Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  There, right next to the king, was a strapping young lad dressed in velvets, hands on hips to better see the elaborate mosaic of gold-wire running from chin to hip. Stromgald knew of him. Galen Zephyr. Heir to the Amden Throne. The king looked haggard, and waved a limp hand. Almost on cue the young man strutted forth to answer. “Greetings travelers. Welcome to my humble kingdom.” My, Stromgald noted. Not his father’s or ours. To be tangled up in the webs of political intrigue was the last thing the ranger captain needed. Idly he wondered how deep this game went.

  The prince must have asked for Christina’s hand, for suddenly she was atop the dais and getting her knuckles kissed. “You are most generous, my husband.”

  “Not yet, milady. But soon. Quite soon. Was your journey a fast one?”

  “No,” Christina answered, and for the next few minutes recounted the tale of coming to the castle. Except of course she was the heroine, slaying all the beasts single-handily, striving on when the rangers all but gave up. Galen looked on, wide-eyed at the many courageous acts of his bride-to-be. “Oh, it must have been terrible for you, my dear.”

  “Oh, it was. It was. I am just glad to be here.”

  “Do not fret, my lady. Guardsman!” The servants appeared as if they’d been standing there for hours. “Take the princess to my room so she may sleep. I will follow quickly.” Taking hold of the princess’ shoulders, the old servant walked her to the stairs and then floors beyond. Orson followed them, his eyes full of hot hunger. Sylver elbowed him in the ribs. Lust had its place, and it was not here with the princess.

  “You guided the princess here?”

  “Only from Wyndei Darteria. Her entourage...was not fast enough.”

  “Well, in any case, here is a reward.” He tossed a leather bag to Stromgald, jingling with coin as the ranger caught it. “You have my thanks.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Bowing slightly, Stromgald turned and led his company out of the castle. Once outside the air felt less stuffy, cleaner. Stromgald took it in and breathed a sigh of relief. The assignment was done. And yet, it was only the beginning.

  “We have a charge,” he said to the rangers. Taking a second vellum from a hidden pocket the ranger captain passed it about, watched as their eyes bugged from their heads. “The frontline needs us.”

  “Yeah, but with Vicars?” Orson spat. “This is a Church matter. Let the altar boys do it.”

  “I would do that, if not the orders came from Robert Jekai.”

  A sudden silence descended. Robert Jekai, the greatest general of his time. Amden knew most of its victories through the man. Bound of the cloth as he was, his silver tongue had a way of uniting whole races under the banners of patriotism and justice. “I have to go.” Stromgald said. “I owe Lord Jekai a debt.” He climbed atop his horse, met the gazes of his company. “I have to.” That was all he said, and by the pulsing need of the words the ranger team climbed atop their horses. None of them expressed any doubt in their choice. Well, save for one.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Orson ground between his teeth. In one motion, charged with zeal, they galloped into the horizon.

  XX

  “You control the Tennant.”

  Mathias Tolrep spun about in the belly of his new ship. He had grown up on many different boats over the years, from galleys to canoes to rafts. The wood whispered to him, alerting him with tiny creaks so that no man would arrive unnoticed. Yet there he was, the legendary Lazarus, standing in the lantern-light as if he owned it.

  “My Lord.” Instinct told him to bow even though the word “Tennant” boiled him inside out. “You...I was told you left with Mykel.”

  “I did.”

  “Then how...?”

  “I am here. But I am also there.”

  “That’s impossible. You can’t be in two places at once.”

  “You get to be my age, you learn all sorts of tricks.” He smiled. Like a grandfather. That put the privateer even further on edge. “But I don’t need to tell you that, Sir Perlot.”

  Every fiber of Mathias’ being was locked in fear, his every thought scattering in all directions like frightened quail. Can’t be. Impossible. How can he know? No one knows. He must be bluffing. He’s not bluffing. Why is he looking at me like that? I am done. If he could find out others could. I’m dead.

  “Calm down boy. No one else knows.” Somehow his voice was more soothing than the privateer imagined. He felt his muscles go slack, just a little bit.

  “Spelling your last name backwards for a new alias...Well, I expected more from a lad of your caliber. Then again, I suppose I’m not in any position to judge right or wrong.”

  “How...” Tolrep swallowed his fear, but it kept crawling back into his words. “How did you know?”

  “I make it my business to know the comings and goings of shiisaa artifacts. It is the latter that concerns me now.”

  His silence seemed a living thing, unfurling into a broiling fury that sank into one’s bones and hammered nails into your feet. “Sir...It’s not what you think.”

  “You let the only mahou-driven ship on the planet out of your grasp! To a man who doesn’t appreciate or understand its’ power. You lost it to an idiot who plays about it like a toy!”

  “Sir, I swear to you. It’s not my fault.”

  “Shut up.” Tolrep’s jaw clicked shut instantly. There were more protests to say, more excuses to tell...But there wasn’t any drive to any of them. Not even one seemed terribly important. Tolrep just stood there, stiff as a beam, without knowing why.

  “Do you even know how to drive the damn thing? No, you don’t. You just ran away like a coward.”

  “My parents were burned at the stake! They burned because my mother healed a dying child!”

  Lazarus blinked. He actually blinked. “That’s the proof right there. Not everyone can break that trance.”

  Tolrep flexed his muscles just to make sure they were within his control again. “She called it a gift. After everything that happened she still called it a gift. She said it even as she burned.”

  “But you kept it. Why? I would understand wanting to get as far away as possible, start a new life. But you didn’t. You didn’t strip it to parts, didn’t capsize it. You did nothing to destroy it. Why keep it if the whole damn thing is a sham?”

  “It was theirs!” Tolrep clutched his hammering heart, eyes wide with revelation. The secret of his burden whispered away; somehow, he felt lighter. “It’s the only thing I have of them.”

  “So you kept it. You finagled a lone esuzou to pilot it in your place. Eddard, I assume.” Lazarus paused to take a breath. “He got tired of being the farce and wanted the power for himself. So he bound you to that island.”

  “He was a greenling.” Tolrep growled. “The binding only lasted within five hundred leagues between us. I would have been free come the sunrise, had Myke not intervened. After that...Well, you know the rest.”

  “You are a Weirwynd. An esuzou. You are your father’s son. From the moment your parents died, the ship was your responsibility –”

  “Don’t say it old man. I’ve heard the song before. It’s our responsibility to enlighten the world, my father said. We are brothers. They’ve just forgotten.” Tolrep’s face was a dark thundercloud. “Don’t talk to me about responsibility. You haven’t the right.”

  Lazarus had the good sense to keep his silence. Like a ghost he watched newly-opened memories seethe beneath the privateer’s skin. Tolrep paced back and forth in a straight line, clenched and unclenched his hands, eyes wide and bulging with rage, hissing and growling like a lion forbidden to hunt. Finally, Tolrep brought both fists upon the curved wall, leaving behind a small ind
entation. Seconds whispered into minutes as the rage drained from the privateer with every breath, until all the tremors in his body ceased. “I’ll get it back,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  He looked up. The old man was no longer there. He smiled until the hole in his heart was sufficiently plugged, and then started up the stairs to his ship’s deck.

  Three days. Three short little days. It felt longer. Much, much longer. His crew didn’t mind. Every man earned their mettle on voyages that didn’t see port for months at a time, so three days without so much of an inch of progress did not disturb them in the least. The problem, of course, lay with Eddard. He wasn’t stupid. He agonized every little detail of his pursuits. A good sailor knew all the nooks and crannies of the sea, and Eddard was one of the best. He could spend the rest of the war lashing out at his leisure and no one would ever find him.

  So why hadn’t he done so yet? Tolrep’s brain was on fire. Eddard had the power, the skill. So why weren’t we living in the Empire of Eddard? Tolrep clawed at his scalp as he paced the deck. Something’s stopping him. How? What?

  A spell is an extension of one’s will. Tolrep closed his eyes and focused on the memory of his father’s voice, calm and patient as the sea. Its energy cannot be duplicated, only passed down. Even then the spell must be altered to align with the new caster. The successor must make it his own.

  He needs me. Transference was a rare thing. Eddard was an esuzou same as him, but they were not of the same blood. Tolrep smiled. Thanks Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll set things right.

  The quickest way to Eddard, he knew, was through his pride. So Tolrep went to the one place where he could do the most good and the most damage: the town of Wind.

  Wind was a city of bridges and stalls; made white from the slight snowfall. A thousand carts rattled upon the wooden boards like a mantra, as much as part of the sea as the salt in the air and foam on the tides. Their merchants sang their offers all at once, a harmony that blanketed the air and yet left enough room for the wares to be heard.

  Originally a seaport, Wind had been commissioned on the orders of a conquest-hungry king. The royalty wanted more lands, more riches, more everything. So, he sent the dregs of society to a new land to remake it in his image. Only the image turned out to be very different. While the civilization was impressive, its darker side gained even more prominence. It became a haven for all kinds of men, each one darker than the last. It was one such man that Tolrep sought.

  The privateer went over his arguments repeatedly. The man he sought, known only as the Baron, was a hard man by all accounts; he was suspicious of his own mother delivering him into the world. Tolrep was on his five hundredth repetition that he reached the Baron’s domicile...and cursed his ill luck under his breath.

  How a man kept his home was a good judge of the man himself; if this was so, then the sparse conditions added the intimidation of starved bloodhounds. The Baron, no doubt, brooded under the shelter of an olive-colored tent large enough to fit a dozen men hand to hand. The only furniture was a highly-polished oaken desk, with a simple cot off to the side. That was the view in front of the tent. It was a completely different view from the end of the lines.

  Starting from the tent, hundreds of men made a serpentine line twisting into the horizon. They ran the gambit from short to tall, young and old, cocky and timid. In a better time, the men would be seeking the Baron’s favor; now conscription had them all by the throat. Honor and glory to the Kingdom and all that. This wasn’t going to be easy, but Tolrep already knew that.

  “Hey there handsome. Want a bath?”

  Tolrep merely smiled. First it was bathing. Next was the inevitable seduction and even more inevitable fucking. It had started already. All around the privateer there were shifting blankets, from which moans and curses blared outward. Still the noise didn’t deny the merchants’ howling.

  The entertainments grew more interesting the farther along one ascended the line. Those who had a coin to spare dropped them into the open cap of a harper, or the equally humorous bard’s feathered fedora. Tolrep didn’t see a reason for charity. The fools couldn’t be heard anyway, no matter how much their faces swelled from the strain.

  The crack of breaking bone finally shattered the miasma of noise. All heads swiveled to see two men wrestling in the snow. The harp and flute a few feet away confirmed them to be the harper and the bard. Competition and the cold soured into hatred.

  I should keep walking. But then he saw the small knots of men betting over the outcome. The doxies instinctively stayed clear. Everybody else was pretending the battle wasn’t happening. I just want a boat. He snatched both men by their collars and shook them like rag dolls before launching them face-first into muddy snow.

  Tolrep tensed as the fools exchanged glances, their feud shoved aside for vengeful satisfaction. The privateer considered cracking his knuckles, but he wanted the ruse to last as long as possible.

  The harper threw the first punch. Tolrep ducked just low enough so that the harper overextended himself, stumbling right into the privateer’s left cross. The harper spun to the ground and didn’t get up.

  The bard took one look at Tolrep, one look to the harper, and decided to shuffle to the back of the line. Tolrep was almost sad to see him go; his blood was afire, and nothing ruined a conversation faster than a loose temper.

  “Hey!” The crowd parted to make way for a cadre of men, identical right down to the white-silver tunics that made them one with the snowflakes. Even from a few inches away Tolrep felt the burning hate from the leader’s slitted eyes. “You the one who did this?”

  Tolrep eyed the soldiers before answering. These were no common toughs. Their eyes were hard diamonds, and the calluses on their hands implied an intimacy with the swords resting gingerly at their hips. “I was just breaking up a fight. Nothing more.” The privateer knew enough of the world that mere words weren’t enough. His luck being as it was, the two fools were heirs to some ancient dynasty no one heard of. Most like their power came not from struggle or responsibility but by histories of blackmail and deceit. The fops would probably whip the skin right off his back for their humiliation.

  That didn’t happen, however. The fallen harper wasn’t even given a second glance. Instead the white-silver squad arranged themselves into a living cage about Tolrep so close he’d be sneezing on shoulders if a stray breeze decided to intervene. They left him at the Baron’s now-empty tent with only one stool to straddle. A moment later the Baron himself emerged from the tent’s rear flaps, sat down at his desk and did...nothing.

  Bullshit. He’s weighing me. The same thing the privateer was doing. The observation brought clarity to a great many thing. The Baron was a large man, as expected. The white hair standing at attention. Also expected. The hard-blue eyes, the face a maze of scars. He fit into the specifics of a soldier, all right. Don’t assume anything, Tolrep reminded himself. A man’s true face was never on the surface.

  “You look like a pirate.” The deep baritone tone shivered Tolrep’s bones. “I do not trust pirates.”

  The man didn’t seem to trust anyone but his barber. “I was born a fisherman, my lord.” Tolrep held the other’s gaze; it would not do to end up a subordinate through timidity. A chuckle was Tolrep’s reward. Good. A step in the right direction.

  “My men told me you passed up a chance with one of the bathing girls.”

  It took a moment for the shock to fade. “I’m not here to father bastards.”

  “And the quarrel between the singers. You share no commonality with them.”

  Tolrep felt his body go hard, and his words burned with irritation. “The fighting served no purpose. If my comrades are fool enough to let themselves be distracted by petty matters, then I don’t want them around. Their idiocy mig
ht kill me.”

  The Baron cocked his head to the side, his eyes piercing and probing. “Come,” he said with a gesture. The bathing girl emerged from the tent, still wearing that mischievous smile that implied the loose eagerness of a slut. “You have already met my daughter, I believe.”

  Tolrep thought it might be the case. “The other maids?”

  “All my daughters. They have nothing of me in them, thank God. Every one of them is the exact picture of their mother.” The test was rather clever. A man too deep in his own urges instead of the job at hand was not a man wanted in the garrison. Besides, no father wanted the company of those fucking his little girl.

  “The scuffle was a ruse, I gather?”

  The Baron snapped his fingers twice, and again the tent flaps were thrown aside to bring the new arrivals to light. The harper and the bard, stiff as oak despite all the black and purple swelling their faces.

  “You are capable.” The widened eyes of his wards told the Baron was not an easy man to impress. Tolrep felt no elation, only exhaustion. Mind games such as these strained the endurance to the breaking point. “Are you going to ask me a question, or are you going to sit there like an idiot all day?”

  The privateer steeled himself against the inevitable rejection. “I need a dozen ships to catch my former first mate. He has taken my ship and I will have it back.” The following silence had all the tension of walking an airborne thread like a circus gymnast. This is pathetic. Truly pathetic.

  “You have my support.”

  “Thank you for your time –” Tolrep froze in mid-word. “You will? You’ll give me ships?”

  “We sailors always look out for each other.” He thumbed a lapel on the right shoulder. A steel-gray anchor was pinned on the collar, underlined with the endless stars of a long military career. “Besides, it takes a great deal to impress Lazarus these days. You must be worth quite a bit to have the old dog calling so many favors.”