While on watch, Arell left the castle on horseback and traveled north. By mid-morning he came to Northport, a small, uninhabited dockside where merchant ships and fishing boats berthed occasionally. Foreigners made the stop over during extended fishing excursions, or merchants from nations far to the north used the island as a midway point to the mainland. Few seafarers had any interest in Cho Nisi, the natives, or the king, but used the pier as a safe place to wait out a storm, or to make repairs. Occasionally someone would request a meeting with the king concerning trade, but those visits were few.

Arell employed boys from Moaton as letter carriers to meet ships from the mainland whenever he spied one from his watch point. However, the last ship seen in Northport had been the one that took Arell’s letter to King Tobias. The threat of the skura and the constant beating of the drums had frightened away seafarers. Arell had little hope of any nation coming to his aide. A little island out in the middle of the sea? Why would anyone risk their lives to help?

He lost any hope of victory. Silas and his warriors still took turns chanting and drumming all day and all night, still the best they could do with such a multitude of skura hovering over the island was to conjure enough wind to keep them in the air. The men in Northport grew tired and less energetic, and so that’s where Arell traveled the most. He led a pack horse every other day carrying fresh-water, smoked clams, oyster rolls, and any other treats the women from Nico made up for them. Women from Moaton contributed yeast breads and mutton pies.

There were five men and two women keeping vigil in the Northport area. They drummed on a lonely jetty weathered by ocean wind and turbulent surf. The skura flew lower here than other parts of the island, a sign of the drummer’s fatigue. Arell’s horse refused to venture on the rocky pier, and so Arell had to walk. Warm from the ride and the muggy weather, he took off his doublet, tied it to the saddle and left his horse on the sand dunes to graze near the native’s lean-to, while he packed in on foot.

Especially rough winds blew this morning. Abenda, the elder, stood when he saw Arell approach. All but one drum had been silenced, and so Arell kept a cautious eye on the sky.

“Good morning, Abenda.” Arell gave him a cheerful greeting.

Abenda did not return his smile.

“King Arell, have you found a solution?” he asked, his voice more accusing than inquisitive. Abenda and Arell hadn’t gotten along since Erika’s trial. He had voted to execute her, and for that Arell found it difficult to talk to him. The relationship had been strained.

“There is no solution but to fight these beasts, or continue what we’re doing,” Arell answered as he set the pack down. “I’ve brought some nutritious food this time.”

“We don’t want your nutritious food,” Abenda said. The surrounding men grunted in agreement. The last drum stopped beating and Arell looked up at the circulating skura, placing a readied hand on his sword as Abenda continued.

“We want a solution. We’re tired of being here when there is no end in sight. If fighting these beasts is the only other option than let us fight.”

Arell looked at him in surprise. “How can you make that decision without consulting the rest of the tribe?”

“The tribe is on the other side of the island, a full day away. We have no communication with them.”

“Then let me find replacements for you so you can go home.” Arell’s breath quickened as he found himself on the verge of panic. Abenda clearly didn’t realize the danger of halting the drums. Warm wind from the skura’s wings brushed against his face. He could smell the stench of their wickedness as they orbited even lower than they had.

“We’re not staying here another day. If you want replacements, get them.” Abenda signaled to the others to rise. “We’re done. Today. We’ll go back home with you, maybe ride your horses.”

Arell spoke quickly. The skura would be on them in a matter of moments.

“You have no weapons besides clubs and sticks. How are you going to fight them?”

Abenda didn’t glance at the sky but kept walking off the jetty.

“We’re not afraid.”

Arell drew his sword, his eyes fixed on the skura now breaking formation and diving toward them.

“Fear would do you well. If that’s your decision, I suggest you move quickly toward the horses. Now!”

He lifted his sword in the guarded position that Osage had taught. The skura dipped lower as Arell stepped backward. Abenda must have looked over his shoulder because he picked up a club of driftwood and hurried the men and women to their lean-to. Arell followed them, walking rearward, sword raised. The natives’ steps hasten.

“Find shelter in the trees,” Arell called to them.

No sooner had he uttered those words than the first skura attacked. Arell swung, a single stroke severed the beast’s head from its body. Another came and Arell sliced a wing. It fell.

“Remember to keep your balance,” Osage had told him during training.

Walking backward didn’t help.

The beasts were angry, having been beat about in the wind for days, without rest or food. Their revenge would be brutal.

Another skura dove at him. Arell cut upward, ripping the ogre’s belly open. Then face to face with the next, stabbing the monster in the heart. Blood spewed across the quay. No longer did they attack one by one. They stormed him as one mass of yelping varmints. One grabbed his shoulders with its thick pointed talons, lifting him off the ground, Arell sliced himself free. Wings beat against his head blinding him, and he staggered. Teeth bit into his chest and ripped his flesh as Arell drove him away with the hilt of his sword. Blood gushed, the beast’s blood and his. Now from behind a skura rammed into him and knocked him down, pounced on him, and as Arell rolled over it pinned him to the ground preparing for the kill.

Defeated, Arell lifted his sword, but he had no strength left. Certain this was the end. As he looked into the monster’s ravenous eyes, the creature unexpectedly fell to the side as Abenda hit it with a driftwood rod. Drums and chanting began and soon all the warriors sang, once again creating a wind that blew the skura back into the sky. Arell closed his eyes, his life bleeding out of him on the stony ground.

They lifted him onto his horse. He could see Abenda ahead of him, riding the pack animal. Blood soaked his torn shirt as he bent over in the saddle, numb and dizzy—too weak to feel the pain, to even sit up. Men-at-arms came for him once they reached the castle, and Serena wept over him as they carried him to his room.

“I will speak to Silas and the elders,” he heard Abenda say.

Serena and other maids quickly took off his bloodied cloak and peeled away the remnants of his shirt and trousers. They washed him and cleaned and bandaged his wounds. They mopped the trail of blood on the floor.

“Burn these,” Serena told her helpers, holding up his clothes.

“What about his cloak, Serena?” a maid asked.

“We’ll take it to the sea and scrub it with sand. It’s too beautiful a garment, and too wonderful a king not to spend the energy to get it clean.” She pushed a lock of hair from off his forehead and applied a cool rag to a gash on his head. Their eyes met, and she smiled at him.

“We’ll make you well,” she said. “I will send Osage to guard the castle and keep a night vigil, with your permission,” she asked. Arell could do nothing more than nod.

When Arell woke, he did not know how long he’d been unconscious. They had opened his shutters, letting in a moist breeze. The sun warmed him as he lay in bed. He tried to remember what had happened and why the bandages.

His door cracked and then closed again, followed by a quiet knock. Arell smiled. Why did she bother knocking if she were going to peek in?

“Please, enter, Serena.” He hadn’t much of a voice, and it hurt to talk. They had wrapped his entire torso in linen so that he could hardly move, and still, blood seeped through a portion of the bandages.

Serena stepped inside and bowed. “Chief Silas and Abenda would like to speak to you.”

Arell motioned for them to come in. They wore ceremonial clothes, turtle shells strapped on their legs, woven loincloths and feathers, and beads around their necks. The scent of sandalwood followed them in. They both bowed. Formal. Sometimes Arell did not understand the chief. He could be a close and intimate friend or be stiff, stern, and severe like this. Today Silas stood in the middle of the room in his somber mood, his head held high, his dark skin contrasting behind the white feathers and reed-woven breastplate. Abenda stepped forward and bowed, and then he got on one knee.

“I ask forgiveness, Your Lordship.”

Arell frowned. “For what?”

“I was foolish to contest you. Foolish to stop the drums and put you in danger. I could have killed you.”

Ah yes. A skura attack. How could he have forgotten? Arell swallowed and looked aside. He must not have fought them well, considering his condition.

“I have nothing to forgive you for.”

“Chief Silas said you might not remember.”

“I remember. A skura attack.”

“They wouldn’t have attacked if I had been obedient. Instead, I acted on my own and commanded my men to stop beating the drum. You put yourself in between the Cho Nisi and the enemy. You saved our lives by risking yours. I owe you honor.” He beat his hand over his heart and then held it there.

They had raised Arell as a Cho Nisi. He knew well what Abenda implied by owing him honor. If he refused the man, it would be both offensive and disheartening. “Very well,” Arell whispered. “I will give you a task when the need arises.”

Abenda stood, kissed his hand, and stepped back to Chief Silas.

“I too owe you an apology, King Arell,” Silas said. Arell just stared at him. How could Silas think he owes him an apology? “When I saw you in your bed, wounded, I thought where we would be without a king?”

“The Cho Nisi people survived many years without a king before my father’s people came, Silas.” Arell reminded him.

“Regardless, that’s the past. I have denied you to continue your heritage.”

“What do you mean?”

Silas turned to Abenda and spoke in their language. Abenda nodded, turned to Arell, bowed, and left the room. Silas walked up to Arell’s bedside, and, removing his somber self, he sat next to the bed. “I have had a hard hand in what is natural for you. I saw the budding relationship you had with the princess from Potama.”

Arell blushed. Why did he mention Erika? “Our relationship ended as soon as I learned of her deeds.”

“My fault.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I encouraged the elders to pressure you. To go the course of revenge and not forgiveness. I was wrong. You had in your heart to be kind, and we fought against you. When the princess left, I told her never to write you. I threatened her with death. For that, I’ve wronged you.”

Arell stared at him. This he didn’t know.

“I was angry when I heard she wrote to you.”

“Her father wrote to me.”

“As you say. Still, I owe you honor.” He stood erect and held his fist to his heart.

“Oh, holy idols, Silas, you owe me nothing.”

“You risked your life for my people. You could have died.”

“I was trying to save myself!”

Silas grimaced, so Arell raised his hand. “Very well. You owe me honor. The time will come for me to place a bidding on you. I accept your honor.”

Silas bowed, and with no further words, left the room. Serena came in smiling.

“Beautiful Serena. How may I serve you?”

She blushed. “You are the king. It is I who serve you, Vasil. We have your breakfast ready. I will bring it in. Your wounds are too tender for you to move.”

Arell tried to move to prove her wrong, but a sharp pain raced through him, and he could barely swing his legs over the bed. “Very well,” he flinched. “You can bring it in. Thank you, Serena.”

She bowed and hurried away, leaving Arell to think on what Silas had said.

His body hurt, but the Cho Nisi healers had fine herbs that took some pain away. Judging from the wraps, and his overall weakness, he had bled profusely, and from the ceremony, Silas and Abenda performed just now, he may have been near death. He seemed to have given the elders a scare.

The note from King Tobias nested in his doublet. Silas also suspected the king hadn’t written the letter. Why did they both suspect Erika penned the warning?

Arell bore the pain and slowly rose from the bed, finding his equilibrium first, and then he staggered to the armoire and found the doublet he wore the day he received the letter. The day he discovered that there were ten thousand skura hovering over the island. Arell felt for the pocket and pulled out the parchment. Taking the letter to his bed, he read every word again. There was no change in the handwriting from one paragraph to the next.

He sniffed the parchment. A sweet floral fragrance—rose or lilac. A king would not send a perfumed letter to another king. He ran his fingers over the ink marks, the color of her hair clear in his memory.

“I could have loved her,” he whispered. The last paragraph was a word of warning, and of encouragement which, if he hadn’t received the counsel when he did, the entire island might have been destroyed. “She killed my father, but she saved my people.”