Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aron Sky – Yruoujoa 9th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  “You and Xoshia look close,” Chaylene said as she sat down beside Vel. He leaned against the cabin wall, the wind ruffling his sandy hair. After three days of sailing from Vesche, and one out from Oname, Chaylene hungered to reach Camp Chubris despite her terrors.

  She needed a distraction. Ary brooded at the bow. Despite talking about the stars last night, he’d sank back into brooding after breakfast. And her presence didn’t blaze hot enough to burn away the fog engulfing him.

  “Just trying to forget you,” shrugged Vel.

  She swallowed, her lips remembering the kiss. Her blood’s treacherous heat fanned to life, simmering coals in her nethers. “You don’t have to forget me. You just need to get over me. I made my choice.”

  “Did you really have a choice?” Vel asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Maybe, if you’d made your feelings known to me years earlier . . .” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled it in a long sigh. “I don’t know, but we can’t change the past. It’s like trying to change the direction the wind’s blowing.”

  “You can do that, if you’re lucky during the Blessing.”

  Chaylene licked her lips. If she’d received Major Wind, she could take Ary and fly them away from the Autonomy. “True, but neither of us were that lucky. And she seems nice.”

  “She?”

  “Xoshia.” Chaylene gave him a soft smile, pushing down the heat. She didn’t like the way his looks warmed her blood. “She’s as pretty as you.”

  “She’s clingy.”

  “Like that’s so bad. Ary doesn’t mind when I cling to him.” Not at all.

  Vel snorted. “You mean when he’s not staring morosely off the side of the ship. He doesn’t pay any attention to you.”

  Chaylene hated how his truth stung her heart. Her gaze found her husband’s broad back, shoulders hunched. “It’s his ma. She . . .” Ionie Jayne’s twisted face filled Chaylene’s mind. “I wish she’d throw herself off the skyland instead of trying to push Ary off it. It’s ridiculous for her to claim Theisseg cursed him.”

  “Yeah . . . cursed . . .” His hand took hers, and he gave it a squeeze. “Well, if your husband won’t pay attention to you, I’ll take his place. You can sit on my lap.”

  The image boiled through her thoughts, perched on his lap, his arms around her, hands touching her. The blaze intensified, fed by her heart pumping treasonous, slatternly blood. Shame followed it. She shouldn’t feel this way for Vel. He shouldn’t say such things to me! “I’m not a Vaarckthian trollop like all the goodwives claim!”

  She bounded to her feet, shame dampening down momentary heat.

  “Sorry, Lena,” Vel said. “It was a joke. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  He stood, taking her hand with such an earnest expression, his finger lightly stroking hers. A tingle raced up her arm. The memory of the kiss churned confusion in her. She pulled her hand back. “Sorry. I’m just . . .” She glanced at Ary. “I took it badly.”

  “You’re no Vaarckthian trollop,” he continued. His hand brushed back a strand of blonde hair, fingertip grazing her cheek. “I never thought that at all.”

  “You’re going to make Xoshia jealous if she sees this,” Chaylene said, taking a step back. And my own husband.

  “Just brushing back your hair. I’m still your friend, even if I . . .” He left it unsaid, but those three words resounded around her.

  A warm feeling fuzzed through her. Though she would never return his affection, she liked receiving it. A smile graced her lips. “You’ll always be my friend. Our friend.”

  “Always,” he agreed. “So it won’t harm you to sit on my lap!”

  His grin made her laugh. She shook her head at him. “Vel, your ma never should have let you off her apron string.”

  His eyebrows arched above his eyes. The sunlight caught them, highlighting the strias of crimsons and reds through his irises.

  Riasruo made you too beautiful, Vel, for your own good. “You should find Xoshia and have her sit on your lap.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Ary. Her mood, lifted by Vel’s unspoken words, shone out of her. “I need to be clingy.”

  Her boots thumped beneath her as she crossed the deck, passing the two marines, Vay and Grabin, who leered at every woman on the ship. She ignored their coarse sniggers. She pressed against her husband’s side. Absently, his arm went around her shoulders. He didn’t even look at her. She fought down the twisting pain. Instead, she scratched her husband’s back for a while, aching for his attention. Heartbeats passed, her stomach twisting with anticipation. She nudged his hip with hers.

  “Don’t let her keep hurting you, Ary,” she said, flashing him a huge smile, letting her joyous warmth wash over him before his mood dragged her down into the gloom.

  “I wish it were that simple,” he grunted. He glanced at her—finally! “Sorry, I’m ignoring you again.”

  “It’s okay,” she answered, fingers rasping through his wool uniform.

  He turned back to the Storm, brow furrowed.

  She looked over her shoulder. Vel leaned against the cabin wall, talking with Vay and Grabin. Chaylene scowled at the red-coated marines. Probably badgering Vel about Xoshia, wondering how loose her thighs are. She hated how men could dig in the flower garden, plucking any flower they wanted, but it was the girl who’d wilt and droop as a consequence.

  “What is going through your head?” Ary asked.

  “How men are sows always rutting through the garden for flowers to munch on.”

  “Vel and Xoshia?”

  She shook her head. “Vay and Grabin.”

  He tensed, his arm tightening about her. “Have they said things to you?”

  The gravel in Ary’s voice, striking sparks to land on his anger’s kindling, tensed her. In Ahly, she’d be secretly gleeful to watch him pummel a boy who’d said degrading words to her. But this wasn’t Ahly. The Navy had rules about brawling.

  Ary receiving lashes, or worse, wasn’t worth momentary satisfaction.

  “No,” she lied.

  ~ * * ~

  “She’s a leggy one.”

  Vel blinked, looking up to see the two marines above him. He stood, back sliding up the cabin wall, linen rasping against the rough timbers. Cold twisted his stomach as the pair, imposing in their red coats, stared at him. Ary watched the Storm, his arm around Chaylene’s shoulders, oblivious.

  Too far away to rescue Vel before fists fell.

  “I . . .” He swallowed, expecting anger. Brothers had confronted him this way after rumors he’d plucked their sister’s flower. But neither marine possessed fierce looks; their broad, Vionese faces looked hungry, a pair of sharks sensing blood.

  But not his.

  “That Vaarckthian lass,” Grabin said, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “First you got Xoshia following you around like a sow smelling a piece of corn in your back pocket, and now you got that dark-skinned lass sniffing around.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vel shrugged, giving them a smile. “Chaylene’s always sniffing after me. She likes the treats I give her.”

  Vay let out a coarse laugh, pumice stone rasping on dirty hands. “Riasruo Above, I bet she does. Them Vaarckthian girls know how to eat.”

  “And that fellow she’s clinging to must not feed her enough,” Grabin added. “Heard they’re married.”

  Vel scowled. “Yeah.”

  Vay nudged his shoulders. “So, what’s she like? An easy one to pluck?”

  “So easy,” Vel laughed, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “After her husband fell asleep on their wedding night, she slipped into my bed. Needed a bigger ship to dock at her port.” Saying the words brought a vicious satisfaction to Vel. If Ary thought to hold Chaylene through threats, he’d see the man exposed, ridiculed.

  Cuckolded.

  Once I do bed her, Chaylene’ll see the truth
. She’ll get over her fear of him and be safe in my arms.

  As if merely thinking about her drew her attention, she looked over her shoulder at him before whipping her head back to Ary. Vel’s smile grew as Vay and Grabin pressed for details. And he had plenty of stories to share.

  “One time,” Vel lied, “I stole into her pa’s barn while Ary was helping her brothers out in the field. Chaylene came in to feed the ostriches and found me waiting. She burned hot for me before stealing back out to give her betrothed and her family their midday meal.”

  The two marines laughed louder, battling with the creaking of the rigging and snap of the sails. Vel had more embellishments to tell, based on his real conquests. As he spoke, an idea grew in his mind. “Any time I want her,” Vel said, knowing Chaylene would never betray him and do anything with either louts, “I just caress her cheek and then pat her rear. It makes her spread her thighs for me as wide as the doors to her pa’s barn.”

  Vay grinned. “That Vaarckthian blood!”

  ~ * * ~

  The Skyland of Elemy – Yruoujoa 10th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  On the fourth day of sailing, the Skyland of Elemy appeared on the horizon—a speck of green and yellow. The port of Amion lay on its west side. Ary leaned on the starboard gunwale—the railing around the edge of the ship—of the stern deck and watched the passing side of the skyland. Frilly green and wrinkled, yellow corals covered the sides of Elemy. Fish darted in and out of the delicate fronds, flashing with silver and blue. Brown hills dominated the skyland, each marred by large strip mines and quarries cut deep into them worked by small, furred men.

  They’re Zalgs, Ary realized, smiling at the mole-like people. I bet Chaylene would know what they were mining.

  Fascinated by the Zalgs, Ary watched as they worked a large strip of mines, boars dragging wooden sleds full of rock up ramps out of the pits. The air rang with the sound of their crystal tools. Only the Zalg knew the secret of fashioning gems into tools or engines, so they were welcomed across all the skies for their skills.

  The Zalg mines slipped away, the countryside turning to farms growing barley and lettuce mixed with orchards of fruit trees Ary didn’t recognize. The city of Amion, the capital of Elemy, loomed beyond the farms, a bustling port larger than Ahly.

  He looked about the ship, wondering where his wife had gone. Ary found pulling into a port the most interesting part of the voyage and he wanted to share it with her. He spotted her at the bow with Grabin, who’d backed her against the railing. Her arms were folded before her.

  Anger surged hot through Ary. He’d heard Grabin, along with Vay, calling to the other women. And now the sow spoke to his wife? Fist clenched, he pushed back from the railing, electricity crackling around his skin.

  Grabin caressed Chaylene’s cheek.

  Storm crackled through Ary. Lighting arced from his hand into the wooden railing, smoke rising.

  “Hey!”

  But it wasn’t Ary who shouted outrage. As Chaylene slapped Grabin hard, Vel gained the stern deck and grabbed the lout by the shoulder. Vel wrenched Grabin around, fist balled for a bunch. But the marine reacted faster. His elbow cracked into Vel’s face, throwing the skinnier man back.

  Ary’s feet moved, pounding across the deck. He rushed down the steep stairs—almost a ladder—to the well deck then skirted along the gunwale. Sailors clogged the way, rushing about the ship as they changed the rigging and tacked the ship for the turn into the bowl-shaped harbor.

  “Out of the way!” Ary snarled as Grabin drew back his foot and kicked Vel in the stomach.

  Chaylene screeched, slapping Grabin in the shoulder. The marine raised his arms to fend off her attacks. With a snarl, Ary took the four steps up to the foredeck in two bounds and charged at Grabin’s back.

  A wordless bellow erupted from him, a warning and a challenge.

  Grabin turned, broad face twisted in anger, lank, brown hair blowing in the breeze propelling the ship. He balled up his fist, not flinching. He grunted, throwing a punch at Ary. It hurtled at his face. Ary let it land; the anger storming inside of him numbed the pain.

  Then Ary’s fist landed harder.

  “Ary!” Chaylene gasped as Grabin reeled back from the power of Ary’s blow.

  Fire burned in Ary’s throbbing cheek as he drew back his fist and slammed it into Grabin’s face again. The lout staggered backward, crashing into the railing. His hands scrabbled to grab it as he teetered.

  “Wait!” he cried out, lip split.

  Ary’s fist smashed into Grabin’s upper cheek. The other marine’s head snapped back, his body leaning dangerously over the gunwale. One push and he’d fall, swallowed by Theisseg’s domain. Ary seized Grabin’s coat, drawing the man closer.

  “Please,” Grabin gasped, words slurred by swollen lip.

  Ary slammed Grabin against the gunwale, the air exploding from the bastard’s lungs. “You stay away from my wife!”

  Grabin’s fist crashed into Ary’s jaw. His head whipped right.

  A growl rumbled from his throat as he focused his eyes on Grabin. More pain heaped onto him. Built up in him. Vitriol poured into his soul, burning through his veins.

  “Oh, no,” groaned the marine. “Ary, I’m—”

  Ary hauled the coughing bastard closer then crashed him back into the gunwale, pinning him. He ground the marine against the railing as the wood creaked, protesting the violence. Ary’s muscles flexed, pushing. Grabin’s green eyes danced, wild, frantic. He looked over his shoulder and whimpered.

  “Ary!” Chaylene screamed. She grabbed his arm, pulling. “What are you doing?”

  “I saw him touch you!” spat Ary.

  “Just a joke,” groaned Grabin. “Please, I’m sorry.”

  “A joke?” The words growled out of Ary. “Touching my wife is a joke?” He leaned his weight into his push. The gunwale flexed, prying at the socketed joints. Wood snapped. The railing lurched outward.

  Grabin shrieked, high-pitched, his hands clutching at Ary’s coat.

  The Storm swam beyond Grabin, waiting to swallow him up. To erase him. Ary’s booted feet groaned against the decking as he pushed against the resistant wood. Grabin wheezed, air forced out of his lungs.

  Watching the bastard fall would be satisfying.

  “Ary, you can’t!” Chaylene pulled at his right arm. “Please, Ary! Don’t do this. It’s not worth it.”

  The tight fear in his wife’s voice, the gray pallor about her face, sent a momentary calm through the tempest in him, like its eye passed over his mind for a few heartbeats. Ary blinked, seeing clearly. The Storm spread about below them. Grabin gasped, begging above it.

  Realization shocked through Ary. I’m about to kill him.

  The sounds of the ship swelled, sailors shouting, some cheering, some crying out for the ship’s bosun. People witnessed his fury. And one of those watching was his wife. Her eyes swam in fear as she clutched at him.

  “Please, Ary,” Chaylene whispered, her voice hoarse. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry,” begged Grabin. “I’m sorry. I just thought . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Make Vay understand, too,” Ary growled, turning his hate inward. He threw Grabin to the decking.

  Chaylene, face growing flinty, spat on the grunting marine, “Rutting sow.”

  “Go!” Ary snarled, his body shaking as the fury bled out of him, his blood frozen.

  Grabin crawled to his feet and staggered off.

  “Vel!” Chaylene darted around Ary and fell to her knees beside the prone Vel. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine!” Vel groaned, clutching his bleeding temple. “I had it under control. You didn’t have to come and almost kill him, Ary!”

  Ary staggered from his friend’s words. Clammy hands seized his stomach, writhing his guts. He glanced at Chaylene; her face was still ashen, her eyes wide. Afraid. Shame churned through him.

  “I . . .” He swallowed, hands shaking. Moments ago, he had come within a heartbeat of throwing a man off the
ship.

  The snapped joint where the post met the railing of the gunwale gave naked proof at how close he had come to killing the man.

  He caught the Bosun’s eye, the scarred-knuckle man who ruled the deck of the ship and kept the sailors working, warned with a single look: Do not brawl on my ship. Ary wasn’t a youth fighting in the barley fields; he was a man grown. A marine in the Autonomy Navy.

  His stomach roiling, Ary stumbled to undamaged railing and gripped it. In that moment, the anger howled winds through his blood, and he realized how simple it was: Grabin had touched his wife and hit his friend, so he had to suffer. Ary could make him hurt. He possessed the power, the control.

  Flashes of other fights, of beating other boys with his fists, flared through Ary. In the fight, the blood pumping, everything stood so clear. He burned to hurt them until they couldn’t get up. To pound their faces into the mud, leaving them bleeding in the muck.

  It felt good, a vicious satisfaction from mastering them. He didn’t have to run, he didn’t have to retreat. He could fight back. He could win.

  Ary stared at his fists, trembling as they gripped the railing, forehead furrowed. What is wrong with me?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chaylene didn’t know what to say to her husband as he leaned against the ship’s railing, staring down at the Storm, his face as dark as the roiling clouds. Her figure trembled, shock’s winds buffeting her body. The look on Ary’s face—twisted, murderous, a wild beast as he’d slammed Grabin over and over into the railing—chilled her. He wanted to kill the sow over grabbing my backside. She swallowed. What could she say to her husband? Something ugly bubbled out of his depths of his soul and now . . . The shame of his out-of-control anger gripped Ary. His face was pale-tan, sweat dribbling down his brow, body quivering as much as hers.

  “Ary?” she croaked, placing a trembling hand upon his lower back. Her mouth worked. “You . . .” Words failed her.