Spear of The Winds > Chapter 1–The Cost of Compassion

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The clang of metal shattered Larah’s nightmares—visions of Landros burning, blood pooling in the streets, and her own cowardice in fleeing. The screams of the dying lingered as her eyes opened to dawn’s gray light.

“You want water, then be awake,” a raspy voice hissed from behind.

The cold darkness had retreated before morning’s pale fingers, but did nothing to change her circumstances. Four women and two dirty-faced children huddled with her in the cage wagon, the little ones whimpering softly in their caregivers’ arms. Most stared sullenly at the iron bars. Around them, Tamoran slavers lurked in dusty leather armor, leered with bloodshot eyes, while their faces were masked by tattered cloth. Their focus darted at every sound from the flatlands—no doubt watching for pursuit that would never come.

To the west, amber in the early light, stood the Tenoachian foothills. The pass she’d failed to reach. If only I’d stayed with the other refugees. If only I hadn’t stopped for—

Larah glanced down at the dried blood staining her green druid robes. The dark stain brought memories of Danali’s face—the pleading in the young mother’s eyes, her desperate breaths as the child emerged into Larah’s trembling hands. Then the imagery clouded, flashing forward to healing Danali as she nearly bled out, which left Larah too weak to escape the raiders. As the memories faded, her thoughts drifted to hoping the mother and child had escaped safely, as not knowing carved hollow spaces in her chest.

A short guard stood at the cage’s end and shoved an empty wooden cup between the bars. It landed in the straw with a plop.

Larah ran her tongue along cracked lips, tasting dust and desperation.

“What are you waiting for, maggots? One for the lot of ya.” A gray-haired woman’s wiry hand slipped out to claim the cup from the straw. The guard grunted, stepped to the water barrel, and dipped his ladle. But when he turned back to the cage, the woman hadn’t moved.

The guard grunted. “I’m not reaching in there, ya old crone.”

Hand trembling, the woman slid the cup between the bars. The guard slopped water into the vessel, and she pulled back, causing some to spill.

“That’s all you get.”

The woman raised the cup but hesitated, glancing at the guard. “Drink, maggot, I don’t have all day.”

The cup made its rounds from one captive to the next until only Larah remained. She waved off when offered, her throat parched, stomach in knots. For all she cared, the water might as well have been poison.

“You, drink.”

She shook her head, thoughts drifting to Riasean’s gentle hands offering her a waterskin by campfirelight. How different this moment felt from those stolen evenings when the world had seemed full of possibility.

“I said drink.” The guard’s voice rose.

Again, she refused. At least defiance was a choice, even if the only one left.

The guard pointed at the gray-haired woman. “Give me the cup.” As she handed it over, he seized her arm and jerked her against the bars. She groaned as her face pressed against the metal. He dipped the cup and held it up. “Drink this, or I hurt this one more.” He slammed the old woman’s head against the bars with a sickening crack.

The familiar pull of Larah’s healing gift stirred despite everything. Even broken as she was, she couldn’t just watch suffering when she had the power to relieve pain. The Druids of Avalir had taught her that healing was sacred, but also a curse.

“Enough.” Larah leaned forward, reaching for the cup. “Let her go.”

The guard grinned without warmth. “Not until you drink.”

She drained the bitter water before shoving the cup back. The guard released the woman, who slumped against the wagon wall, blood dripping from her scalp.

“Was that so hard?” He slammed the barrel lid shut. “The maggots have been watered. Let’s move.”

As the wagon lurched forward, Larah slid next to the woman, who looked at her with wary eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Larah whispered.

“Save your pity. We’re all bound for Tamor’s markets now.” The woman’s voice carried the weight of someone who’d seen too much. “Though I suppose it’s better than whatever hell Landros has become.”

Landros. The name hit like a physical blow. Larah closed her eyes, trying not to imagine Gall’s fury when he discovered her gone, or worse—Riasean’s quiet disappointment. Had they even survived the siege? She touched the woman’s bruised arm. “Let me offer what I can for the pain.”

The woman eyed her sideways. “You’re no common refugee.”

Larah placed her palm against the worst of the bruising and whispered, “Sanare [heal].”

The spell drew the woman’s pain into Larah like water flowing downhill. Each throb of bruised flesh became an echo in her own bones—the familiar ache that reminded her why the Druids spoke of healing as both gift and burden. Warmth spread through her fingertips as agony raced up her arm. She winced, struggling to breathe steadily, but the feeling passed, leaving only a dull throb.

The woman stared in amazement, flexing her arm. “By the Old Gods… you’re one of them. A real healer.”

Larah leaned close, urgency in her voice. “Tell no one. Please.”

She nodded slowly. “My name is Leanna. What’s yours?”

“Larah.”

Leanna pointed at the bloodstains on her robes. “Did they hurt you too?”

The memory of Danali’s nearly lifeless eyes surfaced again. “No. I was… I was helping someone give birth before the raiders found us.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “A mother named Danali. She and her babe—”

“Escaped?” Leanna’s voice held hope.

Larah let her eyes wander to the passing landscape, hoping that was the truth, but the fact was—she didn’t know.

After a moment, Leanna said, “You’re blessed to be a healer. Can you heal yourself?”

“The gift doesn’t work that way. I cannot mend my own wounds, and healing others…” She pulled up her sleeve, revealing blue and purple welts along her forearm. “…comes at a price.”

“Oh no, child. Was that from helping me?”

Larah nodded.

“Don’t heal me again. I’m not worth the trouble.” The wagon lurched over a rock. “We’ll all be bruised reaching Tamor anyway.”

Looking past the driver, Larah noticed they headed south, not southeast toward Tamor. The horizon stretched endlessly, but she caught something else—the briny smell of salt air. They were bound for the Gulf of Aruna, perhaps the waters the Mirror of Avalir had shown her in visions of trials ahead.

So this is how it begins, she thought grimly—not with heroic choices or noble quests, but with shackles and the stench of unwashed bodies. The Mirror had shown her facing darkness, but she’d never imagined it would feel so ordinary.

The sun traced its path as the wagon bumped across featureless grassland. Earlier nausea gave way to hunger pangs, then exhaustion. As Larah dozed, her mind drifted. Would anyone search for her? Gall would be too consumed with his obsession—Faline and the madness of her ambitions. Then there was Riasean. Perhaps he’d already moved on and found another contract in another city. Their love had always been on borrowed time, stolen moments of intimacy.

Being free of him should have brought relief. No more wondering whose blood would stain his hands. No more lying awake imagining the faces of his victims. But instead of peace, she only felt the hollow ache of loss.

Larah wondered if this was truly the destiny the Mirror of Avalir had shown her. Not death at her father’s hands or glory in some grand quest, but something more mundane: disappearing into Tamor’s slave markets while those she’d loved continued their lives, never knowing what became of her.

“I see water,” Leanna said, breaking her dark thoughts.

The revelation pulled Larah from her brooding. Water sparkled on the horizon, and what looked like thin trees poked beyond a rise—ship masts with white sails.

“The Gulf of Aruna,” Larah murmured, recognizing it from the Mirror’s visions.

“Beautiful name for such an ugly fate.”

The salty smell grew stronger as they crested the rise. Coastal dunes stretched toward vast white sand where surf pounded rhythmically. Seagulls cried overhead, their voices a mournful counterpoint to the chains’ rattle. Beyond the breakers sat a two-masted ship bearing Tamor’s banner. On the beach, several longboats waited with black-clad guards holding coiled whips and man-catchers—long poles with wire loops at the end.

The wagon halted short of the dunes. Guards slid down and approached the cage, the short one slapping the door with his whip handle. “Back, maggots.”

Everyone pressed away as he unlocked the door. “Come on then, one at a time.”

“MOVE!” he barked when they hesitated.

They scrambled through the opening. The guards grabbed each person, slapping on manacles until everyone stood shackled on sandy soil. The short guard seized Larah’s arm, his grip bruising. “You first, lovely.” He threaded the rope through her shackle, then connected the others in a line.

The tall guard grabbed Larah’s rope end. “Let’s go.” He tugged them across the sand toward the boats, seagulls scattering from their path.

Heart hammering, Larah approached the vessels bobbing at the surf’s edge. Grim-faced guards stepped forward and seized the rope, dragging the captives until cold water lapped their ankles.

“Step in and keep your feet.”

They complied, the boat rocking precariously. “Sit down. Try not to fall overboard—damaged goods fetch poor prices.”

As they sat, guards pushed the boats into deeper water, waves breaking over the bow and stinging Larah’s eyes with salt spray. Soon, the guards leaped in with heavy splashes and began rowing toward open water, their strokes rhythmic and practiced.

The gentle rocking should have brought comfort—reminding her of the tidal pools of Avalir—but tears blurred her vision as she watched the shore recede. Despite her desperate longing for freedom, there seemed to be no escape from the path that had led her here. Even her healing gift, meant to preserve life, had only brought her closer to death.

The longboats drew alongside the sloop, the dark hull towering above them. Climbing nets cascaded down like giant spider webs. As guards unlocked the shackles, one pointed upward. “Climb. Anyone who falls feeds the fish.”

Larah clawed her way up the swaying net, muscles burning and hands already raw from the rough rope. The boat pitched below her, and for a terrifying moment she dangled over churning water. Finally, rough hands grabbed her arms at the top and hauled her over the rail, dropping her hard onto the deck.

Sailors surrounded her immediately—leering faces, gaps where teeth should be, hungry eyes that made her skin crawl. One grabbed her chin, tilting her head back. “This one’ll fetch a much gold in the markets.” Another hand reached for her chest.

A sharp crack cut through the air, and the hand vanished.

“Hands off the goods.” A commanding voice cut through the sailors’ muttering as a firm grip took hers. “She’s worth more intact.”

“Aye, Captain,” came grumbling responses as the men stepped back.

Larah looked up at a tall man in a weathered great coat, his dark hair pulled into a long ponytail. The man’s angular features gleamed bronze in the afternoon sun as he pulled her to her feet, and his deep brown eyes studied her with the intensity of a predator evaluating prey.

The Captain’s mouth curved in a crooked smile. “Tamoran nobles pay well for exotic beauty.” He brushed back her black hair with surprising gentleness. “What distant shore spawned you, I wonder?”

A scream rang from the nets before she could answer. His expression hardened, eyes darting toward the sound. He shoved her toward another sailor. “Watch this one. Try not to let her fall overboard—she’s worth more than your sorry life.”

But the sailor had already turned away at the distraction. She stood untouched and unrestrained. Now would be the time. Larah dipped toward the railing, gauging the distance to the water. The current looked strong but manageable, and she’d always been a strong swimmer in Avalir’s treacherous tides.

More cries from the nets caught her attention. She peered over the rail to see Leanna clinging to the climbing rope two-thirds of the way up, knuckles white with terror. Wind whipped her graying hair as she hung frozen, unable to move up or down. Sailors above shouted abuse while other captives tried to climb around her.

Larah put one leg over the railing. Freedom beckoned— a leap into the blue-green water and a swim to shore. She could somehow disappear into the coastal wilderness and make her way back to Tenoach. The Mirror’s visions be damned.

“Get a crossbow,” a sailor shouted above. “Shoot her off the net.”

Larah froze. To stay meant slavery, but escape meant death for Leanna. She pulled her leg back as a sailor leaned over the rail with a cocked crossbow, lining up his shot at the terrified woman.

The choice was never really a choice at all. Larah raced over and slammed into the crossbowman’s shoulder. The bolt hissed past Leanna into the churning waters below.

“Oi!” the sailor shouted, spinning toward her.

“Grab her!” others yelled.

Before they could react, Larah leaned over the netting and extended her arm. “Leanna, look at me. Take my hand.”

The older woman opened fearful eyes, wind stealing her breath. “I can’t. I’m going to fall.”

“You won’t. Look only at me, nowhere else.”

Leanna stared, saying nothing, her face pale with terror.

“Climb to my hand. One grip at a time.”

The older woman slowly ascended with tentative movements as the sailors’ shouts died to mutters. Soon Leanna’s fingers gripped Larah’s, and with help from other sailors, she stumbled aboard and collapsed into Larah’s embrace.

But even as they hugged, rough hands ripped them apart. Leanna stumbled and fell to the deck with a sharp cry, her ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. The Captain pulled Larah aside, his grip firm but not painful. “Well done. I appreciate passengers who solve their own problems.”

He turned to a red-haired sailor with ritual scars covering his arms. “Mallach, get that one off the deck.”

Mallach grabbed Leanna’s arm to lift her, but she shrieked in pain, her ankle already swelling purple against the deck boards.

“Let me help her,” Larah said, moving toward her friend, but the Captain’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“What’s your assessment?” he asked Mallach.

The scarred man shook his head. “Damaged goods. Won’t heal clean before we reach port.”

Heart racing, Larah struggled to find words. “Please, I can—”

Leanna caught her eyes and shook her head slightly, understanding passing between them like a shared secret.

The Captain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What about as an offering for the Nostrum? The creature’s been restless lately—might buy us fair winds.”

Mallach nodded. “Aye. Blood in the water always calms the beast.”

The Nostrum. Larah had heard whispers of the creature that supposedly guarded Tamor’s harbor—a sea beast that demanded tribute from passing ships. She’d assumed it was merely sailor superstition, but the matter-of-fact way they discussed it sent ice through her veins.

“Please,” she whispered, looking up at the Captain. “Don’t do this.”

But Leanna had already made her choice. She rolled toward the rail in one fluid motion and vanished over the side with barely a splash.

The Captain peered over the side with mild interest. “Saved us the trouble, I suppose.”

Mallach spat over the side. “Still a waste of coin.”

Larah stared at the empty water where Leanna had disappeared, scanning desperately for any sign of her friend. The older woman had chosen her own fate. That should have brought some comfort, but instead, amplified the emptiness in Larah’s chest where hope used to live.

Once again, death wins. And I’m still here to watch it happen.

The Captain’s hand fell on her shoulder, not ungently. “What’s your name, girl?”

She looked up at him, seeing something unexpected in his dark eyes—not cruelty, but a weary pragmatism that reminded her painfully of Riasean.

“Larah,” she said quietly.

“Well, Larah, welcome aboard the Trivoli. Try to be more valuable than your friend.” His smile held no warmth, but neither did it hold malice. “The markets of Tamor have little patience for damaged goods.”

As the ship’s sails filled with wind and the vessel turned toward the open sea, Larah wondered if the Mirror of Avalir had foreseen this moment—of her standing on the deck of a slaver’s ship, watching her last friend disappear beneath the waves, sailing toward a fate she might not survive. If this was destiny then destiny was a crueler master than she’d ever imagined.