by J M D Reid
“She’s a scout. She would be firing her pressure rifle.” Jhevon sheathed the sabre and then darted to the table. “I bet you killed those bastards, too.”
“Yeah,” Chaylene said, her voice dead.
“Wow,” Gretla said. “What was it like?”
“Are they really demons?”
“Do they bleed?”
“How hard are they to kill?”
“Were you scared, Chaylene?”
“What’s being in a fight like, Ary?”
The questions from his siblings whirled around Ary. He didn’t know how to answer them. How could he tell them what a battle was like? How could he describe the clawing fear squeezing his guts? Or the cold blood pounding through his veins? The back of his throat went dry as the wind howled louder. Hungrier. Lightning crackled across the sky. The glint of their armor flashed through the black clouds racing about the ship. Sweeps of arrows hurtled out of the tempest, sprouting in screaming flesh. The tang of blood stung his nostrils. Riders charged upon beasts of storm, clad in unbreakable metal, armored against his attacks.
Ahneil cut nearly in half.
The arrow bursting out of the Sergeant-Major’s throat.
Stumbling on the deck as the ship rocked. Slipping on blood and gore. The bite of sword slamming into enemy flesh.
Eyes staring in awe at a blue sky.
How could he put the fear, the shame of surviving, the exhilaration of living, the rage at seeing his companions dying, the guilt from snuffing the life out of another Human’s eyes, the resolve pushing you to keep fighting, to keep killing, into words? How could Gretla possibly understand any of it? She’d never seen death. Not really. She’d seen accidents and aftermath, but she’d never heard men begging to live. She’d never seen someone’s insides spill out. A man ripped to pieces by a ballista shot. She held such innocence in her scarlet eyes. An innocence he couldn’t take away from her by telling her the truth.
He glanced at Chaylene, and her face was just as tight as his. They’d encountered demons during the Cyclone, but they didn’t wear armor and ride steeds of storm. They lurked in the soul, tearing at you after it was over. They attacked you in the small hours of the night, in the quiet moments of the day. They ambushed you from loud bangs or in the gusts of strong winds. They could creep up on you at any moment, slashing your soul to ribbons as you relived every dark moment.
“I know you were gallant, Ary,” Gretla said. “It’s why you won that medal.”
“Yeah,” Ary said. He could admit that much. But how could he tell his sister about hacking a Stormrider down from behind and not giving him a chance to defend himself? He couldn’t. You didn’t fight with gallant honor on a pitching ship. You fought to survive. To kill. You blew your enemy up from a distance. You threw bolts of lightning at them and hurtled their smoking corpse to the mercies of howling winds.
If your enemy slipped and fell, you didn’t wait for them to stand; you rammed your blade through their guts.
How could he tell Gretla any of that?
“We did our duty,” he said. “That’s all.”
Chaylene nodded her head.
Ary cleared his throat. He couldn’t keep holding back the pain ripping through his soul. He flailed around for a topic. “So . . . which ostrich chick is your favorite?”
Gretla’s eyes widened and pure joy burst across her face. Ary never wanted his little sister to lose that innocence as she launched into her detailed description of the fuzzy chicks which had just hatched and the one she liked to cuddle with the most. In her eyes, Ary witnessed something more precious than the wealth contained in his sword. Something that couldn’t be bought but only nurtured. Cultivated.
The demons retreated before it as Ary’s smile grew broader and broader.
Chapter Thirteen
Isamoa 24th, 399 SR (1960 SR)
Nrein stood on the docks of Offnrieth, the largest city on Dudgress, and surveyed the motley Agerzaks crowding around him. Fierce men, stout or lean, tall or squat. Wind whipped from the Thugri Sound. “I only want the strongest!” he thundered. “The most vicious sharks!”
Behind him, the Iron Horse, his flagship, lay moored beside his newest ship: the Hammer. Both Vaarckthian warships floated at solid odds with the rickety docks, shaking like the palsy fingers of an old man.
“I don’t want no cowards! We’ll be reaving a bloody path through the skies!” He scanned the rough men. “Even the damned Autonomy Navy will bleed. We’re sharks! We’re the sons of Agerz! We’ll show those skinny minnows how real men fight!”
The would-be Agerzak pirates roared. They thrust fists into the air, many gnarled from brawling. Hard men with bristling, black beards, their bodies adorned with puckered scars. More than a few wore greatswords strapped to their backs, heirlooms of their ancestors.
“You’ll be crewing an actual warship. The Autonomy’s pathetic Navy has gotten too used to running down our raiders while they’re on horseback and shooting them from a distance. But now the winds have changed. They’re blowing in our direction. We’re gonna gut the Eastern Fleet. Then we’ll pillage every last one of their whalers!”
The crowd roared louder with hunger. A tingle raced through Nrein.
“And once the Sound is ours, we’ll reave the Fringe and burn their plantations! Coins will fall like rain upon my crews! Wealth, women, and bloody combat. What more could a man want?”
Nrein’s heart pumped as the crowd roared. He would be the greatest pirate that had ever sailed the skies. He’d pillage and conquer while the the Autonomy and the Empire waged war. As they warred, he’d carved his own empire out of the Fringe, reconquering what the weak skyers stole from the Sons of Agerz.
“Step up if you got a pair of big, iron balls!” he boomed, arms outstretched.
The Agerzak men roared again. Each had long beards braided into a twining fork, the style of Dudgress. All were bloodied men. The King of Estapf warred with Ruppen again, and many would be veterans of the fighting. Men with steel bones who’d crush the Autonomy’s Navy. The Vionese may be superbly trained, but the Autonomy conscripted their Navy. None had ever seen real combat. They would break before the charge of his raiders like the blubbering whaler crews did.
Nrein stepped off the box, leaving Banch, the man he’d appointed to command the Hammer, to choose his crew and raiders. Banch stood a head taller than most Agerzaks, looming despite his hair being as white as a wispy cloud. Age hadn’t rusted his thick limbs. He could still break a man in half. Assigning him a ship was a gamble—Banch could take it for his own—but Nrein trusted him as far as he could trust any man.
There was only one person Nrein trusted without reservation, and he would never let her voyage on his ships.
The docks creaked beneath his feet, the rotten planks groaning and warping as he stalked back to the Iron Horse. So few ships docked at Offnrieth that maintenance wasn’t a priority. Nrein snorted. There wasn’t a part of Offnrieth where maintenance was a priority. The entire city fell into uncaring ruin. Since any ship wandering into Agerzak skies would be pillaged, not even the most desperate merchant of the Autonomy, Vaarck, or the other weak nations of the skies would risk their lives and cargo to sail here. Occasionally, an Autonomy warship would sail past, hunting pirates. The docks only existed for ships pirates captured in the Sound. It was a useful place to strip them of cargo and to arrange for the ransom of the crews.
He stalked onto the empty deck of the Iron Horse. Most of his raiders were carousing in the abundant whorehouses, leaving only a few to watch the Vionese sailors locked in the hold. Nrein didn’t bother joining the carousing. There wasn’t a whore in Offnrieth who hadn’t been used by a hundred men.
As he adjusted the greatsword slung over his shoulder, his gaze went to the south, staring at the skylands lurking beyond the horizon across the Thugri Sound. The Autonomy called it the Fringe. How had his people grown so weak to let skyers defeat them? Conquer them?
His fist clenched.
Ts
ossar strolled up, squinting with his one good eye. Nrein nodded to his second-in-command and growled, “Yes?”
“Hestril contacted us while you were speakin’.”
Lroff lounged behind Tsossar. The man leaned against the gunwale, one hand stroking his twin-braided beard. Nrein motioned with a cock of his head. The Firedrinker stepped forward with a languorous saunter that was almost insolent.
“Cap’n,” Lroff said, flashing a smile, his teeth black with rot.
Nrein fixed a hard gaze on the man. “What did Hestril say?”
“In the morning, the Bravado’s sailin’ from Onhur to patrol.” The Bravado was one of the two frigates assigned to the Eastern fleet. “Accordin’ to Hestril, they ain’t gonna search the Sound. They’re headin’ down the east side of Grion Rift.”
Nrein kept the shock from his expression. “You’re certain?”
“Yeah, Cap’n. Hestril was real certain.” Lroff swallowed. “They can find our base, Cap’n.”
“But sailing by Grion Rift is dangerous.” Nrein smiled. His heart screamed for blood. A risky plan swirled through his mind. A bloody plan. “Tsossar, fetch the charts. Lroff, tell Banch to choose his raiders and get ready to sail within the hour. Then you get every last man back aboard the Iron Horse and Shark’s Maw.”
“We’re gonna go after the Bravado?” Tsossar grinned.
“She’ll be all alone by the rift. Three on one. I like them odds.” Nrein’s heart pumped bloodlust, thudding in his heart like a frenetic drum. “Get your damn legs hopping, Lroff, or I’ll break ‘em and leave you rotting on Offnrieth’s docks.”
“Then who’d speak to Hestril in the flames?” Lroff laughed as he backed away.
Tsossar followed Nrein to his cabin and the maps. They pulled them out and discussed plans as the crew poured onto the ship. The odds were almost even now. The Eastern Fleet was down to four ships: two corvettes and two frigates. If I can destroy or capture a frigate . . .
Nrein would toss the dice on those odds.
*
Isamoa 25th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
On the second day sailing from Vesche, Ary still felt energized. Seeing his siblings had reminded him for which he, Chaylene, and the crew of the Dauntless suffered. They fought and bled and died to protect the innocents of the world. It made enduring the cramped ship easier.
Near midday, as the ship sailed through Thugay Channel just off the northern edge of Isthia in the Western Fringe, Ary found his gaze drawn to the spire of crystal glittering on the horizon. He drifted to the side of the ship, staring at the finger of blue-gray with light glinting on its edges.
A Dawnspire.
The sun caught the northern facets, sheets of brilliant white flickering down the massive tower. It appeared identical to the one by Camp Chubris. It was at once delicate and study, appearing so fragile a flick could shatter it and yet so solid that it held aloft this skyland and others.
“The Dawnspire of Isthia,” Estan said, his voice sounding distant even though he stood right beside Ary. “What a beautiful sight.”
Ary nodded, the words flitting across his thoughts without touching them.
The spire pulsed with light. It flickered deep in the crystal’s core, beating with the rhythm of Ary’s heart. A song swelled around him, hummed from outside of him. The liquid notes poured into his soul. The song beckoned him. Invited him. Its volume swelled as the Dauntless sailed closer.
Ary gripped the gunwale. Wood creaked beneath his crushing grip. He needed to leap from the ship and race across the skies to the skyland’s edge, to dance across the air like the Stormriders could. A part of Ary knew he’d never jump far enough to reach the skyland. He’d fall down into the Storm Below.
But the song . . .
“Are you okay, Ary?” Estan asked, nudging him in the ribs.
“Is there a pretty woman on the shore?” Vay asked, sidling up to Ary’s other side. “Is that what you’re staring at so intently, Sergeant? I’ve heard Agerzak women can dress scandalously out here.” He leaned on the railing, his gaze darting around.
“No.” Ary wrenched his eyes away. Vay’s annoying presence diminished the beatific melody. “It’s nothing.”
Chaylene’s words echoed in his mind. She’d told him about her conversation with Estan on the last Dawnsday. Ary’s blood had chilled to learn that Estan believed the twelve Dawnspires were the foci holding up the skylands.
Does freeing Theisseg mean I have to send the skylands plummeting into the Storm? wondered Ary, his foot tapping to the harmony.
“Ary?” Estan asked again.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I’ve just been . . . thinking about the Cyclone.”
“Yeah.” Vay groaned. “Hard not to. I have these dreams. So intense. Like I’m back on the Spirituous again.” He pushed off from the railing. “Give a shout if you see any Agerzak women and their scandalous clothes, Sergeant.”
“Yeah,” Ary responded without thought, the melody growing louder.
“I think I’ll speak with Zeirie. See if she doesn’t want to get cozy beneath the deck.”
“What?” Ary blinked, rising out of the melody.
“You need to sleep or something, Sergeant,” Vay said. Then he snapped a salute before sauntering off.
Ary frowned, struggling to think through the music. Then he blinked at the sight of his wife marching to him, her coat buttoned up, leather riding gloves adorning her hands, goggles perched on her forehead. “Lena?”
“We’re going for a training flight,” she said. “My pegasus needs to feel some weight.”
“Really?” Ary asked. He shook his head, the music pulsing around him, wanting to fill him. He wanted to hum, to let the melody pour through him, out of him. It put such pressure on him, like trying to hold in a breath.
She nodded. “Guts and Velegrin are already saddling up. I told the captain we need to practice take-off and landing with extra weight. The two biggest marines are the best candidates to assist.”
“Be safe,” Estan said.
“Yeah,” Ary said. He worked his shoulders, feeling the Dawnspire singing behind him.
He followed Chaylene down into the hold. The menagerie lay on the first level taking up the stern of the ship. The sour, salty musk of pegasi filled his nose. Wind whistled as Guts lowered the back of the stern, exposing the menagerie to open sky. Velegrin had his mount saddled. Whitesocks stood nearby, ready for flight.
Ary glanced at the open stern then at Whitesocks’s gray wings. Unease squeezed at his heart. “We’re really flying out of the back of the ship?”
“It’s not so bad.” Chaylene grinned. “Landing is the scary part.”
He exhaled slowly, skin crawling. “Okay.”
She patted his upper arm. “Don’t worry. You’ve seen me do this a bunch of times.”
“Never with a passenger.”
“Velegrin and I need the practice. We’ll be doing this for real soon. If we find the pirates’ lair, you know we’ll be deploying you, Guts, and probably Zeirie to assault them ahead of the ship’s attack.”
It was a common tactic. Marines with the Blessing of Minor Wind could slow their fall from the back of a pegasus. Ary had trained with Chaylene on the maneuver back at Camp Chubris. After the marines landed, Chaylene and the scouts would provide air support with their pressure rifles.
Chaylene mounted Whitesocks’s saddle. Ary hauled himself up behind her, the pegasus letting out an annoyed neigh. He shifted around, hooves stamping. Ary thought the beast’s legs buckled. He’d flown on Whitesocks before, but never over the Storm.
The growing fear drove back the song to a lulling whisper.
“It’s okay,” Chaylene said, her voice soft. She stroked the pegasus’s chestnut neck. The gray wings rustled as Ary buckled himself in. The saddle had two straps for each of his legs. He cinched them tight, ignoring their bite into his thighs. He didn’t want to fall off.
“Hope you don’t break my pegasus’s wings,” Velegrin muttered, gl
ancing at Guts sitting astride Blackfeather behind him.
“Me, too,” Guts said. He flashed Ary a grin. “I’ll test it out for you, Sergeant. If we plummet, then you’ll know it was a bad idea.”
“Yep!” Velegrin heeled Blackfeather. The pegasus charged forward, dark wings unfurling. The pegasus leaped off the stern of the ship and dropped out of sight.
Ary’s heart stopped.
“Guts!” he roared, thrusting his arm out before him.
Chaylene laughed, shaking in front of him as she heeled Whitesocks. Ary grasped her waist as the pegasus’s hooves drummed on the wooden deck. Just as they reached the stern of the ship, Blackfeather soared into sight.
Then Whitesocks leaped.
“Theisseg’s scrawny tail feathers!” Ary howled as they plummeted.
Gray wings flapped hard. Ary’s stomach rose into his throat before the thickened air supported Whitesocks. They smoothed out and rose, Chaylene leaning over her mount, the wind whipping about them. He couldn’t feel the air changing, but she increased the pressure beneath Whitesocks’s wings, generating more lift.
Letting the beast fly with less weight than it should.
Ary’s stomach still twisted as Chaylene banked around the Dauntless. She rode the wind propelling the warship. They soared past in heartbeats. She aimed for the glittering Dawnspire.
The song swelled.
“What are we doing?” Ary demanded, the melody beating on his mind.
“Getting a closer look!” she shouted. “Testing if that’s one of the foci!”
Ary swallowed. “Okay.”
His stomach knotted up. What if it’s also the focus holding up Isthia and the rest of the Fringe? What if I mess it up? I could kill so many people. A chill rippled through him. Is this why the Luastria’s trying to kill me? Not because I was tainted by Theisseg, but because of all the damage I could do to a foci?
“Maybe this isn’t a great idea, Lena!”
“Huh?” Chaylene glanced over her shoulder.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
Chaylene gave him a smile. “It’ll be fine. We’ll just fly around. See if you feel anything.”
