Chương 92: The Ferrymen of the Black River

The Northern River did not look like a border. It looked like a jaw. Wide, violent, dark, it split the highlands in two before racing toward the sea, carrying logs, animal carcasses, pieces of bridges, and sometimes bodies that no one came to claim. Zayn reached it on the fifty-third day. He did not arrive alone. Fear had been walking ahead of him for a long time. In the villages along the river, children were hidden beneath floorboards. Elders chewed their prayers in silence.

Warriors pretended not to tremble as they watched smoke rising behind the hills. They said he had burned Mossbank. They said he had profaned the hunting stones. They said he had eaten a raptor's wing and tried to fly with the sky of the dead. They said a black scythe spoke in his hand. They said the elves had marked him. They said demons followed him. They said everything. And everything was almost true. Zayn stood on a bank of black stone, the cracked half-mask on his face, his cloak torn by the wind.

His wings had not emerged, but he could feel them beneath the skin of his back, like two mistakes ready to split open. Ahead of him, across one arm of the river, stood the ferrymen's village. The river clans. Otter-men, fish-men, a few scaled bloodlines, low, wiry silhouettes that lived with water the way the Mist-Fangs had lived with the forest. Their houses stood on stilts. Their docks creaked beneath ropes. Their boats were long, black, built for violent currents. Their nets hung like traps.

Zayn saw the archers lined up along the walkways. He smiled. They had chosen to defend the shore. That was brave. Which meant it would soon be useless. The scythe appeared in his left hand. Not all at once. First the shadow. Then the shaft, long, black, almost bony, like a spine polished in the dark. Then, near the top, the skull formed. Black. Smooth. Inhuman. The eye sockets were empty, yet something moved inside them, a dark smoke that looked like eyes whenever hatred became strong enough.

The jaw of the skull opened slowly, as if the weapon were smiling before he did. Then the blade came out of the skull. It burst from the side of the cranium, curved, immense, black at the center and paler at the edge, like a sick moon torn from a corpse. It looked as though the skull were vomiting it. The scythe laughed. Its shadow-teeth clicked once.

"A river, now." Zayn looked at the village.

"Boats."

"And mouths."

"Yes."

"Mouths float worse once they've been opened." Zayn walked down toward the broken dock. An archer shouted from the other shore:"One more step and we fire!" Zayn raised his eyes.

"Then fire." They fired. The first volley split the air above the river. Zayn did not move until the last moment. The scythe turned. The black blade cut two arrows. A third buried itself in his shoulder. A fourth pierced his cloak. A fifth opened his cheek beneath the mask. He kept walking. The archers hesitated. Bad sign. People who hesitated in front of him learned quickly that fear was not a brake. Only permission given to the other side. Zayn set one foot on a boat tied to the shore.

The wood groaned beneath his weight. The current immediately pulled it. He planted the scythe into the dock behind him. The blade bit into stone. The skull at the top turned slightly, as if it were watching the river.

"Do you know how to steer?"

"No."

"Swim?"

"Still no."

"Fly?" Zayn felt his back burn.

"Badly." The scythe chuckled.

"So your plan?" Zayn yanked the scythe free from the stone, then cut the rope holding the boat. The current took it at once.

"Cross before the water wins."

"Magnificent. Cadaver-level optimism." The archers fired again. This time Zayn raised his left forearm. Wrath blackened the chains beneath his skin. The scythe vibrated. A dark mist unwound from the skull and covered the shaft, then the blade. Not the full stolen aura. Not yet. Just a remnant, a foul pressure, dense enough to deflect two arrows. The boat spun violently. Zayn fell to his knees. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

The river flooded the craft. The river clans shouted something. An order. A trap. Three otter-men dove from the docks. They vanished beneath the water. Zayn felt their presence too late. The boat was struck from below. Once. Twice. On the third impact, it split. Water rose to his knees. The scythe sighed.

"I told you. You did look like an optimistic corpse." A webbed hand burst from the water and tried to seize his ankle. Zayn cut it off. A muffled scream rose from below the surface. [Soul strength absorbed: +0]"Bad yield," said the scythe.

"Bad depth." The boat flipped. Zayn fell into the river. The cold entered his chest like a blade. For a second, there was no fire, no voices, no hatred. Only the water. Black. Heavy. Violent. It seized him, spun him, slammed him against a rock. His scythe vanished at once. The hatred had not vanished. But his hand no longer had the strength to hold it. He opened his mouth. Water rushed in. Shapes slid around him. The otter-men. The fish-men. Here, he was clumsy. Too human. Too land-bound. Too heavy.

A short spear pierced his thigh. Another cut his side. Zayn struck at empty water. The river swallowed the motion. The scythe murmured, very far away:"Wrath drowned. That's ugly." A hand seized his mask. Pulled. The half-mask almost came off. Something in Zayn tore. Not his face. Not fear. The memory. That mask had come from the Ashes. Then it had become his face of flight. Then the fragment of Mist-Horn had been hung from it. Then the Mist-Fangs had learned to recognize that face around the fire.

A чужой hand had just tugged at it like dead skin. Hatred came back. Burning. Stronger than the river. The scythe reappeared underwater. Impossible. And yet it was there. The black shaft in his hand. The skull open in a grin. The blade jutting from the skull like a fin of night. Smoke darkened the sockets of the skull.

"There." Zayn twisted in the water. The scythe cut. The water itself seemed to split around the blade. An otter-man was opened from shoulder to hip. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] Current soul strength: 81 Zayn caught the body before the current could take it. He bit. River-clan flesh tasted different. Salt. Mud. Dense muscle. Adapted lungs. Fluid motion. Gluttony took what it could. Not all. Never all. Just enough. His ribs burned. His throat tightened. For a few seconds, he felt his body understand water.

Not like them. Not well. But enough not to die immediately. He swung the scythe downward, used the current instead of fighting it, then rose. When he broke the surface, the entire village saw him emerge from the river coughing blood and black water. He drove the scythe into the edge of the dock. The skull snapped its teeth.

"Still alive." Zayn raised his eyes to the ferrymen.

"Not for long." The river clans stepped back. This time they understood. The river had not stopped him. It had only taught him something. The fighting on the docks was brief. The river clans were dangerous near water. Very dangerous. They attacked from the sides, from beneath the planks, between the pilings. They cut supports. They cast weighted nets, harpoons, short blades. One fish-man even managed to wrap a rope around Zayn's leg and drag him toward a gap in the planks. Zayn fell.

The dock gave way beneath his knee. A spear aimed for his throat. He let himself be pulled. The fish-man did not expect that. Zayn crashed halfway through the planks, fell half into the water, then grabbed his attacker by the nape and bit into his face. Not to learn. Not to survive. To punish him for believing the river belonged to him. The scythe followed, cutting the net, the hand, then the neck. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] Current soul strength: 82 The others retreated. Not quickly enough.

Zayn rose on the broken dock, dripping, mouth red, half-mask askew, black scythe in hand. The black skull at the top of the weapon seemed to laugh soundlessly. The blade, emerging from the skull, was covered in water and blood. Yet nothing truly ran along it. The liquid slid away as though refusing to remain in contact with the edge. The village chief finally appeared. A woman with dark scales, tall, with fine fins along her arms and a long spear of white bone. Her eyes were black, without pupils. Value: 61.

Her aura rose. Not like the wolves'. Not like the bears'. Hers had the pressure of current. It did not strike straight. It wrapped. It pulled. It redirected opposing force and sent it elsewhere. Zayn smiled.

"You." She leveled her spear at him.

"You will not take our boats."

"I need one."

"It was you who burned the lands behind you and still think the river will carry you?"

"No." The scythe vibrated.

"I think you're going to tell me which one floats best." The chief attacked. Her aura coated the spear. The first strike did not try to pierce. It deflected the scythe. The second hit his ribs. The third slipped under Zayn's arm and opened a clean wound along his flank. She was fast. Too fluid. Every time he thought he had blocked, her weapon had already moved somewhere else. The scythe growled.

"I hate water." Zayn spat blood.

"So do I." The chief said:"Then drown." She struck the dock. Her aura passed into the planks, into the water, into the ropes. The entire dock tipped. Zayn slid toward the river. He drove the scythe into the wood. The skull screamed. Not in fear. In joy.

"Do it." Zayn opened his mouth. His back tore open. The wings emerged. Black. Wet. Horrible. Larger than before, yet still badly aligned. They could not fly in the wet air. But they could slow a fall. The wings beat once. The jolt lifted him just enough to keep him out of the water. He fell behind the chief, one knee in the broken wood. She turned. Too late. Zayn bit into her shoulder. She screamed. Her current-aura tried to sweep him away, to slide free of his grip. Gluttony held fast.

The aquatic breath entered his mouth. The scythe drank the hatred. Around the blade emerging from the black skull, the dark aura formed denser than ever. An aura stolen from water, from wolves, from raptors, from bears, from the dead who had tried to remain themselves before him. But still not his. Never his. The chief felt it.

"That is not your breath." Zayn murmured against her blood:"I know." He raised the scythe.

"It's your mistake." The blade fell. The current-aura split. The chief fell with it. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] [Envy yield greatly reduced.] Current soul strength: 84 Zayn remained standing in the middle of the destroyed dock. The scythe spoke softly:"Two points. You butcher chiefs for crumbs." Zayn looked at the surviving ferrymen.

"Then they'll pay some other way." He did not kill the whole village. He did worse. He gathered the survivors at the river's edge. He had the boats brought before him. He counted seven. Two too small. One damaged. Three built for the river, not the sea. One long black boat, covered in current-runes and oiled hides, capable of descending to the northern mouth. Not of crossing the ocean. Not yet. But of reaching the river-delta clans. The ones who possessed the true sea-going vessels. Zayn pointed at that boat.

"That one." A wounded fish-man murmured:"It won't make it through the Death-Rapids without rowers." Zayn turned his head.

"Then row." The man began to tremble.

"I can't do it alone." Zayn looked at the other survivors.

"Then choose who wants to live long enough to reach the delta." No one moved. The scythe rested its blade against the dock. The black skull opened its jaw.

"They still think they get to choose." Zayn raised his hand.

"Very well." He took a child at random. A little one with blue scales, maybe six years old, incapable of understanding why the adults around him were holding their breath. His mother screamed. Zayn laid a hand on the child's head. He did not squeeze. Not yet.

"Rowers." Five adults stepped forward immediately. The mother collapsed to her knees. Zayn released the child. The little one ran back to her. The scythe sighed.

"Cruel without cutting. You are improving." Zayn did not answer. He chose eight rowers. One guide. Two hostages. Not to protect them. To keep the rowers leashed. When an old otter-man dared look at him with hatred, Zayn asked:"Do you want to kill me?" The old man answered:"Yes." Zayn smiled. Then he handed him an oar.

"Then stay close to me long enough to try." The old man took the oar. He would live a few more hours. Maybe. The boat left the village at dusk. Behind it, not all the houses were burning. Zayn had not set everything on fire. He had learned something else. Sometimes leaving a place standing was crueler. The survivors would have to rebuild with broken docks, bodies in the water, stolen boats, a dead chief, and a child who would remember a cold hand on his skull. Fear did not need ashes to endure.

The river carried the boat northward. The rowers worked in silence. The old otter-man sat closest to Zayn, staring at the scythe. The black skull at the top of the weapon seemed to stare back. Zayn sat at the prow, soaked, wounded, his wings retracted beneath the skin of his back, his mouth still full of the taste of river-clan blood. The guide, a young woman with gray scales, spoke after an hour.

"The delta won't help you." Zayn did not turn around.

"It won't need to want to."

"Even with a sea-boat, you can't reach the island-continent. The northern currents twist. The reefs move. The elves control the winds around their coasts."

"So there is a route." Silence. There it was. There was always a route. People said impossible when what they meant was guarded. The gray-scaled woman understood too late that she had just given him more than she wanted. Zayn smiled. The scythe murmured:"So we are going to steal a sea."

"No," said Zayn. He looked at the black river ahead.

"We are going to force someone to open it for us." The skull of the scythe clicked its teeth softly. Like applause. Behind them, on the southern bank, the ferrymen's village vanished into the mist. Ahead, the river descended toward the delta, toward the last river clans, toward the ships capable of approaching the Northern Sea. And beyond the sea, still invisible, the elven island-continent waited at the center of its winds. Zayn did not know how to sail. He did not know how to fly properly.

He no longer even truly knew whether he was seeking truth, vengeance, or simply a place vast enough to contain his hatred. But he knew one thing. Every border had someone who believed they could guard it. And those people, since the fall of the Mist-Fangs, had become his favorites.