Young Writers Society

Daylon had thought they were getting quite close to the port of Cadaf city by now. Though, the tiny peephole was all his suspicions could lay base on, and he thought the peephole was very unreliable. Whenever he shifted his body to look through the inch-wide hole, the boat would rock as if it knew, and he would hurt himself in one way or another. Not to mention, he often felt an oncoming cramp in his neck upon moving. So, to be truly certain of their position, he had to rely on his hearing.

There. Lakegulls squawked noisily, indicating they were close to land. Apart from this, Daylon could hear the waves brushing lightly against the hull of the boat, and he certainly felt them too. The air inside the barrel was humid and stifling, and it tasted sour with salt. The barrels’ previous uses had left it with a pungent fishy odour, and Daylon fought to keep himself from vomiting. Aside from doing general cargo transport and the occasional smuggling of criminals and immigrants, Gerril, the ship’s captain, was also a fisherman. Daylon had forgotten this fact, and he was paying the price for it.

As he strained to listen, he caught a faint whisper from one of the others. It was deep and unintelligible. Could it be Ivan?

“Stay quiet,” Daylon ordered. “We’re almost there.”

“Alright, okay,” came Ivan’s hushed reply.

The boat surged over a larger wave, and Daylon heard a shuffling and jostling of a barrel next to him. Suddenly, a crash echoed through the hold. He had heard a barrel fall to the floor. Daylon tensed, recognising Olga’s voice cursing in her Sechaekan mother tongue.

“Olga, shut up!” Daylon snapped furiously. It was no secret that Olga was clumsy. She was awfully restless, not just in enclosed spaces, often flapping her hands like a dog wagging its tail.

The boat rocked a little and his knee smacked into his nose cruelly. He felt warm blood emerge from the aftermath. This mode of transport was far from ideal. Were there no larger barrels in all of Lico? Gerril had given Ivan a whole crate to hide in, and while it was a fair exception considering his size, Daylon couldn’t help but feel it was unfair the rest of them had to suffer through the discomfort of a cramped barrel.

Daylon didn’t consider himself claustrophobic, but the tight space was beginning to wear on him. He couldn’t deal with the stench much longer, nor the lack of comfort. It got worse by the second. Daylon was a patient man, or at least he thought so, but never before had something tested his patience so much. At least he had the comfort of knowing they were close.

“Ready yourselves,” came a voice from the deck above them. Gerril’s voice was gravelly and weathered. It was moulded by the elements; seasoned by hard travelling on the Great Lake, with just a hint of gruff. Daylon wasn’t accustomed to the accents he’d found in Lico.

In truth, he had seldom met any fishermen, nor “lake dogs” like Gerril. In the cold climate of Sechaeka, voices were often warm and nasally, or cold and stern like his own. Daylon had come to associate a cool tone with trustworthiness, but perhaps this was just a coincidence. He thought of a certain group of people when he considered unreliability: his father’s throne council. When Draven III first ascended the Sechaekan throne, he had gifted his closest friends with seats on his throne council. Since, their fashion had grown posh, their scents wealthy, and their voices pompous. They were not, and especially not now, suited to style themselves as the advisers of the Emperor. When Daylon finally sat the throne himself, he would be sure to choose his company more carefully.

He heard shuffling from the deck above, followed by sharp and resonant clangs as Gerril made his way down the metal staircase.

“Right then, the easy part is over,” the old man said as he reached the bottom.

Through the peephole, Daylon spotted a pair of legs pass him by. “How’re we going to get off the boat?” he questioned Gerril. “And why do we have to be silent?”

“Why, you’re in Lico now,” Gerril laughed heartily, then wheezed, then gave a few hard coughs. “And these are shaky times. The lads from the port will be coming to take you off, but they aren’t just any normal lads.”

“Do they have koru?” Sergei asked in broken Licoan.

“They do, and they’re powerful indeed. Not fighters, though. They can hear you from miles off. Now, these barrels are coated with anti-koru masking. Expensive stuff, that. But, if they’re up close, they’ll be able to hear you jus’ fine.” With this, the metal staircase ringed out as Gerril left them.

“Are you sure they won’t figure it out?” Sergei shouted after him. Daylon hushed him, and Gerril responded with faint laughter.

It felt like an eternity had passed before Daylon heard anything from the top deck. But suddenly, there it was - the familiar clang of the staircase. And this time there were multiple sets of footsteps. The new ones were slow and spoke of toughness. He could hear chatter, but couldn’t make anything of it. Though, as the voices approached him they became clearer.

“These four barrels here,” Gerril told them tiredly, and Daylon felt eyes on him. “Then, that crate at the back, you see.” He felt two arms wrap around his barrel and he was lifted from the ground. He covered his mouth tightly, trying to remain quiet as his body tangled and his head flung forwards.

“This one’s heavy,” said a man, his voice matching the sound of his heavy footsteps. “You sure we can’t know what’s in ‘em?”

“I’ve been told not to open them myself, either.” Gerril replied, the metal staircase sounding once more as he ascended slowly. “I have had a peek, of course, but I’m an old man with tight lips. I figure you boys might have something to say about it after a few drinks,” he wheezed, and his laugh eventually became a harsh cough.

The third man spoke up, his peppery voice tinged with suspicion. “Strange that a man like you would be trusted with something so valuable, isn’t it?”

Gerril chuckled again as he drew further away from the hold. “There are fewer eyes on an old boat like Marlin, just as there are fewer eyes on a codger like me. The whole process stays discreet, you see.” Daylon held his breath, hoping they wouldn’t discover the truth of it. Though, Gerril seemed to be an adept con artist. Daylon wondered how long he had been at it for.

Daylon peered through the peephole and caught a glimpse of Gerril. The old man’s wiry, grey hair and beard were hardened by decades of exposure to the scorching heat, and his weather-beaten skin told of his time on the water. The deep blue eyes held a depth and wisdom, shining like the sunlit surface of the Great Lake. He was clad in a brown oilskin coat and a black beanie which he would soon need to keep his ears warm from the oncoming downpour he’d warned them of on the previous night of their journey.

Suddenly, Daylon realised his oversight: The peephole! Would they not notice it? Should he cover it himself? Panic gripped him as he thought of a solution. He was recognised by everyone he met, all thanks to the distinctive red markings on his face. The scythe-shaped marking curved around his left eye, symbolising what his ancestor, the first Veliki Emperor, used to slay the Yurev Royal Family of Sechaeka, including the children, a fact which filled Daylon with disgust. Then, the arctic fox beneath his right eye, which appeared on the flag of Belzemiya, the protectorate state he now ruled as its proud Lord Sovereign. If he were identified, it would be impossible to deny his true identity. All he could do was hope they wouldn’t be discovered.

Before long, they found themselves in a port warehouse. Daylon only knew this because from the peephole, his source of light, no light came, and when he pushed a finger tentatively through the hole, he only felt the rough texture of cardboard. It was time to get out. A chain emerged from the skin of his palm, its metal thick and glowing in a deep crimson. Daylon focused on the walls of the barrel and the chain crashed loudly through the wood, making a great hole. With a mighty shove, Daylon forced himself against the barrel’s roof and it snapped apart like a twig. As he stood on the side of a mountain of boxes, he breathed deep breaths, finally free from the barrel’s constraints.

The warehouse was smaller and emptier than Daylon had imagined. The recurring scent of sea salt, still thick in the air, now mixed with the musty aroma of wooden crates and cardboard. The walls were made of aged red brick, and the roof was of rusting metal sheets which groaned and creaked in the gentle breeze. The warehouse was dimly lit, with only a few fluorescent tube lights hanging low and loose from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows across the floor.

Rusty pipes lined the walls, and the rough, uneven floors bore the marks of countless years of wear and tear. The crates, boxes, sacks and barrels, were organised haphazardly into separate piles, each marked with cryptic symbols which only a dockworker could decipher. Fortunately, he couldn’t see any around, but the sounds of their grunts and the clatter of machinery from outside reminded him he wasn’t alone. He was safe for now, though, and he felt relief wash over him. He had time to gather his bearings and find the others, but he knew they couldn’t stay here for too long - they had a mission to complete, and time was of the essence.

Bravely, he called the names of his squad-mates and Olga emerged clumsily from another stack of boxes. Her chestnut hair falling to her shoulders in oily tangles. Despite her goofiness and her typically dishevelled appearance, Daylon knew better than to underestimate her. Olga was pale and freckled of face and had eyes which glowed in an eerie shade of purple. But it was her arms which truly caught Daylon’s attention when he first saw her - they were unnaturally large and broad, no doubt a result of her formidable abilities. He had seen her abilities in action when he made his first visit into Castletown and found her in a street brawl. While she could be brutal to others, she saw Daylon as her saviour from the slums of Capital Velik.

Olga’s fists were so fast and powerful she could kill someone with a single lightning-fast punch if she wished. Daylon knew a fight with her would result in nothing less than death. She was perfect for the likes of the Emperor’s Hand. Like him, she dressed neck-to-toe in black, moisture-wicking nylon base layers which clung tightly to her body. Soon, they would all don their body armours in preparation for the mission ahead.

“Where are the others?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she tread carefully towards him.

“I’ll see to it. Go find the weapons,” he ordered in Sechaekan, the only language she knew. In truth, only Daylon spoke fluent Licoan out of the group. Thanks to his wife, he was well-versed in Eikan, too.

Daylon called for Ivan and Sergei once more, and heard a muffled shouting from behind him. In another mound of boxes, Daylon spotted Sergei’s barrel. The man had no means to escape, and so Daylon shot another chain, this time tightening around the barrel, squeezing it until the wood burst apart. Sergei stood, revealing himself as if he had just hatched from an egg, throwing the top half of the barrel to the concrete floor with a crash.

“There won’t be any more of that, will there?” Sergei panted, his eyes scrunched up as they adjusted to the light. “I’ll rip my own heart out right here if it saves me from hiding in another one of those things.” Daylon chuckled lightly.

Sergei was known best for his terrifying ability to make people’s organs combust. He needed only to focus his glowing green eyes on someone, and he could kill without moving a finger. It was a rare and unique ability, which made him all the more desirable for the Emperor’s Hand. Daylon had sought him out after hearing of him, and he sat the throne on their first meet.

He remembered recoiling on sight of the young man when he knelt before the throne. Sergei was rather short, but in great shape. He had thick and scruffy hair that had greyed, peculiarly, on the day he received his koru. But his most notable feature was on his face - Sergei’s scar snaked across his face like a vicious serpent, a jagged line which stretched from his left ear and cut into his top lip. The flesh of the scar was puckered and dead, the marred skin around it a sickly shade of white, a stark contrast against his tanned skin. Sergei would wear a battle mask to cover it, and he was mindful about keeping the rest of his face smooth and young. Daylon had always thought he had done a good job of it. If you looked past the damage, Sergei was a handsome, clean-cut, and almost normal man.

However, now without his battle mask, his wounded face was exposed and Daylon could see a faint twitch of Sergei’s mouth, telling of his discomfort. If battle masks weren’t so loud, cursed with a staticky noise every time a breath was taken, Sergei could have kept it with him in the barrel. Of course, nobody would have seen him, yet he was still more comfortable wearing it than not.

“Have you spotted the others, by chance?” Sergei asked, his voice thick and pinched. He hopped carefully to the floor from atop a cardboard tower to join his captain.

“Olga, but no Ivan.” Daylon checked behind him. “I’ve sent Olga for our equipment.”

“No need,” came a voice from his right. It was low and scratchy, and unmistakable. Daylon and Sergei turned to meet Ivan’s deep yellow eyes. He carried the last barrel effortlessly on his large shoulder, and in his other hand his great hammer. At first glance, Ivan was quite imposing - he towered over most people, his muscles full and his neck thick. Though, despite his size, he moved with a surprising grace, as if he was constantly aware of the effect his presence had on those around him. When away from battle, he was gentle at heart, speaking slowly and deliberately to care that anyone listening could understand, with a deep rumbling which seemed to come from the depths of his chest. Daylon knew this from the time they were teenagers, sparring together on the swordfighting grounds of the Imperial Castle everyday from dawn to darkness. But on the battlefield, he became a giant wild boar, raging through anyone who stood in his way. Mother Bejha had blessed him with the power of force - his hammer was too heavy for anyone but him to hold. And when it was dropped, the floor would break. If it dropped on anyone, they would break just as easily.

“We’ll open it now and leave as quickly as possible,” Daylon instructed, gesturing for Ivan to put the barrel down. Instead, he placed his hammer down gently and took the barrel in both hands. With a powerful heave, he threw it at the floor, the impact splintering and shattering the wood violently. In its place was a pile of oilskin coats, like Gerril’s, and thick Kevlar breastplates to defend against koru. Underneath, Daylon found his assassin, its pale metal gleaming in the dim light. He preferred his blades fresh from the forge, untainted and sharper than a whip crack, for a quick and clean execution. He rarely carried out assassinations, but when he did, he believed everyone deserved a clean death. His father had shamed him for it quite often. It was one of the many things which set the Emperor and his heir apart.

“Right, let's gear up and do us a job,” Sergei said, breaking Daylon from his thoughts.

Daylon heard a hurry of footsteps behind him and Olga appeared at his side. “Let's do us a job,” she agreed with determination in her voice.

He picked the sword from the pile and held it closely. As he examined it, he saw a name engraved in its grain. The name of the man he was going to kill: Reise Kari-asi. The Commander of the 1st Division, one of four divisions in the Licoan army, and a formidable enemy. He was one of the most powerful koru users in Arta. His sword, imbued with powerful lightning, did not know the difference between flesh and air. His eyes were a rich shade of amber from his koru, and they would release a discharge of electricity when he engaged in battle.

It had been almost four years since Daylon had last encountered him. He quietly recalled the day Reise and his squad had infiltrated the capital and seized full control of the Temple of Succession. Their infiltration had gone unnoticed for what might have been months, up until they revealed themselves. There was no explanation as to how - those who knew were dead. But, considering how heavily guarded the temple’s secrets were, the feat made Reise all the more dangerous. Since their infiltration, the Emperor had waited patiently until they were ready to face Lico again. Now, with another war between both empires already looming over them, Daylon could finally justify a trip to Lico’s capital city, Cadaf, where Reise was supposedly residing. A trip to kill the man who knew Sechaeka’s secrets. Not even Daylon himself knew what was in the temple. He would find out soon enough, once he ascended the throne.

As the four donned their armour and Sergei fit his battle mask tightly, they heard a door from the far end of the warehouse suddenly swing open. Conversation entered the room. Startled, Daylon quickly sheathed the sword on his back and they all hurried to cover themselves with the large oilskins. They scrambled to find cover among the towering stacks of crates and barrels, frantically searching for something, anything, to conceal their bulky frames.

As they tried to remain still and silent, their senses were on high alert, listening for any sign that they’d been discovered. The sound of footsteps and conversation approached them, along with the clanging of metal objects reverberating through the warehouse. He felt his heart racing. If they were caught, it would force their hand, and they would end up leaving a messy trail behind them.

“We’ve got to run,” Daylon’s slow muttering cut through their tense silence, and his eyes scanned the warehouse for an exit.

“Run where?” Sergei whispered. They were surrounded by towering stacks of crates and boxes, making it hard to see which direction to take. A panic rose within him - where could they go?

Finally, Daylon spotted a door, marked as a fire exit, on the opposite wall to where the dockworkers had entered. “That way,” he said, pointing to their escape.

The four of them bolted towards the door, their oilskin coats fluttering behind them like capes. As they ran, the warehouse seemed to expand around them, the red-bricked walls stretching further and the corridors walled by barrels and sacks twisted around themselves. The booming voices of the dockworkers called after them. They had been careless, and now they had been spotted.

The door was in sight when suddenly, a blaring alarm sounded through the building, causing their ears to ring painfully. Though, they had no choice but to keep running. Daylon’s heart pounded in his chest as they fled towards the exit, unsure of what they would find on the outside. Soon enough, they would be lost within Cadaf’s Lakeside District, the opposite side of the city from where they would find their target.