Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  The longboats emerged from the west, firing chain-shot. With a gesture Tolrep signaled his bomb-ketch the Iron Hammer to counter them. Tolrep recognized the make of the Coicro ships: The Glum, the Willow, and the Mooned Shadow. The Iron Hammer took care of them easily. One burst from the Hammer’s mortar left the Glum and Willow with half a hull, leaving the Shadow to stagger back to the safety of the fog. Tolrep tried not to smile. Another mortar exploded upon the horizon, and the Shadow sank into the river.

  A giant billowing sail came next, triangular and double-breasted. Although Tolrep could see the twenty-port-holes on her bow, it relied on the wind to maneuver. With a flick of the wrist a pair of cogs, their walls high and heavily decorated, closed in on either side of the wooden monster. From atop the “walls” a pair of archers stood and unleashed a flurry of arrows on the unsuspecting ship. Each arrow found a throat, gunners and helmsmen alike.

  The tactic only bought a few seconds. Tolrep was about to voice another order when a chain-shot thundered from the fog. The black ball bearings, chained together by iron links to accommodate a spinning motion, chewed through the cog’s castle walls with the ease of a knife in hot butter. In moments, the ships were reduced to ruins as the sailors struggled to stay afloat. Another burst of cannon fire, and the cogs became graves.

  Damn. Superior numbers were less than nothing when the enemy was invisible. “You! Dareth!”

  “Daniels,” the man corrected, his face tightening an already tight face, plain and square at all angles. Already Tolrep was regretting the selection.

  “I need you and ten of your best longships to go along the coast. That’s where the mortars are.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I hope you’re as good as you boast. Silently the privateer watched the ketch-ships veer closely to a wing of enemy cogs and retreat under the punishing assault of the high-walled ship’s arrows. The ketch-men did their job well, first gliding, then limping, then crawling all the way to an ordinary pile of stones and boulders. The enemy ships were too smart to fall for the trap, which was why they realized the ruse too late.

  From out of nowhere more ketch-ships arrived to close off the ships in a ring of mortar shells. Tolrep grinned; for much as the knowledge that the trap was too far away for prying spyglasses as well as the tactic’s smooth success. With a flick of the hand Tolrep ordered the remaining wings of ketch-ships half submerged in the water and turned to the silence on the coast. Daniels had his success. But the battle was not yet done. Tolrep flexed the length of his spyglass, grunted at the pattern being played out amidst the ships, and made a gesture.

  The Swift broke through the fog like a dragon rudely roused from sleep. Smoke fizzled along its sides, geysers exploded from the ocean and ships sank into the unforgiving waves. Tolrep knew it was too early in the game for a smile, but he allowed himself one despite the situation.

  It died when the Swift showed the wrong broadside. The cannons winked at the privateer before exploding into puffs of smoke. The telltale whistle of burning pitch followed, slamming into sail and sailor alike. Tough, hardened corsairs screamed like little girls as the fire made them into living torches. Some of them threw themselves into the ocean only to discover they had traded one grave for another. Others had to be put down by arrows before the whole boat became an inferno. Tolrep could feel the oily grime of fear mingling with the disgust of firing on one’s own. Death by the sword they knew, even death by arrow or storm or the merciless bitch that was the sea. But fire? The searing flames that ate and ate and ate until the bones were black char? That was a fate he didn’t wish on anyone, Coicro or no.

  Tolrep stood on the deck and made the signal that none of the Baron’s men knew. Again, the whistle of flame sliced the air, but it was from the fog. The Coicro ships exploded into storms of wooden splinters. Joyous laughter warred with the confusion on the Tennant’s crew as they turned their eyes towards the fog.

  The mist parted to reveal a collection of ships without any recognizable banners. A pair of ram-mounted warships formed the heart of the assault, spitting both arrows and flame in quick, alternating patterns, while slender longships spread out like eagles in flight to ensnare the Dushku’s smaller ships and pummel them with cannon fire.

  The Coicro were divided. Most had seen the twin ramships and decided God’s glory was better done by preaching instead of dying; others spit curses and plagues with all the obsession of a blind zealot. The Coicro limped away into the fog.

  Of all the cheers Tolrep did not join in. This battle is over. But there will be others. He tipped his hat to the retreating Coicro.

  “Till the next time, then.”

  XXV

  Christina was the last to enter, so she was not surprised when six pairs of eyes swung to her in confusion. Their questions were plain to her. Why is she here? Why is she not giggling with her maids, or sewing, or buying the latest fashions from the Eastlands, or a hundred other useless things a woman often did?

  Christina hated their smiles and the thoughts behind them. Let her have her little squabbles. She will adjust to the proper ways soon enough.

  That set her blood to black. I am the Queen! How dare they treat me like a child!

  “Auntie Chris!” Nathan had the hair and eyes of his highborn cousin and that was the end of it. The arrogance of nobility had not yet glittered in his eyes, as it had with Galen. His small body was plump like a teddy bear, and his legs had not the growth for a princely swagger. Instead he waddled like a dwarf with diarrhea. “Auntie Chris! I signed a dozen documents today!”

  “A dozen? Oh my. What a capable king you are.” She picked him up by the arm-pits and hoisted him on her forearms. It wasn’t at all difficult, and yet the innocent smile made her feel dirty as none of the plotting and manipulation had. Smiling, she set him upon the table’s head, but it was too late. His smell was in her, peach-like gossamer.

  “Will you stay, Auntie Chris? My council says only a few minutes more.”

  “I’m afraid not, sweetling. Perhaps later.” she said gently. Nathan’s face was crushed in disappointment. Something in that denial was repulsive, and before the young queen knew it she was hunting for an apology. “I will see you later, darling. The council and I have important things to talk about.”

  No sooner than the doors clicked shut did the game begin. “It is a rare honor to see you, milady.”

  “By your hand, no doubt. I find it odd that the queen be absent for meetings of note.”

  “Tis but petty matters,” a forgettable graybeard replied. “We did not wish to burden you so.”

  “Do not worry for me, old man. I am not the delicate flower you think of. I am the Queen. Your regent while the boy grows. Should I find you at fault again, I will deliver you to the black cells.” Her face was clean as the driven snow, but the raw hatred in her eyes tightened her vulpine features. The councilmen squirmed in their seats with equal parts fear and anger.

  “What is your edict, milady?”

  A pebble in a pond. But even a ripple could ascend to great reach. “I have studied the trade routes. The fur trading has caught my eye. The reports say you have been trading with a man called Oliver Egal.”

  “Why, yes milady. We’ve been trading with him for the past decade.” Christina’s gaze snapped his mouth shut. His fear was delicious.

  “Yes. A decade. And it is my understanding that there is another trader across the Cerulean, Manigat by name. He delivers a payload twice that than Egal, for near to half the price.” Again, the Queen’s stare pinned the council to their seats. “Why are we not trading with him?”

  A silence of old men, trading glances of fear all around the table, like whipped curs without the master. “Well...he is...well...it’s hard to understand, my lady. Even I c
annot grasp it fully.”

  “He is not of pureblood.” The council looked in half relief in that it was spoken and half fear that the subject was so brazenly put into words. “He is a heathen, I believe. A mongrel.”

  “That is your reason? A man’s blood should be put aside if a profit can be gained.”

  “He is a savage. Should word get out of us trucking with his kind, we would lose much respect with the other vendors.”

  Christina could not believe what she was hearing. Children. They are all children. Frightened at the whisper of superstition. “That will change. I want your best hunters to find this Manigat. I want any hunter complaining about the man’s status killed. Take their heads with you. I will be expecting them.” The malice of Christina’s glare killed the any thought of rebellion.

  “Milady. You cannot just –”

  “I can, and I will. I am your Queen.” The foolish idiots needed more persuasion. Very well. “Norman Golas. Your youngest son works as a boy-whore for the flesh peddler Ennis Sijek. It would be a shame if your boy should be found dead on the Council floor. The great Norman Golas, father of a queer. You’d be ruined in the eyes of the noble Houses.” Christina smiled as the man in question staggered as though impaled on an arrow; his eyes widening not for the safety of his son, but for the reputation he had built over the years, the reputation now destroyed by an inconvenient truth.

  Christina went on for a good turn of the glass. One by one the council paled as their innermost secrets was exposed for all the room to hear. Many had snickered at the others’ ill fortune, only to have their eyes bulge as their own affairs were spoken so casually, as if they were at a marketplace. For years these men sought out secrets to gain dominance over the others. Now, the very things they’ve wanted for so long were turned against them. Christina laughed as the officials scattered like quail before the hounds.

  So this is true power. Finally, after centuries of subjugation, the tables were turned. No more mockery, no more acting. Let the elders talk about tradition, duty, and oaths. Let those mindless sheep babble their idiotic praxis. Power. Already her plan was descending like dominoes, falling by her design.

  The sudden creak at the door broke her reverie. Immediately her tongue was ready to flay, only to be stilled by a familiar face. Narrowed skull, hair gleaming with a woman’s pomanders to better hide his baldness. Hugo. She disliked the smirk flashing across his face. Dressed in the leathers and wool of a commoner, yet his lips curved slightly at the sight of a woman. It made her feel rancid.

  “My Lady Queen.”

  “Fool. You dare enter the castle? My castle? Should a fragment of you exist here, we are steps from the gallows!”

  “Forgive me, my lady. Your beauty propels all thoughts of safety from my head.” The way his lips raised to reveal alternating rows of yellow and black stumps made Christina want to scratch the skin from her arms.

  “Make your peace quickly, worm. We have little time.”

  “I have been thinking. I am but a common man, but it comes to me that there are greater rewards in shedding the secrecy you find so endearing.”

  Calm indifference. It was inevitable that those hired servants wanted payment above and beyond what was agreed. Better a familial servant, mind and spirit shattered before adopting one. At least the domestic servants did not whine like an injured puppy.

  “Milady, I will not be trifled with. I –”

  “You have children, if memory serves.”

  Soft as the words were, Hugo was suddenly overcome by a sheen of sweat. “Yes.”

  “Two of them, correct? Jason and Violet. They take after their mother.”

  Hugo’s eyes seemed ready to bulge from the sockets, and his body was wracked with a shivering paralysis. “Y-yes. Violet will be seven come a week.”

  “It is important to value children. They are, after all, who will celebrate the future we struggle so much to change. Do you not agree?”

  “Yes.”

  A casual gesture and the curtains suddenly bugled from a window. The rattle of the curtains hooks revealed a giant in stature. In one of his massive arms squirmed a girl with bright brown hair and great, blue, bulging eyes. Another gesture brought the same action from across the room. Only this time it was a boy, fair of hair and flesh, writhing futilely against arms thick as tree trunks.

  “You might be wondering where your wife is, Hugo. Oh, push your eyes back into your head. I haven’t done anything to her. Yet. The children, however...” A ripple of fingers, and the guard holding Violet pulled free a butcher knife from out of nowhere. Violet’s scream numbed Hugo’s skin; numbed him twice that as a small finger was tossed at the servant’s feet.

  “If there is even a thought of defiance, your little girl will lose the rest of her fingers. If you are stupid enough to manipulate some sort of crusade, I will throw her to the nearest whorehouse. They will make her a woman. If they do not kill her afterwards. As for the boy...well, I haven’t decided what to do with him. His fate depends on your behavior. Are we clear?”

  The words took an eternity to pull from dry lips. “Yes.” Slowly he backed towards the door.

  “Hugo.”

  The servant turned.

  “Take her finger. It should be sufficient to convince your men that they are held to the same punishment. If not...well, I have plenty of fingers to share.”

  The click of the door was a silver bell to Christina’s ears. Yes. A broken-spirited servant was better; however, there was a keen pleasure in the breaking of new retainers. The children’s fear was exquisite, as well. Both giants and children disappeared into shadow. There was little threat of bodily harm; both guards were eunuchs. There would be no sexual abuse from that corner. Things were going more smoothly than she could ever dream. Now, there were only a few more things to take care of. Then, at long last, she would have power.

  “Milady?”

  Christina blinked. A hunched servant stood a few feet away, mumbling something. It took several flat promises to get the buffoon to meet her gaze, and even then, it was nigh impossible to understand the fool’s rambling –

  “What was that? Nathan? Something’s wrong with Nathan?” The servant cried out, and Christina abruptly realized her fingers closed on his arms like vices. She let go and forced herself to be calm. “What is it? Speak on, man!”

  “Lord Nathan suffered a mild injury, milady. He smelled pies and when he neared the matron whacked him with her spoon. He is fine, though he insists for you to be there.”

  “What of the matron?”

  “Oh, she is applauded, milady. She is offering free pies to the young king-”

  “Throw her into a cell and burn that house down.”

  “Milady?”

  “Are you deaf? I am the Queen. My word is law. Do as I say!” The servant cried out again as she caught his arm intentionally. “And do not think to pass this command to the council, or your body will be ashes for the blacksmith’s furnace.”

  “I understand, milady. Shall I inform the king on your arrival?”

  “No. I have business first. Just see to my command.” There was no joy in seeing the fool run like a scattered goose. Nathan’s image flashed through her thoughts. All manner of hurt was evident on his face: purple bruises, bloodshot eyes. Yes, the eyes were the worst. They were large and quivering and confused. He was only a boy. He didn’t understand what went wrong.

  Her feet took her to the chef’s quarters, where a few sharp commands produced a basket of sweets from the cook himself. Then to the hounds-master, a gnarled tree of a man with a weathered face and eyes like coals beneath bushy eyebrows. His loyalty was to the previous throne-bearers, so it took a more substantial bribe
to gain a small puppy. Christina knew the bribe wouldn’t be enough and made a mental note to deal with him later.

  The physician was not at hand to greet her into Nathan’s private chamber. That task was left to the apprentice, a spindly young man with barely enough meat on him and a long face that aged him a dozen years from his prime. His mouth was the only successful thing about him, tittering like a magpie about the usual bullshit peasants tittered about. Christina ignored him. Instead she found Nathan snug in his bed. His face brightened so much that Christina felt dazzled. Quickly she came to the boy’s side so he wouldn’t wrestle from the bed sheets and worsen his injuries.

  “Auntie. I’m so glad you’re here. They won’t let me have any pie.”

  With a tenderness, she knew naught to have Christina stroked his hair. “You should have ordered it instead of stealing it.”

  “I’m sorry auntie. The pie smelled so good I had to have it. I forgot everything else.”

  Forgot his bloodline for a measly piece of food. The death-knell for any blueblood in power. The most wondrous charm of being a child. For the next three hours Christina told the great classics of children’s stories until Nathan simply ran out of stamina to hear. Christina ordered a pie to be made come the morrow, and then descended the secret passages, perhaps the most useful secret of her bloodline’s legacy. We made this castle. We should rule. It would take much time to mold Nathan into the proper pawn...

  She stopped despite herself. Nathan’s innocence was the necessary sacrifice. Then why did it feel so wrong? His face, his eyes, twinkling with mischief made her double over with nausea. No, Christina told herself. A means to an end. That’s all he is. A means to an end.

  She resumed her descent to her quarters with the mantra hounding in her ears. I don’t have a choice. I don’t have a choice. Even in sleep the guilt continued to torment her. I don’t have a choice.