Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  She blinked, letting her eyes adjust while the others scrambled up behind her, and froze. Three guards stood at the edge of the roof, their backs to them, looking down on the mess that was the rec yard riot. Honey put a finger to her lips: shhh.

  Motioning for Nouli to be still, Ripka crept after Honey. Enard’s shadow stretched out before her, each step she took crunching over the slight grit of the roof louder than any alarm bell to her ears. But the great brass bells continued to sound, drowning their advance in the thunder of their voices. Halfway there... a third...

  The bells fell silent. Honey’s heel clicked against the baked tiles. One of the guards began to turn – Ripka lunged. Her world dissolved into shouting and grunting as she leapt on the back of the nearest guard, wrapped her elbows around his neck and squeezed. Honey took up her song. Enard swore somewhere distant.

  Her vision swam as the guard jerked side to side, shaking her like a dog shakes its wet coat, jamming his thumbs up under her arms and wrenching, prying, clawing til her skin bled and she was roaring in his ear to stop, it was safer for him to faint. Honey’s song wouldn’t find him then. He staggered, swayed, the world pitched up and she saw nothing but blue as the backs of his thighs hit the low wall hemming in the roof. Her stomach dropped. The guard lurched, unconsciousness taking him at the most inopportune of moments.

  Heavy hands grabbed her upper arm, the side of her jumpsuit, and yanked. She let go of the guard, swore as he tumbled over the roof without her.

  “Thanks,” she said, panting, and forced herself to stand, rubbery though her legs were.

  “I’m afraid we’ve begun a bigger problem.” Enard, stoic as ever, peered over the edge of the roof. Ripka forced herself to the edge, though her stomach protested at being too near the height that’d almost taken her life.

  The guard’s body splayed in the rec yard, limbs twisted askew, a dark stain spreading out around him. He’d drawn other guards like flies, and they pointed toward the roof, shouting. Ripka grimaced and stepped back. They’d be swarmed in moments.

  “How many entrances?” she asked, then realized no one would know. “Find them all!” She put some command into her voice, because at least that made her feel like she might know what she was doing.

  Honey, Enard, and Nouli scrambled, searching the square roof for hidden doors, while she grabbed the heel of the guard Honey had, apparently, stabbed in the kidney, and hauled his corpse over to the trap door they’d come through. The other guard lay beside him, neck twisted. Ripka told herself Enard hadn’t had a choice. None of them had.

  She stacked the corpses on top of the trap door and brushed her hands off as Enard trotted up to her.

  “Well?”

  “Only the one entrance, and an empty docking post, captain.”

  She almost laughed with giddy relief. “Good. The guards’ weight should slow anyone coming through down.”

  “Not for long,” Nouli said, staring at the door, his tanned face wan and sallow in the clear light of day. Poor bastard had probably never seen so much blood up close before.

  “It’ll be enough,” she said, not believing it, and then reached down to peel the baton and cutlass from a fallen guard’s body. After a second’s thought, she took the coat too.

  “You cold?” Honey rasped, her voice all motherly concern.

  “Hardly. Come on, we gotta hang this from the dock post so Honding can find us.”

  “Won’t he see the battle?”

  Ripka grimaced. “I’m hoping he’ll get here first.”

  Thudding pounded below the trapdoor, crushing her hopes as soon as she’d spoken them.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Dust-coated figures emerged from the wreckage. For a moment his skin prickled, thinking he’d made ghosts of them all. But they wiped their faces with the backs of their hands, clearing away the stone powder, and fumbled for weapons that he knew would soon be pointed his direction. Aella advanced, the hunched form of Callia shuffling along beside her.

  I am going to fight. The realization shuddered through him, and he swallowed bile. Not really. Not in truth. Just a few misdirections, nothing to do anyone real harm. He hoped.

  “Hold, Aella,” he said, trying to force some iron into his voice. Trying to remember he was a lord, for better or ill, and if it weren’t for the singular fact that he was a wanted man he would outrank this girl.

  She paused, but appeared to have done so only to brush more debris from her clothing. “I’m happy to wait for the regular guards to come along and take you in hand, if that’s what you want, but I suspect they’ll be rougher with you than my people.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced over his shoulder. The guards weren’t far, a line of ants advancing on a freshly discovered carcass. Not much time to prepare. Not much time at all.

  “We’re walking out of here, kiddo. Or did you miss the implication of my little demonstration?” He held his hand out, palm open, as if preparing to gesture her way and funnel his power into the sel hovering above the house. He felt ridiculous, like a clown capering for a bored noble, but he kept his face stern and his back straight. He’d playacted a lot of things in his time. Pretending he had control of himself was just another mask to don.

  To his relief, Aella’s thin brows pinched and she squinted at him, looking genuinely consternated for a moment. “You expect me to believe you intended that?”

  He resisted a nervous urge to lick his lips. “Wasn’t an accident I blew the wall no one was standing against, was it?” It was pure dumb luck, flailing in his panic, but he couldn’t let her know that. Couldn’t let her see how close he’d come to tearing them all to itty bits.

  “I don’t believe you, Honding.”

  “Ready,” Pelkaia said. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her wearing Thratia’s face, just as pristine as it had been when they’d walked off the gangplank. She turned her back on Aella and marched toward the approaching guards, affecting all of Thratia’s confident swagger despite the dust and dirt clinging to her clothes. The side of her cheek began to smear. To twitch.

  “Coss,” he prompted.

  The first mate jumped and reached toward Aella and her cohort, condensing a sliver of selium out of the air near the ground, precisely in the middle of their two groups. Detan grit his teeth, struggling for all he was worth to ignore the layer floating above the house, and snapped his fingers.

  The sliver went up in flames, throwing rocks and dirt in all directions. He grinned like a madman as Aella yelped and jumped backward. His power sapped away from him in an instant as Aella shifted her focus.

  “You there,” Pelkaia yelled. Detan resisted an urge to look. He hated having a bunch of swords at his back, but he’d hate having Aella there even worse. “Assist me in humanely securing these prisoners. Obviously the Remnant is not capable of housing more dangerous threats.”

  Blue skies, but he was lucky Pelkaia was a quick thinker. Disgrace Aella’s abilities and get them all off this horrible hunk of rock? He dared to hope the ploy just might work.

  “I think not,” Aella said, taking a step forward. Detan held a threatening hand toward her and she rolled her eyes. “You’re shut down, Honding.”

  “And you’re out of line,” Pelkaia snapped. “Guards, apprehend this child and her people as well. I expect a full inquiry to be performed upon this little project.”

  “But, it’s your project, commodore,” one of the guards stammered.

  Aella smirked. “That is not Commodore Ganal.”

  Detan’s power rushed back to him, dizzying, but Tibs was there to prop him up as he swayed. Coss saw him stagger and reached out, condensing a walnut-sized chunk of sel from the air a bare three strides from Aella. Detan blew it without hesitation. The girl swore and stopped hard, jerking her skirt smooth. With a scowl she flicked a wrist at Detan and his power retreated once more. Tibs abandoned him to hold up Coss, who looked green about the throat and poured sweat like he was single-handedly attempting to drown
out the desert.

  “You cannot keep this up!” Aella shouted at him.

  “Don’t push me then,” he growled, surprised by the raw anger in his own voice. She was right. He’d lose control, or Coss would faint dead away, and either way they were royally fucked. Pelkaia’s true face would be revealed. Those working for Aella would hem them in completely.

  He shot a glare at one of Aella’s deviants, and the woman stopped hard in her slow encircling, but he knew it wouldn’t last. They were roped in. They had no idea what Aella’s cohort’s capabilities were.

  They were going to die here, or be captured.

  Detan spared a hopeful glance at the sky, and saw no familiar shadow bobbing toward him. He sighed. Not so lucky this time, then.

  “Honding.” Pelkaia’s voice was a soft growl. “Remove these traitors.”

  She turned back to him, the guards that’d spilled from the Remnant arrayed around her like a fading crescent moon, her false face stern and her borrowed chin tilted up in defiance. She knew it, too. She must know they were screwed – and this was the only option she saw. The only one he could see, too.

  Eliminate the one who could reveal their lies to the guards. Eliminate those loyal to her. Eliminate every other soul who was hiding in that cracked-open yellow house, injured or otherwise cowering with fear. A few had trickled out from the broken building. He could see them only in silhouette, the sun setting behind the house’s back, hunched over in the scrub or sitting under trees. Their heads were collectively turned toward their leader and the half-dozen men and women who were, apparently, meant to be their protectors.

  And that layer of sel hanging above them, soft as a cloud, called his name.

  “Honding,” Pelkaia said again.

  Coss swayed in Tibs’s grip, face gone white as a sheet. Too much strain. Coss had never trained for this. Detan wasn’t even sure if he could have been trained for it. The man would be bedridden for weeks as things stood, Detan knew what it was to use yourself up like that. Knew, too, how relieved he’d felt the first time he’d emptied all his power. The first time he’d burned the world just to spite it.

  Worldbreaker.

  He shuddered, feeling as nauseous as Coss looked. Blood dripped from Tibs’s chin, splashed across Coss’s bent forehead. Tibs’s ropey muscles strained, his eyes bloodshot and his wrists rubbed raw and angry. Tibs looked at him like he wanted him to do something, but Detan didn’t know what. Looked at him like he feared him – feared whatever he would do. Feared there’d be no coming back from it.

  And there was Aella, a smug smile on her rounded lips, her arms crossed loose and easy as her loyalists continued to fan out around them all, tucking them into a neat little trap. Just a matter of time, and then she’d have them all in hand. For Thratia. For the woman who was preparing to march on his family’s city. He could be done with her. Wipe out Thratia’s secret weapon before it ever got pointed his auntie’s way.

  Anger constricted his chest, the layer above sang to him, the boiling of his blood harmonizing with it. Heat radiated from his injection site. As if his blood knew the choice he’d been given and was hungry for his answer. The eyes of the injured watched him. Tibs’s words rushed back to him: This plan ain’t what we do. So you best figure out another way.

  Detan picked another option.

  “I apologize,” he lied, eyes locked on Aella because he daren’t look at Tibs. “I will come freely with you, Aella. There is no need for us to take up anymore of the commodore’s time. Please see to it that her ship is refilled with the selium it needs to cross the sea safely.”

  “What?” Tibs blurted.

  Aella’s eyes narrowed. She took a hesitant step forward. Detan didn’t think Coss could condense sel again even if he’d wanted to.

  “And if I decide I would prefer you all to stay?”

  He cocked his head to the side and allowed his gaze to drift upward, to the layer they all knew was there, his palm angling just a touch. He said nothing. Let the ease in his shoulders and the serene mask plastered across his face communicate his intent. If Aella deigned to take them all into her clutches, he would do it. And, oddly, he did not think she was capable of stopping him.

  “Very well,” she said eventually. “And the other prisoner?”

  Tibs. Detan’s heart ached. “I see no reason why the commodore’s custody would not be sufficient.”

  “Sirra,” Tibs said in the same tone he always used when he thought Detan had come up with a particularly idiotic idea. Detan said nothing, turned to look at Pelkaia instead, to be sure she understood his intent. Her false face was twisted with disgust.

  “Very well.” Aella flicked a hand and her cohort moved forward. “My people will see the others back to their ship to be certain of their... safe return.”

  “Detan?” Tibs’s voice cut. Pain weighted him down, threatened to crush the breath from his chest. That slight plaintive note in Tibs’s tone was worse than a slap. Worse than anything. But he had to keep his head up. Had to keep himself together.

  This was the way. The only way any one of them could walk off this island without wading through a pool of blood first. And maybe, just maybe, he might be able to work some chaos from within Aella’s world. It would be the hardest game he ever played, but he could make her trust him. Make her think he was her man in mind and body. Had to, if he was going to wring any good out of this.

  “We’ll be back for you,” Tibs said, too loud as he struggled to help Coss away. Aella’d heard. She must have. He winced, knowing what he must do. Knowing the rift he’d have to carve to drag Aella to his side. To make certain Tibs didn’t get himself killed coming back for him. He made his face a mask of angry stone, and faced Tibs.

  He couldn’t look him in the eye. Had to stare at a point just above his head. But Aella wouldn’t be able to tell that, and Tibs wouldn’t see the difference. He always missed the finer points when he was truly hurting. And Detan meant to hurt.

  He forced his voice to calm indifference and said, “Don’t bother.”

  Tibs froze. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I’ve accepted Aella’s offer of knowledge. We’re done. Go.” He flicked his wrist, the dismissive gesture of a noble to a servant. Tibs drew back as if he’d been struck.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he insisted, voice harsh. “We can find another trade. Another way–”

  “This isn’t a trade!” Detan forced himself to his full height. Forced himself to cut the air with his hands as he spoke. Funneled all his anger at being caught in this trap into his voice, and redirected it at Tibs. “You wanted me to seek help? Well I fucking have!”

  “Not from her.”

  “Then from who? Pelkaia has made it clear as a spring sky she doesn’t want me on her ship. You don’t have a lick of sel-sense in that whip-thin brain, and there ain’t another sensitive with the knowledge I need in the whole of the Scorched. Unless you’d rather I throw myself straight on the steps of the Bone Tower?”

  “We can find someone else, anyone!”

  Aella said, “Gentlemen, please–”

  “Shut the fuck up!” they said in unison.

  Detan clenched his fists, breath heaving. The rubble strewn all around him felt close, choking. This had to cut. Deep.

  “What good are you to me? You can’t even stand seeing a bunch of blue-coats bleeding on a beach. These years, you’ve only grown weaker, while I’ve grown stronger. Leave! There’s nothing more I need from you.” His voice rasped. He couldn’t help it.

  “Need? Need?” Tibs’s wild brows drew down into an angry crease. He loosed Coss, lunged at Detan, gnarled hands outstretched to grab his shirt, face blossomed all over with red blooms of rage.

  One of Aella’s goons got an arm around Tibs, hauled him back out of strike range. Detan bit his cheek until it bled to keep from calling out. To keep from blubbering apologies until they were both weeping. Aella let him stay like that, numb and staring, until his companions disappeared within t
he walls of the Remnant.

  Tibs did not look back.

  Aella’s hand lighted upon his shoulder. He was proud of himself for not flinching.

  “If Ripka’s still here, you best let her go before I lose my pits-cursed mind.”

  “I’ll release her and your other friend. This trade is worth that much.” Her fingers curled into his shoulder, a perverse mirror of Tibs’s earlier support. He bowed his head. He could not help it.

  “Come now. Let’s find you a room, and some food. We have much to discuss.”

  He followed Aella into what was left of the yellow house, the shadow of the Larkspur boring a condemning hole into his back with every step.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Each time the trapdoor was struck, the corpses piled on it jerked and twitched. They had to shove them back onto it, keeping the weight centered, keeping their boots on top of the door to hold it down. The door jumped again, jarring Ripka’s teeth. She flexed her fist on the cutlass she’d stolen and scowled.

  “Where in the pits is that idiot?”

  “The Lord Honding is rarely late,” Enard drolled, pushing a flopped-over arm back into the pile with the edge of his cutlass.

  “Rarely on time, is more like.”

  “As you say, captain.”

  “Is he really a lord?” Honey asked, her glassy eyes wide. Ripka snorted.

  “In name only.”

  “Little more than a scoundrel, my dear,” Nouli added.

  And yet they were all waiting for him. Hoping for him to come and save them as soon as he could. They searched the skies, but did not speak.

  The trapdoor thumped again. Honey shrieked and leapt back, taking her weight off her corner of the door, hopping around like her foot was on fire.

  “What in the–”

  “They stabbed my foot!” She rocked back and sat hard on her rump, holding up the sole of her boot for all to see. A neat two-inch gash opened it, blood seeping out to the baked tiles. As one, they stepped back from the trapdoor.