Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  She downed the cold swill, which tasted almost as vile as the beer, burning clean her palate.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, handing the cup back to her husband before pulling on her chemise. “At least it got rid of the stale beer taste in my mouth.”

  “Then it’s not that bad.”

  “By replacing it with a different aftertaste.” She glared at her husband. “Maybe they should discover a tea for men to drink since it’s your little roots spreading seed that’s the real problem.”

  “Talk to Estan. I’m sure he could whip it up,” Ary said, pulling on his red jacket.

  “You’re not putting on a clean shirt?”

  He lifted the front of his shirt and sniffed it. “Smells clean enough.”

  “There’s a beer stain down the back.”

  Ary blinked. “How did that happen?”

  He peeled off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry basket. It was nearly time for the laundresses to come around. He pulled on a clean uniform and buttoned up his coat. He smoothed out any wrinkles and straightened his gig line. He grimaced at his boots then blackened them up. Chaylene’s were a little scuffed. She ignored them and tied back her blonde hair.

  “I’ll see you at breakfast,” she said and strolled out.

  “Just don’t die out there,” he said, a smile on his lips.

  She frowned at that as she walked outside. Die? What did I say last night?

  Velegrin waited for her by the parade ground’s flagpole. The Autonomy’s flag—a yellow, two-headed griffin standing on a field of blue and red divided diagonally—stirred in a weak breeze. The sailors assembled nearby to load the provisions on the Dauntless for when they sailed tomorrow. Chaylene was glad she didn’t have to spend the day lugging heavy sacks, barrels, and crates.

  “Warrant Officer Jayne.” Smirking, Velegrin snapped a salute as sharp as any marine.

  “Call me Chaylene,” she groaned.

  “Of course, Warrant Officer.”

  She shook her head. “Is this going to be your new thing?”

  “Just want to prove that I am as professional as a marine.”

  “Zori’s not even here. You’re just annoying me.”

  Velegrin’s smirk broadened. “I’m sure you’ll tell her all about it when you see her.”

  “Can’t I just lie?”

  His look became serious. “Zori’ll know, Warrant Officer.”

  “Fine. Follow me.”

  “Yes, Warrant Officer.”

  Chaylene gritted her teeth as they strode through the camp to the stables to check in on the pegasi. Whitesocks neighed as she approached his stall. When she opened the door, he stepped forward and nuzzled her hand. She smiled as his hot tongue lapped at her right hand. She rubbed at the bridge of his nose, covered in the same chestnut coat as the rest of him. He rustled his gray-feathered wings and flicked his tail.

  “How was your night?” she asked as she led him out. “Didn’t get drunk with any fillies?”

  He tossed his head, his dark mane spilling down the side of his neck.

  “No, you didn’t want to abuse your body like I did. Smart.”

  She enjoyed the morning ritual with her pegasus. The large mount was her life out in the skies. If she didn’t care for him properly, he could send them both plummeting into the Storm. So she took her time currying his coat with a round brush held in the palm of her hand. As she worked, she felt at his muscles, searching for any hot patches or other signs of strain. Then she inspected his hooves, teeth, and flight feathers for any damage.

  “You’re looking good,” she said at the end, stroking his neck. “Soon, me and you’ll be flying all over the place. We’re going to see some amazing sights.”

  He nickered.

  “I knew you’d be excited.” She gave him a kiss on his muzzle, feeling the wiry softness of his coat. “It’ll be great to fly again, won’t it? I’ll make sure we get lots of practice flights as we sail to Onhur. And then we’ll be doing lots of scouting. We’re hunting pirates.”

  He nuzzled into her hand again, his pink tongue licking at her palm. She smiled as the tingle raced across her skin. She gave him an affectionate scratch between his ears. They twitched and he tossed his mane, whinnying in delight.

  “Okay, but it’s back to the stall for now,” she told him. “We’ll go for a flight this afternoon. I promise.”

  He fluttered his wings before she settled him in her stall. Velegrin, who had finished currying his pegasus Blackfeather, was opening Hunter’s stall. Chaylene’s throat grew tight as he led out Breston’s pegasus. Hunter stomped his hooves like he marched at a parade, his ears pricked, his head swiveling from side to side.

  “He’s not coming,” Velegrin said, words soft. “Got to settle for me again.”

  Chaylene’s throat prickled raw. She swallowed against her emotion and turned away to Dancer. Zori’s energetic pegasus whinnied in greeting. His wings fluttered, brushing the sides of his stall.

  “It’s going to be just you and me,” Velegrin said. “Until Zori gets off her lazy rump.”

  “Yeah, you and me.” She brought her curry brush to Dancer’s russet coat and stroked across his powerful flanks, filling the air with a rasping sound. He rustled his wings and flicked his ears.

  “What do you think he’d say? Breston?”

  “About what?” Chaylene asked.

  “About us going on without him.”

  “I don’t know.” She focused on the brush strokes, her heart fluttering in her chest. She could feel the grief quivering through her body, threatening to burst out of her as a storm of tears.

  “He’d tell us not to be like the marines.” Velegrin’s voice grew louder. “To not march around like we had poles shoved up our backsides.”

  Despite the swelling heartache, Chaylene smiled. Scouts were trained to think, not follow orders like their heads were stuffed with ostrich down.

  “I bet he wouldn’t even tuck in his shirt for his own funeral,” Velegrin said. “He wouldn’t care. ‘What does having a neat uniform matter? Won’t change what my eyes see and my mind reasons.’”

  “They probably tucked in his shirt before they wrapped up his body.” Chaylene’s smile died.

  “We should have made sure.” Velegrin sighed. “I mean, he wouldn’t want to look like a spit and polish marine with his gig line all in order.”

  “His hair combed neat.” Her vision swam. She blinked her eyes rapidly. “We’re going to have to fly without him. Just me and you.”

  “Good thing he taught one of us to read a map and use a compass.”

  “Good thing,” Chaylene said. “Else you’d never find your way back to the Dauntless.”

  “That’s right, Warrant Officer Jayne.” Velegrin smiled wide, but something about it looked brittle. He snapped a salute. “I’ll follow you and let it all be your fault when we’re wandering lost in Thugri Sound.”

  “We won’t get lost,” Chaylene said as she finished currying Dancer. “Breston taught us well.”

  “He even managed to get Zori to learn something.” Velegrin’s smile faded. A hopeless darkness boiled across his face, swallowing his fragile jocularity. In a flash, anger ripped apart his expression as he snarled, “Theisseg’s cursed Storm! Why’d She have to send Her damned Riders to attack us?” The curry brush flew from his hand and crashed into the stable wall.

  Hunter gave a nervous wicker while Dancer stamped his hooves.

  Chaylene swallowed. “I’m not sure She has much control over them.”

  “What?” Velegrin growled between heavy pants.

  “Nothing.” She swallowed. “Let’s just finish up with the pegasi. We have work to do.”

  Velegrin clenched and relaxed his fist. “What work is that, Warrant Officer?”

  “We’re going to figure out where the Bluefin Raiders are hiding.”

  “Who?”

  Chaylene explained about the pirates as they mucked out the stalls. After, they headed upstairs to the scout’s
small classroom. There, she unfolded a chart she’d requisitioned from Lieutenant-Captain Chemy, the Dauntless’s new navigator, on a large table. It was a detailed map of the three Agerzak skylands—Thurfen to the west, Lolren, then Dudgress—that bordered Thugri Sound’s northern side. South lay the Fringe, the skylands conquered from the Agerzaks by the Autonomy forty or so years before.

  “Captain wants us to discover where these pirates are hiding, so let’s study the map and note any potential sights for the base,” Chaylene said.

  Velegrin nodded and snagged a grease pencil. “Let’s get started, Warrant Officer.”

  Chaylene let out a heavy sigh, wishing Zori were there.

  *

  Ary left the cottage not long after his wife, striding with confidence to the parade ground. Today, the replacements from the Spirituous would report. Ary was eager to integrate them with his marines through drills. Guts, Estan, and Zeirie already stood at attention, though Guts had a big grin on his face, giving Ary a nod.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” Estan said, his face stiff, jaw clenched. His ribs were still healing.

  Zeirie scowled at Ary. He gave her an intense stare. Her lips pursed tight. He didn’t look away. The insolence faded from her pale face, and her slanted, red eyes flicked down. Ary nodded. He wouldn’t tolerate any disobedience from the woman. He hadn’t forgotten her constant insults towards his wife.

  Jhech, the last marine from the Dauntless, jogged up. Though the tall man’s build tended towards stoutness, he could move with a nimbleness belying his height and stature. He snapped a salute, fingers brushing his reddish-brown hair, hinting at a touch of Vaarckthian blood in his ancestry. “Sorry, Sergeant.”

  The Sergeant-Major would have made the man jog around the perimeter or do push-ups as punishment. “It’s fine, Private. Fall in.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Jhech fell in beside Guts, his back straight.

  “The replacements from the Spirituous should be joining us,” Ary said. “Once they’re here, we’re going to jog to the hill and—”

  The marines all groaned. Ary flushed at their interruption. A tempest rumbled deep inside of him. He had to show them he commanded. That he would expect, demand, the same discipline as the Sergeant-Major. But losing his temper wouldn’t do. When the Sergeant-Major became angry, he yelled and blustered, but he always stayed in control.

  Ary . . . didn’t.

  “We’re gonna jog to the hill. If I hear another complaint, we’ll do it twice.” Ary faced his men, Guts blinking as the smirk faded from his lips. “We’re sailing into the frenzy. This tour ain’t gonna be as simple as gutting a carp. There’s a new pirate band causing problems. Seems they have ships.”

  Guts and Zeirie both gaped.

  “Ships, Sergeant?” Guts asked. “Really?”

  Ary nodded.

  “Which band . . . Sergeant?” Zeirie asked.

  He ignored her pause. This time. “The Bluefin Raiders.”

  Guts whistled. “Everyone back on Tlovis whispers ‘bout them. Particularly the Agerzaks. My parents used to scare me into good behavior talking ‘bout Captain Masrein, their last leader. I’ve heard mean things about their new one.”

  Zeirie nodded her head in agreement.

  “Well, that’s who we’re up against,” Ary said, flashing hard eyes across his marines. “So we’re gonna drill fighting pirates today. They’ll have greatswords, so we need to practice our forms until they’re second nature to us. I don’t want to lose a single one of you.” Ary grinned. “We’ll show these pirates what real sharks are.”

  “Stormwall, Sergeant!” Guts bellowed, echoed by the other three.

  “Stormwall,” Ary said, feeling his confidence swell. He had fought Stormriders with these three. What could a wallow of mangy pirates do against them?

  “Sergeant,” Jhech said, nodding his head to the side. “I reckon them are the replacements.”

  Three marines marched towards them. A whip-thin woman led, the other two following a half-step behind her. The female marine wore her blonde hair pinned in a thick bun. It stretch taut her brown skin over her bony skull, robbing her expression of any youth. She halted before Ary and saluted smartly.

  “Corporal Xoarene Huson with Privates Vay Sharech and Messiench Rfiech reporting, Sergeant!”

  Ary fought his scowl, recognizing Vay from the voyage to Camp Chubris. The man spent his time lounging with Grabin, whom Ary had almost killed. Grabin’s sow face and piggish squeals filled Ary’s mind. He’d come within a heartbeat of slamming the bastard through the Xorlar’s railing and dropping him into the Storm for groping Chaylene. Vay easily could have attracted Ary’s wrath that day. Even now, Ary witnessed Vay’s red eyes drift over to appraise Zeirie. An arrogant smile, not unlike Vel’s, spread across his lips.

  Ary scowled. “Fall in!”

  Vay flinched, his face paling and his grin vanishing. His back went as rigid as a mainmast. Xoarene stood before the men, her back straight while Messiench studied Ary with slanted, mud-brown eyes. Like every Agerzak male Ary knew, Messiench cultivated a beard, his black curls trimmed close.

  “Welcome to the Dauntless,” Ary said, heat still thick in his voice. “I don’t know and I don’t care how your last sergeant ran your detachment. Here, you’re under my command.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Xoarene said. “We’ll follow orders.”

  “Aye, Sergeant,” Messiench grunted.

  Vay nodded, jaw clenched tight, a tic twitching his cheek.

  “Since we are not at the full complement of marines, there will only be one detachment,” Ary continued, taking a perverse satisfaction in the fear that appeared to grip Vay. If it were Grabin . . . “I will be in command with Xoarene as—”

  “Corporal Huson,” Xoarene interrupted.

  Ary blinked at her.

  “It is proper to address me by rank and family name, Sergeant. Or simply by rank.”

  Behind her, Guts rolled his eyes. The amusement in his friend’s features deflated Ary’s simmering wrath as he fought off a smile.

  “My apologies, Corporal Huson. You’ll be second-in-command. In combat, I’ll command the starboard railing with Guts, Estan, and Zeirie. You will command the port with the other three.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Her lips pursed tight. Ary ignored her disapproval. I’ll call my men by their first names if I want to.

  “Fall in for a run.”

  “You heard the sergeant!” Corporal Huson snapped with as much authority as the Sergeant-Major had possessed. Ary almost jumped to obey. “Fall into ranks of two. Come on, you guppies! Move faster!”

  The six marines fell in with alacrity, Guts and Estan at the front of the column. Corporal Huson watched them like an osprey guarding a barley field, waiting for a fish to wander too close. She hungered.

  She pounced on Vay. “Eyes forward, Private!” Her fist clenched. “Standing in formation is not the time to stare at a woman’s backside. Do we need to talk about inappropriate gazes again?”

  “No, Corporal.” Vay swallowed, his head fixed forward.

  The corporal did a smooth about-face and snapped Ary a salute. “Sergeant, the marines stand ready for the march.”

  Ary drew in his breath to give the command when a flushed-faced sailor named Ienchie ran up. “Sergeant . . . Captain Dhar . . . wants you . . . to . . . report to her . . .” She panted, bending over to grab her knees. “Bring . . . your men . . . to the docks . . .”

  Ary adapted. Marines always needed to be ready for new mission parameters. They had to react to their commanders’ orders at a moment’s notice. “On the quick step!”

  Corporal Huson fell in at his side. The pair marched ahead of his marines, boots thudding in unison. She had the same height as him, though far slimmer. Ary wondered if she had any meat on her skeleton, or if it were all gristle. Her brown hand clutched the hilt of a looted Stormrider blade. She wore it with comfort. Scrawny or not, she was a shark.

  A marine.

  She survived
the Cyclone. That’s proof enough.

  “What do you think’s goin’ on, Ary?” Guts asked.

  “Quiet in the ranks!” snapped the corporal.

  Ary furrowed his eyebrows as he glanced at her. “I don’t know, Guts. A ship must have arrived.”

  “With another dignitary?”

  Corporal Huson’s bony face grew red, her jaw clenched tight.

  Ary would run his marines his way. She’d have to adjust. “You know everything I do, Guts.”

  “I surmise it is a griffin,” Estan said.

  “I didn’t think there were any griffins down here,” Ary answered. “I thought they were farther north. Up in the mountains of Central Les.”

  “No, no, a griffin from the Office of Special Investigations.”

  “Office of what?” Guts asked.

  “The Office of Special Investigations is a branch of the Autonomy’s government,” Corporal Huson rattled off before Estan could answer.

  “Er, yes, that’s exactly right, Corporal,” Estan said. “Their investigators have earned the moniker of griffins for two reasons. One, they wear our nation’s symbol as a badge on their uniforms. Two, their tenacious pursuit of criminals rivals a hunting griffin.”

  “So, why would one be coming here?” Guts asked.

  “I surmise this is because of the Cyclone. The investigator will be searching for any who might have had the misfortune of being struck by lightning.”

  Ary stumbled.

  “You all right?” Guts asked.

  “Tripped on a rock,” Ary muttered, a drop of pure ice running down his spine. “Are you certain that’s true? I mean, no one was struck by lightning, right? People would have noticed and talked.”

  “It was chaotic on the Spirituous,” Messiench said, his voice gravelly with an Agerzak accent. “Lightning was flashing all throughout the storm. The ship was pitching so bad near the end, it was all I could do to hold onto the foremast. And who’d want to admit to being struck by lightning and being touched by Dhe . . . Theisseg?”

  Ary fought to keep his face straight. I wasn’t struck by lightning this Cyclone. No one saw anything.