The Blunt Reaper

The blue lights ahead gradually revealed the shape carrying them. A dark mass rose from the sea, low and uneven, with steep cliffs cut through by a narrow inlet. Lanterns marked both sides of the opening. Their glow did little to illuminate the rock itself, leaving the island as a black absence surrounded by points of blue flame.

From a distance, it appeared abandoned.

Then the boat entered the inlet.

The cliffs closed around them, sheltering the water from the slow swells of the Red Tide. Stone docks extended from both sides of the channel. Some had cracked under years of exposure to the sea, while others had been repaired with mismatched blocks and heavy wooden braces. Blue lanterns hung from posts along their edges, marking narrow routes between half-submerged rocks.

Several boats had been pulled onto sloping ramps. Some resembled the ferryman's vessel, built with shallow hulls and enough room for only a few passengers. Others were considerably larger. One possessed three decks reinforced with iron plates, though something had torn open the entire side. Workers stood within the exposed hull, cutting away damaged timber and replacing it with darker wood.

None of the lanterns protected them.

Mara understood that now.

The blue flames marked the docks for travelers while remaining invisible to whatever hunted beyond the inlet. They did not repel Abominations. They merely allowed people to work without announcing their location to every creature beneath the sea.

The island itself was smaller than Mara had expected. She saw no towers, walls or defensive gates. A handful of stone buildings had been constructed around the sheltered inlet, most broad and low. Several workshops opened directly onto the repair ramps. Storage buildings had been cut into the cliff, their entrances sealed by heavy doors discolored by salt and age.

A few narrow streets climbed toward the island's interior. Blue lanterns marked inns, supply stores and a collection of weathered homes built from the same black stone as the cliffs.

Above them stood one large structure.

It occupied the highest point overlooking the docks, though calling it grand would have been generous. Its roof sagged in the middle, several windows had been sealed with stone, and generations of repairs had left the outer walls covered in differently colored patches. Broad steps descended from its entrance toward every section of the inlet.

Carved above the doorway were three words.

THE LAST ANCHORAGE.

Mara stared at the island. "That's it?"

The ferryman guided the boat toward an empty section of dock. "Disappointed?"

"I expected something larger."

"Why?"

"It records every crossing through this part of the sea."

"And?"

"I thought it would be fortified."

"Against what?"

She looked toward the open water behind them. "Everything out there."

The ferryman pushed the boat between two stone posts. "Walls make people feel safe. They do very little against things that come from beneath you."

Rook stood and lifted the coffin onto his back. The familiar weight settled across his shoulders, chains straining against the hooks securing it.

Mara remained seated as she examined the shoreline. "Why aren't there more Abominations around it?"

"The stone," the ferryman replied.

"What about it?"

"Same mineral they grind into repelling powder. Runs through most of the island."

Mara looked again at the black cliffs. Pale grey veins marked parts of the exposed rock, too faint to notice until she knew what she was searching for.

"The entire island tastes foul to them," the ferryman continued. "Smells worse. Most of the weaker ones turn away before reaching the inlet."

"Then why don't people build every Bastion with it?"

"Because most people cannot pick up an island and carry it home."

"They could mine it."

"They do. Slowly. Take too much and this place stops being safe."

Rook stepped from the boat onto the dock. "People tried."

Mara followed him. "What happened?"

"They learned why you don't dismantle the shelter while you're still standing inside it."

The ferryman secured the boat with a thick rope. "Several lower tunnels flooded. The creatures nesting off the northern shore began coming closer. Three miners disappeared, and something large enough to crack the island pushed its head through one of the excavated passages."

Mara looked down at the stone beneath her boots.

Grey mineral ran through it in thin, uneven lines.

"Is that creature still inside the island?"

"No."

The answer came from both men.

Mara waited.

Neither elaborated.

"That sounded rehearsed."

Rook started toward the broad building overlooking the docks. "You'll be happier if you stop asking."

"I have yet to see any evidence of that."

The ferryman joined them after fastening the lantern to a hook at the end of the dock. "The mineral discourages the smaller creatures. Larger Abominations can tolerate it if they have a reason."

"What kind of reason?"

"Food. Anger. Territory. Boredom."

"Abominations get bored?"

"Some of the old ones do."

Mara glanced toward the water beyond the inlet. The open sea had already disappeared behind the cliffs, leaving only a narrow strip of purple visible between them.

"So the Anchorage isn't completely safe."

The ferryman gave her a crooked smile. "Nowhere is."

The settlement possessed more life than the Eighty-Sixth Bastion, but very little noise. Workers repaired boats with cloth wrapped around their hammers. Saws moved through timber with slow, measured strokes. Even conversations were kept low enough that the wind carried them no farther than the buildings where they began.

Several travelers waited near the docks.

A group of Reapers sat around an overturned boat, their weapons stacked beside them. One had lost both legs below the knees and was waiting for the remembered flesh to reform. Another held a sealed jar containing something that scratched against the glass from within.

Farther along the inlet, a woman stood beside three Empty arranged carefully upon the stone. Their swollen bodies had been covered with sheets. She checked each face before writing something upon a slate.

Mara slowed. "Why did they bring the Empty here?"

"Identification," Rook said. "Sometimes someone recognizes the body."

"But there's no one left inside."

"Doesn't stop the people who remember them."

They climbed the steps toward the main structure.

Deep channels had been carved into the stone throughout the settlement. Mara had initially mistaken them for drains, but each one descended toward the sea and continued beneath the buildings. Water moved through some of them in slow streams. Others remained dry despite sitting lower than the inlet.

The channels crossed the streets, passed beneath grates and disappeared into the reception building.

Mara stopped beside one. The water inside flowed inland rather than toward the sea.

"What are these?"

"Currents," the ferryman said.

She watched the thin stream climb along a channel that visibly sloped upward. "Water doesn't move like that."

"It does here."

"That explanation is becoming less useful every time someone gives it."

The doors to the main building stood open.

Inside, the structure served several purposes at once. A wide floor occupied the center, surrounded by stone counters where travelers registered crossings, paid ferrymen or searched through route records. Benches lined the walls. Packs, weapons and sealed containers had been stacked around those waiting for the proper current.

The channels Mara had seen outside continued through the floor.

Dozens crossed the chamber in carefully separated lines. Each entered through an opening in the seaward wall, wound between raised stone walkways and disappeared beneath an enormous map carved into the opposite side of the room.

Some channels carried dark water. Others contained water tinged red, green or grey. One flowed quickly enough to produce a constant whisper, while the channel beside it moved so slowly that its surface appeared solid.

Mara looked toward the wall map.

It showed the Silent Sea and the lands surrounding it, though no distances had been recorded. Coastlines overlapped. Islands appeared in several places at once. Routes curved back upon themselves, and some ended in warnings carved deeply enough to be visible from across the room.

FEEDING GROUND.

NO RETURN.

SHORE LOST.

CURRENT FALSE.

One route possessed no destination at all. It continued around the entire map in an unbroken spiral.

The ferryman approached the channels and studied them.

Mara followed. "Which one takes us east?"

He pointed toward a dry channel near the center of the floor. "The third."

Mara stared into it. Salt had hardened along its sides, leaving a pale crust upon the dark stone.

"There's no water in it."

"Very observant."

"When will there be?"

"When the sea turns."

"When does that happen?"

"When it decides."

Mara slowly raised her eyes toward him.

Rook approached from behind. "He means we're staying."

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