Chương 93: The Delta of Refusals

The river tried to kill him before the river clans did. Zayn almost appreciated the honesty. Water had no council. No morals. No songs for the dead. No old warrior to explain that he was staining a breath he would never understand. It struck. That was all. The black boat had been descending north for two days, driven by a current that seemed determined to tear it apart before it ever reached the delta.

The rowers of the river clans worked in silence, arms taut, shoulders trembling, their eyes turning far too often toward the scythe resting near the prow. The black skull at the top of the weapon did not move. Not really. But every rower had the feeling it was watching them. It was. The scythe always watched when someone was afraid.

"They row slowly," it murmured. Zayn sat at the front, the cracked half-mask on his face, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the dark shaft of the weapon.

"They've been rowing for two days."

"Then they're tired."

"Yes."

"The tired disobey less well, but die faster." Zayn barely turned his head toward the rowers. The old otter-man met his gaze and immediately looked down again.

"They'll arrive alive." The black jaw of the scythe opened in a soundless smile.

"Since when does that matter to you?" Zayn stayed silent. The answer was simple. Because he needed them. Not because they were alive. Not because they had names. Not because one of them cried every night whispering the name of the son he had left behind in the village. They were oars with lungs. Nothing more. The young gray-scaled woman serving as guide stood near the stern. Her name was Rava. She had said it only once, when Zayn had asked who he would need to kill if the boat took the wrong branch of the river.

Since then, she spoke only to correct the course.

"Left," she said. The rowers obeyed. The boat avoided a mass of black rocks tearing through the surface of the river like teeth. A log drifted past them, caught in the current. It was covered in white markings. Zayn saw it. Everyone saw it. No one spoke. On the bark, a symbol had been carved. A white leaf. Then a sentence in the language of the clans: THE SEA WILL NOT WASH AWAY THE TAINT. The scythe laughed.

"They can write on wood now." Zayn watched the log disappear behind them.

"They're ahead of us." Rava tightened her grip on the steering oar.

"The elves?" He did not answer. She pressed on.

"That's impossible. No elf could descend this river without being seen by the delta watchers." Zayn slowly turned his masked face toward her.

"Then someone else is writing with their hands." She went pale.

"You know that?"

"I know many useless things."

"Then why do you keep going toward them?" The scythe stopped laughing. The silence on the boat grew heavier. Rava understood that she should have stayed quiet. Zayn stood. The rowers slowed despite themselves. He walked toward her without wavering despite the rocking of the boat. The river had almost managed to teach him. Not how to swim. Not really. But how to feel when a surface was about to betray him. He stopped in front of her.

"Do you have family in the village?" Rava did not answer. He tightened his grip slightly. Not enough to break. Enough to remind.

"You take me to the delta. You explain which ship can reach the sea. You explain who knows the currents toward the elven island. Then maybe I don't come back to your village." One of the rowers trembled. Rava closed her eyes.

"My little brother is there." This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Zayn tilted his head.

"Then row well." He went back to the prow. The scythe sighed with satisfaction.

"You see? No need to cut everything. Bonds make very good ropes." Zayn looked at the river.

"Ropes break."

"Then we keep a blade." The delta appeared on the morning of the third day. It did not look like a river mouth. It looked like a drowned city. The river split into dozens of black arms, winding between low islands, docks, watchtowers, and timber dikes. Houses on stilts covered the banks like nests clinging to mud. Blue lanterns hung from the arches. Metal nets blocked certain passages. Long, fast boats patrolled the channels. And farther beyond the lowlands, the Northern Sea began. Gray. Wide. Violent. Impossible.

Zayn remained standing at the prow. The sea wind entered his wounds. He did not react. Rava spoke behind him:"Delta-Kharun."

"The ships?" She pointed northeast. Beyond the inner docks, behind a floating wall of logs and chains, several larger hulls rested on deep water. Not riverboats. Sea vessels. Sturdy, broad, covered in current-runes and plates of marine bone. Zayn smiled.

"There." Rava shook her head.

"You don't understand. Those ships do not leave without the blessing of the current-masters. Even with a crew, even with supplies, even with wind, you won't cross the reef rings without a northern pilot."

"So I need a pilot."

"The pilots would rather die than guide a monster toward the elven island." The scythe laughed.

"They always say that before finding out what they love enough not to die." The first alarm sounded in the delta. A low horn. Then a second. Then ten. The black boat had been recognized. On the docks, archers took position. Fish-men dove into the water. Two towers turned fine ballistas loaded with harpoons as long as young trees. Zayn raised his eyes.

"They're quick." Rava answered:"They're afraid."

"Even better." A patrol boat slid in front of them, blocking the main channel. On it stood a blue-scaled man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a bony crest running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. He wore marine leather armor and carried a black trident. Value: 63. His aura rose, fluid and deep, almost denser than that of the chief Zayn had killed in the previous village.

"Rava of the Gray Arms!" he shouted.

"Why are you bringing that thing here?" Rava did not answer. She was looking at Zayn. Zayn was looking at the trident.

"Does he know the sea?" Rava swallowed hard.

"That's Maresh. Captain of the Lower Gates."

"So yes." Maresh raised his trident.

"Answer!" Zayn answered for her:"She rows well." The archers drew their bows. Maresh stared at him.

"The demonic human."

"I'm being recognized faster and faster. It's almost flattering."

"You will not enter Delta-Kharun." Zayn looked at the sea-ships behind him.

"I don't need to enter everywhere." The scythe appeared. The rowers stiffened. On the patrol boat, several beastfolk stepped back. Maresh, however, did not move. His aura flowed along the trident, dark and blue, like a night river.

"You burned villages."

"Yes."

"You massacred your own." Zayn smiled.

"My own?"

"The Mist-Fangs called you brother. You led them to their deaths." The world narrowed. Rava lowered her head. The old otter-man almost stopped breathing. The skull of the scythe opened its jaw wide.

"That one deserves to lose his tongue." Zayn leapt. Not toward the dock. Toward Maresh's boat. His wings burst from his back mid-movement. Black. Wet. Misshapen. Always painful. They beat once. Enough to carry him above the current. He crashed onto the other deck in a crack of wood, the scythe already raised. Maresh blocked. Trident against scythe. Current-aura against dark aura. The impact shattered the boat's lanterns. Zayn stepped back. So did Maresh. Not enough. The captain was strong. Very strong.

He attacked immediately, his trident sliding beneath Zayn's blade like a fish under a rock. The point struck his hip. A second point sliced his throat. The third aimed for his eye. Zayn tilted his head. Too late. The half-mask split further. A piece fell onto the deck. The fragment of Mist-Horn remained hanging by one strap. Half of Zayn's face was exposed. Maresh saw his mouth. The black mark on his tongue, when Zayn smiled.

"What have you become?" The question was honest. Zayn hated that. He bit into the shaft of the trident. Gluttony could take nothing from the treated wood. So he moved along the weapon and bit Maresh's hand. The captain groaned, but did not let go. His aura concentrated around his wrist, trying to crush Zayn's jaw with vital pressure. Zayn bit harder. Flesh gave way. The breath entered. Not much. Enough. The scythe drank the rest. The black skull at the top of the weapon exhaled dark smoke from its eye sockets.

The blade protruding from the skull vibrated, covered in a denser black aura. Maresh understood.

"Breath-thief." Zayn finally drew back, blood between his teeth.

"No." He raised the scythe.

"Desecrator." The blade came down. Maresh blocked with his trident. This time, the current-aura held. One second. Two. Then the black smoke seeped into the blue pressure, twisted it, fouled it, forced it to break its own shape. The trident snapped. Maresh recoiled. Zayn cut off his left arm. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] The captain did not fall. He barked an order. The delta archers fired. Not at Zayn. At their own boat. Harpoons. Arrows. Weighted cables. They meant to sink the patrol craft with him on it.

A good choice. Zayn burst into laughter.

"Finally." The scythe chuckled with him. The boat was struck from three sides. The deck split. Water rose. Maresh, on his knees, smiled with blood on his teeth.

"You sink with us." Zayn looked at him. Then his wings unfurled. They were still bad. Still painful. Still insufficient to cross the sea. But enough to leave a sinking boat? Maybe. He seized Maresh by the throat.

"No." Then he jumped. The wings beat. Once. Maresh's body served as weight, shield, proof. The harpoons passed around them. One cable snagged Zayn's left wing and nearly tore it apart. He screamed. Not in fear. In rage. The scythe vanished. He crashed onto a dock in the delta with Maresh beneath him. The captain hit the wood with the back of his neck first. He was still alive. Barely. Zayn rose, his left wing hanging, bloody, grotesque. Around him, Delta-Kharun froze. Hundreds of eyes. Archers. Children. Pilots.

Elders. Rowers. Warriors. Mothers holding their little ones against them. Zayn planted a foot on Maresh's chest.

"Which ship goes to the elven island?" No one answered. He pressed down. Maresh coughed blood.

"None." Zayn tilted his head.

"Wrong answer."

"No ship goes to the island without the invitation of the winds."

"Who knows how to pass?" Maresh smiled.

"I do." Zayn looked at his severed arm. Then his broken trident. Then the archers around them.

"So you live." Maresh went pale. He had believed dying would be the end of his resistance. Zayn had just given him worse news. The scythe reappeared in his hand, small at first, then whole, the black skull smiling atop the shaft.

"Bring me a sea-going vessel," Zayn said.

"Supplies. Maps. And those who know how to row beyond the reefs." An old fish-woman on an upper dock shouted:"And if we refuse?" Zayn lifted Maresh by the hair. The captain choked out a cry.

"Then I start with those who know how to navigate, then those who know how to swim, then those who know how to cry." Silence. The old woman trembled.

"You wouldn't dare kill the pilots if you need them." Zayn smiled.

"I need one." That sentence frightened them more than the scythe. Because it was logical. Because it was true. Because it meant every pilot in the delta had just become less a person than a number in a selection. The black skull of the weapon clicked its teeth.

"Choose quickly," the scythe added, with Zayn's voice and another one beneath it. This time, the whole delta heard it. And all of them understood that the thing in his hand was not merely a weapon. It was a witness that wanted to participate. They gave him a ship at sunset. Not the best one. Not the worst. A sea-vessel called Salt-Bite, broad, low, reinforced for reefs, with two short masts, dark sails, and current-runes carved into the hull. They gave him supplies as well. Maps. Eight rowers. Three sailors.

A navigator with gray scales. Rava. She had not been chosen. She had stepped forward herself. Zayn had looked at her with something close to curiosity.

"Your brother is in the village."

"Yes."

"You want to live for him?" Rava had answered:"I want to be there when you die at sea." Zayn had smiled.

"Healthy ambition." Maresh was brought aboard too, his arm bandaged, his face gray with pain. He knew the reefs. He would live as long as he remained useful. The river clans did not try to stop him. Not that evening. But when Salt-Bite left the delta, Zayn saw the fires light on the towers. One signal. Then another farther north. Then a third on a low island. They were warning the sea. Good. Let them warn the currents. Let them warn the reefs. Let them warn the elves, if they could.

Zayn stood at the prow, the scythe in his hand. The black skull looked toward the marine horizon.

"You know," the weapon murmured, "an island is a cage surrounded by water." Zayn stared at the gray line where sky and sea bit into each other.

"Then I'll find the door."

"And if there isn't one?" His smile returned.

"Then I'll do what I always do." The scythe laughed before he finished.

"You'll cut the wall." Behind them, Delta-Kharun remained standing. Not saved. Marked. The river was already carrying the news: the demonic human had reached the sea. And to the north, invisible beyond the winds, the elven continent had stopped being an idea. It had become the next thing Zayn would put his teeth into.