by Aeryn Rudel
The barely audible hum of his newly acquired warcaster armor was comforting, as was the power field around him. In his right hand he gripped another gift from Graxus: a multi-tined mechanikal harpoon attached to a long length of chain wrapped around his forearm. The weapon’s runeplates glowed a subtle green and blue. Attached to his left vambrace he had a long, serrated blade—not a cutlass like he was used to, but the blade was similar, and its use would largely be the same.
Despite the sense of strength the new weapons and armor gave him, they were nothing compared to the heady power he felt within the cortexes of the two massive helljacks behind him. Crab-like, with black iron shells and huge, crushing claws, the Leviathans exuded menace and the promise of death. For the moment they were his, bound to his will and ready to receive his commands. He could sense their primitive eagerness to do what they were built to do: destroy life.
“You have four hours,” Axiara said. She stood between the helljacks, one hand resting on the hull of a Leviathan. “If the light goes out, we’ll know you succeeded. If not, we’ll know you failed, and Graxus will be very happy to see you again. He says you’d make a powerful thrall.”
Aiakos suppressed a shudder. Becoming a mindless puppet to a creature like Graxus and being forced to endure centuries, maybe millennia, of servitude with just enough of his former self remaining to understand how far he’d fallen was the most awful fate he could imagine.
“The light will go out,” Aiakos said.
“Then go,” Axiara said before turning and walking away.
Aiakos turned to the Leviathans and took a deep breath. He’d never controlled two helljacks at once. He imagined his thoughts and will as two identical harpoons flashing out to penetrate the Leviathans’ cortexes. Into the water, Aiakos commanded, the words in his own mind crystallizing the command in the Leviathans’ necromechnikal brains. The helljacks did nothing at first, but then the command seemed to take hold and they moved swiftly to the edge of the forecastle, clambered over the gunwales, and dropped into the water twenty feet below. They had been designed for aquatic service and could survive full immersion without danger of drowning their furnaces.
Aiakos followed the helljacks. He dropped through darkness and hit the water feet first. The shock of the cold sea nearly made him gasp and swallow water as he went under, the weight of his armor and weapons dragging him down. He kicked savagely and swam to the surface.
Come to me. Again he split his thoughts in two, and for one disorienting moment he saw through the eyes of both helljacks at the same time, a strange double vision that made his stomach churn. He pulled back as one of the Leviathans surfaced near him and grabbed hold of its armored carapace. To the shore. He felt the helljack’s legs churning the water, and the two of them began moving toward the blazing beacon of the lighthouse. He saw the second helljack moving swiftly alongside them. Aiakos estimated they’d reach the shore within an hour.
The warmth of the Leviathan’s furnace radiated through its hull and dispelled the chill of the water. Aiakos let his mind join more deeply the helljack’s cortex as they swam, trying to feel its weapons as though they were in his own hands, although the anatomy was strange and off-putting. The motion of the water combined with the dizzying sense of being in multiple places at once created a nausea that he had to push down. But then he was able to sense the use of its claw and its spiker, to gain a sense for employing them in battle. It was difficult, like sorting through the memories of some strange being whose mind and senses were utterly foreign to him. Still, when he reached the shore he would be ready, and nothing would keep him from his goal.
Aiakos and his helljacks reached land faster than he’d anticipated, emerging on to the narrow rocky shore beneath the base of the lighthouse in half an hour. The Ordic tower was fifty feet high and constructed primarily of gray stone. There were no windows and the stone had been reinforced above the waterline with sheets of rusting iron, giving the entire structure a slightly reddish tint. It stood upon a narrow spit of land that wrapped around the depot port. The Ordic troops would primarily be inside the structure, but there were bound to be guards outside as well.
The lighthouse’s lantern was bright enough to dimly illuminate the shore below, allowing Aiakos to pick his way up the rocky beach. His dark armor and the blackened hulls of the helljacks melded seamlessly into the shadows.
The helljacks followed behind Aiakos, navigating the rocky terrain easily. The shore was fifteen feet or so below the lighthouse, its base a stone’s throw from a short cliff. An easy climb, but it meant passing from shadow into the brighter area around the structure, where there was far more danger of being seen.
Stay, Aiakos commanded the helljacks. He then hefted his harpoon and glanced up at the cliff. It was a daunting leap, fifteen feet at least. Graxus had told him his armor would enhance his strength, and he’d made a habit of vaulting over the gunwales of the Scythe to catch enemies unaware, but this seemed impossible.
Aiakos crouched low, feeling the thrumming power of his warcaster armor building in the big muscles of his legs. He drew in a breath and leaped. His breath exploded outward in surprise as his legs propelled him high into the air, well up and over the lip of the cliff. He landed heavily but managed to turn his landing into a tight roll to deaden the noise. He smiled, thrilled with his newfound abilities, but wasted no time reveling in them. On his belly he crawled to the base of the lighthouse, then stood, placing his back against the stone, and waited. He listened for voices and searched the gloom for the firefly glow of a lantern headed in his direction. There was nothing. Either he was between patrols or the soldiers felt safe inside their remote bastion and watched the sea instead of the scant area below them.
Aiakos circled left, toward what he hoped would be the entrance. He moved slowly, stalking as he had once done through the streets of Blackwater, a predator silent and invisible. While he moved he kept his mind in constant connection to the helljacks waiting on the shore below him. He could feel the presence of the Leviathans fading slowly from his mind as moved farther from them. He had received no instruction on how to command the great machines, but he had surmised there was a finite limit to the range at which he could control them.
Soft voices just around the curve of the structure halted him. He couldn’t understand what was being said, but the unhurried rhythm of the words did not translate to alarm. Aiakos crouched low and slowly leaned to the left so he could see beyond the curved wall. He was close to the entrance to the lighthouse, a broad set of double wooden doors reinforced with iron plates. The doors stood slightly ajar and in front of them stood two men. The guards wore hardened leather breastplates and helmets and carried swords and short-barreled carbines. They had their rifles slung over their shoulders and were standing close to one another talking.
The eyes of the guard facing Aiakos went wide as he burst around the curve of the wall, sprinted forward, and hurled his harpoon. The guards were only fifteen feet away and his cast was true. The heavy spear struck the Ordic soldier in the throat, and Aiakos jerked the chain trailing from the weapon as he rushed forward. The guard was yanked into his companion, knocking him backward and directly onto Aiakos’ forearm blade as he came up behind. The guard gasped as three feet of steel penetrated his kidneys and liver. Aiakos knocked his feet out from under him with a savage kick, stifling his scream. The first guard had fallen to his knees and was trying desperately to pull the harpoon from his throat. Aiakos grasped the weapon and pulled it free, its heavy barbs ripping through flesh and nearly decapitating the Ordsman. Aiakos dealt with the second guard, gasping at his feet and trying to crawl away, with a savage stomp to the back of his neck. Bone cracked and the Ordsman stopped moving.
The attack had been swift and virtually silent, but there were more soldiers inside. Aiakos reached out with his mind and felt the presence of the two Leviathans . . . barely. He summoned them, urging them to move quickly, and the two great machines clambered easily up the cliffside beneath the ligh
thouse and soon came around the curve of the tower, their furnaces blazing with Cryxlight.
Aiakos knew he was outnumbered, but the helljacks and the element of surprise likely gave him an edge. He didn’t waste either advantage. He ran forward and pulled the sizable double doors open. Before the guards could react, the Leviathans scuttled through. There were six guards in the bottom of the lighthouse, a space some thirty feet around. There were no furnishings, just racks for weapons on the walls. A wide spiral staircase rose into the upper levels of the structure.
The cannons on the Leviathans’ left arms sounded, throwing half a dozen six-inch spikes at the shocked guards. Aiakos poured his will into the two helljacks, pushing them to fire their cannons quicker and with more accuracy. Five of the guards fell dead from the initial assault; the sixth, whether through skill or sheer luck, was missed entirely. The Ordsman, a young man with sure and quick hands, unslung his rifle with a single smooth motion and aimed it at Aiakos. The Leviathans’ cannons were quiet, using steam to throw their missiles, but the guardsmen rifle would be like the crack of doom inside the stone confines of the lighthouse, alerting anyone above to their presence.
Aiakos brought his harpoon up and channeled his will, sharpening his senses and adding power to his cast. The harpoon sailed from his hand as the guardsman’s finger curled around the trigger of his carbine, crossed the room in a blur of steel, and missed. The heavy tines struck the stone wall behind the soldier, but the sound was lost in the thunder of gunfire.
The shot smashed into Aiakos’ power field, blossoming harmlessly in a shower of green sparks. The Leviathan closest to the guards scuttled forward and caught the Ordsman up in its huge pincer. The man opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a syrupy grunt and a gout of blood as the Leviathan neatly cut him in half.
Aiakos looked at the staircase leading higher into the tower. It was far too small to support the Leviathans. No alarm had sounded, and as he pulled his harpoon free of the wall and bounded toward the stairs he allowed himself hope that the guards upstairs were still unaware what was happening.
He was up the first section of stairs with no more than the tiniest scrape of steel on stone. He had become adept at moving quickly and quietly in the streets of Blackwater, and his armor was light and made little noise. Additionally, he’d learned to turn its boiler down low to reduce the amount of smoke its necrotite-driven furnace produced. Still, the noise from the guard’s shot must have been heard.
The next level of the lighthouse was a simple galley with a cook stove, pots and pans hanging from racks, and a pair of large tables with chairs. It was empty. He continued up the stairs, wanting to run as fast he could go but holding back for the amount of noise it would make.
He was nearly at the next level, his head cresting the floor of a sizable room filled with bunks, racks for weapons and armor, and small chests. It, too, was empty, but the staircase leading up to lighthouse’s lantern was not. Coming down the stairs was a large man with a ruddy face and a thick beard. He wore leather armor with steel pauldrons as well as steel at the elbows and knees. He carried a hand cannon in one hand and a drawn short sword in the other. His armor and the way he moved spoke of both rank and experience.
Aiakos and the Ordic man stopped and stared at each other, neither moving. Aiakos could not believe his luck. The shot in the bottom level had not compelled the lighthouse commander to sound an alarm; complacency or disbelief had instead moved him to investigate the disturbance.
The spell was soon broken, but the Ordsman reacted first. His hand cannon came up and unleashed thunder and smoke. Aiakos’ power field flared, but the powerful charge of the hand cannon was enough to penetrate. The bullet struck Aiakos’ shoulder, and sharp pain followed by tingling numbness raced down his left arm. He staggered back a step from the force of the shot.
The Ordic commander turned to flee and made it three steps before Aiakos could bring his harpoon up and throw. Throwing uphill and off balance robbed him of strength and accuracy, but his cast was good enough to strike the Ordsman’s ankle as he sprinted up the stairs. The man howled in pain as the harpoon’s tines gouged his flesh and he fell forward onto the stairs. Aiakos didn’t bother trying to pull the man closer with the chain trailing from the end of the harpoon—the tines had not sunk deeply enough. Instead, he bounded up the stairs, raising his forearm blade despite the tearing agony from his wounded left shoulder.
The Ordic commander kept a clear head and rolled onto his back, bringing his short sword up in time to knock Aiakos’ thrust askew and lashing out with the butt of his hand cannon to smash the heavy pistol into Aiakos’ knee. He hardly felt the blow through his armor and lashed out with a heavy boot to catch the Ordic man under the chin, rocking his head back and dazing him. The man’s short sword dipped, and Aiakos plunged his own blade into the man’s belly. The commander loosed a long, ragged shriek as Aiakos ripped the serrated steel up through his abdomen.
Aiakos pulled his blade free, snatched up his harpoon, and leaped over the man. He hit the steps on the other side and ran, leaving the Ordic commander’s dying screams behind. The upper level of the lighthouse was the commander’s quarters, now empty. It held a small bed, a plain desk and chair, and what looked to be equipment used to maintain the lantern above.
A short ladder in the center of the room led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Aiakos raced up the ladder, through the trapdoor, and into the bracing chill of the wind coming off the port. Bright light nearly blinded him, and he jerked his head away from the strobing lantern in a great glass enclosure. A narrow catwalk with a thin metal railing ran around the lantern housing.
Aiakos found what he was looking for quickly: bolted to the railing was a siren powered by a hand crank. The siren’s speaker cone was aimed toward the port. Aiakos smashed his harpoon into the bolts holding the siren until the entire contraption came free and fell away into darkness. He then entered the lantern housing and smashed the lantern to pieces with a single blow from butt of his harpoon. Darkness swallowed the top of the lighthouse.
He next walked around the catwalk, the pain in his shoulder ebbing as relief and the heady sensation of accomplishment surged through him. He could still feel the Leviathans waiting in the lower level, eager to spill yet more blood. He smiled and looked out over the dark sea to where the Morbid Angel and the Scythe awaited.
“You’re wounded,” Axiara said, coming up behind Aiakos. He was leaning against the warm metal hull of one of the Leviathans, wrapping a bit of rag around the bullet hole in his arm. They stood outside a massive warehouse on a darkened pier, the ominous black shapes of the Morbid Angel and the Scythe waiting silently in the port behind them. Men from both ships along with helljacks and no few thralls were moving huge brass cannons from the warehouse into the hold of the Morbid Angel.
“It’s nothing,” Aiakos said.
Axiara placed one hand on his shoulder. “It went through the meat,” she said, staring at the wound with an obviously practiced eye. “It will heal quickly.”
Aiakos nodded, not sure what to say. Axiara had said nothing to him about what he’d done at the lighthouse or the fact that they were plundering the Ordic munitions depot almost unopposed. He had made his way to the pier shortly after finishing at the lighthouse and had killed the guards here as well.
“You are capable,” Axiara said. “And your talents make you valuable.”
He simply nodded.
“I want you to stay on the Morbid Angel,” she said. It was not a request. “I can ensure you learn to harness your power, grow it.”
“I am yours to command, admiral,” Aiakos said.
Axiara smiled, the shark again. “We’ll see.”
A deep penetrating whine suddenly filled the night and lights cross the harbor blazed into life revealing Ordic warships bristling with cannons. The siren would awaken these sleeping giants, and they would soon be moving toward the munitions depot.
“Blood and hell,” Axiara cursed. “Those
galleons will cut us to pieces. Get back aboard the Morbid Angel!”
All but one of the cannons had been loaded, and the last was quickly taken aboard as the crew, thralls, and helljacks streamed up the gangplank.
Aiakos ordered his Leviathans to board the ship and turned to follow them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Bloodbrine and a few of his men running toward the Scythe. Axiara, flanked by her first mate Kalghur and the putrescent form of Graxus, intercepted the captain. Aiakos watched the exchange. Axiara spoke—quiet, severe, and powerful—and Bloodbrine listened. The conversation lasted no more than ten seconds, and when Axiara turned to board her ship, a pale, shaking Bloodbrine watched her go, his face a mixture of rage and terror.
As Aiakos followed Axiara up the gangplank, he was quite certain he would not see his former captain again.
Despite its size, the Morbid Angel was a very fast ship. With both paddles churning and under full sail with the wind, there were few ships that could catch it. Certainly, the heavy Ordic war galleys had little chance of successfully pursuing the blackship. Their captains, however, had no interest in chasing the Morbid Angel. They had a Cryxian pirate ship in their sights—a fine, fat target with no hope of escape.
Aiakos watched the short battle in the port from the stern castle deck. The Scythe’s cannons rippled with fire, launching a broadside into one of the Ordic vessels. The night lit up as all three Ordic galleys returned fire, their cannons illuminating the Scythe’s final moments in glaring reds and yellows.
Aiakos sensed someone behind him and turned to see Nyra Bloodbrine standing a few paces away, her eyes locked on her father’s ship as it sank beneath the black waters.
Nyra’s face was blank, her posture relaxed. Aiakos stared at her unflinchingly, not caring if she saw him staring. The death of her father and the destruction of a ship that she might have one day commanded did not seem to faze her. Her face was impassive but her eyes blazed with fury, and he saw her right hand curl into a fist at her side.
