Knight Awoken

by Tammy Salyer

  Ulfric’s host, a First Phase Dyrrak Ravener, the lowest ranked in the Dyrrak legion, didn’t have a single weapon on him besides a short dagger that was more suited for work tasks like cutting rope than for murder—which would have been suitable enough for Ulfric’s needs under normal circumstances. But being a passenger in someone else’s flesh was anything but normal, and he wasn’t certain such a small close-combat weapon against four others who were equally if not better trained and who didn’t have the handicap of walking in a foreigner’s skin would do.

  Then there was the other issue: he didn’t want to murder these Dyrraks. He doubted they had been given the choice to become Raveners and therefore Balavad’s puppets. Even if they did have a choice, how could they have possibly refused when a Verity with the powers of the Cosmos and a truly sanguinary level of cruelty was the one offering that “choice”?

  But he needed out of this man’s body, and there was only one other suitable person he could swap for. Of course, however, if he slew the four Raveners and only the untainted Dyrrak was left standing, the rest of the fleet would have questions about why she’d killed them, for who else would it be?

  He supposed he could simply make his host cast off the pendant when no one was looking and have Urgo retrieve it, but then Ulfric would be moving backward and getting nowhere. Or he could put their bodies in the dinghy and throw them overboard, then have his new host tell the fleet the boat had been hit by a rogue wave and the rest lost to sea. But that was back to the murder part. His sense of justice had been overly stoked of late, and he found he was unwilling to sacrifice any more people to the Verities’ games than were absolutely necessary. Balavad had already cost too many lives. Every new one surrendered in an effort to stop him would diminish any victory they hoped to take. And he knew these Dyrraks lost to Balavad’s consecration could be restored. He’d seen Vaka Aster do it before.

  The more of them you kill, the easier it will be to save the other Vinnrics from Balavad’s poison. Yes, that was true. But the Dyrraks were Vinnrics as well, for Verities’ sakes, and besides, that was taking the burden a step too far. Having to decide which lives were more valuable? No, he refused to be the judge, jury, and executioner. He had to stay focused…

  From somewhere in his brain’s depth, a new idea sparked. Instead of killing the members of this advance force of Dyrraks, what about sabotaging them? Hobble or sink enough of their ships, and they would be rendered impotent for at least a while.

  It was an excellent idea, but one he had to push to the back of his mind to consider later. First on his list was to shift to a new host.

  In the end, the resolution turned out to be something he hadn’t even considered. He was clearly losing his touch.

  “What is that, Venerate?” The lead Dyrrak was staring pointedly at Ulfric’s host’s neck. “You know the uniform code doesn’t allow personal accessories or”—she reached out and pulled the pendant from the Ravener’s tunic and looked into the crystal in the center of the dragørfly carving—“… What in Vaka Aster’s eyes?” she said, her tone more curious than angry. “I’m taking this, and your infraction will be discussed with Chancellor Aoggvír.” The leader pulled the pendant’s copper chain over the Ravener’s head.

  At the same time, Ulfric jumped into hers.

  The Dyrrak captain wavered on her feet a fraction at his intrusion, but Ulfric had some practice with this now, and he tucked himself into a tight mental huddle in the recesses of her brain, quiet as a flittercat stalking its prey. The woman brushed the back of her hand against her forehead and blinked a few times, then stood tall again.

  “Finish unpacking these,” she ordered. “We have three more loads to bring ashore tonight.”

  With an inward sigh, Ulfric let himself relax the tiniest bit. He was undiscovered, at least for the moment. Now the task was to steal through her mind and find what he needed to know.

  “Where did it come from, Venerate Egsil?”

  Seldeg Aoggvír, Heir of the Third Line, Chancellor of the Dyrrak Phalanx—Ulfric would never forget the title, or the woman—stared into the face of Ulfric’s new host. The chancellor’s lucent gray eyes seemed to look through a person to their spirit, then cut it, just to test their mettle. Like most Dyrraks, her hair was cut severely short along her temples, leaving a thick strip in the middle that grew long down her back and was braided and wrapped in a leather sleeve. Hers was blacker than oil smoke, except for a pure white streak starting at her forehead and drawn back in the braid. She was easily Ulfric’s own height, and her muscled arms, unsleeved in the Dyrrak fashion, were fairly black with the Dyrrak Phase tattoos that denoted her rank and achievements. Of all the Dyrraks he’d met, she was one he would first have to consider whether the odds of a one-on-one fight would be in his favor or not.

  “From First Phase Venerate Ozlaus,” the Dyrrak soldier said, her tone flustered, but not because of Ulfric’s presence.

  “You said that, Venerate, but my question is where did it come from? The First Phase wasn’t wearing it when you left, so did he find it in the lighthouse?” The chancellor’s Elder Veros was clipped and steady, but even Ulfric knew she would not ask the question again.

  “He must have, Chancellor,” the underling said. “You know how difficult it is to get a clear answer from the… newly consecrated.”

  Aoggvír held the pendant up to the illuminate orb in her cabin. They were on the main deck of the lead ship, the Gildr, in the same cabin the Domine Ecclesium had used when they’d traveled to Dyrrakium. Ulfric’s new host Egsil had brought the pendant directly to the chancellor while her crew of four Raveners loaded their second stack of cargo to take to the lighthouse. Because of the accommodations, Ulfric surmised it was the chancellor who was leading this advance force. And she, too, had not been turned by Balavad, like the Domine Ecclesium and like this Third Phase Venerate Egsil.

  This he found surprising. While the chancellor was the second in command of Dyrrakium, in his brief time in the Citadel Suprima, he hadn’t gotten the sense from her that she craved power the way the Ecclesium so clearly did. All the Dyrraks were devoted to a fault to their ideas of how best to prove their worthiness to Vaka Aster, but devotion, even zealous devotion, wasn’t something that always led to the domination and forced subjugation of others, as was the Ecclesium’s plan. Ulfric didn’t see how he could refrain from passing judgment about Aoggvír’s moral core, if she had one, for she was, after all, leading a mission to destroy Ivoryss. Yet he still found himself doing it. He wasn’t Beatte, who assumed all Dyrraks were hopeless warmongers. He’d known many fine ones in his life.

  None finer than Eisa, for all her faults. This thought tugged at him painfully. He’d have better chances of besting Balavad hand-to-hand than he did of putting the loss of his friend behind him.

  He stayed tucked deep within Egsil’s head, listening. Her mental barriers so far were tougher to crack than he’d expected, though he fortunately hadn’t been discovered. Every time he thought he was about to break in and glean information about the Dyrraks’ plans, Balavad’s whereabouts, and Vaka Aster’s current status, she would stop whatever she was doing and rub her temples, as if a headache was coming on. He’d been forced to retreat each time and wait for another opportunity. He needed her to be distracted, as she was now.

  “Seems an unlikely trinket for someone to forget or leave behind in such an isolated place,” Aoggvír commented as she held the pendant up to her face for a better look.

  Ulfric was tempted to jump into her at that moment, but stopped himself. The lines around Aoggvír’s eyes and mouth showed her life had not only been harsh but considerably longer than Egsil’s. If Egsil was hard to crack, the chancellor with her much-advanced mental discipline might well be impossible. Likewise, given her status, there was more than a fleeting possibility she would at some point meet with Balavad, and Ulfric wasn’t convinced the Verity wouldn’t see directly through her mirror-like eyes and find Ulfric lurking there. No, he needed his anony
mity for now.

  Aoggvír carried the necklace to an open-topped box sitting on a writing desk built into the cabin’s interior wall. “For now, I’ll keep it. You’ve done well to bring it to me. Return to your duties, but first, go to the command berth and tell Fifth Phase Venerate Sveinungr I’ve sent for him.”

  “It is done, Chancellor.” With a bow of her head, Egsil retreated.

  It was approaching Hallumbrum, which meant there was little activity on the upper decks as Egsil paced toward the ship’s bow. Anchored about two hundred yards from the island, the ship barely rocked in the slivered moonlight’s ebony waves brushing against it. The Verring Sea was calm and easy, seemingly oblivious to the chaos that would soon speed through these waters toward the Ivoryssian coast.

  The dread of this happening reminded Ulfric of his thoughts about scuttling the Dyrrak fleet. If only he’d not been so confined to his own cabin on the journey to Dyrrakium—for his and Vaka Aster’s safety—yet another curse to add to the many that came with being the vessel of a shackled Verity. If he hadn’t, he’d have a better idea how he might bollix enough of the ship here and there to effectively disable it.

  Venerate Egsil came to an abrupt halt on deck. “Who said that?” Her eyes darted left and right. “Who’s speaking of scuttling the fleet?”

  Her voice was commanding and angry, but he heard an underlying tone of anxiety. Rook’s balls. Did she hear me?

  “Yes. Now come out and face me.” She spun around in a complete circle. “Who’s dares speak of sabotage?”

  “That is a good question, Venerate.”

  Egsil stopped spinning and focused on a shadowy alcove between several barrels and the base of a sail. As she stared, a figure emerged, a tall Dyrrak man with a face nearly covered in Phase markings, which made his eyes glitter in the moonlight even brighter in contrast. A heavy-handled glaive rose over his shoulder, hanging from its holster on his back, much like Eisa’s did.

  Egsil’s eyes fell to his hands. In one, he carried a ball of what appeared to be twine, in the other a knife. Some unknown black powder stained his fingers.

  “Fifth Phase Venerate Sveinungr,” Egsil said and dipped her head, though her eyes stayed on his hands, “Chancellor Aoggvír sent me for you.”

  Sveinungr stood before her now and peered into her face as if searching for treasure. Or treason. “To whom were you speaking, Venerate Egsil?”

  “I can’t say, Venerate. I thought I heard someone speaking from the darkness.” Egsil, to her credit, remained composed, but Ulfric could feel doubt whispering at the edges of her mind. “Fifth Phase, what exactly were you doing among the rigging?”

  As a leader himself, Ulfric sensed the higher-ranking Dyrrak’s surprise. Was his underling being impertinent? Would she dare?

  This wasn’t a situation Ulfric wanted to escalate. He needed Egsil docile, and more than that, he needed her to be trusted and therefore invisible to her chain of command. If she was naturally inclined toward disrespectfulness, she would stand out, and therefore, he would too. But what could he do to stop her?

  As before, the answer came much too easily.

  “Come, I shall show you, Venerate.” The higher-ranking Dyrrak moved back into the dark. “Come now.”

  Though his voice didn’t change, the steel in it brooked no dispute from Egsil. She took two steps forward, her mind now blaring a caution that some more-obedient part of her seemed unable to heed. From the dark came a whisper of movement, a bludgeoning pain exploded in the venerate’s chin, and she fell.

  Ulfric was alone in the dark in the woman’s form, trapped like a snared animal.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A lot of things could have gone wrong when the Knights, Commander Brun, and Havelock Rekkr arrived in the interrealm well chamber in the depths of Magdaster’s Gusting Hall. Jaemus just didn’t realize this until later, and by then the danger had shifted from their being arrested and dropped into a dark, damp hole for some transgression the Knights had committed against the Magdastervians sometime in the recent past, to merely the run-of-the-mill danger he was already used to. Namely, the advancing war-intent fleet of Dyrraks who were no longer exactly human but quite monstrous in both their resilience and their intentions. Jaemus figured he’d get used to the constant threat to life and limb eventually. People could get used to anything, right?

  He became aware of the Magdastervians’ quarrel with the Knights during a discussion with the swarthy late-middle-aged Commander Nennus and a group of equally stout locals regarding the coming fight. It was something about the Knights having arrived aboard a cloaked airship and concealed their intentions from Nennus after Balavad’s first attack, then hurrying off without a word of explanation, leaving the city with more questions and fewer answers than before they’d shown up. Commander Brun had quickly smoothed over this “misunderstanding,” settling the Magdastervians and Knights into milder terms.

  Afterward, they’d pivoted to planning for the Dyrrak invasion agilely, leaving Jaemus constantly rushing to keep track and keep up. Their easy transition to war planning showed him that yes, indeed, getting used to the idea of war could become as natural as breathing if one practiced enough. He found himself not at all comforted.

  They all drank heavy mugs of some warm, sweet liquid at a table in Gusting Hall as Nennus reassured the assemblage. “Those Dyrraks cannae get their attack ships within a mile of our walls. Not with our cannons. There’s one every seventeen yards from the seaward wall to the Weald wall. Fields of fire cross like a spider’s web over the city. Anything trying to get through will be blasted into small enough chunks to scrape up with a spoon.”

  “It may be,” Mallich said, “but it’s not the Dyrraks’ ships we have to worry about. It’s their weaponry. We know they based their fighter designs on ours, so we can assume they have the same weapons: emberspark guns. They’ll be able to fire from too far off for the full strength of an emberflare to reach. Their impact will be less, but less doesn’t mean none. We’ll still need shields for the city. What will serve?”

  Nennus got a funny look on his lined face—funny in a different way from how he’d first looked at Jaemus, who’d gotten used to the Vinnrics’ reactions to his distinct coloring by this point. “Shields? Knight Roibeard, did you forget where we are? We’ve been building shields against dragørs since before your…” He trailed off, evidently realizing his statement comparing the longevity of something to a Knight’s life wasn’t quite what it would normally be. “That is ta say, we have mobile shield-walls that can hold off dragørfire for a bit. They should do against whatever the Dyrraks can conjure.”

  “Can they withstand both heat and impact?” Safran asked, amplified by a Fenestros.

  “Nothing hits hotter nor harder than dragørfire,” he reassured them all. “If we can guard against that, we can guard against anything.”

  “Then our other concern is their numbers,” she calculated.

  “We have five thousand fighters,” Nennus said confidently. “And over a thousand cannons. We can fire every single one of them at least sixty times before we’ll be out of juice.”

  “Five thousand ground fighters. Is that correct?” Mallich clarified.

  “That’s right, and—ah, I see your point. Airships in Magdaster are as useful as a toothless shark. Dragørs would just turn them into falling slag. Our navy isnae much to speak of either. Never expected to have to fight on the sea. Dyrraks are too far off, and the Yorish would have to sail nearly around the world to get to our shores. They’d be half-starved and full-crazed if they ever tried.”

  “Then who is your ground army for?” Jaemus asked out of curiosity.

  Nennus peered at him through brows so heavy, they were practically a stole worn across his forehead and made Stave’s look tame in comparison. After a moment, he pursed his lips and said, “Being from so far away, I’m guessing you aren’t too familiar with the map of Vinnr. Magdaster sits at the narrowest point of the Howling Weald between Ivoryss and Yor.
Our North Byway—the only road through the Weald into and out of Magdaster—links to the Great Province Byway down south. Once were the days when the two kingdoms were less friendly than we are now, and Magdaster has the best metal in the realm. We make steel so hardy you could break more steel with it. Time was when the Yorish thought they’d march over and take some, along with the north of Vinnr, for themselves. We showed them how mistaken their plans were.”

  Jaemus squinted in a look he hoped conveyed his deep, though utterly feigned, wisdom regarding such matters. “And that was not long ago, then?”

  Nennus looked toward the ceiling, calculating. “Before my time,” he said, as if that narrowed it down.

  “My grandad fought in that skirmish, he did. The Battle of the Byways,” Stave put in. “Before he was hanged, that is.”

  Jaemus’s eyes flicked from Stave to Nennus and back. The volume of violence described in their brief exchange—starving navies, battles, and hanged men, etc.—was enough to make him dizzy, but this was held off by his puzzlement over something else. “Stave, haven’t you been a Knight for over six hundred, ah, turns?”

  “Thereabouts,” he answered amiably.

  “So you’ve kept a standing army active in Magdaster since a battle that took place around ten lifetimes ago?” he said to Nennus.

  “The moment you stop being prepared, you start being a target,” Nennus gruffed, as if this nugget of knowledge was so obvious even a child would know it. It became clear to Jaemus where Stave’s many aphorisms came from, him being a Magdastervian originally. He cleared his throat and said quietly, “Just curious. Continue.”

  They did, and he was happy enough to let them. This wasn’t his area of expertise, and he’d come to terms with it.

  Yet, for all that, an idea had been sparked in his mind, and now it was pushing itself to the forefront little by little. They’d discussed shields strong enough to withstand the Dyrrak ships’ weapons, at least for a while. And Nennus had talked about how much ammunition they had. What would become of the Magdastervians when they ran out? More to the point, with the Dyrraks so heavily reliant on their air fleet, what would they do when their own firepower ran out?