The Bones of Prey

Chapter 1 | Called Home

I can feel the call.

It is an unrelenting heartbeat, dug deep and pounding steadily in my chest. It is a bone-deep ache in the seat of my pelvis. It is a ringing, like the fluttering of death chimes, coasting at the back of my skull and sinking into the drum of my ear.

I thought by now I'd be immune. The World knows I've dealt with it long enough. I've spent years learning to ignore it and years more learning to muzzle it. It was a summons that could never be silenced, but with concentration, it could be mercilessly shoved into the shadowed and dusty corners of my mind.  This was different. I'm used to pain, so it was disturbing to admit that I was withering beneath the effects of the call. It was the only reason I was submitting and following the summons home. I was mildly concerned that if I waited much longer, my brain may start leaking out of my ears. Something has obviously changed. I'm looking forward to finding out what.

Thus, I find myself on a ship mere miles from shore. I never thought I would lay eyes on my home again. Not that I would call Haliv home, but it does lead me there, and it's the closest I've been in more years than I can count.

I can make out details now. Trees are no longer a green and grey blend. Now, as we draw closer, they are ten thousand thin sticks with budding leaves, protruding from the forest floor. The port we approach totes matchbox houses and miniscule dwellings, designed as a crumbling, sodden village teeming with downtrodden inhabitants. From this far back, humans resemble scurrying insects more than the two-legged gods their egotistical minds often claim themselves to be. The shore below is a crusted ribbon tying it all together; a snaking line of grit dropping into the murky waters. This is Haliv.

Unfortunately, Haliv itself was never truly noteworthy. The port was Haliv's only notable aspect and, even at its best, barely sustained a midsize town full of traders, merchants, and fishwives. The harbor itself was small and homed ships and fledgling fishing boats to match. Larger trading companies more commonly sought anchorage further north at Yset City or dropped further southwest to reach Prosit. Both cities had direct, well-maintained (and thoroughly guarded) routes to the capital.

This was precisely the reason I had designed my seafaring journey to end in Haliv. The small town would help keep me anonymous for as long as possible. I had visited Haliv once, long before I left the first time. The likelihood I would be remembered is negligible, whereas with anywhere else the possibility is more concerning. I will eventually have to make my way to the capital. The summons will lead me there. I however will choose when. Haliv affords me time to get the lay of the land. The world no doubt has changed in my long absence and I want to know by how much.

The ship finally reaches shore and begins aligning next to the dock that juts out from the water. The collision of ship and land jars me. I sidestep the quick-footed men as they rush to tie and secure the boat.

I disembark quietly and without notice from the few other passengers on the ship. The water-soaked planks of the dock give a little beneath my boots. Haliv stands before me, sagging and limp. The town looks no better up close. Grey walls, rusting roofs, and brown mud everywhere else are the only colors this town can lay claim to. The sun setting in the trees behind town casts a glare in my eyes as I move towards the center of town. It adds a beauty to the dilapidated setting that is poorly deserved.

The town was built around the small port, so its center lies not far from the dock. The waterfront gives way to the circuitous market where the fishers hawk their catch and the merchants sell their wares. A ten foot stone wall corrals the houses and separates the residential area from the market and water below. A central staircase set into the wall directs the flow of traffic from the harbor into the center of town.

With nightfall fast approaching, boats are returning to port rapidly to settle in before blackness blankets the sky. Men and women alike bustle about, hauling goods from the water to be sold on the morrow. While others hurry to reach lighted walkways and warm buildings, I slow my strides. There are old friends and new associates to meet up ahead, no doubt, but I don't intend to waltz in blind, deaf, and dumb. As I said, this world is not as I left it and I have yet to find a quicker way of falling into shit than stepping through a door knowing nothing of what lies on the other side. Luckily for me, there are no better gossips than fishers and their wives.

My friends can wait and the ale will keep.

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