by David Rice
Alain slapped the warrior upon the shoulders. “Be safe.” The two parted without another word.
Gerr whistled softly. “Manners never salted no meat,” he grumbled then walked over to Father Yost and pointed at Gothert. “And Baron Koppinger knows that well enough.” He looked at Yost. “Father Time? You gonna pick the brain of that old sod, Gothert, so we can get to setting things straight around here?”
Nialle glanced at Koppinger and his eyes widened with sudden epiphany. “You waited to visit here until you knew Yost was safe.”
“Seemed like the right time,” Koppinger replied. “This courier isn’t just here to cry over his old friend. He’s Wyntress’s messenger. And, fortunately for us all, he discovered a few survivors of Gow’s massacres during his travels.”
Koppinger motioned towards the dark. Three robed men approached, their faces covered by hoods, their postures attempting to project openness and calm. They bowed deeply and drew back their hoods.
The eldest priest filled the room effortlessly with his voice. “Father Jull, Father Wren, and Brother Kellen at your service.”
Stepping from the shadows behind Nialle, a humbly robed man rushed forward. “Brothers!” he cried.
“Brother Larkin?” Wren and Kellen chimed at once. Father Jull beamed and embraced the young fellow with a laugh.
“You have a Blackthorn, too?” Koppinger chuckled. “Very clever.” The Baron looked around the room, delighted by the sight of jaws dropping throughout the chamber. “We might be missing an heir but so much for Stigand and his Amaranth’s approval, hmm? The Blackthorn
live.”
Alain allowed himself a smile. After so many cycles, he could go back to his homeland, and back to Thunderwall. But for the sake of a better peace, Yost might still need a protector.
Koppinger’s smile filled the room. “If we can keep Yost alive, we’ll have the majority we need.”
***
Once Koppinger had departed, Nialle slipped away from the crowd and headed towards
Ardir’s perch where Muren’s telescope was astutely hidden. The archivist halted half way up the stairs and pressed against an innocuous nodule of stone. Silently, a smaller passage revealed itself and Nialle hurried through, emerging into the dim light of a generous rectangular room. With cycles of living in a dwarven holdfast behind him, Alain had been assisting the archivist in discovering another of these concealed rooms every few days. Who knew how far these hidden mazes of ancient dwarven halls reached?
A young lady and her son, now entering his awkward years between boy and man, rose from their blankets in the corner. “Can we join the others, now?”
Nialle scowled. “I suppose you should or dangerous questions could be asked. But you have to be very careful from now on.”
“Of course, Archivist. Anything for my son.”
Nialle reached out and placed a gentle hand upon the lady’s arm. “You must keep your distance from Father Yost.”
“But why? He’s so nice. So harmless.”
“If he touches you,” Nialle lowered his voice. “He will know everything you have been hiding.”
The woman drew back and hugged her son around the shoulders. “How? Why?”
“The Order of the Yarrow have a talent that can be rather frightening. They can read our thoughts with a touch. To stay safe, you can’t let that happen.”
“Because his father is—”
Nialle nodded. “So far we’ve been fortunate. But Baron Koppinger’s a flexible man. His agenda is his own. We have to stay true to ourselves. It is too early to trust.”
The woman relaxed her hold of her son and looked at him solemnly. “Did you hear the Archivist, Fehrdar? Keep your distance from Father Yost. You may be King one day.”
Her son’s blue eyes shone.
XII
Lornen crumpled the note in his fist. Baron Koppinger sends his regrets. What sort of an answer is that to give a King? Lornen took a deep breath and pushed his scowl away. He would deal with Koppinger’s insolence later. Right now, Lornen had other guests to worry about. Of course, he had taken Stigand’s advice to heart and included promises of additional titles for those who attended. They would serve admirably, and their children would fatten his city watch. They might even drum up added tax revenue to fatten their collective purses.
The most compelling reason Lornen had decided to host a small party was because today his flagship would sail into battle for the first time. He held the party upon the balcony overlooking the harbour. It was the same place, he remembered with a shiver, where his uncle had sent him out to face the lifebane with the hopes that he would be killed in battle. Instead, he returned victorious. The Chosen. And today the Rajala had given him the perfect opportunity to prove himself once more. The Rajala had blocked Graniteside’s harbour and threatened to starve the city of food and merchandise. They had requested an audience with Lornen but he refused to lower himself to such an indignity. Today, the Rajala would receive his answer in full broadsides from the most powerful cannons ever constructed. It was essential that everyone witness this use of his power to break the Rajalan blockade and save his city. Lornen vowed to prove himself the Chosen of the One once again to a disobedient realm swelling with whispers.
He shivered in anticipation.
Surprisingly, a single gnome remained in Graniteside and accepted his invitation. He was a haughty shipwright who had counselled against letting Lornen’s newest ships sail until they had been properly sea tested and adjusted for trim and ballast. Lornen dismissed his concern as cowardice. Now, the gnome stood by himself not far from the King and plucked olives from a sour drink one by one. Lornen turned his gaze to more suitable company. There were a few naval officers standing proudly in their deep blue and gold alongside several Lords and Barons who strutted from food tray to food tray in uniforms dripping with accessories. There was a scattering of notable merchants with connections to Halnn who prided themselves on representing various craft and merchant houses, all chatting in their put-on dialects and boasting of their next grand ventures. And there were a great many young ladies. The music was uplifting, the wines and sweetmeats were tantalizing, and the weather was so fresh Lornen ordered every shutter open to the harbour’s breeze and blue sky.
Below, less than favorable winds tugged and twisted the sails of The Chosen and her accompanying escorts, The Thunderer and The Waverunner. Silver cannon glistened from their decks. Each escort sported ten of the gnomish cannons. The Chosen was a new Halnnish design and boasted sixty cannons spread across several decks. The flagship glittered gold and bright in the sun and, as it began to shift its bulk from its moorings, bugles called out and crowds cheered.
Lornen looked down from his perch upon the balcony, and waved.
“We will crush them utterly,” he announced. “It will take but one broadside. All those cannon firing at once—” Lornen’s voice caught, and he accepted another mug of wine.
“Watch,” he cried out. “Watch how we treat our enemies.”
Being of shallower draft and nimbler keel, the escorts quickly moved ahead of their flagship. Their task was to clear the harbour entrance of the smaller Rajalan boats so that The Chosen’s larger cannons could reach the largest Rajalan ships in the open water. It would be a slaughter. Triremes with archers and battering rams were no match for a good broadside.
The Waverunner led the way. As she emerged from the wind shadow cast by the city, her sails filled and her bow rippled with foam. She sped steadily towards the harbour mouth. On her deck, cannons were readied to fire to both sides. The Thunderer fell in behind, tacking to port so her shots might strike enemies but not her ally.
Drums from the Rajalan ships echoed across the harbour and six triremes sprang into motion, converging upon The Waverunner from both sides. Their oars cut the water with crisp strokes. Their hulls skimmed the surface with hardly a wake. Their silver rams sparkled in the sun.
The Waverunner did not slow or turn. With mighty cracks
that shook the surrounding mountains, her cannons fired to both sides, filling the air with a magnificent cloud of grey smoke. Her shots sailed over the triremes approaching on the starboard, sending geysers of white water high into the air. Her shots to port were sound and true. One trireme exploded in a splintering pink mist. The other two boats broke in half and tumbled gracelessly, tossing oars, planks, and bodies in all directions.
Above the tumult, a wide-eyed King Lornen III shouted in exaltation.
The surviving triremes closed the distance. The Waverunner tacked towards their gleaming rams, reducing their angle. One trireme crashed against the bow of The Waverunner, its oars sheared off by the bulk of the frigate and then its hull broken, crushed, and driven under its keel. A second trireme could no longer strike the frigate squarely and instead hit at an angle, skidded, shuddered, and with a series of staccato rips, twisted then capsized. The third trireme adjusted its approach, smashed through the flotsam of its doomed companion, and struck The Waverunner near her bow. The silvered ram speared into the frigate’s side, and the momentum of the trireme’s attack made the rest of the vessel flex like a bow and then slap back upon the water, snap at its bow, and sink.
The Waverunner emerged from the smoke of its cannon fire to grind over the remains of the triremes with a decapitated, silvered ram dangling impotently from its hull.
The crew of The Thunderer cheered, and chose their target from among the blockading ships lingering at a distance. Their mark had once been one of their own, The Errant Mercy, but had been traded to the Rajala cycles earlier. It bore no cannon to fire back.
The Thunderer’s broadside erupted in flashes of flame through billowing smoke. Most of the cannonballs fell short with huge white splashes but one drove a hole into the side of The Mercy at the waterline. She began to list almost immediately.
Grinning ear to ear, Lornen tapped one of the naval officers on the shoulder. “This will be finished before The Chosen has even had her share of the fun.”
Another dozen triremes emerged from the flotilla blockading the harbour. These seemed to be accelerating as if propelled by the ocean itself, and their rams sparked with an unnatural energy. The Waverunner started to tack to one side then reversed its course, its crew struggling to reload its cannons and bring at least one broadside to bear. As the triremes closed, crossbowmen on The Waverunner fired down upon the decks of the Rajalan boats, felling some sailors but not slowing their course.
A single cannon managed to fire and shear off a trireme’s mast. A feeble effort. Then the triremes were in the shadow of The Waverunner’s hull and striking like a volley of ballista bolts. Lightning arced from the silvered ram heads where they struck. Several triremes splintered with the force of the impact while others skidded off the hull of the frigate to drift away, crippled. The waters quickly filled with shattered planks, collapsed masts, and bodies. A scattering of grappling hooks found purchase in wooden rails along The Waverunner but the few Rajala attempting to board were shot point-blank by crossbows or cut down as they reached the deck.
Along the rams now piercing the side of the frigate, lightning still hopped about in small arcs. The Captain and crew cheered as they repelled the last of the boarders. Then the lightning found blackpowder.
Lornen’s party was driven back from the edge of the balcony by the explosion. Huge chunks of the frigate were hurled skyward. One even flew an impossible distance and smashed into the slums of the Docks District.
“No!” Lornen screamed and grabbed the gnome shipwright by the collar. “How could this happen?”
Lornen pulled the gnome towards the balcony’s until several high-ranking guests restrained the King.
Disengaging from the King’s grip and haughtily brushing at his tunic, the impeccably dressed gnome peered disdainfully at Lornen before responding. “The Crafthouse Threadgear has always counselled wisely: Blame the fool, not the tool.”
Wide-eyed, Lornen raised a fist to strike the gnome for his insolence. A shout drew everyone’s attention.
“Look!”
Beyond the harbour and high against the blue of the sky, a dark winged monstrosity dropped towards the ships.
Lornen’s party exploded into chaos.
“A Drake!”
“It’s too late! Too late for us all!”
“Run!”
“Hide!”
“Protect us!”
In the span of a dozen heartbeats, the guests had fled. Lornen was alone, clinging to the railing, and staring across the open water at a creature that should have never truly existed.
Purple tongues of drake fire dropped onto many of the Rajalan boats, transforming them instantly into funeral pyres. The Thunderer tacked blindly and ran aground upon shoals hidden at the harbour’s mouth. The drake banked to rake the frigate with sheets of fire that blossomed along sails and rigging. Impossibly defiant, The Thunderer fired a broadside as the drake soared past.
The shots struck the water harmlessly just before the frigate exploded with a roar.
“Come on, Chosen,” Lornen urged his namesake. “This is your moment!”
The gilded pride of his Kingdom’s fleet continued its ponderous advance towards the harbour mouth. The drake circled casually, spewing ribbons of purple flame upon those struggling in the water. Lornen’s view of the blockade vanished in a wall of purple fire and roiling steam.
The Chosen began a slow turn to starboard, its mass magnified by gaudy gold upon every fixture of the upper deck. Struggling with its own unnecessary weight, The Chosen listed against every motion like a top-heavy drunk.
The drake flicked its head towards the oncoming curiosity and slowed its flight. It rose to a hover as if amused, its wings buffeting the air relentlessly, pushing the water back in all directions.
Lornen bit his lip while his mind screamed for action. “Now, my Lovely. Now!”
The Chosen rocked unevenly as she came out of her turn. The blast from the drake’s wings made her sails reverse and collapse, tearing rigging from masts and shaking sailors from their perches.
A full broadside at close range was now possible. The Chosen delivered upon her promise. Thirty large cannons, double charged with blackpowder, erupted with gouts of flame and the mighty ship vanished within a cloud of grey.
Unearthly shrieks echoed from the mountains and city. Electrified, Lornen stood on his toes and fought against the veil of smoke to see clearly.
The drake bolted from the smoke in a rush of violence. Lornen collapsed to the floor as it roared above the city, its vengeful cries shaking Graniteside to its foundations.
Lornen shivered upon the cold marble and gradually became aware of the drake’s cries fading with distance. “We did it?” he ventured a whisper.
Gradually he rose upon shaking legs. “We did it?”
He struggled to lift himself to a standing position and peered over the harbour, choked with drifting smoke and wreckage, and lit with writhing snakes of purple fire. He strained to catch sight of his namesake.
Lornen’s eyes refused to recognize what he observed.
The majestic sails of The Chosen no longer flaunted the sky. Instead, its rounded hull spun slowly like an empty barrel in a pond, its flaming masts crashing their wreckage upon the waters of the harbour, its cannons screeching and sliding across decks and disappearing into the depths.
Bodies began to appear around the wreck. Some were attempting to swim to safety. With abrupt bubbling and blasts of hidden explosions, The Chosen shook violently and then slipped under the cold harbour waves.
A guard appeared at the entrance to the balcony. “Your Majesty! Do you require assistance?”
The King snapped back, “See that I am not disturbed.”
“Not even a visit from the High Father, Your Majesty?”
Lornen’s hateful eyes were more than enough reply. The guards wisely bowed and departed in haste.
The sounds of panic and lamentation drifted upwards from Graniteside’s streets. Horns and bell
s from the harbour added to the cacophony of this disaster. Ships began to edge away from the docks to rescue survivors, or salvage a fortune in precious metal.
Lornen III, King of the Northern Realm, slipped to the floor and stared out to sea until the evening wind shifted and the cold red eyes of the stars stared back. Only the Army could save them now.
XIII
Kirsten was lost.
Along the edge of the grandest forest the world had ever known, Kirsten rested against the trunk of an oak tree. She looked down upon a brook that cut through the snow with its own steaming breath. She held the sword, Fahde, in front of her and watched the rising sun shatter into countless thorns of light along its blade. Its gem, once immeasurably bright, now held the dim gleam of an opal. Kirsten convinced herself that its light was brighter than before, that its strength was returning, but she was not quite as certain about her own. With the help of her odd and unlikely friends, she had rallied her spirit several times. But as she approached Longwood she found her confidence dwindling once more in a storm of self-accusation.
