An odd clank at the window roused Casstian from his thoughts, and he got up from his desk to peer out the window. He saw nothing at first except for the night sky and the dimly lit windows of the city below him. Directly below his study tower, however, a small regiment of troops was marching toward the main gates of the keep, and they weren’t Pyrthinian troops. Casstian spun around to go find his chamberlain but stopped dead in his tracks.
“Greetings, King Casstian,” Wulfram spoke, his voice more a growl than human speech.
Cold fear surged through Casstian’s gut. “How did you get in here?”
“That’s not important, King. What is important is what you’ve been doing. Why have your captains been marshaling troops? And where is your sick daughter?”
“I’ve sent her away to keep her out of your hands, you filthy animal,” Casstian said, drawing himself up to his full height and pushing aside the fear in his belly. A deep wheezing groan emanated from beneath Wulfram’s robes, and Casstian realized Wulfram was laughing.
“I admire your honesty,” Wulfram said. “But you’ve needlessly sacrificed yourself. I’ll find your daughter eventually, and she will still die.”
“You first,” Casstian said, lunging forward as he drew a dagger from his belt. Wulfram merely stood there, and for a fleeting moment Casstian thought he had been quick enough, but then Wulfram struck with such speed that Casstian was on the ground with his arm slashed open before he even realized what had happened.
“Fool old man,” Wulfram growled, his clawed right hand still protruding from the sleeve of his black cloak, his talons dripping with Casstian’s blood. Casstian watched in horror as he lifted his hand to his shrouded face and licked the blood away with his elongated tongue.
There was a ruckus in the corridor outside the study and Casstian’s chamberlain barged in through the door.
“Your Majesty—” the chamberlain started to say, but he stopped in stunned silence when he saw Wulfram standing over Casstian. His mouth kept moving for a few seconds more before he could get words out again. “…I, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I tried to keep them out.”
Heavy footsteps approached from the corridor and in barged Natarios, followed by a dozen of the houndkeeper’s henchmen in dark uniforms emblazoned with the symbol of Sargoth.
“Excellent work, houndkeeper,” Wulfram said. “Shackle the King and take him to the dungeon.”
“Not man enough to kill me?” Casstian spat, clutching at his rent open forearm to stop the bleeding.
“I’ll leave that honor to your son when he returns with the Emperor.”
“What? Caile? He wouldn’t.”
“He will if he wants your throne,” Wulfram stated simply, and with that he turned and strode out the door.
14
Night Flight
Taera woke with a start. She had seen the cavern beneath the ice in her dreams again and a new face: a woman who was smiling, beckoning from above. When Taera had first seen the cavern in her dreams, weeks before, it carried a foreboding sense of danger with it, but now it was different. The thought of the cave warmed her somehow. And the woman, too. Taera sat up and checked on Makarria, who lay sound asleep beside her. Taera hated to wake her, but she felt compelled to go up onto deck. The woman is waiting for us, Taera realized.
“Wake up, sweetie,” Taera whispered, shaking Makarria’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Makarria asked, sitting bolt upright. “Was I dreaming?”
“No, everything is fine. I just need you to come with me.”
“Where to?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Taera replied as she got up and shed her sleeping gown. “Just come along. Get into your britches and tunic. It won’t do for us to travel in our nightclothes.”
Makarria was confused, but she did as she was told. When the two of them were dressed, Taera grabbed Makarria by the hand and led her out of the cabin and up onto the main deck. It was well after midnight, and not even the moon was up anymore. Only the stars lit the waters around Pyrthin’s Flame. The damp, salty air around them was completely still, and the only sound was the water sloshing against the hull of the ship.
“Where’s the crew?” Makarria asked.
“Sleeping,” Taera replied, leading Makarria toward the stern castle.
“But shouldn’t there be a helmsmen or a watch at least?”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” Taera said in a flat, dreamlike tone.
Something wasn’t right, Makarria could tell. The flaccid sails were raised, but no one was on deck. It was like a ghost ship. “Taera?” Makarria asked, but Taera was already climbing the ladder up to the stern castle. Makarria hurried up after her. “Taera?” she asked again as she reached the top.
Taera paid her no heed though. Her attention was instead focused on the woman standing at the stern of the ship, the woman from her vision: Roanna.
“Greetings, Princess Taera,” Roanna said with a slight bow of her head.
“Who are you?” Makarria asked.
“I am Roanna. And you?”
“She’s my attendant,” Taera said. “She’ll be coming with us.”
“You know that I’m taking you away then?” Roanna asked.
“Yes. I’ve seen it in my visions. And I’ve also seen that Makarria will travel with us. She must come along. It is not negotiable. If she stays, I stay.”
“No need to make threats, Princess. There’s plenty of room for two.” Roanna turned and grabbed a rope ladder that swayed in the air behind her. Makarria gasped as she followed the ladder upward with her eyes to see the dark airship floating above them. “Quietly now,” Roanna said. “Up you go. Both of you.”
Makarria opened her mouth to protest and say she couldn’t go anywhere without Parmo, but Taera hushed her and pushed her toward the ladder. “Please, just trust me,” Taera said. Makarria nodded and grabbed the ladder from Roanna. She climbed easily, despite the sway of the rope ladder, and thirty feet up she reached the deck of the airship. Two massive hands reached over the starboard side rail to help pull Makarria on board, and with little effort on her own part Makarria found herself on deck, face to face with a huge, dark-bearded man clad in furs.
“Who are you?” Makarria asked.
“Siegbjorn, captain of this ship. Now move aside so I am able to help the others.”
Makarria shuffled as far back as she could on the small deck and quickly looked over the vessel while Siegbjorn pulled Taera on board. There was a small cabin behind them and a series of control levers at the bow, but apart from that there was little to the gondola portion of the airship. The vast majority of the ship was the giant cylindrical air-filled hull above them. Makarria had never seen anything like it before. She had never even heard of such a thing before.
Roanna climbed up onto deck behind Taera and began pulling up the rope ladder. “Get us away from Pyrthin’s Flame,” she commanded Siegbjorn.
Siegbjorn turned away wordlessly and grabbed the control lines that released a short burst of flames up into the hollow center of the hull above them. With the added heat in the hull, the airship slowly rose up and away from Pyrthin’s Flame.
“You’re to take us to the cavern in the ice, is that correct?” Taera asked.
Roanna silently regarded her for a long moment. “Yes, that is correct but not until we take care of some unpleasantness first.”
Roanna turned away from them and looked over the rail of the airship down toward Pyrthin’s Flame. Sparks flashed at the tips of Roanna’s fingertips, and Makarria suddenly felt every hair on her body prickle. Before Makarria or Taera realized what was happening though, Roanna grunted from deep within her core and thrust her hands downward, sending a stream of flames tumbling over Pyrthin’s Flame.
“No!” Makarria screamed. “Grampy!”
“What are you doing?” Taera gasped, rushing toward Roanna, but Siegbjorn grabbed her up in one arm and wrenched her from her feet. Below them, Pyrthin’s Flame went up in flames
and lit the night sky.
“Let this be your first lesson, Princess,” Roanna said. “Did you know I was going to burn your ship? Did you see it in your visions?”
“No,” Taera whispered.
“That’s because I am able to block my intentions from you. Around me, you will only see what I choose for you see. I mean you no harm, Princess, but if you are to learn from me and come to harness your powers as is your destiny, you must first fear and respect me. Is that clear?”
Taera could only nod.
“Good,” Roanna said. “Now take her inside, Siegbjorn, and let’s be away.”
Roanna swept past Makarria into the cabin of the airship, seemingly oblivious to Makarria, who had backed herself against the portside rail. Makarria looked over her shoulder at the burning ship below them. Even with the sails aflame, still no one stirred on deck. I have to get down there to warn Grampy.
Siegbjorn glanced at Makarria, but he was holding onto Taera and pushing her toward the cabin. Makarria knew this was her one and only chance. She climbed the railing and shot a glance below. It was a long way down, maybe fifty feet to the surface of the water. She stopped, paralyzed with fear for a moment, but the thought of Parmo being burnt in his sleep sparked her into action. She let go of the rails with her hands and sprang forward. Her brief hesitation had been all that Siegbjorn needed though. He snatched Makarria by the back of her tunic before her feet even left the railing and heaved her to the deck of the airship.
“No, let me go!” Makarria yelled, scrambling toward the other rail. “Grampy! The ship’s on fire!” Siegbjorn reached down to grab her, but Makarria slapped his hand away. “Grampy! Gram—”
This time Siegbjorn was not so gentle. He thumped Makarria along the side of the head with the open palm of his hand, and she fell to the ground, stunned, barely conscious. Siegbjorn picked her up by the scruff and dragged her inside the cabin along with Taera.
Roanna regarded the three of them. “You should have let the little one jump and saved us the trouble.”
“No jumpers on my ship,” Siegbjorn grumbled, and he dropped Makarria to the ground where she landed in an unconscious heap.
Parmo woke to the sound of timber creaking and the thick stench of smoke. He tumbled out of his hammock, grabbed up his sword, and sprinted toward the ladder leading out of the hold beneath the forecastle. Up on the main deck, a wave of pure heat swept over him from the flames enveloping the rear of the ship.
“No,” Parmo said, stunned. “Makarria!”
He bolted across the main deck, pushing through the intense heat to the stern castle, and leapt through the doorway to the main cabins where he was nearly blinded by the thick smoke filling the corridor. The wooden floor beneath him burned his bare feet, but he forged on, using his left hand to guide himself along the wall and feel for the door to Taera’s cabin. An explosion blew the door off a cabin farther down the corridor and Parmo had to shield himself against the flames and debris just as he found Taera’s cabin. He thrust the door open and stumbled into the room only to find it deserted.
“Makarria?” he yelled, looking beneath the bed, but she was nowhere to be found nor was Taera. Smoke from the corridor flooded into the room, and he knew he had to get out of there quickly before he was trapped. “Merda!” he swore as he covered his mouth with one arm and stumbled back into the corridor. Another cabin behind him flashed over and flames licked at his back as he ran for the exit.
Back out on the main the deck, there was only slightly less smoke than in the corridor. The entire stern castle was up in flames, and the mainsail burned so brightly Parmo had to shield his eyes. He spun around, trying to orient himself and choking on the acrid smoke all around him. Where’s the damned crew? he asked himself, perplexed. There should have been men bustling everywhere, trying to put out the flames or helping people evacuate. Someone should have cried out a warning when the fire started. There wasn’t a single person on deck besides Parmo though.
Parmo ran to the hatch leading to the main hold and felt a sense of dread fill him. The hatch covering the passageway had been battened down and barricaded shut with a barrel. Someone had purposely trapped the crew in the hold, he realized. He pushed the barrel aside with a mighty heave, then hacked away the ropes holding the hatch closed with his sword. The hatch burst open with a torrent of smoke and heat that knocked Parmo to the ground. He choked back the stinging tears in his eyes and peered down the hatch. The flames inside the hold lit up the smoke with an eerie, mottled, orange hue, but even through the veil of smoke he could see bodies at the bottom of the stairs. Without a second thought, he tossed aside his sword, took in a deep breath, and darted down the stairs. He grabbed the first man he came to and dragged him up the stairs, then went down and grabbed another man. He turned back to go again, but the flames had reached the stairs, and with the newly fresh air the fire billowed up out of the hatch like a furnace. Parmo had no choice but to back away.
One of the sailors Parmo had pulled out of the hold coughed and came to. Parmo knelt down over him. “Are you alright? Can you get up?”
The sailor blinked his eyes and shook his head to clear his mind. “Aye, I think I can stand.”
“Then get up, man, and help me grab your crew mate here,” Parmo ordered him as he grabbed up his sword. The man pushed himself up to do as he was told, and the two of them grabbed the unconscious sailor from beneath the shoulders and dragged him to the portside of the forecastle. Parmo looked over the rail to see his skiff hanging there where the sailors had hoisted it up out of the water two days prior. “Down into the skiff,” Parmo told the sailor beside him. “I’ll lower him down to you.”
“Aye,” the sailor said, climbing over the rail and dropping down to the skiff.
Parmo yanked the unconscious man up and lowered him as gently as he could to the other sailor. Still, the unconscious man hit the deck with a heavy thud.
“Lower the skiff down to the water,” Parmo yelled down. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
The sailor nodded and began loosening the ropes to lower the skiff, and Parmo turned his attention back to Pyrthin’s Flame. The stern half of the ship was a wall of fire. The main mast was a giant burning tower, and the square sails on the foremast had caught fire too. Parmo hacked a line to drop the triangular trysail from the foremast and bundled the sail up as quickly as he could. “Here,” he yelled as he dropped the sail over the rail into the skiff. The sailor below caught the sail with a grunt and a curse, but Parmo paid him no heed. He instead cut loose a water barrel lashed to the railing and rolled it down the main deck to where the side rails ended.
The heat was intense, and Parmo could feel the skin on his face dry and crackle. He pushed ahead though. He knew without fresh water, all of his efforts would be in vain, and they would survive the fire only to die of dehydration in a few days. When he reached the section where the rail finally stopped, he rolled the barrel off the deck into the water below, then turned to see if there was anything else he could salvage from the ship. The deck rumbled beneath his feet. There was a massive splintering noise, and Parmo realized that the main mast was uprooting itself from the deck. It was falling like a great burning tree right toward him!
Parmo jumped and pummeled into the water below, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, determined not to lose it. The main mast split in half as it hit the side of the ship above him, and the top half battered down into the water beside Parmo with a hissing torrent of steam. He kicked his legs to propel himself away from the smoldering timber and found the water barrel bobbing up and down several yards away. He grabbed at the barrel gratefully to keep himself afloat and took a deep breath. It was no easy thing to tread water with a sword in one hand, even if he was without boots.
“Where are you?” a voice came out to him, and Parmo looked up to see the sailor paddling the skiff toward him.
“Here,” Parmo hollered, and within a few moments Parmo was on board and the two of them hoisted the water barrel up into th
e skiff. “We best get away from her,” Parmo said, looking up at Pyrthin’s Flame.
“Aye,” the sailor agreed and they both took up paddles and rowed themselves clear of the burning ship.
Pyrthin’s Flame groaned, and the stern slowly began sinking into the water, sending the bow high up into the air. Parmo looked on in wonder. Just the day before he had been grumbling to himself about being relegated to sleep in the forecastle where he was constantly being jarred around as the bow rose and fell over each ocean swell. And yet, if he’d not been in the forecastle hold, he would have been trapped with all the other sailors in the main hold.
Pyrthin’s Flame continued to burn, and soon the bow and the burning foremast were the only parts of the ship protruding from the dark waters.
“Pyrthin’s arse,” the sailor whispered. “What happened?”
“Treachery,” Parmo answered, and even as he said it he saw a shadow move across the stars in the eastern sky. He saw the silhouette of the airship in the distance, heading back toward the Five Kingdoms, and he gritted his teeth with anger and determination. Stay strong, Makarria. I’ll find you.
15
The Throne of Fire
In a private chamber in the upper reaches of Lightbringer’s Keep, Caile bowed deeply and rose to face Emperor Guderian. At Caile’s side, Lorentz stayed prostrate for a moment longer before rising. Behind them, Caile’s liaison, Lindy, stood barring the exit from the chamber, and in the corridor outside, four more guards stood at the ready. The Emperor, himself, sat in a modest throne atop a raised dais, and to either side of him were racks full of weapons: swords with barbed blades, maces, flails, short handled battle-axes, and bladed weapons Caile had never seen the likes of before. The rest of the room was unadorned and black. There were no windows, only a half dozen wall torches, and the room reeked of iron or blood—Caile couldn’t tell which.
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