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

by Michael Wolff

  Tolrep closed his eyes and let the world dwindle to a small silver light. The Tennant. He saw the world through the metallic layers binding the ship’s belly, extending outward through the metal compounds of the enemy ships, and finally to the smaller bomb-ketch ships planting small silver orbs under the cannons. There was a slight click as the spelled explosives molded themselves to the enemy ship. Tolrep waited the necessary seconds for Blueface and Ashnoi to escape and smiled. Here’s the really fun part.

  Tolrep reached out through the Liquid Metal shiisaa to the explosives and told them to ignite. The resulting explosion threw out a circular ring of wind and sound and waves that nearly capsized every boat, followed by a downpour of salt water. The smaller ships were tossed aside, revealing the long, lurking form of the command ship. No, not command ship. Tolrep cursed. The geysers had hidden the extra longships accompanying the command ship. The privateer did a quick count and cursed again. Fifteen ships. Their leaner stature was obviously made for deploying troops, perhaps thirty men per ship.

  Damn. Damn damn damn. The command ship would have been the easier to target. The flaw of its size was that the crew needed to be coordinated to keep the ship flowing smoothly...an idea ignited. A very stupid idea, one that in most likelihood would fail. It was the only option, though.

  Again, Tolrep closed his eyes and reached out to every piece of metal in the ships. The nails in the wine casks, the forks and spoons in the mess hall, the shavings in the grenades, everything. In the darkness, the metal twinkled like luminous silver stars. Myke would love this.

  The idea was simple. All the ships were slammed together, the bows cracking like thunder, the metal shirked as it bent to horrible angles. Where dozens of ships once stood there was now one misshapen monstrosity of wood and metal. Above the din the privateer heard the calamity of the sailors. Superstition thinned their numbers, but cooler heads would prevail. Even then the advantage of speed was lost.

  Tolrep was the first one off the ship, followed by Ashnoi, Tsukasa and Byron. An enemy squad met them within the first five steps. Broad-faced and leering, they brought on a terrible clash of steel that actually required a bit of notice. Mercenaries, from the look of it. Experienced ones, most definitely. And they were but the vanguard. Oh joy.

  Each pirate-deck was a frenzy of steel. Tolrep had no eyes for his men; they knew what to do and they knew how to do it. The privateer hurried through the path they created for him, occasionally slaying the rouge mercenary who thought him easy meat. The gleam of Tolrep’s gun-daggers left men looking upon their own intestines as they died. Tolrep didn’t even pause to notice.

  Tolrep continued in an unorthodox manner. As the captain, he had the right to slay every pirate of authority that crossed his path. Instead he sought out the messengers. Even amid such chaos noteworthy sailors managed a little order. It was no mere coincidence the ships braved this sea. The larger, lump-like islands surrounding the battle were posted with legions of gullible, greedy men. Lured by promises of wealth these “secret weapons” would lay in wait until a message was sent, and then they would flood the enemy ships with hook and grapnel. They could do little if the messenger was dispatched halfway, and thus Tolrep hunted them.

  But they just kept coming. The air rang out as one pistol put a ball between the eyes. Tolrep charged as he pulled the trigger, flicking the knife blades into place. The pirate was dead by a good two seconds, and yet it was not Tolrep’s purpose. The knife-blades burst through the back of the dead pirate and into the heart of the second one following on the first’s heels. A kick to the balls stopped the third in his tracks, his voice already gone from a throat suddenly spurting blood. The others eyed each other uncertainly and disappeared back into the shadows. Thought so.

  Tolrep pressed on. At times he fought alone, and at other times he felt more than saw his men-at-arms swirling his flanks, dancing through the melee with steel spilling blood. Each battle was brief, as they slipped away towards other opponents. The privateer charged through the enemy at break-neck speeds, diving into clouds of men in the enemy’s colors. Their blades did crackle from the angry thunderhead of fighting men, first hungry for a fresh challenge, then horror as they watched fingers and wrists tumble free, mouths gaping as Tolrep’s steel plunged into hearts.

  Suddenly his back bounced off something. Leather, a part of his mind said before being swallowed up in the slaughter. Since his head wasn’t tumbling from the shoulders it had to be an ally. There was no more time to waste in confirmation. The battle towered over them like a plinth’s shadow.

  Down it came upon them as inevitable and dooming as a falling dirge. A sea of faces filling his vision, filthy faces, faces with dirty rags covering one eye, faces with smiles of crooked yellow teeth or blackened gums, faces of gimlet eyes and hooked noses. All had the leer the privateer knew well; the snarl of arrogance and infallibility, the illusion of a puff-upped ego. Well, that illusion is easy to destroy. Steel made those faces grow long in horror, falling and tumbling to reveal even more faces. Blood was specking Tolrep’s jerkin, and for the first time realized that some of it was his own. For a moment doubt held him poised an abyss, cold and brief before swept away with anger and determination.

  It was enough. Seconds later – or an eternity; Tolrep wasn’t sure – the faces fell, and finally there were no others to replace them. Blood stained the wood scarlet, and their eyes looked upon a horizon only the dead could see. “Thank you,” he said, turning. And gaped. “DeLuca?”

  The dwarf grinned up at him with a three-foot-long bar of ash resting on his shoulder; the axe-head upon it sharp-nosed and cruelly hooked. “You’re welcome, fisherman. You look like hell, by the way.”

  It was so ridiculous Tolrep had to laugh. “You’re not a flower yourself.” It was an understatement. The peacekeeper was covered in blood from head to toe. Glancing past him Tolrep saw the attackers had been sheared at the shins. It had been waves of legs for Deluca, as opposed to Tolrep’s faces. Somehow it made the affair even more comedic. “Wait a moment. You’re a negotiator.” With an uneasy look to the axe of his shoulder the privateer took a whiff at Deluca and stumbled back with a yelp. “You’re drunk!”

  “Yep.” Tolrep shook his head. To have a man at your back in battle was unnerving – blind faith was a risk in any situation – and faith in a drunken ally was even more so. Only now he may have more regrets when the fumes pass. Some peace you’re trying to foster, Tolrep. Even the peacekeeper needs to fight.

  “Is this little sermon going to take long?”

  Tolrep snapped back to the present. “Sermon? No.”

  “Good. The fumes are wearing off, and there are still people to kill.” But something must have shown on DeLuca’s face. “Look. It’s selfish of me to be the innocent one in this mess.” DeLuca’s face could have been molded from stone. “Well? We’ve got those bastards running.” Indeed, they were; the remnants of the enemy fleet were retreating down the slopes of a nearby beach. They would have to be taken down for the day to be won. “Are you going to stand there all day, or do we finish this?”

  Tolrep allowed himself a smile. With such we defend the Realm.

  They went forward, this strange couple of short and tall, with guns and axe that saw so much use that before long that was not a speck of steel to be seen on either weapon. After a time Tolrep gripped one of DeLuca’s bony shoulders. When the negotiator opened his mouth for the obvious question, he saw the fire in Tolrep’s eyes and joined the search of the surroundings. Neither man was a scout. Paranoia, however, was often the gamester child of war. Yet there was something in the air that whispered caution.

  The first arrow buzzed from out of nowhere, a charge that Tolrep shot out of the air with his gun-fire. Even as the hammer struck the barrel the privateer contorted snake-like to split the arrows meant for his back. He gr
abbed DeLuca and fell back upon the bloodied field, watching the arrows humming past from below. A sudden cry curved a smile on his lips; a few archers had not seen the need to be protected from their own weapons. In a perfect world, the projectile would have sunk into a head. Tolrep knew better to trust that notion. Right now, he would have to take whatever chances presented themselves.

  After a lifetime, the hornets’ buzzing ceased. Hunching, Tolrep grabbed DeLuca by the collar and half-dragged him to a nearby boulder for safety. One time the privateer edged his face past the rock and a cloud of dust erupted by his face, its arrow-tip hard enough to impale the stone. Half-blinded Tolrep grimaced. Archers firing from above at the only decent spot of cover for yards. If there was ever proof that his luck had rotted, this was it.

  On the cliff behind them there was the shuffle of boot scraping dirt. Someone was reaching for an empty quiver. Now. Tolrep rolled out of the boulder’s shelter with both guns raised. For one brief second the privateer saw his opponent – lean as a willow and impossibly young – and then the pistols were spitting fire. The grunt of a youth’s high-pitched voice rang against the air, and then the archer fell. Already Tolrep was concerned with the additional scrapes just beyond the archer’s cliff. He raised a gun and stopped short – he was only carrying one now – and gaped at DeLuca releasing a barrage upon the remaining archer.

  “Here.” DeLuca handed the pistol back to Tolrep, adjusted his shoulder strap and advanced without so much as a second glance to the bowman he shot. Pretty stern for a pacifist. Immediately the idea’s opposite rebounded on him. A man isn’t born anything, Father Dell had said. Each man makes himself.

  “Wait.”

  DeLuca groaned. “What is it now?”

  “Don’t you smell that?”

  “It’s a battle. Things tend to stink.”

  Not like this. There was something familiar. Memory pulled him back, to his mother calling him from play, her sesame pies wisping heat from the windowsill...Sesame!

  The privateer threw himself back just in time to avoid the flaming arrow thudding into the ground. Even as the projectile hissed in the snow Tolrep was moving, his guns blazing with blue fire that folded the archers as though their bones melted. “Come on.”

  DeLuca’s nose wrinkled. “What is that?”

  “Sesame oil.”

  “You say that as if I’m supposed to know what that means.”

  Tolrep sighed inwardly. “It’s a spice for food. But in great amounts it becomes like oil. Very flammable. My mother used to make dinner with it.”

  “Fascinating. Can we go now?”

  The deeper they waded through the dunes, the more creative the enemy became. First lone soldiers would cross his path, either in flight or in bloodlust. They saw in Tolrep and Deluca lone men unfortunate or crazy to walk with no militia of squadron to guard their backs. The exiled warriors – big-eyed youths whose tranquil fantasies of courage were now shattered – often scurried away to safety. But the berserkers saw an easy target. They did not see the razor-edged whirlwinds in place of his hands until their necks were slick in their own blood. Somewhere along the way Tolrep noticed he and DeLuca were separated in the churning chaos of battle. That was normal, expected; nothing to do about it but press forward. Take care you rotten son of a bitch. Try not to die.

  Upon the umpteenth dune Tolrep realized the pirates were running past him, their eyes wide and swords forgotten. A few grew in time of the thunder stomping the shores until the whole beach rang with the pirates’ fear. Horse-hooves. Tolrep stepped to the shelter of a drooping palm and knelt in its’ shadows. Even caution had a place on the battlefield.

  The thundering hooves were not from any mere horse. It was a war-horse, its mane and flesh an impossible red, deeper than blood and ruby and large enough to carry two men back to back. For a moment, the privateer thought the riders did number twice, and then goggled as a sharp wind peeled the cloak away.

  “Maggots! Come and die like men!”

  Tolrep’s blood froze. There was no mistaking it. Epyon Cimm. There was not a sailor who didn’t know of Epyon Cimm. The Inhuman Plague. Lord of Demons. He used a spear as another would use a great-sword, and with one hand, at that. Most thought he was a legend. He looked like one, a helm of bull’s horns twisting downward to the tops of his thighs. It was the only steel he wore. Everything else was well-boiled leather, toughened by exotic oils and mystic spells. And now Epyon was looking at him.

  Crap.

  Tolrep dived from the useless shadows just in time to dodge the forearm-long spear shearing the wood where his head was a moment gone. A glance was all that he could risk and then he was rolling again, grabbing everything within reach and tossing them blindly until he was a good distance from the living legend.

  “What’s your name, maggot?” The voice of thunder, cold and paralyzing. No wonder the pirates ran.

  “Tolrep. Mathias Tolrep.”

  Epyon’s nose crinkled as though smelling something foul. “Never heard of you. No matter. You get the honor of me killing you.” But he didn’t raise the spear this time. A gauntleted hand went up instead, palm open and fingers bound straight. Something brushed the nape of his neck; Tolrep twisted away just in time to dodge the serpentine lightning from Cimm’s gauntleted hand – an ikadzu; great – but not in time enough to evade blindness. The world became smoking, searing white. The pistols fell from nerveless hands, clattering uselessly to the wooden planks. Again a spell hummed with an ominous whine. Tolrep made his hand like Steel to slap the projectile away. A chuckle pierced the whiteness, a chuckle of sardonic amusement. And then the horse-hooves came again, its thunder pounding in his ears.

  Tolrep willed his eyes to work. Vision cleared even as he threw himself aside, the whipping air sharp as it brushed past. It turned his evasion into a spluttering series of crashes as the privateer flailed about like a fool, finally thudding into a small mountain of coiled hemp.

  “You’ve luck, maggot.” Epyon seemed bigger still on his horse, his voice deep and loathing. “But not a favorite of the fates.” With the last Epyon touched spurs to his horse, and the legend was barreling down on him like a plague.

  One chance. Desperation fueled Tolrep. His mind was scattered, small and sharp, brief instances of words that meant nothing, here and gone in an instant. Somehow, he pulled the shards together, made sense of the one-word rambling, binding the desperation and the need to do something – and do it now! – together in a patchwork plan. One chance.

  Unbidden his hands grabbed the hemp, paying no heed of its moisture, looping into a noose and hurled it in the same moment. It hung in time, almost lazy in its flight, floating its way to Epyon and gingerly descended about the bigger man’s neck. Too late Epyon realized the danger. Panicked he drew the horse to a stop.

  Bad idea.

  The sudden halting of momentum gave the living legend a pathetic imitation flight. That and a death-grip on the noose’s other end pulled Epyon to the deck with a mighty crash. The horse joined the privateer in watching its master’s prostrate form. With the heat of the battle draining from him Tolrep thought he saw a glimmer of approval in the beast’s eye. He could not fault it. Death had long sought this one.

  And then an iron vice closed upon his ankle with a strangled roar following it’s’ heels, and the world spun in blurring colors and a crack split the sky and there was pain. Oh, there was a lot of pain. Desperately the privateer looked up and cowered despite himself. Epyon Cimm was charging straight at him like a maddened bull.

  There was still a chance. Pain from the almost-crushed ankle bent him double, but he stood anyway. There was one last card to play, one last trick he had been cautioned against since boyhood, one last spell that could never be recalled. Funny how impeding death ma
de ethics and morality melt away.

  One touch. It was only one touch. Tolrep grabbed the other’s collar in the seconds before fatal impact. The privateer fell back, but again momentum was on his side, lifting and carrying the bigger man in a flight that was even more awkward than the first. Then the splash of water came.

  It was done. Tolrep forced himself to look upon the atrophic death he had created. Titan’s Skin. The shiisaa gave Epyon Cimm the weight of a thousand behemoths. He was too heavy for the ocean he’d dived into. Tolrep limped over to the ocean and waited until the very last bubble popped. It was done. The privateer was alive and the ikadzu was dead. And with Cimm’s death came the retreat of every enemy pirate, no matter how crippled their boats were. They were running. Epyon Cimm had been the lynchpin of the entire battle, and without him the pirates’ courage dwindled to nothing. It was done. The day was won.

  I’m so tired. All I want to do is go sleep for a week.

  He should have known it wasn’t that easy.

  LXVI

  “Captain? Captain Mathias Tolrep?”

  What now? Tolrep turned to the voice’s bearer and frowned in confusion. The man in question was on an even more questionable horse. He fell more than dismounted off the saddle. Tolrep would have offered help but so far, all the ill luck of the day sprang from suspicion. The messenger – as the ragged, muddled remnants of his tunic testified – bent almost double upon standing, icy clouds erupting from his mouth. Again, there was a glimpse of the messenger’s armbands, yet Tolrep knew not such a man in his crew, nor did he see emblems of the enemy. The privateer felt an icy chill on his back that had nothing to do with the cold.

  “Are you...Captain Mathias Tolrep?”

  “Yes.” Behind him Tolrep could feel the suspicion hardening; more and more sailors joined his side. None of them made any gesture of violence, though the tension was coiled like a spring. Even after battle the berserker did not fade from the soldier’s side. “What do you here?”