The Call of Crows

Chapter 1: Carrion Birds

All humans, in one way or another, are helpless. All humans, in one way or another, are under the hand of a god or two. Fighting against this helplessness was useless, for it would only ever end in failure. Such was the truth that resonated in Bjorn's head.

On your feet, Stormtamer!

The echoes of the sting of the icy waves still chilled his flesh to the bone.

What's the meaning of this?

He rubbed his temples, trying to massage the echoes of his own voice and others out of his head. Part of him thought that he should've gotten used to them by now. But who in their right mind was used to voices in their heads. His self awareness was a sign that Bjorn had yet to lose himself.

You're no longer fit to sail with us, Stormtamer.

His heart pounded shame into his chest, like the sea lapping at an eroded shoreline.

It wasn't out of jealousy! How many times do I have to explain? If I hadn't done it, she'd be-

He was right. He was right. He was right. Bjorn had done no wrong. It was wrong that had been done to him. So then why? Why the shame?

You disgrace us to call us your comrades. We haven't sent a soul to this place, but if you don't apologize and ask for forgiveness from both of them, we'll have no choice but to leave you here.

Disgrace. That's what he was. That's why he felt it.

Disgrace to those who had disgraced him!

But that didn't matter. So long as the many saw him that way, that's what he was.

I won't apologize for doing the right thing!

He shook his head, trying to banish the echoing voices in his mind. That declaration meant nothing now. They carried the weights of his efforts and had been swatted down by one singular statement.

Then languish.

Bjorn's pickaxe clattered into a box full of identical rusty tools as he followed the single file line of soot-stained men out of the mine. Guards protected by the south's arcane magics stood over the pitiful snake of father, brothers and sons who were all forced to work here or be sent back to their homelands with their families to die.

They were sick. All of them. All except the guards. The mysterious disease only ever referred to as the Plague infected each of the souls who came to this island. Here, they would be safe, they were told. The Plague spread seemingly at random, marking all those with its touch with blackened scars along their flesh. It wasn't rot, more like that of a tattoo. But whatever it was, it was enough to get you sent to Pomedua.

Bjorn wasn't sick. He bore the scars, yes, but he wasn't sick. He didn't hack and cough in the night. He was never down with fever. He never even had a spell of dysentery. He was as strong and healthy as ever.

The doctors told him he still carried the Plague, but wasn't weakened by it and thus, was still a danger to the uninfected. Bjorn didn't know how much he believed that assessment, since Avisilan doctors also believed that flowers stuffed up their nose would prevent the Plague, as they thought the stench around it was the cause. The scent was just rot. It was there wherever there was death. Bjorn knew that putrid smell well enough.

Bjorn felt his eyelids becoming heavy as he followed the path back to the island's encampment. No. He needed to stay awake tonight.

"A shame about what happened to Antero, eh Stormtamer?"

Bjorn stopped himself from physically recoiling at the use of his title. Stormtamer. That title was naught but a formality at this point. It was known only among his people. Outsiders knew him either as yet another raging Ashman or Bjorn Olafsson, if he got the chance to introduce himself. Well, except for this man.