≈
The man’s heart beat strongly, so close that the demon could feel every pulse through Camilla’s body. The hunger raged; there was blood and power waiting to be taken, and the demon could stand it no more. It had thought to wait another day for the woman to regain her strength before feeding, but it could feel that the man was alone in the room, the heartbeats of his near-constant companions gone. The woman had precious little blood to spare, but it would be enough for the demon to dominate her mind for a few moments. And that was all it needed to feed on the man. Then it would have all the blood and all the power it desired.
It was time…long past time. The hot blood waited.
≈
The sea witch was not here. Edan could not detect her damp, suffocating sea magic either on Plume Isle or among the ships, but her absence didn’t diminish the rage seething in him. The longing for retribution was too strong. If Cynthia Flaxal ever returned here, she would find nothing but smoldering ruins.
The fire of the mountain was deep, a dome of molten lava capped by a plate of rock. That plate was riddled with channels and cracks, a vast lattice filled with boiling seawater that percolated like a blackbrew kettle. And like a kettle on a stove, if enough heat was applied, all the liquid would boil away, and the pot would melt.
Burn, he thought. Rise up and burn!
Rock fractured and split under the pressure, and fire surged up. Lava touched water and exploded, causing more fissures to form, more cracks though which more lava could ascend. He called to it until it howled up through the channels in a glorious rush, thrusting the boiling sea before it in a torrent. The mountain trembled, and a geyser of steam shot into the sky. Then the water was gone, and a deeper rumble shook the mountain. Magma surged forth in yellow-white streamers, and poured down the mountainside in a river of flame. An infernal waterfall plunged down into the ancient caldera of Scimitar Bay. Lava flowed over the black sand beach, obliterating the graves of the fallen natives and the huts of their village. The shipyard was consumed, the iron wheels of the great hauling device glowing cherry red as the wooden frame caught fire. Lava even reached the tar pits, and the thick morass of volatile liquids erupted into a boiling cauldron of fire and smoke.
The cliff split, and liquid fire filled the halls of the seamage’s keep. Molten rock flooded through the corridors and chambers, devouring cloth and wood like a hungry beast. Chairs and tables, beds and draperies—all that belonged to Cynthia Flaxal—consumed.
A thick wooden door in the keep’s entrance hall, locked and barred, burst into flames. The heavy iron bindings and hinges warped and melted in the heat, and the barrier burst inward under the tons of flowing molten rock. Down the stairs it raced, filling the cells of the dungeon. Another door, another stair, and the liquid fire cascaded down, searing the mosses and lichens from the damp walls of the natural cavern. It spread across the floor, edged up the stairs of the dais, and licked at the base of the ancient column of stone. The enchantment of the native shamans resisted the heat, as it had resisted the ravages of time, but the stone glowed red, then orange, and the pool atop the column boiled away in a flash of steam. The lava climbed higher, and the stone glowed yellow, then sagged in the blinding heat. In the moment before it was engulfed by the lava, the ancient magic flared once with a crimson light, and was snuffed out.
Hydra’s prison ceased to exist.
≈
A bloodcurdling scream tore from Camilla’s throat, nearly deafening Emil and shocking him from his woeful reverie. She heaved and thrashed in his arms so violently that he tumbled from the narrow bunk. He stared at her as the shriek, long and wracking, ended in a breathless sob. Camilla sat up in the bunk, her back ramrod straight, clutching the sheet to her breast. Her blank eyes stared at nothing, mouth agape, horror painted on her pale features.
“Camilla!” Emil cried as he scrambled to his feet, but she remained oblivious. Cautiously, he sat on the edge of the bunk and peered into her wide eyes; her pupils were constricted to points, and she didn’t respond. A soft moan of incalculable pain escaped her throat, tearing at his heart.
The door burst open so hard that it slammed against the wall, bending the brass handle.
“Milord! What—” Huffington and Tim stood there, both holding daggers, but Emil waved them to silence.
“Camilla?” he ventured. He touched her gingerly, his fingertips brushing her bare shoulder, but she just stared past him. She didn’t even seem to be breathing, as if the scream had torn the very life out of her, taking her mind with it.
“Oh, gods please. Camilla!” He placed both hands on her shoulders and squeezed, forcing her to look at him, refusing to accept that after all they had been through, she had been left an empty shell of madness and nightmares. “Camilla! It’s me, Emil!” He shook her, forcing her to look into his eyes.
“Careful, Milord!” Huffington warned. “Remember what happened at the cannibal village.”
Emil disregarded the warning. He released her shoulders and gently cupped her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes. “Camilla! Please, say something! It’s Emil. You’re safe.”
She blinked once, and her eyes focused, the pinpoint pupils dilating to accommodate the dim light of the cabin. “Safe?” She blinked again, sudden tears brimming in her eyes, and for the first time he felt that she actually saw him. Her face registered some faint recognition, but retained the blinding horror of moments before.
“Yes, Camilla. You’re safe. The demon is dead, and we’re aboard Cape Storm bound for Tsing.” He wiped the tears away and smiled at her. Dear Gods of Light, he begged silently, please let her be all right.
“It’s…gone?” she said in a hoarse whisper. She glanced fearfully around the cabin as if expecting to see some horrible coiling nightmare lurking in a corner.
“Yes, it’s gone,” he assured her, wiping away more tears as they coursed down her cheeks. “You don’t have to be afraid any more. You’re free of it.”
“No,” she said, her gaze snapping back to his, her entire body trembling violently. “I’ll never be free of it! I remember everything! Everything!” She heaved a ragged, sobbing breath, and her voice took on a hysterical tenor. “The blood! I can still taste it!”
She shook, and Emil drew her into his arms, holding her close and stroking her hair, assuring her with soft words that he was here for her, that she was safe, and that everything would be all right. She clutched him desperately, gripping the back of his shirt until her nails rent the fabric. He heard Huffington and Tim back from the room and close the door, as sob after wracking sob shook her. His own tears fell unchecked onto her fiery hair. Even as the volcano’s rumble shook the ship and the world burned, Emil held Camilla close and let her cry herself to sleep.
Chapter 20
To Tsing
The tremors quieted and the rivers of lava slowed; the desolation of Plume Isle was complete. Akrotia blazed with power, and Edan was sated, his lust for fire appeased. Even the anger had eased, but now, oddly, he felt both satisfied and disappointed. Though the seamage’s refuge had been consumed by the conflagration, Cynthia Flaxal was not here.
But where was she?
Edan cast his gaze across the ocean before him. None of these ships were hers. They were imperial warships. If she came here… He remembered a tense conversation, her concerns that she would be blamed for the destruction of the emperor’s ships. Would they take her? Arrest her? Throw her in a dungeon?
Some of the ships were closer, while others had fled north…toward Tsing. He knew he had never been there, but sudden images popped to mind: spires of buff-colored stone and huge battlements that girded a river egress; a bay crowded with ships of all shapes and sizes; markets and shops and thousands of people. The emperor was in Tsing. Perhaps these ships would lead him there, and to the seamage.
Edan called the winds to push
himself away from the island. He began to move, then stopped. Again he called, and a gale roared through his towers and passageways, but still he remained in place. Perhaps his lower spires were caught on the reef, but he had felt no tremor. He urged the winds to a howling tempest, to no avail.
Something was wrong.
Rage flooded through him as hot as the lava he had summoned up from the mountain. He called the power until the sea boiled around him, the winds shrieked, and the mountain shook and spewed, but still he didn’t move. He was stuck.
He released the winds and tried to calm the anger, tried to think. Experimentally, he raised the wind, concentrated on how he shifted and swung. He had not run aground, for he could feel himself turn and tip with the wind, and felt no grinding of his spires against the seafloor. Something was attached to him, like the tentacles of a deep-dwelling sea monster, and it wouldn’t let go.
The anger clouded his thoughts. He forced it down until it lay in a seething ball, separate from his cognizant mind, and found that he could think clearly again. He was bound; how, he didn’t know, but it might let go with enough heat. Edan shunted fire into his hull until the upper city glowed white hot. Steam exploded around him, shrouding him in a cloud, but the sea drew away the heat from his lowest reaches like a great sponge. His deepest spires were barely hot enough to boil water, and whatever had hold of him remained unaffected.
If I can’t burn it away, the volcano certainly can, he thought. Once again, he called to the fire beneath the mountain, and the lava surged forth. Steam, smoke and ash filled the air, making it difficult to see, but he could feel the rivers of molten rock coursing down into Scimitar Bay.
More, he thought, urging the fire to rise, calling it to him.
The volcano answered.
The eastern face of the mountain cracked open, spilling torrents of yellow-white magma down the incline faster than any river. The deluge of molten rock hit the water, and explosions rattled Akrotia’s lower reaches. Boiling water surged out of the channel through the reef, and Scimitar Bay ceased to exist. In its place seethed a pool of molten rock, and still more poured down the mountain. There was only one egress; liquid hell flowed toward the sea. The ancient mangroves lining the channel burst into flames, and the river of lava spread onto the reef. The water of the lagoon boiled, but still was cool enough to solidify the lava. The momentum of the flow cracked the thin crust and pushed on. The flow spread out in tendrils, popping and cracking with the force of shattering rock and exploding water, coursing along the sea floor like a tide of serpents.
The undersea river of molten rock spilled over the reef, and spread out over the sand flats. The water beneath Akrotia began to boil, until—finally!—Edan felt the resistance on his lower spires release. Whatever had bound him had been burned away. He was free, and in a surge of joyous relief, he called the winds to push him forward. The haze of steam and smoke cleared, and he could see again. The ships were still there. Some sailed north, racing away under towering pyramids of sails, while others remained closer. These ships paced him, spying on him, perhaps. The madness surged with the desire to burn them like he had the other warship. He remembered the screams of dying sailors, and Akrotia quivered with a strange mixture of revulsion and satisfaction.
Edan urged the winds to a steady intensity that pushed him along at a good pace without wasting energy; he doubted there would be volcanoes to fuel his thirst for fire where he was going. He pushed north, following the receding ships, trying to suppress the madness enough to think.
Someone had tried to stop him, something under the sea. A flash of memory: bobbing shapes beside a ship, Cynthia Flaxal making signs with her hands, then leaping into the sea to join her mer allies. She sent them to stop me, he thought with some satisfaction. She must have gone north, or been taken by the emperor’s ships. To Tsing, he thought as rage flooded over him once more.
There they would have their revenge.
≈
Akrotia emerged from the haze of smoke and steam, a glowing juggernaut heading straight for Indomitable and her armada.
Joslan scowled in disappointment. “It would appear that the mer, if they were indeed mad enough to attack that thing, have failed.”
“It doesn’t look as if any harm was done, but if they damaged it underwater…” Betts shrugged. “It’s moving in this direction, Admiral.”
Joslan snapped his spyglass closed and glared at the oncoming monstrosity as if he could stop it with sheer belligerence. Whether it was coming after the ships or simply continuing up the island chain, he didn’t know, but he knew how to find out. “Increase our pace and take us to leeward. Signal Stalwart, War Hammer, Joyous and Bright Star to form up with us. Signal to Captain Donnely; Cape Storm and Cloud Drake are to escort the supply ships to Tsing at their best speed. Donnely is to report to the emperor personally about our situation here.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral!”
It took about an hour for Akrotia’s intentions to become clear. To the northwest, the sails of the supply ships and their escorts were growing smaller. Joslan’s armada sailed in tight formation to the west of the floating city, a much closer and more tempting target. But Akrotia continued on its original course, coasting up the Shattered Isles as if each was a waypoint on a chart.
“We’re pacing it at a steady four knots, Admiral. All ships report in fit for action, and the supply ships are pulling away easily.” Captain Betts chuckled. “I’ll bet Captain Donnely is chafing at being sent home as an escort.”
“Captain Donnely will have his chance,” Joslan said as he shifted his gaze from Akrotia for a moment to appraise the warships’ deployment. “Well done, Captain. Keep the armada on alert, but stand the men down for now. We’re in for a lengthy sail, unless I miss my guess, and I want everyone in crack shape if we need to go into action.”
“Aye, sir.”
Joslan fixed his glass once again upon Akrotia. The city’s forward rim was white with foam as it pushed aside massive amounts of water. How does it move so easily? he wondered. He studied the structure intently—the towers, spires, walkways, the archways of stone gilded with what looked like gleaming-hot metal. So determined was he to find some point of weakness that he didn’t hear Betts’ question.
“Admiral?”
“What?” he grunted.
“Do you think we’ll have to fight that thing, sir?”
“Without a doubt,” he replied without turning his spyglass from Akrotia. “But make no mistake, Captain, when we do, it will be on our terms. It may be a two-mile-wide monster that can bend the winds and summon the very fires of the Nine Hells, but there has to be a way to kill it. We simply need to devise the right strategy. Nothing is unbeatable, Captain. Nothing.”
“Aye, sir! We’ll find a way!”
Joslan appreciated the man’s vehement agreement and hoped his attitude trickled down to the rank and file. To attack something like Akrotia was a lot to ask even of a warship’s crew; their confidence was essential for victory. As for himself…Joslan grimaced as his stomach churned. Thirty years of naval battles had not prepared him to face something like this.
≈
*Akrotia has broken free, Trident Holder,* Chaser reported, pale with dread and pumping his gills hard from his recent swim. *It used the volcano to burn the ironweed cables away from the moorings. It goes north, after the warships.*
*We have failed, Father,* Tailwalker signed, his fins flat against his body in defeat.
*It was a good plan, Tailwalker,* Broadtail signed. *You could not know it could use the mountain’s fire to burn the lines. It would have worked if the island had no fire, and if the landwalkers had had the courage to attack.*
Chaser’s own fins drooped as he watched his despairing friends, then straightened as his fervor flared. *It is a good plan!* he signed. *And the landwalkers cannot be fools foreve
r. Our hooks are still attached to Akrotia, and they trail the cables; only the ends were burned. It moves slowly. We can follow, and bring more ironweed and augers. Then, if it ventures again into shallow waters, someplace where there is no volcano, we will be ready!*
He flared his fins and watched Tailwalker and Broadtail’s body language and the hue of their scales as they shifted through the spectrum. Tailwalker’s colors stabilized first, dark and confident, and he looked toward his father. Slowly, the trident holder’s scales settled at a bright green.
*We will follow Akrotia,* Broadtail said, adding quickly as Tailwalker twitched in excitement. *But not you, my son! I will summon the entire school to do as Chaser suggests. The floating city moves slowly, so we can prepare well ahead. But we must also inform Seamage Flaxal Brelak; if anyone can fight this thing, she can. You, my eldest son,* he turned to Chaser, *and you, Chaser, must swim north and find Shelly. She has been following the seamage. Get word to Seamage Flaxal Brelak that Akrotia comes. Tell her what we plan to do.*
*We will get word to her, Father!* Tailwalker signed, flaring his fins and casting a thankful glance to Chaser. Without a word signed, the two stripped off their baldrics, handing their weapons over to the trident holder’s honor guard. *We will not need weapons, and can swim faster without them. Farewell, Father. Send word if you find a place to immobilize Akrotia.*
*I will, my son. Go!* Then, before Chaser and Tailwalker flipped their tails, he added, *And be safe.*
≈
The Lady Belle eased into the water and floated free, riding high on her new, gold-painted waterline. The ship was trimmed up beautifully. She looked very little like Cutthroat, and nothing at all like a corsair. As the ship was pulled over to the dock with long lines, the crew cheered enthusiastically, then hustled off to haul the rest of the cargo down to the dock and stow it aboard. They would be off to Tsing at the next ebb of the tide.
Scimitar War Page 24
