpses.”

The three Blades looked at each other as they arrived at the same lurid conclusion.

“And if I were a demonic saboteur, where would I strike?”

An explosion answered Claire. Screams followed. The trio sprinted out only to find a stampede surging towards them. Anfer, pointing to the tavern rooftop, scaled the wall with feline agility. Hefflin caught up to her with a single jump.

Groaning, Claire scrambled after them. The craggy wall, offering purchase only to her fingers and toes, was already treacherous enough. Her long skirt only made it harder. After suffering a few scrapes, she gave up.

“Little help?”

Anfer grabbed her hand with a smug smile. “Sure thing.”

Face as pale as his blazer, Hefflin pointed at the square. Claire followed his finger. Some unholy force had shattered the Aquaveils, catapulting debris at nearby buildings and people. Bile rising to her throat, Claire swallowed hard. She reached out, taking Anfer’s hand, grateful that she squeezed back.

“You'll not ask us to escort your family,” demanded Anfer.

“As much as I’d like to,” said Hefflin, passing the girls a dagger each and drawing his sword. “Guardian Hefflin Kirston assuming command in the name of the Divine Finnardi. Vacation’s over, Acolytes.”

The first things Claire slashed were the sides of her skirt. Her need for mobility trumped any maidenly reservations. This pragmatic gesture earnt a smirk from Anfer.

“Might as well take it off,” her friend teased. “It’ll make a good distraction.”

“Quiet!” Hefflin hissed, shooting Anfer a venomous look that Claire had never seen before. “I sensed…something.”

Her lungs and legs burned as Claire raced after her brother, who flew from one rooftop to another. She breathed a sigh of relief when he finally halted atop the tallest building, the Slumbering Sunrise, the preferred hotel for rich pilgrims and visiting dignitaries of the orthodoxy. This closer vantage point afforded her a clear view of the devastation.

The four stubs were all that remained of the mammoth pillars guarding against the ebbing tides. Stone shards and dismembered corpses peppered the quiet market. Some of the braver folks were dragging wounded survivors from the scene while the injured stragglers crawled away. She dared not imagine what the rubble had buried. Defying the unrelenting rain, a stinging stench she could almost taste lingered in the air.

“Why the Aquaveils and not the gates?” asked Claire.

“They’re all that stands between us and a tidal wave,” Hefflin said darkly. “Now move!”

Wrapping an arm around each Acolyte, Hefflin leapt off the rooftop into a sweeping gust that cushioned their landing. The moment his toe tapped the ground, Hefflin bolted towards a writhing man and impaled him.

Two men emerged from the rubble, hurling their chained sickles at Anfer and Claire. Yanking his sword free, Hefflin raced back and severed the rattling steel rings. Flinging his scabbard at one assailant, he closed in on the other and delivered a swift slash. A burst of warm red splattered onto his face and blazer.

“My apologies,” shouted Hefflin from afar, retrieving his scabbard. “It was unbecoming to steal your chance at valour.”

“Apology…accepted,” stammered Claire, still stunned. “Are you unharmed?”

“Mere godless mercs under crude guises. I’m sure you two could’ve dealt with them just as easily.”

Claire did not share his confidence. These saboteurs were nothing like the Settlement Fallens who kissed the ground Isabelle walked on. They didn’t even run when their ambush failed. The sight of the slain men sent a crayfish she ate for lunch crawling up her throat. One man was cleaved in two, giving her too detailed a view of the human anatomy. His partner had suffered such a blow that there was little left of his face. Many distant explosions snapped her back to reality. One false move, and she would join them.

“Those weren’t the ones I probed earlier,” said Hefflin. “Stay sharp. We have a beacon to launch.”

Absorbed in the skirmish, Claire only realised then that nobody had sounded an alarm. All those textbook pages and military exercises chose this moment to desert her. Uttering a quiet supplication, she readied her dagger and followed him into the Slumbering Sunrise.

The carnage from the square spilt into the luxury accommodation. The fetor of death and sorcery was even stronger here. Tearing up, Claire pinched her nose and ventured through the drawing room. Amongst the broken antique furniture, chandeliers torn off the ceiling, scattered platters and spilt liquor were bodies. From the reception to the dining hall, the attackers painted the walls and floors with bloody eyes, a cynical mockery of the Finnardian emblem. Outmatched footmen charging into certain defeat. Fleeing porters who abandoned their charge. Couples huddling together in paralysing fear. Desperate parents piling on top of their children. None were spared. Claire retched.

A pallid Anfer paced about, studying the porous corpses. Almost slipping on the blood, she smeared a tile in red. Straightening, she pricked her finger with her dagger and looked at a small boy. No. It wasn’t cold steel that killed him. She turned to Hefflin.

“Any ideas?”

Hefflin drew out a low growl. “An old foe.”

The trio raced for the cellar, their frantic footsteps ringing down lifeless corridors. Before even stepping inside, Claire pulled her collar over her nose. Following the trail of toppled shelves, broken casks, and shattered bottles, they stood before a staircase leading into the earth. Rancid slime, having eaten through the sealed gates guarding the tunnels, yet fizzed on the floor. She shuddered. How did the Zunarkians find this place?

“Stay behind me at all times,” said Hefflin sternly. “Sign language only from here onwards.”

“Yes, Guardian.”

Hefflin produced a glittering ampoule from his bag. Claire and Anfer gasped. Liquid sunlight. It was a Sunvial.

“One last thing,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t die.”

Claire knew many things about the subterranean labyrinths. She knew the tunnels were built to withstand any strike short of a divine weapon. She knew they were sprawling networks to defend portals for Finnardian Corridors. She knew the moon glyphs on the walls would lead them to one of the gateways. Her knowledge, which earned her many accolades in lecture theatres, did little to prepare her for the suffocating monotony and the disorientating turns.

Standing before a dead end, Hefflin placed a hand on the wall. With a loud groan, the stones parted. Not waiting for the gears to cease their rumbling, he squeezed through the gap and waved for the Acolytes to follow.

This gateway was unlike any other Claire had ever seen. Short and narrow, it could only admit one person at a time. Crucially, it had three distinct indents at its feet and a set of stone slabs in the corner. She suppressed a shudder. This was an emergency portal. She turned to Hefflin, who was already filling the depressions with tiles. Three. One. Seven. It was a coordinate.

Quickly, Hefflin leapt into the portal, only to land on the other side instead of vanishing. Anfer, who jumped after him, bumped into his back. Sheepishly, she rubbed her nose. Brows knitted, he tried different coordinates to no avail. The trio shared a horrified look. The Finnardian Corridor was severed.

The three sprinted through the tunnels, their footsteps drumming the tiles as relentlessly as the pouring rain. Her muscles burning painfully and her breathing increasingly ragged, Claire continued pumping her legs, trying not to lose sight of Hefflin, who was far ahead. After what seemed like an eternity of running, the Guardian finally raised a fist, gesturing for a halt.

Their exit was another sealed gate up a flight of stairs. Just like the entrance, this one too had putrid sludge eating away at its remains. The foul odour from above was so strong that Claire thought she had inhaled acid. She noticed her shirt, which was shielding her nose, was now dyed crimson.

“Father Mercy, ever watchful, shield thy wayward children from harm.”

The utterance came so fast that Claire heard all the words at once. She looked to her brother, now cocooned in a blinding light that banished the Zunarkian miasma, rendering the discomfort a distant memory. The burst of Yhom he mustered reminded her of grizzled Guardians twice his age. This was the warrior she had always aspired to be.

“Well, there goes our element of surprise,” the Guardian chuckled. “Come on. They’re expecting us.”