Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Only one medal dangled from his jacket. He didn’t care about earning more. Survival was award enough.

  Vel imagined killing Ary over and over during the funeral. Poison. A knife. A hard push over the ship’s gunwale. When the acolyte lit the pyre, he imagined his former friend with the other bodies, cleansed by the fire while Chaylene sobbed on his shoulder.

  Death was the only path.

  Vel would be patient after Ary’s “tragic” demise. He’d allow Chaylene time to mourn. No more than a month should be appropriate—he could wait that long for her—and then he would finally possess her. He imagined her dark body beneath him, the blood pounding through his veins as she quivered and moaned.

  “You, guppies, find another table,” a gravelly woman’s voice roared, jarring Vel out of his fantasy.

  A group of chiefs rousted a pack of Dauntless sailors from their table. One, a woman, glowered at them with one eye, the other covered by a leather patch. She flexed her knuckles. The sailors fled.

  Vel swallowed. Rumors gusted about the Dauntless’s Bosun. Glad I’m a cook and not assigned to the deck crew.

  The chiefs sat down and . . . Vel blinked. Ary and Chaylene pulled up chairs and joined them. The Bosun clapped Chaylene on the back in a familiar way as she bellowed for a round of drinks from one of the friendly maids. Three medals dangled from Chaylene’s light-blue jacket, the polished porcelain glinting in the lamplight. Then he noticed the white thread stitched onto her jacket’s epaulets.

  She’s been promoted, he realized.

  Vel’s eyes fell on the brute. Only a pair of medals dangled from his red jacket, but the stitching on his red coat’s epaulets marked him a sergeant. Two medals and a promotion? Something oily bubbled inside of Vel as his hand drifted to the pouch in his pocket, squeezing it.

  Could I poison him now?

  His heart hammered as his mind whirled around the possibility. He needed to be courageous. To be bold. He imagined it in his mind: standing up, marching over, and spilling the poison into the mug of beer a buxom maid placed before Ary.

  Vel’s stomach roiled into knots. His hand trembled. He squeezed the pouch hard. It would be so easy, but . . . How could he do it and remain unseen?

  Vel considered gathering a pinch between his fingers and sprinkling it onto Ary’s beer while pretending to stumble into them. But the table was crowded, the chiefs sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. It’ll be hard to get my arm in between them. I might be jostled. And it’ll be so obvious.

  Vel sipped his beer, studying the group, searching for an opportunity. Maybe when Ary gets up to use the privy?

  Chaylene sipped her bear and grimaced. Vel smiled, forgetting about his plan as he admired the cuteness of her puckered lips. She shook her head, her blonde hair, falling loose, rippling like a field of barley in an autumn breeze. The Bosun made a comment and the others took up the chant.

  “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

  Even Ary cheered, his arm around Chaylene’s waist, holding her like he owned her.

  Vel’s jaw tightened.

  She shifted around and let out a visible sigh. She took a deep breath then brought the mug to her lips. Her throat worked as she gulped down the beer. The chiefs chanted, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” louder and louder. She craned her head back as she forced herself to down the tankard. She shuddered as finished, her mouth twisting in a grimace.

  The chiefs cheered. Ary kissed her cheek.

  What if I bribed one of the maids to give me a moment with his drink?

  His eyes found Shoni navigating through the tables. She laughed as a friendly hand groped her. She was always amenable to anything for the right coin. But can I trust a whore to keep her mouth shut when Ary falls over choking? What good will it be to finally have Chaylene if I’m strung up for murder?

  A burly Agerzak chief poured Chaylene a fresh tankard. She took a long drink and didn’t grimace as much. A comment made her smile. Then Ary said something, and she planted a kiss on the brute’s lips.

  Vel almost lost his stomach. He snagged Shoni as she strutted by and dragged her upstairs. He used the whore hard, his anger boiling through his passion.

  *

  Chaylene’s head swam as she lowered her mug to the table. Her tongue flicked across her lips, sweeping clear the sudsy foam forming a bubbling mustache. She gasped for breath, the beer warming her belly.

  “That’s awful,” she groaned, the sour taste lingering on her tongue. She grimaced as the warmth spread throughout her body. She shook her head. “How can you stomach to swill this?”

  “Easy,” Shuthene Thubris, the Bosun, said. The smile on her face appeared so alien to Chaylene, the Bosun’s one good eye dancing with mirth. “You have a second and third. By the fourth, you can’t even taste the vilest swill. And this . . . This is far better than the ration of grog we get on the Dauntless.”

  Ary nodded his head in agreement, holding his mug before him. He took a deep swallow of the brown drink while Chaylene shook her head. She stared down at the empty tankard, blinking in awe of downing it all.

  Her first taste of alcohol left her wanting to rinse her mouth out in lye. She rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, the sharp flavor lingering. But that billowing, spreading lethargy spilling out of her stomach felt . . . nice. Like a warm breeze caressing her face on an early spring evening as she looked up at the stars. It . . . relaxed her. Wriavia, Theisseg touching her husband, the heartache for her missing friends all . . . lessened. Was smothered. She straightened and found herself smiling despite the horrid taste in her mouth.

  Cheimch Fossein, the bushy-bearded chief of the boat, grabbed the earthenware container and topped off his own mug. He held it up, arching an eyebrow as fuzzy as a caterpillar as he looked around the table.

  “Chief,” Chaylene said, holding out her mug.

  “Wouldn’t have thought you was a thirsty one,” Shuthene said, her voice lacking that guttural growl she used on her sailors. She oversaw the deck and was in charge of the ship’s rigging. After the chief of the boat, she was the second highest ranked non-commissioned officer on the Dauntless.

  “The quiet ones,” grunted Rlarthon Sharene, the tall chief carpenter. His head rose half a rope above anyone else at the table. “They always surprise you. Knew this goodwife once, all prim and proper, but she could drink the meanest sailor beneath the table and still manage to cook for her six kids and her husband. That cooking sherry, I tell you. It’s why Hay always beats me.”

  “That’s because you’re always sipping from your flask,” Hay Hurhen replied. The Dauntless’s chief cook leaned back, a balding man with a ponderous girth. “How can you win when you’re already three shots ahead?”

  “Bah, it’s the sherry.” Rlarthon leaned closer to Chaylene. “Never try to outdrink a cook. All thieves, I tell you. ‘Specially Hay.”

  “They’re all something,” Chaylene said as Hay filled her tankard. It reminded her of the Dauntless’s newest cook: Vel. She didn’t look forward to having to face him day in and day out. She hoped he finally understood her feelings. She was blunt enough last night. She didn’t want to be cruel to him, but he had to stop trying to seduce her.

  Especially with such lies!

  She tipped back her full tankard and swallowed another mouthful of the sour stuff. She grimaced immediately but forced herself to gulp it down. Because that warmth . . . that warmth was nice. It made her feel so . . . so light.

  “Watch out, Ary,” Rlarthon said, grinning across the table. “Your wife might drink you under the table.”

  “Then she’d have to carry me home,” Ary said.

  The laughter burst out of Chaylene’s mouth before she could stop herself. The image of his broad frame thrown over her slender shoulders had her trembling with mirth. Ary pulled her closer, a big grin on his lips. She had to kiss him.

  Everyone at their table roared in delightful laughter, sending warmth bubbling up to Chaylene’s cheeks. She broke the kiss, giving the table a wicked grin
. The heat gathered in her loins. She just . . . felt free, uncaring about what they thought. What did anything matter when she felt so good?

  “Isn’t that what your wife was doing, Hay?” Rlarthon asked, nudging the cook.

  A scowl crossed the cook’s face. “Poxed whore. Hope she rots from whatever that sailor’s diseased root gave her.”

  Chaylene’s mirth died. She blinked as Hay leaned back, taking a long pull from his drink while Shuthene glared her one good eye across the table. Rlarthon squirmed his shoulders then hid his face in his tankard. Silence gripped the table for a moment save for Hay’s noisy gulps. He set down his tankard, foam running down his chin. He filled his tankard with fresh beer and looked around the table at everyone, eyes hard.

  Chief Fossein cleared his throat before lifting his tankard up into the air. “To lost friends called back to the fiery bosom of Riasruo too soon.”

  “Ailsuimnae,” Chaylene said.

  “Good sailor,” Shuthene said, her one eye softening. “Her and Grisen.”

  “Shuth,” Rlarshon grunted with a heavy sigh. “He held promises as a carpenter. Wood spoke to him.”

  “Breston,” the chief of the boat said, lifting his tankard up high for Chaylene’s fallen commander. “Never dice with the man, but you’d want him at your back in a brawl.”

  “The Sergeant-Major,” Ary said. “Would have liked to know the real him.”

  Shuthene nodded her head, her face falling.

  “To all those cruelly taken by Theisseg’s black soul,” Hay growled. “A pox on you and your demon-spawned followers!” He spat to the side.

  Chaylene shifted in her chair, glancing at her husband. Was Theisseg so bad? She gave Ary the power to heal himself. If She never touched him, he never would have survived Wriavia’s poisoning. But would he have tried to poison Ary if he weren’t Stormtouched?

  “The crew of the Dauntless!” Shuthene boomed in her powerful voice. She thrust her tankard forward.

  Chaylene clinked her mug with the others. Then she drank deeply out of it like she had her first. The sour flavor diminished. The fire in her belly pumped more of that smothering smoke through her veins. She welcomed it. The pain of poor Ailsuimnae’s death faded, the sounds of the battle diminished, and the howl of hungry wind reaching for her—aching to devour her, to rip her to pieces and cast her bloody across the skies—retreated.

  She poured herself a fourth when she’d finished, her tongue almost numb to the flavor as she laughed with the others. She pounded her tankard on the table as the cook launched into a song whose words twisted through her mind. She celebrated the lives of those taken away, adding her own off-key voice to the singing.

  The night swirled around her, everything vanishing into a dense, brown haze wreathing her mind.

  *

  “You have t’ carry me, Arrii,” Chaylene slurred, her arm draped over his neck, her body hanging loose against him. “I’m dead.”

  “Y’are?” Ary frowned. That didn’t sound right to him. “You sound alive t’ me.”

  She shook her head back and forth, whipping her blonde locks about her shoulder. “S’ beer. It killed me.”

  “You did drink a lot.” A smile crossed his lips as he swayed to the rolling pitch of the tavern. “I never knew you sang.”

  “Wasn’t singin’. S’was dyin’.” She rubbed her ebony cheek against his chest. “Carry me, Arrii. Too dead t’ walk.”

  “Sure,” Ary grunted and scooped his wife up in his arms.

  He struggled to stand from the table as she squirmed against him. The tavern lurched around him. He bumped the table, rattling crockery. Hay gave a grunting snort, his face pressed into a puddle of brown. The surface rippled as he exhaled.

  “You know how to stand,” he told himself. “Come on.”

  He gave a grunt, his legs cooperating this time. As he rose, he pushed back the seat he sat on, wood scraping on wood. He staggered as the world lurched to his right. Chaylene gasped in his arms, her limbs tightening about his neck. She moaned his name like an accusation.

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he searched for the exit. Why has everything gone bleary?

  “S’trying t’ sleep, Arrii,” Chaylene moaned. “I’m dead, ‘member?”

  “I remember,” Ary said. “Shame, you feel so alive n’ squirmin’. Thought I’d ogle your fruit.”

  “‘Kay,” she muttered, her eyes closing. “Like it when you do . . .”

  Her breathing slowed. By the time he reached the door, little snores rumbled from her, her face relaxed like a moon maiden’s. Chaylene loved the story of the moon maiden Eyia and the Human hunter who fell in love with her and chased her still across the night sky.

  “Night, my Eyia,” Ary muttered as he stepped onto the streets of Shon. The autumn air washed cold around him. He stared up at Jwiaswo’s nearly full, red face, shining crimson upon the world. His brother, blue Twiuasra, was only a crescent sliver as he waned towards full darkness. Ary held Chaylene tight. “Can’t let you dance away from me. I caught you.”

  He chuckled at that as he staggered off into the night, mostly going straight. A whistle rose on his lips. The night felt so vibrant, so real, even if everything swam and wavered about him. The warmth in his belly hugged him and his wife snored in his arms. Nothing weighed him down. Nothing pulled him in other directions. He just stumbled down the road to Camp Chubris and their home.

  He imagined he traipsed past the familiar barley field of Vesche down the Quarry Road from Isfe and the Jolly Farmer to the small croft he rented from Master Arshev. For a while, Ary could pretend he didn’t carry his wife back to the Navy, back to the pain and suffering, to the sudden violence which maimed and killed.

  But to the peace of a quiet home.

  Chapter Six

  Isamoa 16th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Chaylene awoke to a drove of hogs trampling through her mind.

  She shuddered, rolling onto her back and gripping her temples. Her mouth tasted foul, a stale, a sour film lingering on her tongue, her throat parched. She stumbled out of bed, trying not to fall over as she rushed for the pitcher of water beside their wash basin. She snatched it up, brought it to her mouth, and . . .

  Nothing. Empty.

  She’d forgotten to fill it last night before they’d retired. She tried to remember how she got home. She had a memory of being held, floating safely back to her bed. The pain drove out any thoughts. She sank to her knees, groaning aloud.

  “You okay?” Ary asked.

  Her husband sat up, his clothing wrinkled, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Chaylene glanced down, realizing she’d slept in her uniform. Her boots lay in a pile near the bed, tumbled with Ary’s, her coat discarded beside it. Ary thudded to her, his heavy footsteps rattling her skull.

  “Are you okay, Lena?”

  “They killed me,” she muttered. “Oh, Goddess Above, my head . . .”

  “You should drink something.”

  Chaylene let out a frustrated roar, brandishing the pitcher at her husband in lieu of words. She regretted her actions as her pounding heart flooded her temple with throbbing pain. She groaned at the wave of nausea twisting through her guts.

  “I’ll go get you some water.” Ary kissed her forehead. His lips were hot and beat back a touch of her ache, diminishing it to merely tolerable.

  “Thanks,” she croaked as he strode outside in his woolen socks. Cool air washed in through the open door. She savored its touch, eyes closed.

  Ary strode back in soon after, water sloshing out of the top of the pitcher and splattering the floor. He marched to her, a smile on his face. She frowned at that as he bent down before her, wondering why he didn’t wince.

  “Why aren’t you hungover?” she accused. He should suffer with her.

  Ary shrugged. “I don’t get hungover.”

  Chaylene frowned at that, struggling to remember the morning of the Cyclone through the pain of her headache. Despite getting drunk mourning his ma’s passing, Ary had awoken with his us
ual energy.

  “I wish I was touched by Theisseg,” she muttered before tilting back the pitcher to gulp down refreshing, cool water. She didn’t care that half of it poured down her neck and soaked the front of her blouse.

  “I guess it has its advantages.” Ary laughed. “Fear of being quarantined, dreams of the screaming Goddess, and immunity to hangovers.”

  “I’d take it right now to make the pain stop.”

  Ary sat behind her and pulled her onto his lap. She leaned back against his broad chest and closed her eyes, sighing as his hot fingers rubbed at her temples. His touch was magical, banishing the pain from her forehead. He massaged it away bit by bit, the warmth of his touch making her feel so good while the water settled her stomach and washed away that horrid film coating her tongue and teeth.

  “You’re good at that,” she said.

  “My ma used to do this for my pa when he went drinking at the Farmer’s Rest the night before.” Ary let out a half-chuckle. “She would scold him the entire time she rubbed at his temples.”

  “Thank you.”

  He kissed the back of her head.

  The revelry horns sounded, shrill blasts screaming through the cottage. Chaylene groaned as Ary’s fingers pulled away from her forehead. At least the headache didn’t return, though she could feel it lurking on the edges.

  She gulped down more water then frowned at her clothing, smoothing out her wrinkled britches. She pulled off her shirt and chemise then searched their chest of drawers for clean ones to wear.

  Ary handed her a cup when she turned. “Your tea.”

  The bitter infusions of herbs wrinkled her nose. The tea was a requirement for every drafted woman who served in the Navy. If she chose to reenlist when her four years were up, or if she became an officer of sufficient rank, she could stop drinking the tea and conceive a child.