Chapter 2 #2
“The crops are all dead!” one of Shaelstorm’s sergeants growls, throwing a clump of tiny, shriveled potatoes in front of Kensy. “We’re running out of supplies.”
The Ha’ria Drokha’s captain argues, “My crew need more than a day to rest before we go back to the mainland.”
“We’ll starve before then!”
The ground is uneven beneath his feet. Roots running under the ground despite the lack of trees surrounding the bastion.
Where do roots go when their mother is cut from their body?
Isn’t it the other way around, child cut from their mother’s belly?
There are green vines looped and growing up around the signage that was constructed crudely.
Grass shooting up from the holes skewered and dug out for the lamp posts lighting the way.
Basuin stops in place before he trips, eyes darting back and forth between the sawed-clean trunks and the ribbons of vines climbing up the Shaelstorm Bastion as if to say, give it back to us.
His body is still fighting against his brain, the smell of gunpowder lingering in his nose. Burning, his lungs are screaming and pleading for air. He can feel his shoulders shake as he tries to regain command over his body, struggling for control.
It’s just gunpowder. A military bastion will be covered in it. Just gunpowder.
Then, Tehali’s hand falls upon his shoulder in a tight grip, and Basuin feels the ache shuddering through his spine as his muscles work to keep him from jumping in surprise.
His fingers fall away from his face and he inhales sharply, chest expanding.
Tehali doesn’t let go of him, but her hand smooths over his back and she presses him forward.
“You’re all right, Captain,” she tells him, rather than asking.
He’s glad for that. “We’re nearly to the bastion now.
” Then, she yanks something off her belt and shoves it into his trembling hands.
His fingers recognize the yak fur of her waterskin, and gratefully, he pops the cork and tips it back against his mouth.
The clean water washes away the taste of blood he isn’t sure is real—from his bitten tongue—or his imagination.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve as Tehali takes her bladder back to hook at her waist again. Through it all, she hasn’t let him stop moving, eyes glancing over her shoulder at their commander as though she worries he might see.
And she should be worried. Basuin should be worried. If Kensy were to see him having another attack—
That’s what got him here. On the island Yesua. Brought him to the Shaelstorm Bastion.
If Kensy saw him having another attack, he would discharge Basuin for good. A captain who panics in the middle of battle is a dead man. And Basuin would rather be a dead man than be discharged. Pulling him from the front lines was shameful enough.
He doesn’t thank Tehali, but he doesn’t snap at her to stop coddling him either, which is as grateful as he can be right now.
His chest still cries for reprieve, smoke stinging his eyes and the taste of blood coating his mouth.
But in a blink, Basuin stands before the iron-barred gates of the bastion, following the rest of his fleet inside.
Shaelstorm is lively. More so than the legion’s headquarters back in Ha’riste, the capital city.
The citizens of Ha’riste are all products of the war, trudging through the city of mud and stink and gambling on whether they will die from famine or from a shanking first. Shaelstorm is warmer than he thought it would be.
He passes by soldiers who have shed their cloaks and outer layers, whose sweat glistens upon their backs in the golden sunlight.
One such man, bent over a forge that glows brightly and emits a heat unlike any other, stands to stretch and wipe away the waterfall of sweat from his brow. His eyes roam over the soldiers marching off the Ha’ria Drokha in an easy curiosity, until his gaze falls upon Basuin.
The man barks out a laugh. Basuin’s first instinct is to clench his fists at the disrespect, the soles of his feet hot and itching to barrel down a soldier beneath his rank who would dare laugh at him. But then shame floods him, and his fingers unfurl.
“It’s an honor, Black Wolf,” the man shouts at him, a grin on his lips and a snicker cutting through his teeth.
“Watch it,” Tehali snaps back, and Basuin can see how the soldier’s legs straighten and his chin raises to greet her at attention, that simpering smile wiped from his dirty mouth. Once, Basuin had the power to make men cower that way.
Now, he’s laughable.
Basuin shakes Tehali’s hand from his shoulder gruffly, sick to his stomach at the thought of her protecting him yet again.
He picks up speed, stomping through the trail and past the other men from his fleet to get away from her—from that lone soldier, from Kensy—and she reaches for his elbow in protest. He jerks away.
“Enough,” he says, looking over his shoulder at her with eyes hot like embers, words as sharp as the sword on his hip.
Basuin doesn’t look long enough to see how her face might contort into fury, or maybe something worse.
He pulls away and lets his long legs carry him past the gates of the Shaelstorm Bastion.