Dreamwielder

by Garrett Calcaterra

  His aim was true. The loop in the rope caught on the forward rung of the anchor, and before he knew it he was yanked forward with so much force his arms nearly came out of their sockets. It took so much concentration to hang on, he couldn’t even cry out in pain. His legs and torso slammed in and out of the water as the ship crested each wave, and it took every bit of his will power to hold on to the rope. With great effort, he pulled himself up out of the water to grab hold of the anchor. The rusty metal scraped the skin from his fingers and palms, but the pain only steeled his resolve. He climbed hand over hand up the chain, then pulled one foot up into the porthole and heaved himself up onto the main deck. He looked around and saw thankfully that the men on deck were all at the portside of the ship, yelling and pointing at Siegbjorn’s airship.

  Caile pulled himself up as quietly as he could manage, then darted to his left down the stairs leading beneath the sterncastle to the captain’s quarters. This is it, he told himself. Don’t be fooled by his smile. He pulled the knife from his belt and took a deep breath, then threw the door open.

  Don Bricio stood hunched over, facing away from him as he yanked his britches up. “What is all the damned yelling about?” he asked, thinking Caile was his first mate.

  “Why don’t you look and see,” Caile said, closing the door behind him.

  Don Bricio turned and stared in shock at Caile, his tight, rotund belly hanging over his trousers. “You. How did you get on board?” His hand reached instinctively for the sword at his hip, but his sword sat in its scabbard along with his belt on the bed. Caile had literally caught him napping.

  “You taught me well the ways of stealth and treachery,” Caile replied with a smile.

  “Yes, yes, you always were a quick learner,” Don Bricio said and smiled. He brushed his thin, gray-black hair slickly back over his head. “I taught you a little too much perhaps, but this is still good I think. Yes? It’s not too late, you know. Join me and you will be rewarded handsomely. The throne of Pyrthinia is still yours if you league yourself with the Emperor. You can become my equal. Again, Valaróz and Pyrthinia will be strong allies.”

  “Under the yoke of Guderian? I don’t think so.”

  Don Bricio held his hands palms-up and waggled his fingers, as if beckoning a child to come sit on his lap. “Come, come. Put your weapon down. Let us not be hasty with one another. I was like a father to you, yes? Let us embrace, then we will go to the galley and discuss matters over a few cups of fire nectar. It will be like old times.”

  Don Bricio stepped forward, ostensibly to hug Caile, but also closer to the sword on the bed.

  “Don’t take another step,” Caile warned him, crouching forward with the knife held at the ready.

  Don Bricio’s smile disappeared.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Caile told him. “You have nothing to offer me because you are no longer King of Valaróz. Prince Parmenios Pallma has returned.”

  “Nonsense!” Don Bricio spat. “You speak of rumors from that treacherous liar Casstian. The Pallma line is dead. Quit being a damn fool and drop your weapon. You try my patience, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy anymore.”

  “No, you’re a dead boy now,” Don Bricio said, and he lunged as if he were reaching for his sword. Caile leapt onto the bed, lashing his knife outward, but Don Bricio pulled back with surprising quickness and darted around the bed for the door as Caile tumbled across the bed. Caile let his momentum carry him to the far side of the bed and hurled the knife at Don Bricio as he spun to his feet. Don Bricio grunted and stumbled into the door as the knife struck him in the back of his right shoulder.

  “Whore’s whelp,” Don Bricio swore, leaning heavily into the door. He reached back over his shoulder with pained deliberation and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife. “I’ll kill you and your entire family, just like I did with the Pallma line,” he said and yanked the knife free. He let the door support his weight and turned to face Caile.

  “I think not,” Caile said, and he ran Don Bricio through the neck with his own sword.

  Parmo looked upon the familiar sight of Spearpoint Rock from where he stood at the forecastle of Pyrthin’s Valor. There was no time for side trips or reminiscing though. Their scouting ship had spotted a fleet coming from the south. I hope you’re ready for this, he told himself as he turned to Rufous, now captain of Pyrthin’s Valor. “Signal the fleet to hold here,” he yelled, “then raise the yellow flag for a parley. We’ll face the Valarion fleet alone.”

  Rufous carried out his orders, and within a few minutes Pyrthin’s Valor sailed southward alone. The Valarion fleet soon came into sight, and Parmo looked to the top of the mainmast to make sure his yellow flag was flying. It was a symbol honored by Valarion sailors of old, but Parmo was not certain the Valarion fleet would honor it now. He could only hope they would. His plan was simple. If the Valarions agreed to parley, he would state his claim for the Valarion throne and challenge Don Bricio to single combat. If Don Bricio refused, he would attempt to win the hearts of the Valarions over and mutiny against Don Bricio. Snippets of phrases and ideas swirled through his head, but he had no set speech in mind. Speak to your own heart, and you’ll speak to theirs, he knew. If that failed, it was war. Rufous would signal the rest of the Pyrthin fleet at the first sign of trouble, and they’d all sleep at the bottom of the ocean, Pyrthinians and Valarions alike.

  The first ships of the Valarion fleet drew near now and Parmo saw with some relief that they were lowering sail. In fact, the entire fleet lowered sail and formed a perimeter around Pyrthin’s Valor. Rufous ordered his men to drop their own sail, and soon two hundred ships were drifting off the eastern shore of Pyrthinia, all of them, but one, Valarion ships.

  A lone caravel sailed forward to halt alongside Pyrthin’s Valor. Parmo put his hand to the hilt of his sword and yelled across the span of water between the two ships.

  “I am Parmenios Pallma, rightful heir to the throne of Valaróz! I demand to speak with the usurper, Don Bricio.”

  A sailor stepped up onto the sterncastle of the caravel and shouted back. “I am Socorro, Admiral of this fleet. If you have something to say, say it to me.”

  Parmo glanced at the ships surrounding Pyrthin’s Valor. On the deck of each and every one, Valarion sailors crowded forward to hear what he had to say.

  Rufous saw it too. “Word of your return has gone before us,” he spoke quietly. “They are yours to win over.”

  Parmo breathed in deeply, then spoke, projecting his voice out over the water. “I have come to retake the throne of Valaróz! Thirty-four years ago, my family was slain by the Emperor and the usurper, Don Bricio. King Provencio was shot in the back with a crossbow, like a common thief. Queen Lauda and Princess Maysa were burned alive on the steps of the palace in Sol Valaróz. Maysa was only four. Four years old! These were your countrymen, your just and faithful rulers, descendants of Vala herself. In their place, the Emperor placed a foreigner from the Old World, a weasel who rules by force and cares not for the welfare of Valaróz. How many of your friends—of your kin?—have died or felt the sting of the whip at Don Bricio’s hand? How many have disappeared never to be seen again because they were an outspoken Valarion and unafraid to stand up for truth?

  “I remember a time when Valaróz was proudest of the Five Kingdoms, the never-wavering force that kept the Old World at bay. The kingdom of the sun, home of the finest wine, the best catches of the sea, and the most beautiful women. I remember a time when all Valarions were free to live and prosper without fear of pain or death for speaking their mind or disparaging Sargoth. I remember a time when Valaróz and Pyrthinia were allies, when we fought together for justice and peace. But now, Valaróz is nothing more than an extension of Sargoth. Our once proud kingdom has sunk lower than Golier, even!

  “But we can regain our glory, my countrymen. Join me. Let me lead you, and together we will once again ally ourselves with Pyrthinia. Together we will defeat Sargoth. Together we will rem
ake Valaróz into the kingdom it deserves to be!”

  A great murmuring rose up from the Valarion sailors, punctuated with intermittent shouts, but Parmo could not make out their words, whether they were for or against him.

  “Silence!” Socorro yelled. When all was quiet again but for the lapping of the seas against the ships, he addressed Parmo. “How can we know your are truly of the Pallma line?”

  Parmo withdrew his sword and held it up for all to see. “Because I bear the sword of my ancestors. Bring forth Don Bricio and he himself will recognize my face. He was there when I was thrown into the bay of Sol Valaróz thirty-four years ago. Let him speak for himself, and if he still lays claim to our kingdom’s throne, I will cut his heart from his chest.”

  All was silent for a long moment. Parmo held his breath. He didn’t know what else he could say to sway them.

  “I’m very sorry,” Socorro said finally, “but Don Bricio cannot vouch for you.”

  A young man stepped forward onto the forecastle of the caravel to join Socorro, and he flung something toward Pyrthin’s Valor. One of the Pyrthinian sailors caught it out of the air and held it up. It was a burlap sack. The sailor looked inside and pulled out the severed head of Don Bricio.

  “Don Bricio no longer lays claim to the throne of Valaróz,” the young man said from the other ship.

  Rufous ran forward to stand alongside Parmo. “Is that you, Prince Caile?”

  “So it is, Captain,” Caile yelled back with a smile.

  “How is this possible?” Parmo asked, stunned.

  “Perhaps you should come aboard,” Socorro said, “and we can explain… Your Highness.”​

  On board Don Bricio’s caravel, Caile explained to Parmo and Rufous how he had snuck aboard and killed Don Bricio, then confronted Socorro.

  “When he showed me that head, I didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him,” Socorro laughed. “But he somehow knew you were with the Pyrthin fleet, King Parmenios. We’d all heard rumors you were back but didn’t dare to hope it was true. I’m glad it is.”

  “As am I,” Parmo agreed. “But how is that you knew I’d be here, Caile?”

  Caile shrugged. “It was not hard to guess. I’d heard the rumors you were back, too, but I happened to know they were true because I’ve met your granddaughter. And if you’re anything like she is, I knew you’d be with the Pyrthin fleet.”

  “Makarria?” Parmo could hardly believe what he was hearing. “She’s alive?”

  “Alive and well last I saw her.”

  “Makarria?”

  “Yes, Makarria,” Caile said with a smile.

  Parmo gave out a hoot of elation, then picked Caile up in a bear hug and swung him around in a circle before kissing him on the forehead. “Where is she? You’re sure she’s fine?”

  “She’s in Norgland with a sorceress—the daughter of Trumball himself—so I imagine she’s safer than the rest of us,” Caile said, and he proceeded to tell Parmo how he’d been rescued by Talitha and traveled with her to Issborg to free Taera and Makarria from Kadar and Roanna. He told Parmo everything except where Makarria was headed. That information Talitha had made them all promise to keep secret. You’re not to tell anyone, not your father, not Parmenios, not anyone, she had said. Even those we trust can unintentionally let secrets slip, and if the Emperor learns Makarria is coming, she is lost. And so Caile kept his promise and made it sounds as if Makarria was still in Issborg.

  When Parmo was content that he had heard everything and that Makarria was safe, they set about discussing what to do. After much deliberation, they decided to split up. Caile would go with Rufous and the Pyrthin fleet back to Kal Pyrthin, then upriver to reinforce Kylep, while Parmo would return with Socorro and the Valarion fleet to Sol Valaróz and make official his claim to the throne. Parmo’s initial instincts were to go with Caile to Kylep and help Casstian fight the Emperor, but he knew Socorro and Rufous were right: he’d better serve the war against the Emperor by unifying Valaróz under his rule and striking out both by land and sea.

  Less than an hour later, their plans were made, Caile was gone with Rufous on board Pyrthin’s Valor, and Parmo stood at the sterncastle of Don Bricio’s caravel which he promptly renamed Makarria.

  “Are we ready to set course for Sol Valaróz, Captain and King?” Socorro asked him.

  “Send the rest of the fleet on ahead of us,” Parmo said. “We’ll catch up with them shortly. There’s something we must do first.”

  “What would that be, Captain?”

  “Set course for Spearpoint Rock. We’re going to fetch the rest of the royal family.”

  31

  The March to Col Sargoth

  King Casstian looked at the fray before him and commanded his reserve troops forward. The Sargothian cavalrymen from the Lepig garrison had cut deeply into the ranks of the initial Pyrthinian force, but Casstian’s small army vastly outnumbered the Sargothians, even if his army was hastily assembled. Upon Taera’s arrival in Kylep and after hearing her news, Casstian had made haste toward Lepig with his advanced troops to take the city. If the rumor of Guderian’s war machines was true, Casstian knew his only hope was to bottleneck the machines in the confines of the high road where it passed through Forrest Weorcan and that meant securing Lepig and Weordan first. All was going as planned so far.

  The reserve troops surged forward onto the plains surrounding Lepig and swept over the Sargothian cavalrymen. A few small pockets of resistance persisted, but the fighting was all but over. Satisfied, Casstian turned his horse about to face his High Constables. Taera was there with them, sitting on her horse still clad in the savage furs of the northmen. He had tried convincing her to stay back in Kylep, but she insisted on coming, and he didn’t have the heart to keep her confined there by force.

  “It is done,” Casstian told his constables. “Let’s form the men back up into ranks before we march into the city. I want everything orderly and clean. No looting, no drinking, nothing. First order of business is to secure the garrison and round up any other Sargothian soldiers. Once that’s done, post the bulletins and send out criers to announce a curfew and our purpose. We are here to free these people, not enslave them. Put down any disobedience quickly and quietly. Otherwise, the people may go about their normal business. Send out our field marshals to recruit whoever is willing into the general infantry. Is there anything I’m forgetting?”

  “What of me and my men?” Leone asked.

  “Your work here is done,” Casstian said. “Sneak your men past Weordan into the forest. Do what you can to block the high road. Fall trees across it, dig holes, do whatever seems most feasible to stall those wagons from reaching us. Our main troops are ten days out still, even under a forced march.”

  Leone was listening, but his attention was focused beyond Casstian. “Your Majesty,” he said suddenly. “Behind you.”

  Casstian turned to see four Sargothian cavalrymen rushing up the hill toward them. They had somehow fought through the Pyrthinian forces and broken free.

  “Form around me,” Casstian yelled, drawing his sword. “Taera, stay here.”

  The constables drew their weapons and formed up around Casstian. When he saw they were all ready, he called the charge and they spurred their horses forward. They were six against four and at the last moment one of the Sargothian’s reigned in short and veered away. Casstian thought little of it, thinking the man merely a coward, and the three remaining cavalrymen were pummeled from their horses in the initial onslaught. The fourth cavalryman, however, did not flee; he merely skirted Casstian and his men and charged straight for Taera.

  Taera realized what was happening immediately and pulled her skinning knife from her belt. A twinge of fear ran down her spine, but instead of letting it paralyze her she took a deep breath and let the fear fuel her anger. Damned coward, she cursed the soldier charging toward her. Go after the one girl on the field, will you? Taera squeezed her legs and gave a little chirp to urge her horse forward, then kicked him
in the flanks to meet the charge full-on. She let loose a yell from deep within her gut.

  Casstian turned to see what was happening at the last moment and screamed, but Taera did not hear him. The cavalryman’s flail swept out toward Taera’s head, but she ducked beneath it and swiped at the man with her knife. The collision nearly broke her arm the force was so great, and she was knocked clean from her saddle to land on the ground with a thump. She pushed herself up with a groan, ready to fight even though there was no air in her lungs and she had lost her knife. The cavalryman had been unhorsed as well, she saw, and he was still down, her knife stuck into his belly. He flopped and convulsed on the ground like a fish, trying unsuccessfully to grasp the bloody handle of the knife and pull it free.

  Taera stepped on his chest with one booted foot to hold him down and yanked the blade out of him. The man groaned in pain and looked up at her with wide eyes, but she felt no pity for him. With a savage yell, she brought the knife down into his throat, and his startled cry ended in a wet gasp.

  “Taera!” Casstian yelled as he reigned his mount to a halt. “Are you alright?”

  “Better than I’ve been in a long time,” Taera remarked, flinging the blood from her blade.

  Casstian was off his horse by now and looking her over to make sure she wasn’t wounded. “What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You’re just as much of a damned fool as Caile is.”