Weary-eyed soldiers drag the bodies from their wagons and pile them on the wharf beside my boat. They’ve traveled far from the frontlines, and though they’re too exhausted to speak, they’re careful not to let a lifeless arm or foot touch the sea’s foamy surface.
“Careful, men!” the colonel calls needlessly. “Or your labor will be for naught!”
He frowns in my direction, and I frown back from beneath my scarf. I know what he is thinking: that I ought to be on the front lines, fighting in the Esteemed General’s ranks, rather than sitting safe at home. As if the sea is any less dangerous than the sword, or my duty here less consequential. My duty is my inheritance, bestowed upon me when my father and brothers joined the fight. I will not be intimidated.
“I need a pair of men to load the vessel,” I say as the last body sags onto the pile.
“You think I have men to spare? They’re needed at the front.”
“You’ve left me but a few hours until the full moon. Do you wish the souls of these conquered slain to geist here, so near the city?”
The colonel looks over my shoulder to the craggy island half a league offshore. It bears a scorch mark upon its summit, beyond reach of the highest wave. There, pyres are lit to fix the souls of the conquered slain to that lonely, forsaken rock. There they remain, unable to torment their enemies or comfort their mourners with their monthly spectral geists.
Grumbling, the colonel calls for men to assist me, and before the tide shifts, the boat is laden with the dead.
The sea here is a caldron, swirling toil and strife and fortune alike in wholly unpredictable measures. Even the Esteemed General doesn’t dare to test its fates but maneuvers his forces across dry land instead.
Today, the waves fight me for presuming to race the moonrise — as if the choice were somehow mine. They toss my vessel, trying to dump my cursed cargo. I tighten my grip on the oars; if I lose the bodies, it will cost my life. For a soul cannot be fixed to the sea, and any conquered slain who touches it will be free to follow the paths of water wherever he pleases. Too kind an end, by the General’s standards, for those who dare oppose him.
I reach the rock as the moon crests the horizon, and I curse the sea and the colonel alike. It is too late. I should not be here. The conquered slain will geist soon. But faced with punishment for neglecting my duty or punishment for lingering here beyond moonrise, I must pray for mercy for the latter.
One by one, I haul the bodies ashore to that hallowed height where the pyres are lit. They are heavy and the sea-breeze bites and the wind is wild as a whip. The chill of the coming geist fills the air with spectral fog. It swirls around my feet and tries to trip me.
The eastern plains release their grasp on the moon, and as it floats starward, the conquered slain geist.
They speak first in windswept whispers, bewildered at their state.
I work faster.
They moan then, lamenting their fate and begging to be released to the waters.
I grit my teeth and press on.
They howl, harried and frantic.
I hurry to set the fire.
I light a flame and shield it from the wind. I lower it to meet the tinder.
I hear my name.
It speaks in my father’s voice, and at first, I do not understand how, until I see the geist before me. I had not recognized his body, clothed in the manner of the enemy, but now, I tear off helmets and peel back hoods and look the “conquered slain” in the face.
They are friends. They are neighbors. They are my father and my brothers. Men who’d marched away to fight for the General’s cause. Men not heard from in months.
“But how? Why?” These men deserve a victor’s welcome. Their remains deserve a victor’s rest in the gardens of their loved ones, where they can confer wisdom with their monthly geists.
The answer comes in a wisp of thought, a rush of memory, a hazy image in the geist-fog. I see the Esteemed General leading wave after wave of doomed men against an impenetrable force. Making no progress. Suffering defeat. Gathering the bodies. Disguising them in enemy garb. Sending them back as proof — false proof — of victories at the front.
Sending them here, where no one would discover the trick.
The flame, still in hand, bites my fingers, and when I drop it, it catches on the tinder. The wind fans it, but with bare feet I stomp it, smothering it before it can take hold.
How many of our own men have I rowed to this island? How many have I fixed here on this height? How long have I played a pawn in the General’s deceitful war games?
My duty is my inheritance. I will not be intimidated.
One by one, I haul the bodies from that hallowed height and release them into the sea. The bodies are light and the sea-breeze guides me and the wind carries their cheers to my ears. As they hit the water, the geists fill the air, rolling freely like a fog across the sea. They will tell their loved ones what they told me, exposing the General’s cruel deeds.
My father’s body is the last, and his geist lingers above my boat, gesturing for me to follow — that he will guide me in my escape and help me flee.
But this city, this sea, this island are my duty, my inheritance as well. The souls fixed on this rock are my people; their mourners will need my help to reach them.
I push off from shore, across silver moonlit ripples.
I will not be intimidated.
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