No Quarter
Part 3 of The Squalling
Through the murky torrents of rain, through the churning waters of the harbor, I can tell that there’s something else out there. It’s green. Or grey. Or blue. It glistens in the sheen of the downpour. It’s indistinct. Undefined. But I can tell that it’s from the sea. It’s scaly. And it doesn’t appear that I can see even a tenth of its overall mass through the relative porthole of the cave entrance.
W
hen I was still but a boy, wasting days on the Shimmering Shores, I witnessed the terror of a dethane explosion. I knew that old Thoj was a moss herder. But I didn’t understand how a swarthy man of the soil could afford such a lavish lifestyle. He was crass, and angry, and secretive, and all my mates knew to give his abode a wide berth. Still, nothing in his countenance prepared me for the shockwave that shredded his fragile frame, leveled his estate, deafened two of my friends, and plagued my formative mind with nightmares for nigh on a decade. So it’s with considerable alarm that I now realize just how serene that episode truly was.
I’ve spent most of my adult life eying the horizon for razers. They loom. They pass. Occasionally, they go so far as to strike. But even when they do manage to channel their fury upon us, it’s… an “event”. A shot in the dark. A maelstrom of minutes. Something that uproots the weaker arbyrs and exposes those who will not, or cannot, prepare for a little extreme weather. But even in their worst incarnation, they are still a transitory affair. You hunker down. You fortify your position. You wait a matter of… hours? And then you recover. I now realize that what plagues the Hinterfolk bears no resemblance to the benign conflagrations of my homeland.
We are packed like cargo into some limestone cavern on the northern shore of Marman Harbor. When we first made our way to this putative haven, Khee Jzhu tendered some weak facsimile of protest. After all, we were moving north – toward the approaching tempest – and he could only fathom the utility of running away from the imminent destroyer. But Karis shut him down with a handful of firm-and-terse instructions. At this late hour, moving “toward” or “away from” the storm is semantic. More important, the northern edge of the harbor will be on the leeward side of the storm for the majority of its onslaught. The caves also offer one of the few “high grounds” available in the sunken landscape of the Hinterlands. They may be less than ten meters above the surrounding terrain, but Karis made it abundantly clear that most of the other semi-spherical structures across the countryside will be submersed in a matter of hours. Of course, we aren’t the only ones who recognize the caves as a viable source of shelter.
I have never felt more common than the moment when we first entered the threshold of this cave. There is no doorman here. No gatekeeper. No Guardian of the Gangplank. There doesn’t need to be. The damp edifice overflows with so much humanity that even the most desperate seekers of shelter walk past, realizing that there is, quite literally: No. More. Room. I don’t know exactly how we gained entry. There were no bribes. No special accommodations. It was simply a stroke of luck that we all managed to arrive at the last possible moment when a few more desperate souls could be wedged between these dank and ancient walls.
I’m embarrassed to admit that every step into the cave leads me to kick, or knee, or tread upon the shivering body parts of those who have already staked their positions. I’m more embarrassed by the fact that my clumsiness spawns not an ounce of protest. Every child whose knuckles I crush, every adult whose head I bludgeon – they merely sit quietly, patiently, with saintly understanding as Khee Jzhu and I desperately search for some patch of rock upon which we can perch for the duration.
The gravity of the situation does not etch terror upon the faces of the Hinterfolk. It stains their features with… apathy. Everyone in this cramped edifice stares ahead with empty eyes. They are not afraid. They are not brave. They are just… resigned - to whatever fate lies before them.
This becomes apparent when we enter the cave. For the first time during our entire mission to Poglia, the Hinterfolk do not stare us down. They barely pay us any attention whatsoever. We look distinctly different from any of them. We speak in peculiar accents. We even smell different. And I long ago grew accustomed to being openly gawked at whenever we encountered a new group of Poglians. But at this point of the ongoing tragedy, no one else seems to care anymore. Their eyes linger over us with no more interest than that which is reserved for moss, or sand.
Like the previous experience at the docks, there are children here who seem to have no parental mooring. Some nestle amongst strangers. But most simply blend into the mottled, greyish landscape of the stone walls. They keep their heads aimed at the rocky substrate below them. Their attention is so fervently focused downward that I believe many of them are afraid to look anywhere else.
When we first made it to the caves, I was foolish enough to believe that the razer had already hit. The winds were so forceful as to require leaning into the gale in a desperate attempt to remain upright. This became increasingly awkward during those rare, random moments when the wind suddenly stopped, causing my face to pitch violently forward onto the beach below. By the third such occurrence, I was already aware of a series of abrasions, sprawling across my ashen features. The sand and the shell-bits that weren’t immediately blown off of my face were ultimately driven deeper into my pulverized flesh.
Thirty minutes after our arrival, the full brunt of the razer's wrath slams down upon Marman Harbor. I have never been less prepared for anything in my life. The horrific gales that had given me so much trouble on the beach are now replaced by a single, screaming squall that, once initiated, never seems to end. One moment, the wind and the rain just outside the cave entrance is frightful and powerful – but within the realm of human imagination. The next moment, the gods slam the maelstrom into overdrive and the kinetic energy of everything outside the cave suddenly flies off the charts.
The pitch of the wind tears at my mind. It is a perpetual shriek that burrows into my brain and renders all verbal communication moot. I believe it is amplified through some sonic effect of the cave opening, but I couldn’t know for sure unless I were to leave the safety of the cave itself. And there is absolutely no way that I will volunteer to leave this cave.
I am witnessing that dethane explosion yet again. There is no fire. No singeing heat. But the ear-splitting noise. The blast that converts everything into a projectile. The frightful collisions playing out before my eyes. It’s all happening again. But this time, it doesn’t happen over the course of milliseconds. This time… it happens over the course of days.
Chronology loses all meaning. I can’t possibly say how long the storm lasts. It continues to the point that fear dissolves into weariness. And weariness, eventually, leaves me with the same apathy I see on the faces of those around me. The dark-grey of morning yields to the lighter-grey of midday. Which eventually transitions into the electrified twilight of early evening. Which ultimately spawns interludes of howling darkness, punctuated by intermittent flashes of sky-spanning thunderbolts. And the entire cycle repeats. Again. And yet again.
When we are outside those periods of total darkness, the imagery flashing outside the cave is grotesque. Nearly nonsensical. I’m quite certain that I’ve seen at least two full-grown canopeias float above the harbor, right past our shelter. This is fantastical and illogical, not just because of the epic scale of the arbyrs themselves, but also because canopeias don’t grow anywhere near the Hinterlands.
Lightning strikes the beach, just outside our shelter, on at least a half dozen occasions. Each time, it leaves a momentary spot of hot, glowing glass. It steams and hisses under the driving rain, although I can’t actually hear it hissing because, well… I can’t hear anything but the merciless wailing of the wind.
During the somewhat-brighter hours (which I can only assume correlate with “daytime”), I can see the waters of Marman Harbor. No more treacherous seas could be witnessed if we were at the center of Charen herself. At times, it heaves in such a froth that my grasp of up-or-down starts to slip. An odd sense of vertigo overtakes me when I see a wall of drab waves moving left-to-right, then right-to-left, then (somehow) up-to-down? Massive cross-sections of previous structures toss to-and-fro in the tumultuous surges. After witnessing this spectacle for a few hours, I stop watching during the midday light. It’s too stressful to count the cavalcade of corpses that are easily spied just under the watery sheath of the waves.
Every few hours, one of Karis’s men pulls Khee Jzhu back from the mouth of the cave. He has become transfixed by the continual violence mere meters from his current position. I can’t tell from my perch whether he truly wants to watch the destruction, or whether he just finds it impossible to turn away. But slowly, subconsciously, he shuffles ever closer to the cave entrance. And every so often, Karis’s men have to yank him back again.
As I sit against the wall, with my knees pulled nearly to my chin, two small boys shelter under my legs, as though I am an Inqoan tent. My first inclination was that they are identical. But cursory observations make it clear that they are just identically dirty. When they first took up residence, they kept shifting their eyes toward me, as though I may shoo them away. But I’m too busy digging at the continual barrage of gnats that keep burrowing into my skin – hour, after hour, after endless hour.
The boys keep passing a flask between them, under my knees. It is draped in the telltale stench of mouldmilk. When I crane to one side to get a better view of the proceedings, the filthier one (this is a very fine distinction) raises the container and offers me a swig. I cannot fully describe the disheartened expression on his cherubic face when I grasp the flask, raise it to my lips, and empty the entire volume of acrid, viscous fluid into my mouth. I try to return the flask to him, but he just shrugs, turning to stare at the raging maelstrom outside.
Except... there is no maelstrom outside the cave, or anywhere else for that matter. The grey sky glows with eerie tones of green and pink and indigo. The harbor settles into an anxious treaty. The rains cease. The tortuous wailing dissipates. For the first time in... days, I can hear again. I can actually hear.
Khee Jzhu takes great joy in escaping the cave. He prances to the shore like a schoolboy on holiday. I’m not certain if he hasn’t seen the dozen-or-so corpses that litter the beach, or if he simply doesn’t care. Each of them is grey and bloated to the point of bursting. Some of the heartier forms of sea life have already been munching on several of them. It's all Daus can do to suppress blatant, gleeful laughter.
Khee Jzhu: We made it. We made it!
Most of the “beach” has been swallowed by Marman Harbor. I trace it in either direction, but it doesn’t continue very far before it slides under the waves. The capital of Colladuvio lies directly in front of us, across the bay. At least, I assume it does. Or, more accurately, I assume it did. All I can see now are ashen waters, punctuated by frothing swells, eventually blending into a dingy skyline. Every-so-often, a scaly fin of frightening magnitude pierces the water’s surface and slices the chop, before sliding back to the harbor floor.
Me: We made it... where, Daus?
Khee Jzhu: What are you talking about? We survived!
I’m not even sure how we would get off this newly-formed island, or how long it would take the storm surge to subside on its own. But I’m cognizant of the fact that Khee Jzhu and I are the only ones who have left the safety of the cave.
Khee Jzhu: I don’t know about you, but I’m never coming back to this shit-stain of a country again.
I look back to the cave and I’m struck by the fact that I can barely see any of our fellow refugees. As tight as we were crammed in there before, it now seems that they’ve gone to great lengths to press further into the cave, as far away from the entrance as possible.
Khee Jzhu: I just don’t understand why anyone would ever choose to live in a place like—
Me: Why are we the only ones out here?
Khee Jzhu: —this. I mean, it's no wonder they don’t have any civilization to speak—
Me: Khee Jzhu! I don’t think we should be out here.
Khee Jzhu: Huh...? What are you talking about?
Me: Look around us.
Khee Jzhu: Yeah... so? What’s your point?
Me: Better yet – look at the cave.
He does manage to invest an earnest minute inspecting the shelter. But things just aren’t clicking in his diplomatic brain.
Khee Jzhu: So they’re a little... shellshocked. What's that have to do with anything?
I’m actually relieved when I hear Karis’s voice emerging from the cave. From her tone, I don’t think she even realized that we were outside until this moment.
Karis: What is wrong with you people?! Get in here! Right now!
I immediately scamper back up the cliffside and into the clammy environment. Without bothering to look behind me, it’s obvious that Khee Jzhu’s stubbornness is getting the better of him, as I can hear him arguing somewhere outside the cave entrance.
Khee Jzhu: The wind... has stopped! The rain... has stopped! How long are we to hunker down in that grimy shithole before we make our way back?
Before I can hear any response from Karis, I hear... it. A rolling explosion builds from the south and rises in magnitude with every passing millisecond. I feel its kinetic power racing across the harbor.
The mouldmilk twins latch onto my arms and frantically try to pull me deeper into the cave. Every centimeter farther from the entrance yields another bruise or scratch that I accidentally inflict on one of the entrenched refugees. Just as when this ordeal began, no one seems to care or notice. There is an unspoken vow between all in attendance that anything can be forgiven if it is in the service of somehow getting closer to the unseen back of this cave.
I manage to find myself perched on some stout cretin’s shoulders. I had no desire to impress him into service as a mount. I have no idea whether he’s truly sturdy enough to support my weight for any extended period of time. But for the foreseeable future, there’s no point in arguing, and no time to jockey for a better position.
Karis and her men cling to the mouth of the cave. They scream with all their might at the murky visage of Daus somewhere on the narrow beach below them. He begins walking back to the cave, but it’s clear that he’s quite annoyed with the decision.
He won’t be pondering the decision for much longer.
A shockwave of spray, and dust, and sand, and various debris screams over the harbor and slams into his back, driving him face-forward into the waterlogged sand. I have no time to ponder its effect on him before the same blast booms into the open cave. With nowhere for the air to escape, the initial force pressurizes the cavern and blows out both of my eardrums.
Like the initial onslaught, this volley is no temporary detonation. The force, so devastating upon impact, starts to feel almost “normal” within several minutes. Because once the fury invades the cave, it simply does not dissipate, even in the slightest.
It takes several moments before any of us have gathered our bearings enough to assess the situation. Miraculously, I’m still astride this poor man’s shoulders – and he seems none the worse for the wear. Karis and her men still cling to the cavern walls. They were knocked inward, but now claw their way back toward the entrance. I don’t know what has become of Khee Jzhu.
It’s only now that I fully realize the gambit inherent in this particular “shelter”. For the first half of the razer's onslaught, we were facing out to the leeward edge of the storm. As bad as everything was, at least the winds and the waves were blowing away from us – out toward the harbor. But now... Now every boggy bit of Poglia is being blasted directly into this edifice. A cul-de-sac. A cell from which there is no other escape.
Everyone leaps back in collective shock. I am jettisoned from the man’s shoulders. I see the screams of panic escaping from everyone’s mouths, although we are all incapable of actually hearing anyone’s cries. The thought flashes through my mind that the cave itself may actually be collapsing.
A ship has slammed into the rock face just outside the cave. It was a vessel of significant size, buttressed by regal timbers that have now splintered and sprayed the cave as deadly missiles. The interior is painted in blood spatters and a handful of unfortunate souls lay prone, although I can’t possibly tell at this point whether they still cling to life.
Karis is down to one henchman. I don’t know if the others were somehow washed out of the cave, or if they fell victim to the ship-missile. But I can’t see any of her other cohorts.
I’m somewhat amazed (confused? disoriented?) when I realize that Daus has almost made it inside. The winds are blowing so hard into the edifice that he is nearly leaning backwards as he tries to gain entry. Karis is on one side, desperately trying to help him by grabbing one of his arms. Karis’s aid is on the other side, doing the same. Daus is oblivious to both of them. He stands, nearly at the cusp of the entrance, hands in the air, fighting wildly against the gale. I can tell that he desperately wants to be inside the shelter, but he (understandably) fears being launched into it by the deadly force of the razer's winds.
It’s not entirely clear whether he’s actually aware of me. From my position, nearer the back of the cave, I know it must be hard for him to discern individual faces. Nevertheless, I swear that he’s smiling at me. Or maybe he’s actually screaming at me. Or maybe he’s just screaming at... anyone. I don’t really know. But I do know that he’s not the only thing trying to get into the cave.
Through the murky torrents of rain, through the churning waters of the harbor, I can tell that there’s something... else out there. It’s green. Or grey. Or blue. It glistens in the sheen of the downpour. It’s indistinct. Undefined. But I can tell that it’s from the sea. It’s scaly. And it doesn’t appear that I can see even a tenth of its overall mass through the relative porthole of the cave entrance.
And he’s still smiling at me. Or screaming. Or... something. He’s screaming right up until the point that the aquatic tentacles wrap first around his head, then around his torso, then around his legs – all in less than a second. I try to scream, but before I can produce a single impotent sound, the tentacles have all clamped down and wrenched themselves in competing directions. The tension is so swift, and so immense, that a sizable portion of Khee Jzhu’s bodily fluids end up on all the inner surfaces of the cave – and on all of the terrified refugees huddled within.
Everyone – every single person – stares unblinkingly at the point of the entrance where Daus used to be. They are not shocked. Nor terrified in the least. They are simply... observing. No doubt, they are readying themselves for the potential return of the leviaton.
The leeward side of the storm is supposed to pass faster. At least, that’s what Karis told me, at some point, days ago. I have no way to verify that statement. Minutes, and hours, and days all become indiscernible to me. If I come to find that we spent a month in this cave, it will not shock me in the least.
From here forward, every soul is a unified whole with one – and only one – objective: survival.
Without speaking a word, I am certain that no one here cares, in any way, about their home, or their job, or their next meal. All we care about it is living until the moment when there is no more razer raging upon the Hinterlands.
Over continuous cycles, the leviaton does return. Khee Jzhu was, apparently, delicious. But Khee Jzhu will be his only meal. During the initial phase of this sheltering, I was blithely ignorant of the fact that everyone in here (except me) is armed to the teeth. Even the mouldmilk twins each sport two treacherous daggers. And every time those scaly tentacles come probing back, every Hinterfolk within range makes a point of bleeding that nightmarish creature until it finally gives up the hunt, content to scavenge upon those outside the cave walls who are already dead.
The remaining hours are a continuous trial of near drownings. The tides crest ever higher. The cave grows ever wetter. Eventually, the children are hoisted toward the ceiling so they can breathe, while the adults commence a disciplined ritual of rising for air, then dropping back below the water so they can hold others aloft, then repeating the cycle over. And over. And over until their lungs must burn and their backs must scream for rest. This cycle is also the first time in this entire ordeal when I feel truly useful. For unlike the others, I rarely need to surface for more air. So for the majority of this process, I serve as a continual, underwater, human stepping stone.
The water crests less than a meter from the cave’s ceiling. I don’t know if other storm surges have ever submerged this shelter completely. I don’t know if they had any plan if such an event had happened now. Something in their matter-of-fact countenance makes me wonder if they even cared.
Regardless, the water does subside. By some miracle of the heavens, the storm subsides. Its fury travels on to torture souls in other lands. But eventually, once I had nearly forgotten what it felt like when no razer is looming, it does, in fact, pass. With the winds no longer engulfing the cavern, and with the storm surge still submerging most of the cave, I do the one thing that no one else in my vicinity is even capable of doing. I walk to the back of the cave, fill my lungs, sink under the water to the gritty floor below... and lapse into a deep sleep.
When I wake, the cave smells like an old, damp stocking. But it is dry – or at least, as “dry” as one can expect after floodwaters have subsided. The punishing rays of Syrus stream in from the beach. I am the only one left, but even from the back of the enclosure, I can see Karis’s silhouette sitting outside the cave entrance.
I emerge and she silently rises. Her last “assistant” is gone. I don’t know if he left – or if he’s dead. I don’t have the nerve to ask at this moment. She says nothing, but leads the way as we walk down the beach, back toward Colladuvio.
The entire landscape looks as though it’s been turned upside-down, shaken, and then spilled back onto its moorings. The simple act of treading the shoreline is an exercise in obstacle avoidance. Bodies litter the sands. Human bodies. Fish bodies. Bits of creature bodies that I cannot identify – nor do I wish to. I don’t know how many ships escaped the harbor, but I know that I’m seeing many of their carcasses splintered across the beach. Regal tree trunks and illogically-placed boulders splay at odd angles in every direction.
She walks forward with mindless purpose. I attempt to mimic her resolve. But I’m overtaken by a strange sense of confusion – and sadness.
Me: Where did the Squallers go?
She turns back to me with utter confusion – and at least a tinge of derision.
Karis: What do you mean??
Her words come back to me as muffled mumblings. I can understand what she's saying, but it takes no small degree of concentration to parse her meaning. My hearing is still damaged from the shockwave in the cave. I assume the impairment is permanent.
Me: I mean... when they eventually take shelter. Where do they go?
She waves at the smattering of bloated corpses dotted along the sands.
Karis: What more explanation do you need?
Me: You mean... they all stood out here? For the entirety of the storm??
Karis: No, you idiot. They were all dead, long before the end of the storm. But until they died... Yeah, they stood out here.
I knew I shouldn’t have asked. It didn’t make sense to me before. I doubt it will ever make sense to me.
Colladuvio is a shocking study in contrasts. The ships are all gone (or wrecked), along with the docks to which they were moored. The people are disoriented – wandering like the undead. Anything that was not bolted down has either washed into the harbor or is strewn throughout the city streets. But those buildings – those white coquina buildings that all share a boring, identical, half-spherical design – they are all standing, and looking no less sturdy than before the storm.
She stops where the docks used to be and points to a makeshift vending cart that is manned by a sickly old woman. She extends a handful of coins toward me.
Karis: The rescue crews will start arriving in another couple hours. Relief workers. Rowboats. Katmarans. Whatever they can scrounge. You’ll be one of the first priorities. A foreign dignitary.
I look down at the coins, somewhat confused.
Me: And this is for passage?
She waves at the vending cart.
Karis: No. This is just for you to get something to eat. It could be a while before the first boat makes it to shore.
She’s probably right. I scan the now-glistening harbor and it’s obvious that there is not a vessel yet in sight. As I turn to look back at her, something captures my attention.
On the beach, no more than fifty meters from us, is a little girl. A scraggly, listless girl, hair caked with sand and seaweed, standing alone in the surf, staring at... nothing in particular. It’s her. It’s the exact same girl that I dragged onto the skiff. I wave at her – and she stares directly in my direction – but she makes no effort to wave back. In fact, she barely moves at all. She just... stands there. Watching as many of the other survivors walk past her on the beach in either direction. From the sand, washed clear up to her shins, it’s apparent that she’s been standing in that exact same spot for quite some time. I wave again, but she just stares right through me.
Me: What if I’m not ready to leave?
She has no idea how to process this question. But I think she’s also too tired to feign much interest.
Karis: Khee Jzhu’s dead. The talks are dead (or at least, on indefinite hold). What reason could you possibly have to stay?
Me: Well, to... rebuild?
Karis: This is the Hinterlands. There is nothing for you to rebuild here.
Me: That’s probably true. But there’s nothing for me to go home to, either.
She stares at me for a long moment. It’s the most attention she’s given me since we were jockeying for the last boat on the dock. I can see a million aberrant thoughts clashing across her face. But ultimately, they all coalesce into a single, nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.
Karis: Suit yourself.
She tosses me the coins and I somehow manage to snag them all before they burrow into the sand. It’s very bright. It’s very hot. I’m just now realizing how thirsty I am. I could really use a nip of mouldmilk right now. And if I’m that thirsty, that poor girl must be desperately parched.
As I survey the landscape all around me, I can't begin to imagine how any society could possibly recover from a tragedy of this magnitude. But I know that the Hinterfolk have done it before. They’ve always bounced back. No doubt, they'll do it again. And this time, I think I’d like to find out just how they manage to do it.
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