I didn’t even stop back at the shelter for my shoes but ran straight into the forest in the direction of Myre’s shriek. It continued for a long time, and I was glad (although regretfully so) that it did so that I could follow her sound to her coordinates. Stepping over brambles and bushes, I continued, although I faced many forest-filled casualties: while running, I stepped on a patch of thorny sticks, stubbed my toe on a rock, and ripped a tear in my trousers on the thorny branches that grabbed at me.

  I stopped for a breath, holding my aching side, then continued.

  I had a few miles before I reached it — I did more than reach the place I ran straight into the encampment, and without stopping ran backward in the direction I’d come. The noise of my heavy breathing and footfalls on the brush covered up any of the possible sounds the residents of this encampment made. I thought I was nowhere near it or Myre — but in fact, I ran straight into it — so obviously that I was surprised no one had seen me, and I ran back into the bushes.

  Wooden marquees were scattered about, some with curtains hanging from them and fluttering about. Fires with spits popped and whizzed at the meat hanging above them. My mouth watered as I watched a young boy turn the spit with a juicy ham on it. The fat was brown and crusty, and the heat made it burst and juice down the side, revealing the tender, pink inside. If that meat was from the same pig I got, I must’ve gotten a sickly, thin one or something, I thought. Or maybe my cooking skills just weren’t very good.

  The smoke from the fires wound up into a big, billowing fog of ash-filled smoke. I was chastened by how I’d missed this entire civilization only a few miles from my own encampment on the coastline. A few people wandered about, but they all seemed like barbarians: they held spears and wore painted masks. Come to think of it, they were the exact same masks as the one I’d found in the sand. I held it up in my hand, having forgotten that I’d been holding it the entire time.

  Now, all I need is a spear, I thought. Picking up a rock, I tossed it in my hand before throwing it off a stone throw from my position. A warrior (he seemed more warrior-like than the others, which was not preferred) came over to inspect. His back turned to me, I jumped onto his back and tackled him. On the ground, he elbowed behind him, right in my stomach, knocking the air out of me.

  While I regained my breath, he whirled onto his back and kicked at my stomach again as I sat on the ground. However, I quickly dodged his kick, grabbed his foot, and jerked. I had the upper hand then and back swung my hand and punched him in the face. He growled, his eyes widened, and he passed out.

  I pulled him farther into the woods and kicked some leaves onto his limp body. For a moment I felt sorry for the man — he hadn’t done anything, and I had flown at him — but it was too late now to change what I had already done.

  While grabbing his spear, I stole his sword and knife and clipped it onto my belt.

  Now I was ready. I looked at the camp with a ready face, pulled on the mask, and walked in. The other soldiers were strutting about the camp, looking bored. I wondered why they had soldiers if they were the only ones on this island.

  Well, no longer, I thought, grinning deviously. I heard two warriors talking to each other, and I strained my ears to hear what they were saying. To my utter mortification, I realized what I had gotten myself into.

  They were speaking in a different language; it sounded barbaric, with hard vowels, and a horrid-sounding accent to go with it. Then I realized they were talking about me.

  One had a beard so long, I could distinctly make him out from the other. It was red and traveled down to his waist. The other man was tall and had a large scar going down his arm.

  The one with the beard directed to me: “Yah! Pochemoo rasteeo. Archreeayan bayou toklani. Sorabal teran forfo taltilatzli! Og vashli grogan parcrow!”

  “Qui, atel toklani!” The scarred man repeated. They both glared at me through their masked eyes expectantly.

  “Eh…” I began. Should I talk in my language to confuse them, or make up words and… I thought in a nervous confusion. I began before I even made up my mind. “Zari aprrion toklani suparo, tookiniri portina!” I replied, then gulped. Why did I do that? Why was I even here? My mind spun back to Drax, and the dead servants littered on the grounds of my home. It had all happened too fast.

  The eyes of the bearded man widened, and he pointed at me, and said,

  “Zdravic appa prigatovyet!” The scarred man came to me, and I backed up and switched back to Adaesian.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” I said nervously. “I’m just on my rounds,” they didn’t buy it. Especially since I had stupidly said that in my own language.

  Before I had time to think, they leaped on me, ripping off my mask, and before I knew it I was being carried to the biggest marquee in the camp. As they did so, I noticed that I had seen no woman or children — but that changed when upon entering the marquee I saw a woman ladling soup into bowls and placing them on a tray.

  Finally, we came to a room hidden behind a curtain that we pushed past. A man was inside. He also had a red beard and piercing green eyes. His eyebrows were thickly curved onto his dark skin, and the hair on his head — instead of red like his beard — grew in curling brown locks. Near the ends, though, it faded to red. It was the most interesting hair I’d ever seen. Suddenly someone interrupted my gaze at his luscious hair.

  “Put him down!” He growled. I snapped to attention — this was not the language the other men had been speaking — it was the language of the Talicadians. I was not fluent in it, but knew enough to at least communicate with the man.

  The men holding me (yes, it was an awkward state, they held me, each an arm and a leg, and I sagged there lazily) did not catch on to this language change, and the man roared, “Arsa larine, yah porgii!” This was directed to the men, and I couldn’t help grinning at the looks of total unmanly stupidity written across their bewildered faces. That grin ceased when I was dropped unmercifully to the ground, which was harder than one would expect.

  I stood up, brushed myself off, and heightened. The man gazed at me, every half second his busy eyebrows lowering, and his knuckles squeezing tighter around the painted red spear he held in his hand. The look itself of the man was intimidating, and I licked my lips nervously.

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  “You speak Talicadian?” I asked in the latter language. He didn’t even break his intent gaze on me, and for a long moment, there was an awkward silence humming through the room.

  “Yes, I do. I was once from there.”

  “You a Talicadian?” I asked, perked. Men from Talicade were kind, except for the Northerners.

  He laughed. “You could say that!” He continued laughing. “I’m more Sarrullen than Talicadian, loyalty and blood wise.” His eyes narrowed. That was not good for me. “You want to see?” He asked. Before I could answer, he pulled back his locks of hair revealing a red patch on either side of his head where his ears were supposed to be.

  “That was my punishment from the Sarrullens when they found out I was half-Talicadian. I was impressed by their brutality, so I joined their army. After a battle with the Sarullens, I was left behind. I joined the Sarullen Army. After the war with the Marshens, I was again, left behind on this island with a few other soldiers, and survivors.

  “I had been through much, and still, I did not know who my king was. I still highly honored the Sarrullens, but after having been left by them, I felt betrayed. I was one of their best warriors. So I made myself king, and here you come.” Now it made sense why he talked extravagantly louder than normal. The Sarrullens were known for being loudmouths.

  “That’s a nice story,” I said, folding my arms, “but can I leave now?”

  The men beside me were waved away by their obvious leader.

  “Come,” He said, ignoring my question. I came closer. He sat at a small wooden desk. I was a few feet from it. “Closer!” He commanded. Closer I went. Yet again, he commanded the same. I came closer.

  “Close! Closer!” At the last closer, I came almost nose to nose with him, although he was much taller than I was.

  “You are never leaving here. Not alive, at least.”

  “What about dead?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  He shrugged. “Y body might not make it out of here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he laughed dominantly. “This is my island. You come, you never leave. That’s how it works here.”

  “What do you want of me? Am I to be imprisoned or made a soldier of?”

  He was not paying attention but seemed to be looking at the weapons I’d stolen from one of his men.

  A scream ripped across the wood. Myre. She must be here, for after she screamed, some of the men yelled in their foreign language (what I assumed was Sarrullen).

  Suddenly he looked at me, and said darkly, “Neither. Careem, Jarule!” Then he went off telling them something. They nodded, then as he went on, they looked at me with shock. Then they came and bound my hands with sticky rope.

  I let them, but the look on their and his faces made me anxious.

  “What did you tell them?” I asked nervously. The king of the island did not answer, but stood in a kingly stance, hands behind his back, chin jutted out, legs spread apart.

  “What did you tell them?” I shouted, the desperation thick in my voice.

  He yelled in return: “I told them to do whatever they want with you, and told them who you really are!” He said the last of the sentence in a formidable tonality as if I was not who I said I was.

  The men began to drag me out, but I fought them, looking to the king. “Who do you think I am?” I yelled.

  “Oh, you know.” Then he switched from Talicadian to his language, shouting to the men.

  What was that supposed to mean? Did I just have the apparent look of some murderer? Or was it because I was simply Adaesian?

  They carried me out, although with much more difficulty this time. Once out of the king’s room and into the dim main room of the marquee, I decided to make my escape. One man was on either side of me, holding onto the rope in my hands, which was luckily in front of me instead of behind me.

  I lagged, not so much that the rope would tug on them, but enough that I got a good view of the back of their legs. Then I kicked right on the back of his knee, and he buckled forward, falling on his face, and letting go of me.

  The other man spun around, surprised, and I took his surprise to punch his jaw. He held his swelling jaw and I fled. Although the marquee was wide open in the front to the public, no soldier or stand guard had seen our exposed fight. I ran to the nearest building, which was not in the least tent-like like the marquees, but a wooden building. I wondered why they didn’t have log homes instead of tents.

  The door had the heavy bar pulled over, and I lifted it (it was heavier than I’d expected) and opened the door. Closing it behind me, I saw outside a guard and then another. If this place was heavily guarded, they would see that the bar wasn’t latched, and figure out the rest. I’d be caught, taken back to whatever his name was, and done with whatever they wanted. Which could be death.

  So I decided to be quick. The death at risk was not mine alone, and I could at least try to save her, because either way I might not make it out alive. I looked around quickly at the place. Rafters shot out every which way, and some kind of plant hung from them. Wooden crates were everywhere, all placed at random. I loomed over one of the crates and saw that it had the seal of the Sarullens on it. A black serpent surrounded by fire. Very evil looking. As if they’d chosen that as their niche.

  Some of the crates were broken.

  I kept walking and heard something. My heart pounding, I hurriedly looked about for a place to hide. Then I saw something else on the ground. The floor was dirt, and brush and scruff remained on it, so I thought at first it was just a stick. But no — it was a bone. A large one, about the size of my arm. More bones were scattered and led back into a long trail that hid beneath a dark shadow in the far part of the barn.

  I heard something else. A rushing sound. “Myre? Is… that you?” I followed the bones, then picked one up and threw it into the darkness that lay ahead of me.

  A noise was soon omitted from the darkness. A low breathing; a dark growling.

  “Myre?” I asked, my voice now unsure of itself. Then it moved, and I saw that it was not Myre; it couldn’t be. The creature that stood before me was much, much larger, and I realized how close it was. Then I felt its eyes and knew that it was watching me.

  I heard voices from outside and knew they would soon come in and see me. Noticing one of the crates was extra large, I hopped in, pulling the cover over myself. Normally I would’ve felt cramped in such a small space, but I had gotten away from that monster, and this crate felt like the safest place on the planet momentarily.

  Of course, just as I was safely crated up, the door creaked open. Footsteps, then suddenly the sound of breaking wood; assumedly they were searching the crates. Soon they would come to me. Suddenly, a great hiss proceeded, and the great warriors that were standing guard dropped their weapons and ran, screaming like cowards until they had closed and sealed shut the door with the bar.

  Great. Now I was locked in a barn with a creature to whom men would drop their weapons and surrender their fear. Then the creature released a great shriek, bloodcurdling, and then produced a harrowing snarl, a sinister warble of sorrow and hunger. I remembered the story of the plague told to me by the forester and imagined this scream as that of the ones who were ill with the disease.

  I knew I had to emerge eventually, and although this was not the best time, I wasn’t patient enough to wait for another. With a hand on my dagger hilt, I leaped out and kicked open the crate lid. The only sound I could hear was the thumping of my heart, which is why it caught me by surprise when the creature leaped on me from behind.

  I was hit on the back and onto the floor, rolling across the ground before I came to a stop. My breath had been knocked clean out of me, and gasping, I tried to regain my breath. Before I could stand, the creature (still unseen by my eyes) picked me up with its claw and peered at me.