The day after the ice on the river broke fully apart, Markez started making plans to put his boat back in the water. He and several other men who had been spooked by the way the glowing eyes were spreading like the clap along a busy warf wanted nothing to do with those light-worshiping weirdos. It was clear to anyone that the light had failed, but if that meant that the world was ending, well, he sure wasn’t going to let the day of judgment catch him with his pants down here.

“You sure you won't stay,” Jordan had asked while they were stocking the ship with a small share of the remaining supplies. “The fish you catch are a vital source of food for the children and—”

“Bah,” Markez spat. “I’ve done enough for the children, I think. Given that my own were grown and gone an age ago, that’s doubly true. It’s time I get to the capital to find out what news I can.”

That was only half true, of course. He didn’t care about the current state of the world so much as he cared about being anywhere but here. The mage’s eyes still hadn’t started to glow, but that was probably because the mage had sold his soul for magic, which wasn’t a comforting thought either.

“You know it’s probably even worse there than it is here,” the mage asked, trying another tactic. “We’ve still got the plow and enough wheat for planting. It will be a tough spring, but after that, I think…”

“You think I’m scared of tightening my belt, lad?” Markez said, forcing a laugh. “Trust me. Wherever I go, my nets will provide. If the people of the capital are starving, then that’s just one more reason for me and the boys to go help out. I wish you the best, of course, but…”

He let his words trail off there, not sure how to tell the mage that they were building a cult here, and he wanted no part of it. Fortunately, the other man was the one to fill that gap.

“Well, if you must go, I’d appreciate you delivering this to my parents should you find them,” Jordan said, “Let them know it’s safe to return home if they would like to.”

“I’m not sure if you should be inviting anyone to stay in a home that might well starve before harvest,” Markez said coldly, “But I promise to deliver it if I can.”

They parted on good terms after that and continued their voyage upriver. Markez tried never to burn bridges in case he needed to cross them one day, but he was certain he’d never be back this way again. Just the thought was enough to send a chill down his spine.

The voyage east wasn’t easy, of course. It was an unfamiliar river through lands he’d only ever heard about. Even with all that, though, it was still better than when he’d been forced to make his way up the Oroza with only women and children for help.

There were a few snags, and once, some starving men thought hard about trying to board them before they thought better of it. Still, the weather was improving, and by the time they could see their destination on the horizon, it was fair to say he’d had worse voyages.

Rakhin, the capital of the kingdom, was in even shape than he would have thought, and if not for the gripes of the men he’d brought with him, he might have sailed right on by and cone up the coast for someplace a bit less… overwhelmed.

His little ship wasn’t rigged right for the open sea, of course, but with a couple men, he was sure they could hug the coast well enough to make it into Tanada or Bastom. He’d never been, of course, but all he’d ever heard about those far-flung ports from other travelers was that they were too warm and too warm sounded just about right with everything else that was going on. He’d take the heat and the worshipers of strange foreign gods over glowing eyes and endless snows any day of the weak.

Even from a distance, it was plain to see the shanties that clung to the walls of the outer city and the burned-out wreckage of certain homes that pointed to troubles in the past. The castle looked fine, of course, and the docks were still safe enough, but then it wasn’t an invading army that they were at war with. It was hunger and fear.

Markez saw that immediately and forced the men he’d brought with him to help him gather up a fine catch before they made for port.

“It’s the only way we’ll be welcomed with open arms,” he assured them.

He was right, too. Half a day’s effort brought them a meager catch of eel, flounder, and other fish he wasn’t so familiar with, but there were still people fighting to buy it from them when they finally came to port shortly before nightfall.

Of course, as soon as he had silvers in his hand, they were quickly disbursed to his makeshift crew, who went off to waste the windfall on wine and women. He, on the other hand, when to do a few things that were nominally useful.

First and foremost, Markez took a walk through the city, at least the outer part; they wouldn’t let him into the inner walls without a pass. He’d hoped to find Jordan’s family as he’d promised so he could deliver the man’s letter and be free of that obligation, but he had no luck. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Instead, all he found were the churning displaced masses begging for scraps. By the end of his walk, he decided he would not travel these streets again when it was dark out. Too many people looked at his clean clothes and healthy weight with envy and hunger. If not for a passing guard patrol at a couple of key moments, he might have been beaten to death in search of wealth he did not have.

This quickly became the pattern for the days that followed. His decision to stay on board his ship was the only difference in the days that followed. Each morning, he would take the men who were sober enough to go out with him, and they would catch as much as they could. Then, in the afternoon, Markez would journey to some new part of Rahkin to ask about the Sedgim family, and then he would be back on his vessel by evening, mending nets for the following day.

It was a steady rhythm that he could live with, and slowly but surely, his silvers multiplied where he hid them deep in the bilge where no one would find them. The time came that most of his men eventually wanted to leave. Markez could sympathize. Every day, the beer got more watered down, and the streets became more crowded. Apparently, it had been like this all winter, and the guards only expected it to get worse as the snow melted and the roads dried up.

That was enough to make even the stubborn old sailor change his mind. To hell with that promise, he decided. He’d done his best, and that would have to be good enough. The following day, he told his plan to his slowly growing crew.

“One more day,” he said, “Maybe two at the outside to lay in some supplies, and we’ll go north in search of better prospects.”

No one disagreed with that, at least not until he got to the part about how no one was getting paid for today’s work because he needed that money to buy flour and salt pork, but even after that, it was kept to the murmurs of discontent that were so common among a reasonably healthy crew.

That’s how Markez found himself in the small market near the wharf the following day as a food riot broke out. He’d come with two good, strong men to scare away thieves and haul their precious cargo black to the ship, but it didn’t happen like that.

Instead, after he’d agreed to pay a King's ransom for half a keg of pickled pork feet and spend the rest of his ready coin on salt, lard, and coarse flour that would make for excellent ship's biscuits if fried correctly, the dregs of Rhakin came at him like a wave.

He was holding a half-eaten loaf of bread that would serve as both breakfast and lunch when the violence reached him. Together, he and his men fought to hold on to the supplies they’d purchased, but that was like trying to hold back the tide. No matter how many heads they bludgeoned, there were more grasping hands looking for something, anything worth stealing.

Then he felt the knife in the back, jabbing deep between his liver and kidneys. It was so quick he barely had a chance to feel pain. Instead, stunned by the blow, Markez toppled to the ground. He couldn’t see the wound in his back, but he could feel the warmth gushing out of it as the rest of his body grew cold, so he knew it was bad, though.

How can this be happening? He wondered to himself as his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the stones, still clutching his food. He’d led a good life. He’d saved nearly two dozen brats and steered a boat up a cursed river past the den of the devil himself. Now he was going to die by the very violence he’d just been preparing to leave? That was irony right there if he’d ever heard it.

Of course, as he lay there dying on the cobbles, it was a child who pulled the half loaf of bread from his slack grip. It was a small boy with a dirty face and dead eyes, and Markez’s dying thought as the world faded to black was that he hoped the boy managed to navigate the worsening food riot. One more good deed wouldn’t hurt him in the world after.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one to die that day. 34 died in the small market before the city guard arrived on the scene to put down the violence, and another 56 died in the process of re-establishing peace.

It was the third food riot that month, but it was by far the bloodiest. Combined with the steady drip of the melting snow from the rooftops, the gutters were literally overflowing with blood. Most of that made its way through the gutters to the sewers and eventually the sea, but some made its way in a thin trickle to the shrine of Saint Jarloen standing in the center of the square. It stained his pure marble feet red and trickled into the cracks in the pedestal of the centuries-old statue as the blood pooled around it.

That shouldn’t have been a big deal. On any normal day, the acolytes would have cleaned it. There were no acolytes anymore. Faith was the one commodity in the capital that was in shorter supply than hope or food. So, for hour after hour, the blood was allowed to trickle down past the statue of the martyr into the catacombs that they sealed below it.

Rain and snow did the same thing almost every year, but they only fed the black mold that blossomed on the walls of the catacombs below. The blood would instead feed something darker. It flowed down the nearly level tunnel incredibly slowly until it reached a set of stairs and began to descend further.

It moved like a crimson serpent or a worm that was searching for something as it wound its way through the darkness. Finally, on the fourth, partially collapsed level, it found it. There, on the dias, was a stone sarcophagus sealed with lead and bound in rusty bands that had long since failed.

It had sat untouched with the dust of centuries upon it and should have sat for centuries longer until the weight of the world buried it completely. That’s not what happened, though.

The sarcophagus sat two stairs above the rubble-strewn floor on a small dais. That should have been enough to hold the pool of blood at bay in perpetuity, but it wasn’t. Instead, the blood started to flow upwards. It didn’t matter that it was impossible. All that mattered was the ancient hunger that throbbed inside that box like the slow beating of a dead heart.

That hunger was enough to force the blood to climb the stairs and then the walls of the coffin itself, where it began to burn and smoke as it crawled across the warded surface toward a gap in the lead.

Once it reached that hole, it was like a rope had been seized, and with unnatural force, the trickle of blood and melt water became a flood. Minutes later, the standing water of the plaza was empty, and the tunnels were dry, but something in that long-forgotten crypt was beginning to stir, and it hungered for more.