by E. S. Bell
I have to break free or I’m dead.
Selena squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated weaving the smallest ball of light she could.
“Luxari,” she whispered.
Her skin screamed in white hot agony but the ropes were burnt through instantly. She arms fell apart and she nearly wept with relief until she heard the men’s voices call out to one another. The light had alerted her pursuers to her location. Selena scrambled to her feet and ran.
With her arms free, she was much fleeter and surer of foot. She slipped through the trees and heard the Bazira fall behind. The trees released her to the beach and panic stole the slim sliver of relief she’d known. Seventy spans of gritty beach gave way to the water that was foul with corpses and stunk of everything rotten. She thought to run parallel to the woods and then double back in but the Bazira had fanned out and were drawing down fast. Lack of food and water had left her with shaking limbs; she didn’t think she could run much further if she tried.
The calls of pursuit drew closer. The Bazira had almost reached the beach. Desperately, aimlessly, she ran for the edge of the corpse-strewn water. The filthy tide lapped at her boots. Swimming it would kill her; she knew this as surely as she did her own name. There was nowhere to go and the Bazira horde was coming out of the forest.
No! I will die fighting the Bazira, as befitting my station as an Aluren Paladin.
She held her hands aloft, one over the other, fingers curved slightly, and started to utter sacred word to weave light…just as the meager moon disappeared behind thick storm clouds. Selena realized with deepening despair that there wasn’t enough light to weave against a hundred men or even fifty. As the first Bazira adherent breached the forest, Selena thrust her hand to her belt, instinctively reaching for her sword that had been taken.
God, please help me!
Through the material of her overtunic, she felt something round and heavy against the back of her hand and thrust her hand inside the pocket. Her fingers closed around the coin of Oshkat.
“The coin that cannot be spent,” she murmured.
The horde broke free of the trees. There were only fifty spans of beach between them and her, fifty spans between life and death. The glint of their steel swords and maces gleamed brighter than the coin in her palm. The face of some Zak’reth lord or general was etched into it, scowling at her.
Hopeless. Selena let the coin fall through her fingers where it landed soundlessly in the sand.
An instant later, a reverberant whump sounded from behind her accompanied by a great splashing of water.
“Yai kah!” screamed a hundred voices in unison, like a thunderclap.
Selena recoiled and then froze, rooted in place by old memories. In front of her, the Bazira horde that was on the beach—to a man—stopped short. Those racing out of the forest behind them crashed into their brethren and for a few precious moments there was a chaos that would have been comical in other circumstances.
Yai kah! Selena had heard those words screamed a thousand times during the war. She still heard them sometimes in blood-soaked dreams. To hear them now… a sliver of terror slipped down her back. She turned.
Behind her, one hundred Zak’reth soldiers stood in perfect, orderly rows in the shallows. Their spiked plate armor was of red steel only the Zak’reth blacksmiths know how to forge. Their swords, pikes, and maces seemed dipped in blood under the moonlight. Their helms, forged to resemble ferocious beasts of nature and legend, looked afire. Tiny pinpricks of yellow light glowed from between slits in the helms where the warriors’ eyes should have been. A scream caught in Selena’s throat and her hand reached again for her absent sword.
One Zak’reth stepped forward; a general or commander. His helm resembled a dragon with a gaping mouth from which protruded a sharp, two-pronged tongue that was a sort of weapon unto itself.
“Erch’ki, Komdarh?” the Zak’reth asked of Selena in a voice that seemed to come from the ground. Its yellow eyes flickered.
Orders, Commander? Selena heard it clear in her mind. The Bazira were coming out of the trees, regrouping, a battle cry rising up among them.
Selena drew in a breath and screamed, “Attack!”
“Yai kah!”
She cowered as the Zak’reth troops surged out of the shallows, parting around her to bear down on the Bazira. None touched her. None hurt her. The wind of their passing was so light, she wondered if it even existed or if it was merely the wind of the storm that had broken over the island that she felt. But the smell helped her memory-tossed mind know that they were real. The Zak’reth of then and of now smelled of hot steel, fire, ash, and blood.
But are they real?
The sight of the warriors slaying the Bazira at her command felt like an illusion, or a strange dream. She watched a Bazira lock swords with a Zak’reth warrior—A phantom? A shade?—and then the Zak’reth’s red steel blade sliced the man’s arm off, leaving singed flesh at the shoulder.
The Bazira prayed for ice, their swords sang, they screamed as they died. But for their initial battle cry, the Zak’reth fought silently. The red warriors made no sound, no grunt of effort, no cry of pain when a Bazira man’s weapon bit home. Selena watched as a Zak’reth was stabbed from behind by a Bazira’s icy shard. The red-and-brass armored warrior arched his back, as if in pain, and fell to the ground. The pinpoint lights in its helm slits went out.
But for every Zak’reth who fell, half a dozen more Bazira perished. During the war, it had been the same: despite having an initial advantage of numbers, Alliance and Aluren fighters fell to the Zak’reth in droves. Their god imbued the warrior race with a talent for battle and a thirst for blood that was unrivaled on all of Lunos. The Bazira army was cut to pieces.
As the last Bazira fell, the remaining Zak’reth warriors vanished. But for the Bazira dead, the beach was empty. At her foot, the coin of Oshkat glinted dully. She bent and returned it to her pocket.
Another whumping sound shook the air and the Zak’reth warriors were lined up before her once again. Their numbers were undiminished; one hundred strong. The general with the dragon helm stepped forward. Phantom or no, his red blade dripped blood and more spattered his armor. Selena shivered and tried not to recoil.
The general spoke in his guttural tongue and Selena heard the words in Tradespeak resounding in her mind.
Your foes are no more. The general turned his helm to the moon that was obscured by storm clouds. You may call us again after three turns of the moon have passed. Twice more we will answer, then we rest and rise no more. For now, we serve until the sun rises.
Selena nodded, unsure what to say or if she should speak at all. She supposed she should thank them but the words stuck in her throat. The Zak’reth said nothing more and she knew they didn’t converse; they waited for orders. Her orders, and it mattered not that she didn’t serve the god Oshkat.
Another god has spoken to me. Helped me. She looked down at the burn on her wrist. A round patch of skin under her thumb was black and flaking off.
“Illuria,” she murmured and the burn healed. Strength returned to her body. And this is how the Shining face helps me. To heal my body from Bacchus’s attacks so that I might live long enough to close the greatest wound.
Accora had told her healing was the key to Bacchus’s defeat, and now Selena understood. In the thick of battle, there is no time to reach for an ampulla or the moon. The only mystery remained was why the god chose a Bazira as his vessel to instruct her but Selena no longer doubted. As she had told Ilior, if one waited long enough, the god’s light would reveal itself, no matter how dark the sky had been. And her sky had been cold and empty for ten long years.
Thunder bellowed. Lightning lit up the sky, tearing it open. The rain came down in sheets, soaking Selena instantly and turning the sand into a gritty mud. She turned her face up to the sky and let the rain fall into her parched mouth. Nothing tasted sweeter. Another gift. Selena almost laughed but a vein of steel was being forged within her and
there was no time for laughter.
She turned and walked up the beach, her stride long and steady. A Bazira man lay face down in the sand. The pool of blood around his head was black in the darkness. She took up his sword. It was lighter than her own Paladin’s blade and the balance of it felt foreign. But it would do. For now.
Selena slipped the sword into her belt and peered through the pouring rain into the line of trees. Bacchus was in there, somewhere. Waiting for her. She laid her hand over the cold wound in her chest.
“This ends tonight,” she said, and marched into the forest.
Reborn
Niven peered through Cat’s spyglass but at Isle Calinda. A gray smudge on the gray waters, set against a gray sky. The seas were choppy, whipped by the wind of the encroaching storm. Cat’s seamanship had been miraculously good; after three days of sailing, they were only a few hours behind the Bazira ship. The frigate had also been a mere smudge on the horizon ahead of them, and Cat managed to keep it that way despite the Black Storm’s infirmities. The crew had been wary of Cat, both for her duplicitous disguise and for her purpose: to capture their beloved captain. But Niven knew she had earned their respect, regardless.
Cat ordered the crew to drop anchor and they did so without hesitation, just as they had obeyed every other command since Isle Saliz.
“We’ll sail under the cover of night,” she said. Ilior’s impatient pacing thumped around the quarterdeck behind her. “I’m not going to take her into a Bazira hold-out in broad daylight. Who knows what kind of numbers they have? We could be blown to bits by cannon before we even make landfall.”
Ilior didn’t argue but didn’t cease to pace either. Niven wanted to comfort him, but that would entail actually speaking to Ilior. No one wanted to speak to him. The Vai’Ensai’s mood was like the thunder that rolled in from the east; he appeared ready to break at any moment.
The anchor was dropped to a loud rattle of chains and the crew settled in to wait.
Grunt stayed close to both Cat and Ilior, his nervous gaze going between them. Niven thought he was waiting for the right time to plead his case. But he said nothing. Neither did Cat. Niven cleared his throat.
“I believe, now that we have…that is, there is some time to wait. I believe you owe us an explanation.” He looked at Grunt and Cat. “Both of you.”
The woman smirked and shrugged, but Grunt nodded. “Aye, lad. That’s so, that’s so.” He swept off his cap and ran a hand through his gray hair. “My name is Marcus Bailey. I met Sebastian four years ago. On the Isle of Lords. I was a merchant. A wealthy one with a large fleet…and lots of rivals.” He cast his gaze to the planking under their feet. “Sebastian was hired by one of those rivals to assassinate my family. And me.”
The pain in Marcus Bailey’s eyes and in the gruff timbre of his voice made Niven’s heart clang with dread. Behind him, Cur, Spit and Whistle climbed up to the quarterdeck to listen. Marcus took in his audience and cleared his throat.
“He killed them. Sebastian did….my wife, wife’s brother, my…son. And then he found me. I knew he was coming and I was packing. Books. My life was forfeit but I lingered in the ruins of my home and was stuffing books instead of food or coin into my bag.” He smiled tremulously, his gaze distant. “The stories, you see. That’s all I had left. The histories my wife loved. The adventure tales my son adored as a youth…I tried to take them with me. That and a long black coat.
“He recognized the coat, Sebastian told me. It had belonged to my son who he killed the night before. I stopped stuffing books into the bag and said, ‘You’re tall, like my son. This will fit you. It’s cold out tonight and you’re so thin.’
“Sebastian had been sick. What he was doing, it was making him sick. I handed him the coat and when he reached out to take it, I stabbed him with a knife he never saw me draw.
“‘You killed them all,’ I told him, ‘and so what do I have left? Only stories. Memories.’ I twisted the knife in his side and brought him to his knees. But he had been trained to handle pain. He’d sailed all over Lunos, learning the arts of death. I knew he could have twisted free and used my own knife, still wet with his own blood, to end me.
“‘This is your memory’, I told him. ‘All of them like this. Bloodstained. Have you had enough yet? I think you have, and pity that you didn’t start with me. I might’ve saved my son. My wife…’
“I held the knife a moment more and I almost…I almost stabbed him over and over. And he would have let me. He would have let me kill him, I’m sure of it. But instead I pulled it free and said, ‘Come. They’ll be here soon to take what’s left, those who hired you. My rivals. They’ll kill you and I’m too old to run alone. Get off the floor, you little shit. We’re going to start over, you and me.’ Then I threw the coat over him and hauled him to his feet.”
Marcus Bailey glanced up as if seeing those around him for the first time. He jerked his chin defiantly. “When we arrive on Calinda, we must focus on the rescue. Of both of them. Selena and Sebastian. Him too, lass,” he said to Cat. And then again to Ilior. “Him too.”
There was a silence among them all as the man’s story finally settled over them. Then Cat snorted loudly, breaking the spell of thick emotion Marcus had woven. Niven sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Rescue?” Cat rested an elbow on the wheel. “The Bazira Vicar sent Vaas to kill Selena. He doesn’t need rescuing from his employers.”
“What about that, old man?” Ilior demanded, though Niven could see the Vai’Ensai’s ire for Marcus had cooled slightly after the telling of his tale. His hatred of Sebastian had not. “I can’t fathom why you’d choose to tether yourself to that murderer after what he did to you, but the deeds of men will never cease to baffle me. You say he changed. You started over. Then why did he go to the Bazira? Why did he agree to kill her?”
“He never could,” Marcus said. “I swear it. I knew he could never do it. And I was right.”
“That’s a pretty big gamble, old man,” Cat said.
“He loves her,” Marcus said simply, and Niven saw instantly that was the wrong thing to say.
Ilior’s already pale skin paled further. “A filthy lie,” he seethed. “A monster like him cannot love.”
“He doesn’t know it. He doesn’t think he can…” Marcus said, shrinking back.
“He can’t,” Cat said. “But Selena can. She fell in love with him and he let her. Disgusting.”
“No,” Niven said. “She doesn’t….love him.”
Cat shrugged. “While you’re busy praying to your god, I watch. And listen. She slept with him, I think. That night of the attack on the keep.”
Niven whipped his head up at this as Ilior sucked in a breath.
“No, she didn’t,” Niven said. “No, no, no. She’s Aluren, he’s not. She wouldn’t…”
“Aluren,” Cat sniffed. “Your Temple has made her an outcast. She’s been alone for ten years. You think that kind of solitude is easy to take?”
No, Niven thought, I know it’s not.
“It’s a lot easier to forsake some stupid vow than live alone for so long.” Cat shivered. “I can’t even imagine it. And I’d wager you a thousand gold that Bloody Bastian used that loneliness to get to her. And then he made to kill her but the Bazira siege on the keep interrupted his plans.”
“No,” Marcus said. “He fought them. You saw it.” He turned to Niven, pleading. “You saw him. He killed Gareth…He’s changed.”
“Changed?” Cat barked. “A cold-blooded killer like that? I’ve lived all my life in the Eastern Edge. The stories of his deeds were used to frighten little children into behaving or else ‘Bloody Bastian will come for you.’ He once hung a victim by his ankles and bled him like a goat to slaughter while the man’s wife watched. You think a man like that can change?”
“I know he can,” Marcus said. “I know he has.”
“Then why did he take the commission from the Bazira?” Niven asked quietly.
He looked up at them all, Niven, Cat and Ilior, the crew. Pleading.
“The Zak’reth were his enemy. They killed his father. Raped and murdered his sister, right before his eyes. They made him watch. Can you fathom it? That’s how he earned his bloody name. The victims that came after—gods know I don’t forgive him for those that came after. The gods know I can’t.”
The old man’s eyes were shining and staring at nothing, at memories only he could see. Then he shook himself out of it.
“The victims that came after the Zak’reth… he killed them clean. No suffering. That’s no consolation, I know, but do you see? His wrath was for the Zak’reth and to them he showed no mercy. It was on their blood that he earned his reputation.”
“A hired killer is a hired killer,” Ilior said in a low, rasping voice. “Your excuses sicken me.”
“I don’t excuse him,” Marcus said wearily. “I can only try to help him. To let go of the pain and help him to change. To do some good. If I don’t do that, my wife and son…what’s left of them? Only memories. If I can make them a part of something better…”
“It’s a little late for that,” Cat said. “I aim to make sure Vaas starts paying his dues.”
“Yes, well,” Niven stammered, “I’ve been wanting to ask…Who are you?”
Marcus looked fearful but anger smoldered in his eyes too. “Aye, who are you, missy, to sneak aboard and pretend to be one of us?”
“Us? You are not of these men.” Cat nodded at the crew. “You’re just as much imposter as me. You used them to keep Vaas’s secret while pretending to be charitable. Giving mute men gainful employment. Make them feel useful.” She snorted indelicately.
