“In the beginning, there was only the Void.”

  —The Book of Six

  The rain slowed to a drizzle, granting greater visibility of the scaffold that had been erected in the village square. It wasn’t a pleasant view. Six ropes hung from a rough wooden beam, attached to which were six unlucky individuals who balanced upon rickety stools. A figure in dark robes stood on the platform in front of them. His face was a dispassionate mask, marking him as a man who was comfortable with the prospect of death. His voice droned through the pattering rainfall, listing numerous crimes for which the condemned were accused.

  Callum only listened with half an ear. It was always the same. The Dominion used every little excuse to string a man up. It didn’t matter if it was petty thievery or treason—in a world without mercy, the law made no path for redemption.

  He flexed his fingers to work the blood back into them. It was a seeping cold, the kind that sunk through cloak, muscle, and bone. His legs were growing weary from standing in one place for so long, and his lower back was starting to ache, but he ignored the discomfort and remained stony-faced. His bodily frailties were nothing compared to the horror of an impending execution. To dwell upon his own illness would be to minimize the plight of those standing with nooses tied around their necks. He took a deep breath and leaned on his walking stick—which served as more of a crutch—and focused his attention on remaining upright.

  All around, the people of Silverwood watched with various levels of attentiveness. Most stood with shoulders slumped, a vacant look in their eyes. This sort of thing was an all-too-common occurrence, especially when the bloodcloaks came into town. It was supposed to teach them obedience. Callum thought that it only succeeded in hardening their hearts.

  Beside him, Caleb fidgeted. “I wish they’d just get on with it,” he whispered. “The waiting’s the worst part.”

  “It’s the same every time,” Callum replied. “Every execution begins and ends with a lecture.”

  Their uncle shot them an angry look and mouthed for them to shut up.

  The executioner went on with his litany, heedless of their exchange.

  Callum lowered his voice until it was barely audible and said, “None of them deserve to die.”

  “Tell that to the bloodcloaks,” his older brother replied just as softly. “I’m sure they’d welcome your opinion.”

  Callum flicked his gaze over to the armored soldiers standing before the platform. The rain drummed on their conical helms and chainmail, turning their drenched tabards an even deeper shade of red. All of them bore the sigil of the Ministry of Order—a black fist on a crimson field—emblazoned upon their coats, which marked them as Inquisitor soldiers, the Tzar’s attack hounds. They watched the crowd with hard expressions, their hands all resting upon their weapons.

  Callum lowered his hood against the rain, careful not to make eye contact with any of the men. He’d seen firsthand was they were capable of doing when provoked.

  The executioner finished his list of grievances. “Ours is a loving god,” he said. “But he is also just. The Holy Tzar demands strict obedience to his teachings, and it is our duty as disciples to enforce his laws whenever they are broken. That is the price of his peace, and the price all of us must pay for salvation.” He paused for dramatic effect, then raised both arms into the air and concluded, “By the authority of the High Inquisitor, I sentence these criminals and blasphemers to die by hanging. May their corpses stand as a testament to the judgment of the Holy Tzar.”

  He went behind the first of the condemned and kicked away the stool. The man—a miller named Joneth—dropped several feet before coming to an abrupt halt. There was a sharp crack and the man’s neck bent at an odd angle. His legs twitched several times before eventually going still.

  The executioner went down the line, kicking stools away until all six were swinging in the breeze. Some died instantly while others held on for several minutes. They kicked and thrashed, trying desperately to survive strangulation… but none of them did.

  Callum forced himself to watch each and every death. It was a habit he had always practiced during executions. He burned their grunts and jerking movements into his memory—their last moments of life. It was how he maintained the fire in the middle of his chest, his hatred of the god king who killed his father and ruled the Dominion with an iron fist.

  After the grisly work was done, the man in the dark robes hopped off the platform and stepped aside, disappearing into the folds of his cloak. Another man came forward, this one armored like the other bloodcloaks, the only difference being the golden knots tied at his shoulders. This marked him as some sort of captain—an alpha in a pack of wolves.

  “We don’t delight in taking such measures,” he said, his Rhovian accent as thick as his beard, “but sometimes, they’re necessary. The Dominion can’t flourish when traitors are living among us. The Ministry will continue its Inquisition until every knee bends and every tongue acknowledges the Tzar’s divinity.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. It seemed to threaten more rain as thunder rumbled in the distance. “We’ll rest here for the night, then take our leave tomorrow. If any citizen has need of us, we'll be staying at the inn. You’re dismissed.”

  The crowd dispersed, with each family going their separate way.

  “Come on,” their uncle Garret said in a low voice. “Let’s get back home.”

  He started down the southern road, limping slightly from an old war injury. Callum and Caleb both followed, each sparing one final glance for the dead men and women hanging from the gallows.

  It was only when they were out of earshot of the soldiers that any of them dared to begin talking. Even then, they did so in hushed tones as if worried their voices might carry through the trees.

  “Evil bastards,” Caleb grumbled. “I hate it when they come to Silverwood.”

  “Nobody ever stops them,” Callum said. “The mayor just lets them walk all over us and do whatever they want.”

  “Quiet,” Garret said. “Both of you.”

  “But it’s true,” Callum insisted. “Everyone cowers whenever the bloodcloaks show up. They don’t do anything, and people always die.”

  “We’re farmers, Cal,” his brother reminded him, “not warriors. There isn’t anything we can do.”

  “We can fight back,” he said. “We can block the road and keep them from coming to the village.”

  “Stop,” Garret said, a bit more heatedly. “Just... stop it, Callum. I don’t want you talking about that. What if someone heard you?”

  He shrugged but didn’t respond. The truth was that he wasn’t certain. Neighbors had been known to turn on members of their community in the past. It often resulted in a home being burned or someone disappearing. Callum liked to think that nobody would turn him in for speaking badly about the Dominion, but he knew that his uncle was right to be cautious.

  They continued walking in silence.

  The road led through fields of freshly planted turnips and carrots, winding between farmsteads and past thick groves of trees. The farms themselves were beset on all sides by forest, the dense misty woodlands giving Silverwood its name. It was a quiet region, far removed from the bustle and politics of the major cities. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that the Tzar’s shadow didn’t reach them. It seemed that the entire world was under his thumb, and that even speaking against him might bring ruin down upon a person’s head.

  It isn’t fair, Callum lamented silently. But then, there wasn’t much about life that was fair.

  Twice they had to stop so that Callum could catch his breath. Standing in the cold had weakened him, and the rain had soaked him through to the skin. For as long as he could remember, Callum had been sickly. His body was frail, and he was constantly injuring himself—breaking bones while engaging in simple, even mundane activities. It was an illness that had no cure, a curse that he’d carried his entire life. It wasn’t fair, but that didn’t make him special. Everybody suffered in their own way, and his life—everything considered—wasn’t all that bad.

  As night approached, their home finally came into view. The Adairs lived in a small cottage on a hill, surrounded by trees and grassy slopes. They had a garden and a few head of sheep that were fenced in at the base, as well as a single old cow that barely produced any milk.

  They went through the gate and made their way inside, Garret kindling a fire in the hearth to chase away the chill. All of them shed their sodden cloaks and prepared the evening meal as darkness settled over the forest.

  When it came time to eat, the table was quiet. Everyone chewed mechanically—humble fare of crusty bread and stale cheese with a thin, salty broth. Callum couldn’t even taste the meal. His thoughts were on the dead bodies that were still hanging out in the rain.

  After several minutes, he spoke up, unable to contain himself. “Why doesn’t anybody ever fight back?” he asked.

  “People are scared,” Caleb replied. “Anyone who stands up gets killed.”

  “But there are more of us than them,” Callum pointed out. “We outnumber the bloodcloaks three to one!”

  Caleb glanced at their uncle, but Garret kept eating, his face a mask. “There might be more of us,” Caleb said at length, “but none of us are fighters. We don’t know how to defeat trained soldiers. Plus, they have sorcerers on their side.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Callum said. “The bloodcloaks are evil foreigners. They deserve to be driven from our lands.”

  “You’re being stupid, Cal.”

  “No, I’m not,” Callum responded. “I’m only saying what everyone else is too afraid to say. We should fight back. Otherwise, we’ll keep living like sheep, too dumb to save ourselves from being slaughtered. There are plenty of veterans from the war. They can train a new generation of soldiers. We don’t have to live like cowards...”

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  Callum knew he’d made a mistake the second the words left his mouth.

  Garret put down his knife. His eyes bore into Callum like augers. “So, I’m a coward, am I?”

  “Uncle, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know exactly what you meant,” Garret cut him off. “You think that I should put down my plow and pick up a sword—that I should lead some sort of rebellion against the Dominion. And if I don’t, then I’m a sheep.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Let me tell you something, boy,” he went on. “I remember the war better than most. I remember the smoke and the blood and the stench of death—grown men crying like children, cut down by the hundreds. My own brother burned alive by sorcery. Nothing is worth that hell. Things may not be perfect, but at least we have the Tzar’s peace. At least we’re all still alive.”

  Callum took a deep breath. He wanted to point out that the villagers with nooses around their necks weren’t alive. But he wasn’t an idiot. This wasn’t an argument he was going to win. He tried to choose his next words carefully. “All I’m saying is that I’m tired of watching them treat us like animals. It isn’t right. And I wish things were different.”

  “You’re just one person, Callum,” his brother said. “You can’t expect to change the world.”

  “If everybody believes that, then the world will never change,” he countered. “But if everyone rises up together, we might actually be able to accomplish something—”

  “Enough!” Garret slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cutlery. The two brothers fell silent. “I won’t suffer such talk under my roof. You’ll get us all killed! What do you think will happen when word starts spreading about ‘Callum the revolutionary’? The bloodcloaks will burn our home and have all three of us drawn and quartered. I don’t want to hear another word come out of your mouth. Do you understand me?”

  Callum met his uncle’s gaze for several heartbeats before finally breaking away. He nodded.

  “Good.” Garret picked up his knife. He cut a slice of cheese and shoved it into his mouth, the matter settled.

  ***

  After supper, Callum excused himself to his room. He was still feeling weak from the events of the day, and the confrontation with his uncle had filled him with a profound bitterness. He stripped down and collapsed upon his bed and stared vacantly up at the thatch ceiling. Emptiness filled his heart.

  Father would have agreed with me, Callum thought, though he had never met the man. At least he was willing to give his life for what he believed in.

  Thomas Adair had been a foot soldier for Andronar during the Great War. He’d gone with his brother, Garret, to defend his homeland from the Tzar’s conquest, leaving behind a one-year-old son and a pregnant wife. Callum didn’t know much about him beside the fact that he was brave, and that he had died during a decisive battle near the River Talon. During that same battle, Garret had taken a wound, and shortly after, Andronar had surrendered to the Rhovians. His uncle seldom talked about the war, but the one thing Callum knew for sure was that Garret thought his brother had died for nothing. “Not even the gods could stand up to the Tzar,” he would often say. “Why the hell did we think we stood a chance?”

  Eventually, Caleb wandered into their room, closing the door softly behind him. He went to the washbasin and splashed some water on his face, then he too fell onto his bed and gazed upward. Several minutes passed in silence, until finally Caleb whispered, “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah,” Callum answered without turning.

  “Why did you have to bring that stuff up at supper?” Caleb asked. “You know how he gets when we talk about the war.”

  “I don’t know,” Callum replied, a bit defensively. “Maybe it was the fact I just watched six people get killed today.”

  Caleb grunted. “That doesn’t matter.”

  Callum turned and glared at his brother. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

  “I mean that their deaths don’t affect us,” Caleb replied. “The bloodcloaks do what they want, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them. We might as well keep our mouths shut and wait for them to leave. Then our lives can get back to normal.”

  “Until the next time they come looking for people to murder,” Callum muttered.

  Caleb rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do, Cal? Fight them? They’re professional soldiers! They have sorcerers protecting them, and you’re... well, you’re you.”

  Callum could feel heat rising in his chest. “I know that I’m not a soldier, but at least I’m not afraid.”

  Caleb didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

  Callum rolled back over, but he was too angry to sleep. People always used his illness as an excuse for why he couldn’t do things. Even as a child, he’d been excluded from games because he was the boy with brittle bones. He always had a crutch, or an arm bound in a sling. It made him want to prove everybody wrong. But no matter how hard he worked, he never seemed to grow stronger. It was like his body was a prison that would always keep him from reaching his full potential.

  He sighed.

  After a while, Caleb spoke up again. “I know you aren’t afraid,” he said softly. “Hell, you’re braver than I’ll ever be. Remember that time when Fergus was picking on the butcher’s boy? What was his name... Gilroy? You walked right up to him and punched him square in the nose. Damn thing’ll be crooked the rest of his life.”

  Callum remembered the incident well. Fergus was a farmhand who was built like a draft horse. He was also a bully who loved to torment those who were smaller than him—which pretty much included every boy in Silverwood. Gilroy, the butcher's son, was touched in the head and couldn’t talk right. He often drooled and slurred his words when he spoke. Naturally, that made him the perfect target of Fergus’s ire. One day, Callum happened upon Fergus and his friends tormenting poor Gilroy. They’d trapped him near the well and taken to throwing rocks at him. That set Callum off. He didn’t say anything—he was too angry. He merely walked up to Fergus and punched him in the face, sending him sprawling into the mud. The punch had broken several of Callum’s knuckles, but the vicious beating he took afterwards had nearly killed him. There were times when he still felt like his ribs were sore.

  “That took guts,” Caleb said, shaking him from his thoughts. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I hate bullies,” Callum replied simply. “And the bloodcloaks are the biggest bullies of them all.”

  Caleb nodded in the darkness. “That’s true. But I don’t want to see you get hurt, Cal. Those soldiers aren’t like Fergus. They won't beat you up. They’ll use real weapons to torture and kill you. And that’s if you’re lucky.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” Callum said sarcastically.

  “Just... promise me that you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “No promises. Stupid runs in our family.”

  Caleb chuckled. “Keep your head up, will you? Once the bloodcloaks leave, you’ll forget all about this stuff. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Callum said, rolling over. “Goodnight, Caleb.”

  “Goodnight, Cal.”

  Outside, the rain finally stopped, and a profound silence settled over the cottage. Despite the troubling thoughts swirling around Callum’s head, his exhaustion got the better of him. When sleep came, it was accompanied by dreams of corpses swaying in the wind.

  ***

  A horn ripped through the peaceful morning like a knife, its tuneless wail carrying over the mist-shrouded fields and startling Callum awake. It was accompanied by a second, and then a third blast, each lingering for several seconds before fading away.

  His head jolted off the pillow. All sleepiness fled from him in an instant. He knew instinctively that the bloodcloaks were once again summoning the people of Silverwood to gather at the village square. Fallen gods… not again.

  Caleb sat upright, his voice scratchy. “What’s going on?”

  “Bloodcloaks,” Callum replied.

  “Damn.”

  They both got out of bed.

  Wordlessly, they met their uncle and got ready, pulling on coats and shoes and leaving the house without eating breakfast. Tardiness wouldn’t be tolerated. When the Dominion summoned you, you came without hesitation, no questions asked. And so, they started back up the road, their anxiety obvious by the quick pace they set.

  It was a chilly morning. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, its rays chasing the fog back into the shadows of the trees. The grass glistened with moisture and the fields were dark, the freshly plowed soil wet from the storm.

  Everywhere Callum looked, villagers were leaving their homes and making their way up the road, a flood of humanity leading back toward the scaffold from which their neighbors still hung. More horn blasts followed—a warning—and everyone hastened toward the inn. It was apparent by their pale, worried faces that folk were terrified.

  The bloodcloaks stood in ranks exactly where they’d been the day before. Their armor shone brightly in the morning light, and their crimson banners ruffled in the breeze. The captain was at the front, his expression grim as he watched the crowd gather before him, flinty eyes studying the faces of every villager like a trained hound counting sheep.

  It didn’t take long for the whole of Silverwood to arrive. They waited nervously for the captain to address them, and not a single person dared to breathe a word of complaint.

  Finally, after a prolonged silence, the leader cleared his throat.

  “The time has come for us to leave this part of the province,” he began. “But before we go, the Holy Tzar has need of his loyal citizens. War rages on the fringes of the Dominion, and the Ministry has been given orders to bring the Light of His Truth to the far corners of Aslon. Therefore, I invoke the right of conscription. To the families of those who serve—you will be given a fair payment for your contribution, as well as a blessing from His Holiness as a sign of gratitude.”

  The captain nodded to several soldiers who stepped forward, chainmail armor clinking.

  Callum looked at Caleb in alarm. His brother fidgeted. Garret’s jaw tightened, but he remained stony-faced. Many in the crowd murmured in dismay as the soldiers approached. Conscripts were often sent on distant campaigns and rarely returned home. There hadn’t been a conscription in Silverwood in years—why was this happening today?

  The soldiers marched forward and examined the crowd, their eyes lingering longest on those young men who were just beyond adolescence. Everybody avoided eye contact, but that didn’t matter. The soldiers knew what they were looking for. They reached forward and roughly grabbed arms and shirtsleeves, pulling men away from their families and lining them up like livestock. Mothers wept. Fathers cursed. Those who were chosen looked like they were going to be sick.

  One of the bloodcloaks stopped in front of Caleb and looked him up and down. “You’re a strong one. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one,” Caleb answered after a brief hesitation.

  The soldier pulled him forward.

  Garret cursed. He went to grasp his nephew’s shoulder but stopped himself. The soldier gave him a hard look as if daring him to move. He lowered his hand in defeat.

  Callum, however, reacted on instinct. He stepped in front of the soldier, holding out both arms to bar the way. “Wait!” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster. “You can’t take him!”

  The soldier regarded him dubiously and snorted. “Out of the way before you get hurt, runt.”

  Callum stood his ground. “I’ll go in his place. Take me instead.”

  “Callum,” his brother warned. “Don’t do this.”

  “What’s the hold up?” The captain stepped forward, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

  “We have a volunteer,” the soldier replied, sneering.

  The captain examined Callum with a critical eye. It didn’t take long for him to come to a determination. “You’re a weakling,” he said bluntly. “Fall back with the others if you know what’s good for you.”

  “But I—”

  The backhand sent Callum sprawling. It had come so fast that it took him completely off guard. One second, he was standing before the man, the next he was on his back, blinking away tears. It felt like his cheekbone had cracked.

  “I said, fall back with the others,” the captain growled. “The next one won’t be so gentle.”

  Callum got to his feet as the soldier pulled his brother away. Almost everybody in the crowd was looking down, but not his uncle. Garret appeared ashamed, his eyes fixed on Callum, his gaze radiating disgust.

  By the time it was over, the bloodcloaks had selected twelve young men. Each seemed like a frightened animal who’d been caught in a trap. Bags of coins were dolled out to the families, a paltry compensation for losing a husband, a son, or a father. Or a brother.

  The captain addressed the crowd once more, his tone devoid of compassion. “We march to Andronost. Once there, these lads will swear their oaths of service in front of the High Inquisitor—a great honor for any soldier.” He glanced at one of his banner men and gave a signal. The column started moving forward. “Stay vigilant,” he continued, turning back to the villagers. “If there are any more miscreants in your midst, be sure to report them to the governor. Harboring such filth will bring swift justice down upon your heads. By the Holy Tzar’s grace.” He nodded and left with his troops, his red cloak trailing behind him in the mud.

  Callum stood there numbly, watching the conscripts depart. His brother looked back and met his gaze and for an instant, an understanding passed between them. “It’s all right,” Caleb’s eyes seemed to say. “Don’t worry about me, Cal. Take care of yourself.”

  But the worry came anyway, settling like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

  Behind him, several people wept, including the mothers who’d been forced to give up their sons to the predations of the Dominion. Everyone else just broke away, wandering off to begin their labors as if nothing happened.

  The sun came out, emerging from behind the clouds, but despite the radiant light, the world felt dismal—utterly devoid of warmth.

  Garret was quiet for a long time, clutching the coins to his chest with white knuckles. When he did speak, his voice came out as a broken whisper that Callum had to strain to hear. “When I took you boys in… I raised you as my own. Fed you… clothed you. And what good has that gotten me?” He shot Callum a reproachful look and snarled. “Your brother was worth something. But you? You’re nothing but a worthless cripple. If the fallen gods still lived, I’d curse them. Curse them for taking away the better son.”

  Though it pained him, Callum couldn’t help but agree.

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  -Blake