Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  “It’s a high-risk cargo. That’s why—“

  “They are not cargo Lily,” A dark shadow settled across Sul’s face as he straightened and turned his face towards the young woman, “They are living people. Are we clear on that?” His tone was calm but lethal.

  Lily swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as she peered into the crystalline depths of where Sul’s eyes should have been, “Yes, Sir.”

  Sul held the look a moment longer and then turned his attention back to the map, his expression again becoming troubled,

  “What is it?” Lily inquired gently.

  “There’s something about this….,” he replied sounding very preoccupied, “Something doesn’t feel right,” he traced his fingers around the Nymsian Sea which separated the continents Aegreas and Sahath, “Daymore does not have dedicated slave ships. Too indiscreet. So, they make use of converted galleons used for cargo. They can hold between two-hundred-and-fifty to six-hundred slaves.”

  “And?”

  “Consider the following: retrofitting ships like that is both expensive and time-consuming. Furthermore, the extensive modifications usually leave the ships far less maneuverable than their original state.”

  “So?” The young woman was trying very hard to remain patient.

  “So, would you want heavily modified, clumsy ships carrying heavy cargo,” he tapped a spot on the map, “operating in seas dominated by Raynian pirates who take a very dim view on all things slave related?”

  Lily winced. That was an understatement. Hailing from Raynia’s Rock, the ‘Suitors of Raynia’ were sea-going holy warriors who worshipped the goddess of the ocean Raynia and extoled above all other virtues, freedom. Their wrath against those who dare to traffic in slaves was both legendary and terrifying, “I see your point. But if they’re not transporting the slaves by sea, then where are they taking them?”

  “I shall have to think more on it. In the meantime, return to the southlands and keep me apprised of Quintus’s movements and those of his agents.”

  “Absolutely, o’ illustrious captain!” She snapped a salute at him and turned to leave, draining the last of her goblet in one long-fingered hand.

  “One more thing, Lily.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Larkin’s alive.”

  The goblet hit the floor and rolled away.

  “…. what….?” Lily managed to choke out.

  “Larkin is alive.”

  “But…..but the dragon….and the volcano….and the firestorm…”

  “Was apparently insufficient.”

  “Sweet Gods!” Lily stammered wiping a shaky hand across her damp brow.

  “You’ll need a new senso nomme.”

  Lily looked at the Captain with the expression of a woman who’d been stabbed in the gut, “A what?”

  “A Ghen term,” Sul explained patiently, “It means ‘alias’.”

  “Oh,” The terrified young woman looked around the interior of the tent and at the row of banners mounted on the far wall and their heraldic markings, “How about that?” She asked pointing to one depicting a pair of white swans against a yellow and green background.

  “I would advise against masquerading as a member of the de Nalhor family,” Sul stated mildly, “Baron Harkon de Nalhor is not a man known for his temperance.”

  “Well, how about just ‘White Swan’?”

  Sul pursed his lips and shook his head, “White Swan is the name of a Ghen prostitute in Edso.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Information is my weapon,” Sul offered as an explanation, “’Bright Swan’.”

  Lily considered and then nodded, “’Bright Swan’. I like it.”

  “Good. You have your instructions.”

  The newly-christened Bright Swan nodded and moved to the exit.

  “Captain...what should I do if I meet up with Larkin?”

  “Swallow your own tongue,” Sul stated unhesitatingly, “Because it will be far kinder than anything that madman has in mind if he decides to make you his new plaything.”

  Lily gingerly rubbed her throat and then nodded once before hurrying out.

  Sul listened to the woman’s departing footsteps crunch on the gravel before setting his shoulders back with a faint sigh. Time to return to Atiya

  .:*:.

  “Just one day,” Ceyrabeth muttered as she pitched her bog-sullied clothes outside her tent and donned new, clean ones. “One day without flesh-eating demons, gibbering monstrosities, or daring rescues, is that too much to ask?”

  She was on her way back from the laundry when, without warning, she was snatched up and spun in the air as a voice boomed in her ears.

  “No longer will you fly! My lovely butterfly! Night and Day, I'll keep at bay, And in the dark steal you away!!” A thickly accented voice sang, tossing the elf girl to and fro and around in circles in some bizarre combination of a waltz and a seizure, “My lovely butterfly. Never shall you die. Day and Night, I will fight the fight. And all your monsters I will smite!” She was dipped low and found herself bent over backwards staring at an upside-down version of the camp.

  “Why, there’s life in the young woman yet!” The booming voice called out and Ceyrabeth was yanked forward so hard it nearly caused whiplash and deposited onto her feet. She managed half a step before pitching forward. With a supreme effort she managed to keep her feet underneath her, even as her hand attempted to yank her blade from its scabbard. Then she got a look at her assailant...

  …and stopped dead.

  He was tall with ebony skin and wore a wide brimmed white hat with gold trim. He was clad in emerald green leather breeches with matching vest that was cut so high his bare stomach-along with its well-defined muscles- was exposed. Several earrings dangled from his ears and he was adorned with several straps and buckles around his waist and down both legs- all done in white and gold like his hat. Odd, low-slung holsters hung at both his hips which held a pair of strangely designed curved hilts.

  He flashed a grin that could only be described as thoroughly roguish. Ceyrabeth was shocked to see that his teeth were filed to points and capped in iridescent purple which was almost certainly amethyst.

  “Greetings and salutations!” The stranger gave a sweeping bow, removing his hat. His hair was an unruly combination of crimson Mohawk and white braids. A pair of horns, one broken off, extended outwards from his skull. “Sir Peloquin of Raynia’s Rock, at your service!”

  “Peloquin.”

  The foppish Mithrac replaced his hat and peered past Ceyrabeth. She turned to look. Atiya and Sul were striding forward. The Captain showed no ill effects from his rough morning.

  One tough son-of-a-bitch. Ceyrabeth shook her head ruefully.

  “My dearest Lady Atiya, my love, mi amore!” Peloquin dashed forward and scooped her hand up in his, dotting it with several kisses, “Every moment without you was like an eternity of torment. We must not be parted again!”

  Atiya stared at the man blankly and then removed her hand from his grip.

  “Peloquin.”

  Peloquin’s demeanor immediately became deferential as he addressed Sul, “Mon capitan, I come bearing glad tidings: I’m pleased to announce our mission in Sahath was successful.”

  Sul nodded once, “Walk with me.” The Mithrac swashbuckler offered his arm which the blind man took and led him through the camp. Atiya followed behind and at her beckoning hand, Ceyrabeth shadowed them. Peloquin and Sul conversed as they approached a large group of men, women, and children that looked strangely out of place in the military encampment.

  “We managed to acquire twenty slaves from Devon for just under a five hundred gold and—“

  “What?!”

  Peloquin spun around, dropping Sul’s arm and going for the curved hilts at his hips as Ceyrabeth came rampaging up to them, “You’re a slaver?!”

  Sul turned more calmly, “No, I’m not,” He replied coolly and gestured. Ceyrabeth focused and saw that several people w
ere working to force metal bracers and collars off their throats, tossing them in a pile of rusted metal.

  “You’re….freeing them?” Ceyrabeth asked stunned, “But...”

  “I do not keep slaves,” Sul replied as they approached the group, “Not now, not ever. They are free and will be offered food, sanctuary and an offer of employment in the Legion.”

  Peloquin regained his whimsy as he reached forward and scooped up a little girl,” Except for this one!” He roared playfully twirling the madly giggling child around in a circle, “I am going to take her to Daymore Merenia and make her my bride and we shall go to all the wonderful parties, eat lots of cake and dance all night! Non più avrai questi bei pennacchini, quel cappello leggero e galante!” Peloquin sang and dipped, spinning the girl like a top.

  “You’re not seriously going to put a child on the front lines.” Ceyrabeth scoffed.

  “An army consists of more than soldiers,” Sul replied softly, his tone still chilly, “There is food to be prepared, arms to be maintained, mounts to be tended, supplies to be organized. All of this requires the support of countless people,” He indicated the former slaves with a nod, “People like them. They shall receive food and lodging as well as compensation and in turn they will do their part to support the Phoenix Legion.”

  “All except this one, Captain,” Peloquin grinned around a mouthful of purple teeth, “Her and I have to get married right away and eat sweets and cake until we are ill!” He poked the little girl’s stomach, causing her to giggle, “Don’t we, my little princess?”

  “I like cake!” The child exclaimed.

  The Mithrac swashbuckler grinned wider, “So do I,” He began to twirl the girl around as he began to sing again, “Quella chioma, quell'aria brillante--.”

  “You should be careful!” Ceyrabeth scolded. “She’s wounded!”

  Sul stepped forward and grabbed Peloquin’s arm, jarring the much larger man to an abrupt stop.

  “What’s the matter Captain, you don’t like cake?” Peloquin asked with a cautious expression.

  Gingerly, Sul touched the little girl’s leg and brought his fingers back smeared with blood. Bringing the blood to his fingers he inhaled once and immediately stiffened. The air around him became almost palpable with menace, causing Ceyrabeth to edge away despite herself.

  “She has been violated,” Sul stated in a hideous tone, rubbing his thumb and finger together, smearing the blood.

  “That she has,” Peloquin nodded, his tone still jovial in contrast to his stern expression.

  “Where is the one responsible for this?”

  Peloquin peeled his lips back into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth and gently put the little girl on her feet, “Run now, go to mama,” She ran towards the group of former slaves. Reaching down, he picked up large sodden bag, reached within…

  …and removed a severed head. He casually tossed it to Sul who caught it. The head had been decapitated at the jawline and the flesh from his cheeks was missing, but the wide-eyed stare of terror was still affixed to what remained of his visage.

  “Devon?”

  “One of his lackeys who apparently cannot be made to follow our very clear instructions on the treatment of the slaves we procure.”

  Ceyrabeth was staring at the entire exchange with kind of a detached interest: it was almost as if after all that she had already seen, a severed head wasn’t all that shocking. In fact, she found the man’s gristly fate strangely satisfying.

  “Where’s the rest of him?” Sul asked.

  Peloquin turned his head away and discreetly belched into his hand, “He was a man of very poor taste when it came to decisions, but excellent taste in other regards.”

  “Fair enough,” Sul handed the head back to the Mithrac.

  “Whilst we’re on the subject,” Peloquin reached into his belt and removed a pouch, “Ghen Black Truffles from the Scarlet Markets of Edso as requested.”

  Sul took the bag from him, opened and gingerly placed his nose above the bag and inhaled deeply. An intensely satisfied smile crossed his lips.

  “The Captain’s table eats well tonight aye?” Peloquin asked grinning.

  “Indeed,” Sul replied, “I shall make certain to include you in the festivities.”

  “What is it you plan on making again?”

  “Never ask before the meal, it ruins the surprise,” He held up the bag, “But these will make a fine addition.”

  Peloquin licked his chops, “To die for.”

  Sul handed the bag to Atiya and then frowned, his nostrils flaring.

  “Is something wrong, Sir?” Atiya inquired placidly.

  “A scent. Something familiar--.”

  With a roar of rage, a hooded man burst from amongst the former captives, “Letum inimico! Gloria in Kharas!” He slammed his fists into first one guard then the other and leapt over them, charging Sul head on.

  “Captain!” Peloquin cried out.

  Ceyrabeth tore her blade free and moved to intercept the burly attacker.

  Sul simply moved out of the way of the first blow and then drove his elbow into his assailant’s side. There was a pained howl and the man swung wide. Sul ducked under the blow and rose up to slam his palm up under the creature’s hood. There was a groan of pain and the other man collapsed upon the ground.

  Ceyrabeth took a moment to stare. Whatever frailty Sul suffered from, it was clear he was well trained and could handle himself.

  Sul removed the man’s hood to reveal flashing green eyes embedded into a broad and scarred face dominated by a sloping forehead and pronounced canines within a wide jaw.

  “An orc?” Ceyrabeth stated, confused. She’d encountered their kind in the west of course but they had been mostly unthinking savages acting as bandits or roaming marauders, certainly not prone to disguises and misdirection.

  “Well, well,” Sul mused as he examined the strange raised scars and tattoos that adorned the orc’s arms lightly tracing them with a single finger. The lines began to glow and a strange humming sound filled the air. “…what have we here?” He looked up from his examination and smiled with a predatory pleasure, “It’s been a long time…old crocodile.”

  Chapter 8

  Reunions and Recollection

  ‘Allies take many forms. Some are expected, some are not. The masterful strategist makes use of all that he has at his disposal but never mistakes the convenience of an ally for reliability. The opportunity that is presented today may be the threat that is presented tomorrow’ – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius

  The orc was marched into Sul’s tent by several angry looking guards. One of them was nursing a broken nose; the result of an aborted attempt to shackle the creature. Reaper Maul shadowed them closely.

  “Oi!” Maul shoved the orc towards the Captain who was settling into his chair regarding their captive thoughtfully, “Bow your head, you’re in the presence of greatness.”

  “I bow for no man,” The orc replied icily, “Not anymore.”

  Maul scowled and opened his mouth.

  “Leave us.”

  Sul’s voice was the same even tone that it always was and Maul knew well enough not to disobey, “All right Cap’n, if you’re certain,” Maul turned his attention to other in the room, “Right, clear out you lot! Cap’n’s orders,” He grabbed Ceyrabeth’s arm, “And you luv—“

  “She stays.”

  Calm. Controlled. And totally implacable. Both Ceyrabeth and Maul turned to regarding the Captain for a moment. Then a slow smile crept over Ceyrabeth’s face; she plucked Maul’s hand off her arm as if it were something loathsome, “You have your orders…Sergeant.”

  Maul looked outraged; the expression provided the other woman with a great deal of satisfaction. Then he swallowed back whatever he was about to say, managed a haphazard salute and departed.

  The prisoner turned to watch them go
then turned back, “They’ve gone.”

  “Yes,” Sul said simply rising from his chair.

  The orc surged forward, faster than he had any right to be. Ceyrabeth dove for her sword but it was too late. The orc had Sul in his grasp…

  …and with a loud whoop he hugged the blind man, laughing.

  Ceyrabeth’s mouth sagged open as the orc pounded Sul on the back a few times and then pulled away, “I think our performance was convincing.”

  “I concur,” Sul replied with a slight smile, taking his seat. He clicked his tongue a few times and Osen came racing out of the shadows and jumped into his lap, demanding his master’s attention. After a few moments of petting, Osen settled into his lap. “Did you have any trouble getting here, Ulak?”

  Ulak shook his head and gritted his teeth, “I tire of ignorant westerners assuming that because I can speak in complete sentences, I must be one of the demon-worshipping orcs of the east.”

  “And your journey from the Wilds?”

  A shadow crossed over his face as pains still fresh moved across his features, “Well enough. Your man in Raynia made sure I made it to the port. What was his name again?”

  “His family name is ‘Decius’; his father is a man of influence.”

  “A senator?” Ulak spat.

  “And a bitter rival of Retzel Shen, your former master. It was what ultimately convinced him to leave his family in Daymore Kharas.”

  “A Daymorian senator as a doting father and husband,” Ulak scoffed shaking his head, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “He does tend to dote on his son,” Sul acknowledged, “Though not without reason; the young man is a skilled mage but also a principled one.”

  “Mages! Bah!”

  “He’s also the man who saved your life and bound your wounds after the incident with the Emerald Chainmen. Were it not for him the slavers would have taken you.”

  Ulak stopped short, his fists curled up and his entire posture resembled that of a coiled snake ready to strike. Ceyrabeth’s hand moved to her sword again….

  …then Ulak sighed and hung his head, “Fair point.”

  Sul nodded in acknowledgement and gestured to Atiya, “Pour the wine please.”