Page 1 of Chained to the Horned God
1
VALOA
Icome to gagged and shackled, half-drowned in pitch darkness that tastes of rusted iron and mold. The stench down here is enough to peel skin from bone—rank with piss, blood, rotting meat, and human despair. Someone retches not far from me, the sound wet and weak. It mingles with the ever-present groan of the ship’s belly, the creaking wood like the bones of something long dead, still shifting in its grave.
The chains bite into my wrists as the ship lists. I slide half a foot before slamming into another body. Skin against skin—feverish, trembling, slick with sweat. I can’t tell who it is. Doesn’t matter. There are too many of us down here to name. Too many eyes dull with hunger and horror. Prazh is gone, and all of us from it have been shoved into this floating tomb.
My head throbs where they struck me. Left temple, swelling like a goose egg. I don’t remember falling. I remember fire. Screams. That smell when a home is burning with all its memories still inside. Then blackness. Then here.
My throat’s raw. The gag’s nothing more than a rough strip of canvas tied too tight, soaked through with blood—mine and others’. I breathe through my nose, shallow and shaky. Saltcrusts my nostrils. The sea air trickles in from somewhere, barely enough to hint that the world still exists beyond this hold.
Someone whimpers. A girl, by the sound. Young. Younger than me.
I roll toward her, ignoring the pull of shackles grinding bone. “Hey,” I croak, the word shredded by the cloth gag. She doesn’t hear me. Or she does and doesn’t care. Probably the second. Nobody has the luxury of hope anymore. Not here.
A cough explodes to my left, hacking and wet, and then someone else starts shivering uncontrollably. I know that sound. It’s fever. I’ve heard it under better roofs, with better tools. My father’s voice floats back to me, rough as sand:When it rattles the lungs, that’s when it’s ready to kill. Move fast, girl.
Move fast.
I dig my fingers into my belt, feeling through the grime and sweat for the pouch. Blessedly, they missed it. The elves searched my skirts but didn’t bother much with the lining. Too many bodies. Too little time. Or maybe they didn’t think a healer was worth the effort. Good. Let them stay ignorant.
With trembling hands, I fish out a wad of cloth—old, but clean enough. Pressed herbs wrapped in thin leather, tied tight with sinew. I work the knot with my teeth until it gives, all while praying the boat doesn’t lurch hard enough to send me sliding again. My shoulder’s already bruised black from the last roll.
The herbs smell sharp even through the rot—mint, feverroot, dried slices of bitterbell. I press a pinch of the mixture to the roof of my mouth, chew until the paste burns, then spit it into the cloth. It’s not the most sanitary thing I’ve ever done, but it’s what I have.
I crawl toward the coughing man, dragging chains behind me like a damn ghost. He’s thin. Gaunt, more bones than skin. His eyes flutter when I touch his shoulder. I don’t know his name, but his fever’s real. Skin hot as boiled stew. He mumblessomething I can’t understand. Probably doesn’t matter. I press the cloth to his lips.
“Swallow,” I whisper. He flinches. “It’ll help.”
He doesn’t. Not really. But he tries. I lift his head. The cloth soaks through. He chokes once, then quiets.
My hands are shaking. No water. No fire. No basin. But I can still help. Ihaveto.
A boy whines in the corner. Maybe six? Maybe eight? I can’t see him, only hear the weak cries between the groaning of the hull. Someone else moans beside him, too far gone to form words. Another hour and they’ll be gone.
I bite my gag to keep from screaming.
“You okay?” a voice asks, cracked and male. Older. Across from me, barely a shadow. A flicker of kindness in the dark.
“Still breathing,” I manage through clenched teeth. “Can’t say much else.”
There’s a laugh. Dry. Distant. “Then you’re better off than most.”
He’s not wrong.
Time drips slow. Like the water leaking down the wall beside me, steady and relentless. Somewhere above us, someone shouts. A whip cracks. Then silence again, broken only by the gentle rhythm of misery.
I work through the bodies. Tying cloths, checking pulses, muttering names I make up to keep myself sane. A girl I call Reya dies sometime after the second pass. Her lips go blue. Eyes open, but empty. I close them with fingers I can barely feel.
I don’t cry. I haven’t got the water left for tears.
Then I find him—a boy, no more than ten, curled against a broken beam. His breathing’s ragged. Blood paints his chin. Internal. He blinks up at me, lashes clumped with salt and filth. I hold him.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re safe.”
It’s a lie. But maybe it sounds pretty.
His fingers twitch in mine, once. Then he goes still.
