Leviticus
The lighthouse was on fire.
“I know we’re late, but we’re not that late,” Ása Hardardóttir muttered to herself. The captain of the Túnfiskurinn turned to her nearest lackey and asked, “Are the crates ready for delivery?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll be down momentarily.”
When she reached the forward gunnery station, the Master Harpooner told her, “I don’t like this.”
“And you think I do?”
“I mean that something’s wrong out there. There’s a few people on the dock, but they’re not dressed right.”
Ása gave him a Look. “Just fire the harpoon gun so we can get this over with.” As he obeyed, she muttered to herself, “Every time we do this, I feel a bit of my soul die.”
The harpoons went out; the lines they bore were taken in; and the two crates were sent over.
“Give me the megaphone,” Ása said in sudden decision. Once she had it in hand, she bellowed through it, “TELL YOUR MASTERS THAT THIS IS THE LAST TIME WE’RE MAKING THIS RUN! DO YOU HEAR? YOU’LL HAVE TO FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO DO YOUR FILTHY WORK FOR YOU!”
A voice faintly called something back to them, but it was indecipherable over the murmurs from the Believers among the crew.
“SILENCE!” Ása had worked herself up into a fury now. “Any of you who want to keep making this run can find another boat on which to do it! Helmsman, get us away from this stinking place!”
*
TWO DAYS EARLIER...
*
The bridge had collapsed behind them, but Sigrun’s rudimentary metal-bending skills had kept their portion of it up just long enough for their vehicle to slip into the relative safety of the tunnel. Relative safety: the tunnel was cleared every week so as to make it impracticable for Exiles to shelter there for any length of time.
They had spent that first night on a grassy field outside the tunnel mouth, but Sigrun told her new companions-in-arms, “The secret to survival out here is to keep moving on. You linger, you die.” They believed her.
Their second night was spent in an old fortlet, miraculously clear of Horrors. There, they’d found a note telling Exiles that a Sanctuary existed not far away, in a lighthouse on the ancient docks.
“Death-trap,” Sigrun opined immediately, but Tuuri prevailed upon her to let them at least investigate.
Now the lighthouse was on fire and all its former inhabitants were dead.
Apparently, the world-destroying plague had wrecked a few minds without even trying, or so Mikkel and Emil thought, as neither believed in the spirits. Be that as it may, in the aftermath of the Island of Life-Benders’ reopening of its borders to the few survivors of the Reaving, a cult had sprung up around the notion--supposedly a direct revelation from one of the spirits--that the Reaving needed to be appeased in order to keep the Island safe.
The appeasement chosen was a series of sacrifices offered annually on the altar atop the old lighthouse, culminating in a human sacrifice.
Sometimes, Exiles would come to the Appeasers, and would either join or be sacrificed. Mostly, they were sacrificed.
It should be noted that neither Sigrun nor Emil spoke the language of the Island of Life-Benders, and Lalli only spoke the tongue of the Land of Finn, but when the weird bald people started trying to spear them, they reacted accordingly.
So the lighthouse was on fire and all its former inhabitants were dead.
Shortly thereafter, a small ship appeared off the dock, fired off a couple of harpoon-lines, and dropped two crates in the Exiles’ laps. A heavily distorted stream of angry-sounding gibberish echoed from the boat, to which Sigrun replied, “Thank you!”
While Sigrun and Mikkel attacked one crate, Emil struggled with the other, Lalli glowering ominously. Once he noticed, Emil asked, “What?” Everything today had by far exceeded his personal Weirdness Quotient, and he was still twitchy.
When, immediately thereafter, the crate popped open, the lid propelled from within by a tall and lanky boy with a most impressive braid, Emil immediately slammed the crate shut again in an automatic reaction.
After a few moments of confusion, Mikkel came over to the new arrival. Mikkel (and Tuuri) spoke the language of the Island of Life-Benders, and was able to open a brief dialogue. No, this was not the Mark of Denn. Yes, Mikkel was sure of that.
In the meantime, Sigrun had completely flipped out over the idea of yet another non-combatant mouth to feed; Emil was ordered to “guard the prisoner”; Tuuri was impressed by the newcomer’s hair; and Lalli was glowering at the newcomer ominously.
Thus did Reynir Árnasson begin his own involuntary Exile...
