Mist had covered the island overnight, and when Arell awoke, he could see nothing of the landscape when he stepped onto the terrace. A shrill fog whistle from a caravel at Northport wailed, and the sound of drums in the distance answered the call. Something felt wrong. Arell rushed into his street clothes, his gold-trimmed red doublet, his cloak, his boots, and hurried down the corridor to the Hall.

Serena and her sisters were by a window when he entered.

“Those are the drums of war,” Serena told him.

Arell seized the sword Osage had made for him off the mount on the wall. He had never used it. A weapon decorated with a mushroom-shaped pommel in the likeness of an osprey—Cho Nisi’s insignia—while its wings spanned the recurved quillons and a freshly sharpened two-edged blade.

“Serena, have a page summons Osage and his men.”

The girls hurried out the door. His palms sweated as he sheathed the weapon and fastened it onto his baldric. He took a moment to calm himself before he stepped into the courtyard. He was the King, he must suppress his fear for the sake of the inhabitants of the island.

Grooms and sentries lingered in groups, talking among themselves. When they saw Arell, a sentry ran up to him.

“What is it, Vasil? What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure.”

With such thick fog, there’d be no way to tell if invaders had come from the sea, not without going to the docks, and that would be a foolish thing to do without advice from the council. “Have you seen Chief Silas?”

“No, Vasil, no one from the tribe has been up here.”

“This came for you this morning, though.” The page handed him a letter.

“From King Tobias?” Dread paled his face as the drums of war beat louder. He regarded the sentries standing in the courtyard.

“Prepare yourselves for battle,” he told them. They left his side hurriedly.

What was this note? Not a declaration of war, he hoped. Not from King Tobias. Hadn’t they left that riff behind? He tore the letter open.

King Arell of Cho Nisi, my dearest friend and Ally,

My kingdom offers you our deepest sympathy in the death of your most noble father and our ally. If there is recompense we can offer you, please make us aware of what it is.

Arell looked up from the parchment. The page and stable boys stared at him as if waiting for a response.

“Please! Privacy,” he turned his back to his audience and walked away. This letter had King Tobias’ signature. Whether the king wrote this, or a servant did he couldn’t tell but the letter came from the castle where she lived. And fortunately, it brought tidings of goodwill.

I very much desire that our nations set aside the past and reach across our borders, and the sea, to join hands in unity. We face a most dreadful opponent. It is imperative that we stay as allies in this broken world.

You may not be aware, but the evil demons that live in the mountains abducted my son Barin. I am an old man. I need help. We have no magic that can fight the dark wizard. We beseech you please send your drummers to our land to help us free the Prince.

They must be in dire circumstances if they’re asking him for help.

And Arell, if you see them in the mist, prepare yourselves. They are giants and they are evil, but you can win. Fight them with fire.

Arell’s heart skipped a beat. Was that Erika’s voice? The king would never call him by his first name. For an instant, Arell imagined her beautiful red hair and fiery blue eyes. He felt her kiss.

Your strongest ally, King Tobias.

Arell folded the letter and tucked it in his pocket just as Osage and several hundred men from Moaton rode through the gate. So prepared were they as a mounted cavalry, that they caught Arell off guard.

“Honor,” he requested from a stable boy nearby.

“Who is the enemy we’re fighting, Vasil?” Osage asked.

“I’m not sure, but...” Arell touched the pocket where he had secured the letter, grateful it had arrived at the same time as the mist. “What knowledge do you have of mountain giants?”

Osage’s eyes grew wide. “Only that they appear as vapor before they manifest.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

The stable boy brought Arell’s horse and held him while Arell mounted, while the courtyard now buzzed with men-at-arms, servants, and horses and still the drums beat. The spell of the drums was effective against skura, but considering the thickness of the fog, they seemed not to have any defense against mountain giants.

“You there,” Arell called to one servant. “Light torches for as many men here as you can. Quickly. Bring me one!” Arell mounted.

“I need to contact Silas,” Arell said, accepting the torch handed to him. Osage looked puzzled but received his torch, as did several other soldiers. Honor tossed his head and stepped in circles. Osage and the other soldiers also had difficulty keeping their mounts calm. “Let’s ride to Nico.”

Seeing the open road ahead, Honor ambled energetically through the gate. They rode single file over the spit and into Moaton. The beat of a hundred steeds clapping over cobblestone drew the attention of the town, and soon people congregated in the street as the soldiers passed. “What’s happening, Vasil?”

“Stay inside until you don’t hear drums any longer and until the sky clears. Burn a candle in your window.”

If this white mist proved to be a horde of mountain giants, flaming candles would protect the villagers. “Go quickly inside your homes! Keep weapons near you. Do not open your doors or shutters.” Frustrated that only a few people were hearing his instructions, he called for two of the pages who had been following.

“Go door to door. Tell them their king commands every man, woman, and child to remain in their homes and keep their doors bolted. Someone will announce when it is clear. And you two,” he stopped the boys before they were out of hearing range. “When you’ve knocked on every door, get yourselves inside the last house.”

“Yes, Vasil,” they answered.

Arell left the city with a hundred soldiers following. With fog so impenetrable he couldn’t see the trail but depended on his horse’s instinct to find its way. Osage rode next to him, sitting tall in the saddle, his eyes fixed ahead of him, but Arell paid attention to his surroundings. He kept his torch held high. There’s an enemy here, but not knowing exactly where it would strike unnerved him.

“You’ve done well with your sword, Vasil. You’ve learned what you needed to.”

Arell glanced at him and wondered how he could remain so calm.

“Stay sharp, keen-eyed. Listen,” Osage advised.

“If I knew what to listen for, I’d be more at ease. Knowing who our enemy is has its advantages. Are they men, monsters, or spirits?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. And then we’ll know what to do.”

After an hour of riding at a brisk trot, the trail descended toward the cliffs near Nico. Arell slowed the company to a walk. “When we get to the village, I must dismount and go there on foot, alone. Stay with the soldiers and wait on the hill.”

“Yes, Vasil,” Osage said. “Let’s hope someone is there you can talk to.”

“Chief Silas never leaves the village without drummers and an elder,” Arell assured him. When Arell reached the overlook, he dismounted and handed his reins and his torch to Osage. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

“The men will be on guard, Vasil.”

Arell stumbled over the rocks, his thick boots clumsy and hard to manage down the steep grade, but it wasn’t a long trail, and he’d been here before. The pathway ended at the beach where the elders recently held Erika’s trial. He paused for a moment as the memory of her flashed through his mind. That very log was where she waited for her sentence, not knowing whether she would live or die. She had held her head high though and had shown courage as the elders announced her fate. She never meant to kill his father, that much she had proven to him.

Justice was complete, though he wondered who it hurt the most for the pain of losing her riveted inside him. He breathed deeply and moved on.

The drums were louder here and blended with the sound of the surf. He could see people congregated around a campfire on the beach singing, and natives of the village were dancing. Chief Silas waved to Arell.

“We need to talk,” Arell said.

“Follow me.”

Silas led Arell past the village homes and along the beach, pale and white as the mist. Salty air tingled when it hit his cheeks as they walked, and breakers pounded on the sand at their feet. Steps made from driftwood the color of the mist transported them to a stony hillside and to a simple shelter camouflaged by the rocky. Silas opened the door and ushered Arell inside. A woman sat on the floor at a low-standing table. She wore the purple robe of a Seer, one of the few mages of the island. Arell had heard of her, a friend of his mother’s, but he had never met her. A middle-aged woman with an uncanny beauty, slim of build, she looked frail, and yet her dark brown eyes sparkled with life.

“Sit,” Chief Silas offered him a mat on the floor, so Arell sat cross-legged at the table opposite the woman. A low ambient light lit the Seer’s face. She had watched him come in and stayed focused on him while he took a seat, as if she’d been waiting for him.

She nodded a greeting.

“The drums are warding off the attack,” she explained. “There are ten thousand skura hovering over the island. Were we to stop beating the drums, everyone on Cho Nisi would die. There is no other magic to save us. Your sword, your soldiers, they cannot save us.”

Arell nodded and swallowed. The scent of sandalwood calmed his nerves. Chief Silas sat down on the woven mat next to him and kept a solemn stare on the woman as she spoke.

“The mists are demons from the mountains. We aren’t sure if the drums are preventing them from forming into giants or if they haven’t gathered their full army yet, and that’s why they haven’t attacked. They are still coming. I’m sorry, but we practice no other magic except our chants and our drums and our herbs. They are useless against this threat.”

Arell wet his lips as sweat formed on his forehead. Ten thousand skura. He wondered how many giants were settling in on the island. He had only two hundred readied soldiers to fight them.

“The world of Cho Nisi waits for you, King Arell,” she continued her voice monotone. “Forever is a long time to beat a drum.”

Arell bit his lip and looked at Silas, who avoided his gaze.

“Women, children, your loved ones. The immigrants in Moaton. Your soldiers, our tribe. Chief Silas. Me. You. We will all die.”

He needed to take charge, and yet he did not know what to do. All he had… “Wait,” he said and pulled Erika’s letter out of his doublet. He read slowly, softly.

“… if you see them in the mist, prepare yourselves. They are giants and they are evil, but you can win. Fight them with fire.”

The room fell silent, and they could hear the drums on the beach. Finally, Silas cleared his throat.

“Who wrote to you?” Silas glared at the parchment in Arell’s hands.

“I think this is from Erika. King Tobias asked us to help them. They too are experiencing an attack.”

“I told her never to write…”

The Seer held her hand up to quiet Chief Silas, and he stopped.

“Do what you must, King Arell. Anything will help. Now go.”

Arell stood, and despite his status, he felt he should bow to the woman. Silas nudged him out the door. The fog had grown thicker and darker. The drums louder, the breakers stronger. They returned the way they had come; the dancers had gone, and the men had rotated their vigil.

“Forever is a long time to beat a drum,” the Seer’s voice droned in his mind.

“How long, Silas?” Arell jogged to keep up to the chief. “How long can they keep this vigil?”

Silas shook his head. “I don’t know. The need for survival will keep us going. Our love for our families will keep us drumming. But I don’t know how long. There are many men all over the island. They will need to return to their families sometimes. They will need to eat and rest. There are not a lot of us.”

“Maybe you can teach some Moatons to drum also?” Arell asked.

The chief shrugged.

“I can send them to you.”

“Wait and see. I’ll send messages.” Silas stopped at the trail and turned to Arell, laying his hand on the king’s chest. “Did you write her back?”

“Who?”

“The assassin.”

A wave of heat rushed through Arell. Erika the Assassin? “No, I haven’t.”

“Do not.”

Arell straightened. Chief Silas had been a father to him, but he resented this invasive order. Not that Arell had considered writing Erika. Yes, she killed his father and changed his life. Broke his heart. But they served justice, didn’t they? He fingered the letter in his pocket. She had given him a clue to overcoming this threat, saving the lives of many. That had to account for something.

“I will do as I see fit as king, Silas,” he said, and with a nod, pivoted around and walked up the trail to his men.