by T B Phillips
Delilah stood, suddenly appearing less tired than before. “Why didn’t you come to me then?”
“I couldn’t walk. I’ve been in bed with my chambermaid tending my wounds. I sent her to fetch you, but she said you were away.”
The woman’s eyes shot again to the girl. “Gretchen, did a woman come from the palace?” Hair flew as the girl shook her head. No one came. “Hester, it’s too late to stop conception.”
Hester’s eyes glazed as tears formed. “Then give me something to kill it.”
“It won’t work.” The girl’s voice silenced both women. “The child is a powerful emotant of winter. The drug won’t kill him.”
Hester turned to Delilah. “What’s she talking about?”
The old woman’s eyes had grown distant and filled with worry. “Take off your clothes so that I can mend your wounds, child. I’ll explain as I do.”
Hester complied and gingerly peeled off the layers of cloth. Yellow pus oozed from the red and raised edges of the cuts, and the smell filled the room as soon as her clothing dropped to the floor. Delilah followed the lines with her eyes.
“You said that your maid tended your wounds? More likely she caused them to fester at his command.” She turned to the girl “Gretchen, I need supplies from my special trunk. This is beyond herbs and natural medicine.”
“Which antibiotic do you want?”
“Grab the penicillin and erythromycin ointment. If we don’t act fast, she won’t survive the voyage.”
“Voyage?” Confusion spread across Hester’s face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are, dearie. We have to get you to Braen and make him believe this child is his.”
“But I’ve not lain with him in two years. How would that be possible?”
“You’ll need to change that, and soon. Lay face down on the bed so that I can apply the ointment. I’ll explain everything, but I warn you that the world is not as you believe, Hester. Andalon is only a tiny part of it and there are powers and weapons far greater than swords.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The night wind carried twenty warships up the Logan River. The vessels made a magnificent sight, low in the water and sleek while loaded with marauders hell bent on plunder. They made good time and their steady pace ensured arrival just after midnight, when the moon would be highest. Eventually the current won the battle against the sails, and the crew oared the rest of the way. Other than the sound of gentle splashing, the night remained silent.
The crisp air compelled topside men to raise their collars as they rowed, but one man ignored the chill as he focused on the prize ahead. The captain of the lead vessel stared straight ahead, nervously fidgeting with his knife and a piece of whale bone, a practice called scrimshaw that many sailors adopted to pass the time. Unlike beautiful carvings and etchings that one would expect from an artist, a closer look as his artwork would have revealed indiscriminate scratches in the ivory bone. He scarcely looked down, except to ensure he did not cut himself by mistake.
“Artur!” Skander Braston called over his shoulder to a bald warrior wielding a two-handed axe.
The First Mate stepped forward. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Prepare the men. This raid is not like any other they’ve joined. Diaph is well fortified and there may even be Falconers present.”
The man blanched with mouth agape, revealing several missing teeth. With a trembling voice he asked, “Falconers, sire?”
“Yes. My dear brother completed half the work for us by removing the harbor defenses. From dispatches I’ve seen, the southern wall may even be down completely. But the rest of the guns are intact, and they may turn them on their own city if they get desperate. I want you to handle those.”
Artur nodded his understanding, face still troubled by the thought of specters waiting with dark magic. “But the Falconers, sire?”
“I have a plan for them, just worry about the guns.” The city walls loomed ahead. To his right a signal flame lit atop a watchtower. Good. They know we’re coming. After a moment, a second light answered from atop the walls. Soon bells tolled throughout Diaph. “Get them ready. Make preparations for a cannonade to soften our landing.” After a pause he added, “And I want the Berserkers out front when we land.”
Artur relayed the order to a signalman who lit two torches. The man went into a dance of flame with a series of movements that conveyed both messages. Within seconds, horns of acknowledgement sounded from the other boats. “All ships are ready, sire.” Ahead, the city came to life with torches of their own that lit the night sky.
Once his fleet had reached cannon range, Skander gave the order to lift oars. The heavy gunner ships drifted with the current, ambling until their broadsides faced the city. They anchored positions so that the water flowed around the ships. Once in place, the small boats halted as well.
The northern king smiled as he commanded, “Start the bombardment.” The signalman resumed his fire dance and soon the big vessels lobbed heavy shot into the harbor and eastern armaments.
Skander stood on the forecastle of Ice Slayer. He nodded to Artur who knelt to light a circle of torches around his captain and king. He wanted each crewman on every vessel to witness the power he was about to wield. Above him the clear skies darkened, and storm clouds built into a magnificent storm. The tempest drifted slowly toward Diaph as it grew. Every sailor gasped when the river changed course.
The draft of the Fjorik ships slowly lowered as the current beneath them lessened to a trickle. Ahead, the river seemed to flow into the harbor, flooding the city. Skander focused so intently on directing the path of the water that he nearly lost his grip on the storm above. Lightning flashed and he roared against thunder as he reestablished control. Finally confident that he could maintain both the weather and the river, he allowed his ships to settle into the mud. With a growl he ordered Artur, “Send the Berserkers.”
The signalman danced and fifty marauders aboard two ships chanted and swayed. A strong gust on its way to feed the storm carried their crazed song into the night. Faster they chanted until their voices became animalistic and inaudible, a grotesque cacophony of grunts and growls. Skander never turned from the city, but knew that the fighters built their fury by biting their shields and slicing their own skin. Each was locked in an herbal frenzy. With a scream, one of the men had leaped from the deck and onto the soft mud. A heartbeat later the others flooded over the side of their longboats and the Berserkers charged Diaph.
“Now.” He growled to Artur who relayed the command. The rest of the soldiers disembarked with more discipline than the first wave, carefully forming a shield wall. Skander, finally confident that he could hold both the storm and the river, joined his force of sixteen hundred soldiers and sounded the charge, “Fjorik! Attack!”
As he and his men ran, his head began to thump. His ears rang but he ignored the pain caused by holding the water in place. He almost lost it when his father’s voice boomed in his mind, resonating with the sound of thunder above. Your brother did not lose a man when he raided this city, yet you will send my most elite fighters to their doom. Skander tried to ignore the words from the spirit, but he could not. The bound warrior, forbidden from entering the heavenly feast, continued to mock him. You know nothing about tactics, only killing. This raid will fail, and you will ignite the war that will end our family line. The king gritted his teeth and pressed forward.
And then a moment of doubt took over. What if father is right? What if I’m leading us into a war we cannot win? He missed a step and stumbled, slightly losing his hold on the flowing body of water just ahead. Some of it streamed down the riverbed toward his advance, but he quickly recovered both his footing and his link.
Of course I’m correct, Skander. I tried to teach my sons to be generals and kings as well as fighters, but you never listened. You were so convinced that you were smarter that you ign
ored the advice of experience. Now you’re doomed to die a failure. Skander roared his defiance into the night.
By the time they reached the harbor, the Berserkers had cleared the front line. Many bled or were pierced by arrows, but they fought on with exuberance, pressing the remaining defenders where the former wall had stood. Skander smiled as he spied the small cannons the city had gathered for protection. Their big guns were destroyed by Braen and these had no range on his attack. Moreover, the flooding water backed them toward higher ground.
Once Fjorik troops were in place, he released his hold on the river and allowed it to flow naturally. The pressure in his head eased instantly and the voice of his father fell silent, helping him to scan the battlefield with clarity. Movement among the enemy forces caught his attention. Three men in feathered hoods paced casually behind the defenders. Almost immediately, a strong gust of wind blew toward the Berserkers, forming a cyclone that drew strength from the storm above. The tornado swirled as it ripped at the elite force before spitting them out. In the blink of an eye, his front line was gone.
Skander seethed as he reached into the storm. He could feel the pulse of it and found the particles in the clouds. His rage shook these until the storm intensified, charging the sky and igniting it with white flashes of lightning. And then he knew what power he truly held. He poured hatred for his brother and father into the storm just as the first volley of grapeshot ripped through his men. Unfazed, he connected fully with the storm, carving the cloud with his mind and swirling the ice within. His electric scrimshaw glowed against the clouds.
Everyone on both sides of the fight paused to stare. Even the Falconers marveled at the intricate swirls and unmistakable sigil of House Braston. The sabre cat came to life and ripped a wolf to pieces above the city while portions of the enemy ranks broke. Skander cackled as men threw down weapons, fleeing toward the northern gate. Their exit left the Falconers alone, trying to rally to hold the rest in line. And then the baby cried.
No, Skander thought. Not now. He hated the wail of the infant. Ever since he had raided Atarax he carried the infant inside, unable to extinguish the agonizing cries. Usually they came at nighttime, keeping him awake and unable to rest. But why now? He watched as more of his men fell and he realized that the night would not be won without considerable loss.
The northern king screamed into the night, his voice drowning out the wailing for just a brief second. In that moment he flooded hatred for Hester into the swirling clouds above, remembering the rage he had felt when he discovered her elixir in the nightstand. No wonder she has never whelped a child. In two years, my seed should have taken hold and ensured an heir, but the witch had blocked conception with her potions.
He poured all of his pain into the storm and watched as it burst into a white ball of lightning. The Falconers exploded on the ground and men flew in all directions around them. He bellowed his command and sent his warriors toward victory with a single word, “Charge!” They pressed, overwhelmed the defenders, and gave no quarter to prisoners. The city was his.
After the killing came the pillaging. The storm above had dissipated rapidly, but the tempest on the ground raged for hours until daybreak. Skander watched his men load the spoils onto the ships with disinterest, his mind already focused on his next move. He enjoyed the moment of clear headedness, free from the voices and wails. He heard a throat clear behind him. “What is it, Artur?”
“Sire, we found something… unusual.”
Skander raised an eyebrow. “Weapons?”
“No, Your Highness. The armory had already been looted before we arrived. They had little in the way of weapons.”
“Then what is it that gave you a need to interrupt my thoughts?” Especially when they are finally only my own.
“You need to come and see for yourself. We think it’s the roost of the Falconers.”
Suddenly curious, he allowed his friend to lead him to a stone building, simple and free of adornment. The wooden doors had been battered by his men and lay discarded on the ground. Once inside, he noticed a strange overhead glow in the ceiling. He climbed onto a table and touched the light, recoiling from the heat within. “How do they work?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is this what you brought me to see?”
“No, My Lord. In here, please.”
They passed through several doorways until they reached a room full of hundreds of stone slabs. People of all ages lay atop each one, stripped of clothing and with strange tubes running in and out of their bodies. He paused next to one, a man of no more than twenty summers with long blonde hair and beard. He followed the tubing to a small glass bottle with black fluid dripping into a pool within. He examined the sleeping form and watched the eyes flicker as if in a dream. Shrugging, he ripped the tubes from the man. Nothing happened.
Skander noticed that Artur examined the form of a woman on the next table. “Have all of the fun that you want, just make sure you kill them when you’re finished.” A gasp from the man on the table snapped his attention, just in time for the body to sit up with eyes open and mouth sucking breath. “What in the hells?”
The man raised his hands and a blast of air shot toward Skander, sending him flying across the room and into the wall. Artur moved in with his ax but stopped when his king yelled, “Wait!”
The man stared at Skander with confusion in his eyes. “Where am I?”
“Diaph. What do you last remember?”
“I was playing in the field when Mommy called me in.” Tears filled his eyes, childlike and scared. “I was making the leaves blow around. Then a falcon landed beside me and the man came.”
Skander rushed over, placing a hand on his shoulder and feigning compassion. “What is your name?”
“Brion.”
His mind is of a child, the northern king mused. With kindness in his voice he asked, “Brion, how long have you been here?”
The child in a man’s body looked around, taking in the other sleeping forms. In a trembling voice he answered, “I don’t know.”
“How old are you, Brion?”
“Ten summers at harvest, sir.”
A wide grin covered Skander’s face when he turned to Artur. “Wake them and treat them well. Find them clothing and get them aboard the ships immediately.” When his friend nodded understanding he added, “Treat them like honored guests and ensure the others do as well.” He paused, then said, “Before we leave, I want the entire city burned to the ground. Leave nothing standing, do you understand?”
Artur responded, “Yes, sire. But what does it mean?”
“It means that we just won this war.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fatwana stared at the girl sitting across from her. The terrorist gave nothing away with her expression and said little since the train station. The antique weapon in the girl’s hand added to her sinister appearance and Fatwana hoped that it was too old to function. She had never seen one in person, since the possession of anything designed to kill a human had been outlawed more than a thousand years before. Only the police squads and the private army of the Council carried weapons.
“You can put that away now.” She spoke with a coolness that cloaked her nerves. “I’m not stupid enough to run away.”
“You’re not my prisoner, Fatwana.” The girl flashed a smile, but her lips quickly settled into a worried fret.
“Then why did you point that at me?”
“We didn’t have time to argue.”
“Argue? About what?” Fatwana asked casually.
“About coming back with me to headquarters.”
“This isn’t going as I had planned.” Fatwana looked around the interior of the van.
“Exactly. This meeting is on our terms.”
With eyes darting back to the gun, Fatwana asked, “Can you please put that away? It’s making me nervous.”
Soon the vehicle slowed and eventually came to a stop. Fatwana heard doors slam and then the rear of the vehicle opened, revealing two men in coveralls. They were from the metalworks sector, judging by the dark green they wore. From their surroundings she intuitively knew that she was not in an actual factory. The warehouse was empty except for some crates stacked orderly against the far wall. As they walked by, she saw that these were stamped Pots or Pans. “Where exactly is headquarters?”
“That isn’t for me to say. If the Dragon wants you to know then he will tell you.”
“The Dragon?”
“The Dragon is our deliverance from the Council.” Fatwana detected reverence in the way the girl spoke of her leader. “He’s been away many years and only recently returned to lead our cause.”
“Away to where?”
“Why, Andalon, of course!” Cassidy almost seemed to laugh when she spoke. “He’s returned to destroy the system that keeps the people of both Astia and Andalon enslaved.”
“So, the Society truly are revolutionaries?” She clutched the storage device tightly in her hand. What am I doing involved in a revolution? I only wanted to stop the farming of the Andalonians.
“Not exactly,” the girl answered while an elevator opened on the wall. The women entered first followed by the men. “But the Dragon will explain.”
Cassidy slid a panel aside and inserted a key. With a turn the car descended, going the opposite direction from the options on the display. When they reached the bottom, the doors opened to reveal a large cave bustling with activity.
Cassidy led her onward. It grew obvious that the lead sister’s first impression was wrong. This is one of the lost cities, she marveled, buried under centuries of warfare and volcanic ash. Hundreds of people hurried about their tasks. Fatwana first noticed their clothing, brightly colored crimson. Their dress contrasted sharply with the bland coveralls worn by the people walking the streets above.
