“Morkin!” Bjorn called his first mate. “Go to the merchant’s district and cause as much damage as you can! Only take as much as you can carry!” He patted the man as he led a dozen men up the eastern road. “Jormun! Go to the craftsman district and free them of whatever they’re making. Make no mess and be quick!” Bjorn felt a tingle of worry in his breast as he watched his son nod and lead another dozen up the western road into Napjda.

“As for the rest of you louts,” Bjorn turned to the remaining thirty men, “we’re going directly to the mansion! And we’re taking anything that looks valuable!”

They roared in approval, charging after Bjorn when he rushed up the northerly road, the palace at the center of Napjda an alluring beacon of riches and alcohol for the frenzied Faulk. Screams rang out through the city as fires erupted from the merchant’s district. Bjorn and his men ignored the panicking city-dwellers, the crowd shifting around and away from the raiders. A group of guards rushed from an intersection, pausing in surprise at the sight of the Faulk. Bjorn barreled through them, knocking three men to the ground. His Tome-bear followed, crushing a hapless guard’s skull underneath its weight, splattering his brains across the cobblestone road. The soldiers had no chance to react, the troop of raiders tore into the contingent with axes in swords before they had a chance to ready their spears. A few ran. Bjorn motioned for ten of his men to follow. They would rejoin them at the ship.

His heart thundered in his chest as they approached the palisade. Soldiers stood firm in front of the portcullis, shields up and spears pointed directly at the raiders. Archers notched arrows from the top of the walls, ready to draw. The two groups paused. Sweat beaded Bjorn’s brow as his gaze remained firm and unrelenting.

“Captain…” One of his men whispered. “Did we really need to go to the governor’s mansion? Surely, we can gain more elsewhere.”

“No.” Bjorn hissed. “We must show that we are swifter and more dangerous than lightning, unrelenting as the waves. We need to prove to everyone that they are only safe by our mercy. So that when they see our ships, they do not come to meet us with weapons and spells but seek shelter from our storm.”

“How are we supposed to get through them?”

“With a gift.” Bjorn palmed a glass ball glowing with pink light. “The boy’s mother gave me three to protect him. This is the last one.”

His men stood firm, even as a shiver of fear passed through them. Faefire. The archers drew their bows. The spearmen took a step forward. And a glowing pink orb landed among them. Bjorn’s men shut their eyes tightly, trusting their captain to lead them.

Crack!

A bright pink light, a fire spreading through them faster than any normal fire. All who saw it were blinded, save Bjorn. He stared into the light, the intense flames that boiled the eyes of all who bore witness would only flicker softly for him. He was almost lost in the images the flames painted, using the dancing, burning men as a canvas. When he first met her. When he showed her his ship and his village. Her curious, beautiful face as they ate together. Embracing her. Loving her. He had bedded many women, but even now her calls to him struck a chord in his heart, echoing a part that desperately craved companionship. He was tempted, so very tempted, to let the memories take him and burn away his mortal form. To join her in the feywilds, away from danger, away from the madness of the world of men.

The fire surged, a pink wave of emotion and destruction erupting through the soldiers, sloughing flesh from bone in seconds. Their screams were laced with cries of ecstasy and confused giggling. Their armor melted into charred flesh as the cobblestone liquified beneath their feet. Those who still had breath in their lungs and intact mouths called for others to join them. There was only light, pain, and the spectrum of human joys and vices, burning to the smell of cinnamon, honey, and cozy hearths. Bjorn steeled his heart one last time.

“[Great Leap!]” The Faulk jumped over the smokeless fire, landing among the blinded archers, and cutting them down like stalks of wheat. Once the palisade was slick with blood, the Faulk turned their eyes to the mansion.

“Only kill those who attack. Leave the rest to tell tale of our might.” The captain ordered his men. “Five minutes.”

They stormed through the mansion like wild animals, tearing down tapestries and smashing precious vases. Maids and butlers squealed in fear, the raiders laughing as they ran. The kitchen was raided for silverware, the rooms ransacked for gold candlesticks and jewelry. Bjorn found the governor’s room, kicking open the door with ease. The desk was a mess of documents, papers littering the floor between it and the bedroom. A secret door was ajar there, leading into a dark passageway. Bjorn ignored it, instead observing the room with a critical eye.

‘He couldn’t take everything. The papers are important, and nobles typically have a sigil ring. Taking too much would have slowed him down, so aside from the coffers, there should be something of his own here.’

Bjorn felt confident that some of the others would raid the coffers, and he wasn’t keen on taking the lion’s share. The richer his men, the more would follow him.

He pulled down an ostentatious painting and tossed it on the bed. Nothing behind the painting. He began tearing away every painting from the walls, his bear ripping into the floral-print wallpaper. His Tome-bear flipped the bed, the chandelier tinkling as it was torn from the ceiling by the mattress. Bjorn smiled. Aside from a few rubies and emeralds nestled within the chandelier, there was a small alcove beneath the bed. It looked like a box would have fit there, no doubt full of precious gems and promissory notes. Gems could be sold, but the notes were worthless to Bjorn. The gold bars that remained, however, were an unexpected boon. He stuffed a few into his specially crafted knapsack, wincing at the extra thirty kilos of weight.

There was a shriek from the room next to his. Bjorn sighed. A side effect of the faefire. He left the governor’s room, entering the other room where one of his men was tearing the clothes off a maid. Rael’s consciousness burst from within Bjorn’s memories, tearing themselves free at the sight of a lascivious Faulk trying to have his way with a woman.

“Brak!” Bjorn’s voice was hard. “We do not have the time.”

Brak growled, spittle flying from his lips as he hunched over the crying woman. His eyes cleared when they met Bjorn’s and he hastily pulled up his trousers. “Sorry Cap’n. The smell of the faefire…it got in me head.”

“And you’ve wasted your time satisfying your loins.” Bjorn scowled. “There’s some gold in the governor’s room. Take three bars, leave the rest for anybody who wants them.”

The Faulk left in a hurry, Bjorn staring at the sobbing woman. Rael raged inside his head, pushing at the bounds of memory to get him to apologize, do something, even if they knew it would ring hollow. But he just left. He met with the other raiders at the entrance of the mansion, noting a few with loosened belts and others with fresh bloodstains. Bjorn’s Tome-bear roared, a call for all the others to finish their raiding and leave. Within a minute, the last of the Faulk left the mansion, carrying a big bag that he passed to Bjorn’s Tome. The gains from the coffers. They opened the gate and ran back towards the ship. Something was different.

The merchant’s district was still burning, and although there was some faded screaming and cries for help in the distance, the streets by the mansion were empty. No soldiers, no people, just an eerie silence. All the doors were shut tight, and windows were barred shut with furniture.

“I don’t like this.” One of his men said. “A few people doing this is normal. But all of them, and so quickly?”

“We got what we came for.” Bjorn stated, leading the way.

They passed a few more blocks. Bjorn could have sworn some thing was following them, hiding just beyond his sight. A loose tile shifting on the roofs above. A pitter-patter in the alleyways. The glint of something moving in the stark noon shadows. Those who could cast sensory spells detected nothing. Bjorn chalked it up to nerves, but his instincts whispered to be careful. When they turned a corner, they paused, but kept running.

Nobody said anything, but they recognized the body. Mauled beyond recognition, it lay against a wall, hands locked on axes in a deathgrip. A layer of blood covered the wall around him in a splatter, a small trickle running down the road gutters for a couple meters. He was missing his braid—his death rites were already done.

Bjorn didn’t look back. A few of his men did. That’s when they attacked. Three jumped from the roofs, landing on the distracted men, and tearing into the nape of their necks with their massive jaws. Just as the raiders turned around to avenge their fallen brethren, two more bounded from the dark alleyways. They each grabbed a man by the leg and shook them vigorously, tearing muscle and bone from their bodies.

Spells flung towards the massive beasts, sparking and washing off their hides as if they never existed.

“They’ve got antimagic collars!” Someone called.

The raiders stopped casting spells, instead cleaving into the wolf-like creatures with steel. Even then, their hides were thick, the blades leaving light cuts on their muscled bodies. The chaotic melee was not one they could afford to waste time on. Bjorn charged one of them, trying to slam his axe into its skull. Just as it was about to land, the creature twisted out of the way, facing him with a very human-like smirk. Intelligence flared in its eyes, Raela and Bjorn shivered in tandem. A warg. It looked like a massive wolf, except its snout was shorter and jaws wider. Bjorn rushed again, purposefully overextending his reach. The warg fell for it, ducking underneath the swing and leaping up for his neck. The captain caught its snout and pushed it to the ground. Just as he was about to deliver a deathblow, a pair of jaws grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him to the ground. Another Faulk tried to stab it, but it jumped over them both to attack another that was about to injure another member of its pack. The first warg shifted out of Bjorn’s grip, smiling evilly when it looked at him. Just as it was about to bound for his neck, his Tome-bear swiped at it with a meaty claw.

A warg howled in pain, and the first glanced away. The Tome-bear charged and the warg easily leapt out of the way. A feint that exposed the bear’s neck. The warg dived on the bears back, its collar sparking as its jaws clenched at the bear’s throat. The injuries and the antimagic would soon prove too much for the Tome, as it sporadically faded out of existence, its bags falling to the ground. Bjorn was on his feet now, delivering a devastating cut into the warg’s spine. It whined in pain and fell to the ground, the Tome-bear dissipating. The captain raised his axe to deliver a deathblow…and summoned his Tome again to intercept the warg that tried to ambush him again. Bjorn and bear struck as one, and two corpses lay still.

He stood tall, labored breath. “Report!”

His crew looked over one another and called out information. Seven of his men were injured, and ten were dead. Towards the end of the fight, one was pulled, screaming, into an alleyway. ‘No doubt a trap. Whatever these creatures are, they’re smart.’

“Recover what we can. Speed takes priority.” Bjorn left the bags of gold coins his bear had dropped, instructing instead to take the dead’s loot. They would not die for nothing.

Men who had lost limbs grit their teeth and let fire close their wounds. Emergency splints were made, spells were cast to make prosthetic legs of wood, stone, and shadow. Bjorn personally cut the braids of all the fallen, wrapping them around the necks of their bags full of plunder. Stowing them on his Tome-bear, he signaled his men. They ran, the injured grimacing with every step. Behind them, the howls of dozens of wargs echoed throughout the streets.

“Now’s the time to use your magic, men!”

Magic spread through the limbs of the raiders, increasing their speed and nullifying pain. They turned another corner to find a similarly bloodied Jormun and his group. The young man smiled and waved. A shadow passed over him.

“Son!” Bjorn cried.

The warg landed on Jormun’s back, causing him to stumble forward. It opened its mouth in a vicious grin and chomped down on his neck…only to be pulled off and be put in a chokehold by Jormun, who was still focused on his father. The beast struggled, but the strength that had brough down a bear was no match for the scaled man’s steel grip. In one deft movement, Jormun snapped its neck and let the body drop.

“These are strange wolves, Captain.” Jormun rallied his men behind him and jogged ahead of Bjorn. “Smart and ruthless. I’ve never seen a breed like this.”

“They are wargs.” Bjorn was taken aback by the unfamiliar voice. There was an old man with crippled legs, one of three people carried by Jormun’s men. “The result of cruel experiments by the former prince.”

Noticing Bjorn’s expression, Jormun explained. Bjorn ran by his side, preferring to focus most of his attention on any further ambushes.”

“You said we would need to forge a new future.” Jormun chuckled. “I found us some blacksmiths.”

“They are not Faulk.” Bjorn grumbled, trying not to be distracted by the allure of the approaching docks.

“Maximillian, Joffrey, and Gloria have agreed to teach us and craft for us for ten years.” The young man stated, emphasizing their names. “So long as we treat them as guests.”

“A much better deal than what we had before.” A middle-aged man explained, wiggling his mangled feet. “Get too good at making something in Napjda, and they’ll make sure you never leave.” The howling got louder, and he looked around nervously. “So maybe we should hurry?”

The run back to the docks was tense, but uneventful. What they found there was disheartening. Only half of Morkin’s men had returned, far more injured than either of the other two groups. They were setting up the rigging and nervously looking around for any foes. When they saw the others arriving, they beckoned them to hurry. Morkin wasn’t among them.

No words were said. The Faulk and their new friends hastily clambered in the boat, pulling up the anchor. The wind was against them and the boat was heavy with ill-gotten riches. But they were leaving behind friends with whom they’d shared ships, ale, and homes. Bjorn knew that feeling, when you grabbed an oar and your muscles pulled with someone who was no longer there. The soreness of their muscles was drowning in the ocean of pain in their hearts. They rowed, oars slapping against the water in disorderly beats before a new rhythm began to form. A howling, screaming city burned behind them.

“What happened?” Bjorn asked one of Morkin’s men, who lay on the captain’s deck with the others who were too injured to row. He was trying to flex muscles that weren’t there, the ghost of his arm starting to haunt him.

“We…we got there. We started a few fires, took some trinkets. People were running around. Easy pickings. Then came a whistle. Two short bursts. And the people all screamed louder than before. Strangled, desperate screams. They all ran inside, sometimes even into burning buildings.” He swallowed and looked up to his captain. “I saw a mother abandon her child, captain. Left the poor kid outside. Thought she was mad. Then the beasts came. They attacked us, but they played with whoever was left outside.” He shuddered. “The boy had a piece of his leg torn off, and he cried and shrieked. But then the creature let him go. Let him stumble away…then jumped on him again. Tore another piece of him off. Just a nibble. Let him run again. And again. And again. Until the boy had more wounds than skin and he could barely move. The monster just tore the kid’s head off. Cap’n, I swear it looked at me when it did it. It looked at me and smiled.”

Bjorn didn’t know what to say. Neither did Rael.

“Hatred and violence are all they know.” A woman said. The craftswoman, Gloria, sat with the injured. She was looking at Napjda. “The former prince fancied himself an alchemist. He wanted to create troops that would kill anything without question. Faster and stronger than any man, and resistant to magic.”

“He found it.” Bjorn said.

“He did.” Gloria nodded. “At first, he thought he could just encourage animals to violate women. That’s what happened to most female slaves in Napjda. Found excuses for misbehavior and then…” She waved weakly.

“That sounds like it shouldn’t have worked.” Bjorn frowned.

“It didn’t.” Gloria said. “Not until he found a Meta woman.”

Rael recoiled. Not at the revelation, but at the thoughts that passed through Bjorn’s head. Because for a moment, he was tempted to ask more. The thought lingered in his mind, ruminating on the effectiveness of the warg. He thought to himself how he could unite Faulk with an army of warg at his beck and call. Images of wolf-warg, panther-warg and crocodile-warg decimating his foes danced in his mind. All he needed was a Meta woman.

Rael woke with clenched teeth, their heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s.

<><><>

The bell rang on the deck. The crew opened their bunks blearily, crawling from underneath the benches of their peers. People hung from the mast, the rigging, and an adventurous few even slid down the sides of the sail to land on the deck. The veterans and the green, the villagers and the crew, the young and old clambered to get a view.

Azmond pulled a disinterested Rael to the front of the prow, the crew making way for the Child of Dragons and his ward. They smiled as Rael’s bored expression bloomed into one of awe.

On a rocky hill was a city unlike any in the world. Stone houses with wooden roofs surrounded its base, a clear line where civilization stopped and nature began marked by megaliths taller than the ship they sailed. Massive, calcified roots entwined themselves in the hill, homes carved into every nook and cranny. Around these roots were ropes thicker than Rael’s waist, anchoring titanic almond-shaped baskets to the craggy hill. The baskets were woven with great branches, swaying gently in the wind, connected by massive nets and bridges that spanned each one. Each basket was different: one with somewhat loose weaving was lush with fruit trees and packed dirt, another with tight weaving was more peppered with homes much like the nests that hung from the grand mangrove tree in Feldon. One of the biggest had massive gaps between the weave, showing several large floors bustling with activity. This one revealed how the baskets were floating, a massive calidaerum holding the entire structure up.

There must have been ten of these giant baskets, with an eleventh being woven around a burgeoning calidaerum. All the while, people walked across the swaying bridges and climbed the nets, a commotion of activity erupting as more and more people noticed Feldon’s ships approaching.

“Quite a view, eh?” Kip chuckled at Rael’s open mouth. “Y’might wanna close your mouth. Wouldn’t want a mouthful of gull.”

Rael’s mouth snapped shut.

“Like you weren’t the same when you saw Stone Circle.” Derrol said, standing by him.

“Did he get a mouthful of gull?” Rael asked.

“Nah, he choked on a fly.” Derrol smiled as Rael laughed and Kip sputtered.