Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Captain Dhar glanced at the first officer. Lieutenant-Captain Pthuigsigk opened his mouth to speak, but instead he coughed hard. He ripped a handkerchief from his pocket, hacking into it. He folded up his handkerchief stained with a dark-green blob of phlegm. “Theisseg-cursed vapors.”

  “It’s going around, Lieutenant-Captain,” Chaylene rasped then grimaced.

  Captain Dhar sighed. “We’re all breathing the same air. It’ll work its way through the whole crew before this voyage is over. No helping it.”

  Ary shifted, his shirt rubbing against his protesting bandaged wounds. Every movement brought protestations of pain. His healing power begged to be used, an inferno eager to blaze. He gritted teeth against the impulse to let the soothing fire steal away the pain.

  “The sergeant’s plan is fine,” the first officer said, voice hoarse. “I—” Another cough cut him off.

  “Bosun, I want your weapon crews plotting firing solutions for these targets,” the captain said, pointing at the taverns. “Make sure those ensigns commanding the platforms do their math right. If there is any resistance from the town, it’ll come from these taverns.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” the Bosun said, her forehead scrunched, a finger massaging her temple.

  “Warrant Officer.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Chaylene responded.

  “I want you and your scout to keep your eyes moving. And don’t forget to keep watch on the sky behind us. Just because the pirates aren’t here doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

  “I’ll be in the mainmast,” Chaylene nodded. “I’ll keep an eye behind us. I’ll have Velegrin focus more on the town from the foremast.”

  The captain nodded. “Chief Fossein, you’ll be in charge of the deck defenses in Sergeant Jayne’s absence. I want your sailors ready to loosen volleys on any ground resistance. I don’t want my marines or auxiliaries unsupported for a moment. We’re not wasting a single life on this sow’s dung town.”

  “Aye,” nodded the Agerzak chief. He glanced at Ary. “Don’t you and your minnows worry. We’ll kill any of them bastards before they can harm a hair on your dainty marines’ heads.”

  Ary grinned back. “I hope your sailors can crank back their windlasses. Some of them are as scrawny as a newly hatched ostrich.”

  The chief roared his laughter while slapping the table.

  A knock rapped the door.

  “Enter,” the captain ordered.

  Lieutenant-Captain Chemy, the ship’s second officer and navigator, poked her head in. “Dudgress is off our port bow. We’re a quarter hour from Offnrieth.”

  “Crew to battle stations,” the captain ordered. “Sergeant, ready your marines.”

  Ary saluted, “Sir.”

  He gave Chaylene’s hand a squeeze before he marched out behind the navigator. The moment they were on the deck, the Bosun blew her whistle, trilling the three notes that called the crew to battle stations. Chaylene scaled the mainmast’s crow’s nest with nimble ease as Ary’s marines crowded around him.

  “No changes to the plan,” he announced. “I want you to move fast. Does everyone have their satchel?”

  “Aye, Sergeant,” Corporal Huson said. Then she handed Ary a brown satchel filled with several pots of lamp pitch. The others carried matching bags.

  Ary scanned his men. Estan stood resolved. Guts’s fake nose transformed his face into a grim spectacle. Zeirie nodded, eyes sharp. Corporal Huson brimmed with confidence. Vay had a tight jaw and lips. Messiench trembled like a harnessed boar eager to pull the wagon.

  “We’ve practiced doing this. You all know how. Just follow your training and we’ll get in and out before the Agerzaks even realize anything’s happening. The scouts reported no active militia. If there is any resistance, it will be drunk and uncoordinated. There is a choke point the auxiliaries will hold. If we have to fall back, rally point is a collection of crates on the eastern end of the docks beneath the cliff. Any questions?”

  Tight, ready faces answered him.

  “Take position at the ropes,” the corporal ordered.

  Five thick ropes were tied to the gunwale and set in a coiled pile. Ary and Estan stepped beside one on the starboard side, Guts and Zeirie at the second starboard rope. Corporal Huson and her team assembled at the two port ropes. The Gezitziz stood ready to deploy down the last rope from the bow. Ary braced his hands on the gunwale and peered at the Storm spread out beneath them.

  He could feel Theisseg’s pain radiating through the lightning flickering in the dense clouds. Guilt swirled.

  “I never thought I would set fire to a defenseless town’s port,” Estan muttered.

  Ary wrenched his gaze from the Storm and grunted. “They’re Agerzaks.”

  “And? We have plenty serving on the ship. Are they any better or worse than Vionese or Vaarckthians?”

  “They’re civilized Agerzaks. Not like these pirates that attack our ships.” Guilty winds gusted fiercer, carrying anger through Ary’s soul. “It’s ‘cause of them that we were dragged away from our lives and have to risk our futures to fight them. If they were decent folk, we wouldn’t have to.”

  “Astute words. If we could only rise above our base nature, then none would suffer deliberate harm. We would only have to contend with the natural evils plaguing our skies. And what a better sky that would be, since the evils of nature pale compared to the selfish depravity beating in our breasts.”

  Ary blinked at Estan’s words. “Huh?”

  “Words my instructor told me.” Estan smiled. “I would love to see that world, but I have little hope of changing so many hearts.”

  “It’s difficult,” Ary agreed. His own heart had urged him to beat Sharthamen to a bloody pulp. Ary savored the sting in his back as he shifted. He deserved this pain.

  “Rig for hard turn to port!” the captain bellowed.

  The wind changed directions, whipping off the starboard railing. The Dauntless turned, the rigging creaking and sails snapping. Despite those sounds, a stillness permeated the ship, the crew silent as the port of Offnrieth swung into view ahead. The docks reached out like rotten fingers above the pale coral growing on the skyland’s side. A craggy bluff reared on the eastern side, a decrepit tower half-collapsed into a rotten heap, piled atop it.

  Ary inhaled. His back throbbed. Stray gusts of anger still swirled through him. He channeled them to his duty: ensuring Estan, Guts, Corporal Huson, Zeirie, Messiench, and Vay survived tonight.

  “Rig for quarter sail!” the captain ordered.

  The Dauntless slowed.

  “Marines, ready to deploy!” Ary bellowed. He gritted his teeth as he bent over and seized the rope. He grunted against the pain throbbing out of his back as he hefted the heavy, rough cable in his hands.

  “No wind!”

  The breeze died; the sails fell slack. The crew in the rigging reefed them by tying them to the spars. The sailors would stand by to unfurl them. The docks drifted below them as the Dauntless slowed to a stop on target.

  “Deploy!” Ary commanded.

  He hefted his cable over the gunwale so he could climb back up. It dropped the twenty-five ropes to the boardwalk along the docks, landing with a muffled thud. Ary planted his boot on the gunwale and vaulted over the railing. He unslung his thunderbuss as he fell, his feet pointed straight down. The tails of his jacket flapped around him. He seized the swirling winds.

  His fall slowed. He touched down on the dirt-smeared cobblestone.

  Lacking Minor Wind, Estan slid down the rope and hit the docks three heartbeats later. Beyond, Guts and Zeirie drifted to the ground on either side of their rope. Two Gezitziz slid down their cable, but the third fell using Wind. Ary blinked, having never witnessed Gezitziz use their Blessings.

  The Zzuk Auxiliaries strode to the choke point, gripping their massive clubs. They stood tall, proud, their blue scales almost glowing in the moonlight. Guts and Zeirie raced for the farthest dock while Ary and Estan covered their advance, aiming their thunderbusses.
Ary’s excitement sharpened his senses. Only the sound of the Dauntless creaking above reached his ears. No shouts of alarm sounded from the town, no cries or shouts raised. His eyes scanned the dark buildings crowding the dock. No one moved inside shadowed doorways or unlit windows.

  Guts and Zeirie reached the far dock, the pair falling to their knees and aiming their thunderbusses. Ary dashed to them, Estan racing at his heels. He reached Guts and Zeirie’s position, taking cover behind a barrel of rotten fish heads. He disturbed something black that flew off into the darkness.

  Seeing no danger, he growled, “Fire the dock.”

  “Aye, Sergeant,” Zeirie answered. She slung her thunderbuss and pulled out a jug from her satchel. Then she and Guts hurried in a low crouch down the boardwalk.

  After a dozen steps, Guts tripped on something, maybe on an uneven board, and fell forward, landing with a grunt. His jug of lantern pitch crashed and shattered before him as he cursed, spilling dark pitch over the wood. Ary tensed. Guts rolled onto his back, clutching at his knee. Zeirie, who’d reached the end of the dock, turned and raced back for him.

  “Theisseg damn it,” muttered Ary. The pot breaking sounded loud to him. He watched the nearest buildings, waiting for someone to peer out and investigate.

  “I’m fine!” Guts groaned as he forced himself to rise.

  A voice growled harshly in Agerzese. A man stumbled out a dark doorway, naked, a greatsword clutched in one hand, the flat of the blade resting on his shoulder. Ary had imagined the famed sword many times as a child, but he’d never realized how big they were. It was three ropes long, the height of a tall man, and thicker than Ary’s upper arm. If it wasn’t for the sharp edge, he could have mistaken it for a club.

  Ary burst from his cover as the drunken Agerzak gaped in shock at Guts struggling to rise. Static tingled across Ary’s skin as he gathered his charge in his left hand. The Agerzak hefted his sword and advanced, bare feet slapping wood. Guts scrambled to draw his blade, Zeirie gasping in shock.

  Ary seized the man’s shoulder.

  Sparks erupted.

  Electricity poured into the Agerzak. The man’s cry cut off into a gurgling moan before he crumpled into a spasming heap on the ground, stunned. His body twitched, fingers locked in a rictus from the current.

  “Secure him,” Ary ordered, glancing back at Estan.

  Estan nodded. He pulled the greatsword from the man. The weight threw him off-balance, and he stumbled. He grunted, planting the blade tip first into the wood and leaning against it.

  “Stop playing with the sword and tie him up,” Ary said.

  “With what?” Estan asked.

  “Be creative. You’re a smart guy.”

  Estan cast about and spotted a tangle of netting. He slung the greatsword over his shoulder and seized the makeshift binding. As he worked, Guts and Zeirie spread their pitch and worked their way backwards towards Ary. He kept his thunderbuss in a tight grip, hoping no one would come looking for the stunned Agerzak.

  “Ary!” Guts hissed in his nasally voice. “We’re ready.”

  “Fire it.”

  Guts fished out a match from his pocket and struck it against the stock of his thunderbuss. Orange sizzled to life. He threw it at his feet. Green-red flames devoured the lines of pitch spread out across the pier. Black smoke rose, blown into Ary’s face by the breeze. The acrid stench stung his eyes.

  “Next dock,” Ary ordered, pulling off his satchel and tossing it to Guts. “Don’t trip this time.”

  “The pier attacked me. Can’t control the actions of the enemy, Sergeant.”

  Ary snorted. “Move, Private.”

  Down the docks, Corporal Huson’s team fired their first pier. Ary nodded in satisfaction. They’d be out of here before any more drunk Agerzaks came to investigate.

  *

  “Is he . . . naked?” Ienchie asked from the spar below Chaylene’s position.

  “Yes,” Chaylene croaked, her voice tight as she scanned the pier for threats while Ary and Estan secured the Agerzak swordsman.

  “Weird,” the female sailor said.

  Chaylene didn’t answer. Speaking hurt her swollen throat.

  She swept her scope up and down the pier. Fire burned at both ends. Corporal Huson and her marines raced for their second pier. Chaylene’s head ached when she moved, the pounding matching her beating heart. She gritted her teeth and focused on her duty. She swallowed and winced, her raw throat begging for water.

  Seeing Ary so easily subdue the Agerzak relaxed her nervousness. It didn’t abandon her, but the hand squeezing her guts relented. Not a woman or man in the pigsty town could threaten the marines, and if any resistance formed, the Dauntless’s ballistae would drop death on them from above. The exploding shot had ripped the armored Stormriders to pieces; regular men would fare far worse.

  A heavy breeze struck her from behind, rippling her jacket. A part of Chaylene’s mind automatically noted it came from the southeast, from the direction of the Grion Rift. Her dead commander had taught her to always record those little details. Breston’s words rose in her mind: “Know your bearings at all times. When you observe something, you need to remember in what direction it lies. Always be aware. You are the eyes of the Dauntless. If you miss something, the crew dies.”

  The breeze felt wonderful on her feverish cheeks. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the small relief it brought. The breeze was direct, blowing hard like the focused gust a Windwarden summoned to propel a ship. The wind snuffed out, diverted away from the Dauntless.

  Chaylene sighed. Dock scanned, she shuffled around in place to study the sky behind the ship. The movement sped up her heartbeat, pain drumming harder onto her skull. Seeing nothing to the southwest, she kept turning in the same direction, the stars blurring into smears of light as she pivoted faster, whipping her vision past the dark shadow to the southeast. She completed her rotation and looked back down at her husband. Guts and Zeirie poured their pitch on the second pier and—

  A dark shadow to the southeast on the same bearing as the sudden wind?

  Her heart bust to frantic activity, pumping blood through her body. Her head exploded with pain. She groaned as she whipped back around and peered through her scope at the dark shadow looming out in the Sound.

  The shape resolved into a ship with a black-painted hull and dark-blue sails. The Bluefin Raiders.

  Why are they coming from the southeast and not from the west or southwest? she thought while her icy exhilaration devoured her headache. Did the ship sail from the Great Empty or Grion Rift? Men moved around something at the bow of the ship. She focused on them and—

  They readied a pair of ballistae.

  “Hostile ship to stern!” Chaylene screamed, her hoarse throat protesting her shout.

  The pirate ship fired.

  “Incoming!”

  *

  Vel aimed his crossbow at Ary’s back, his finger on the trigger. A single squeeze . . .

  You almost killed her! Vel snarled at Ary in his mind. All you had to do was eat the Theisseg-damned stew! You’re lucky the poison didn’t work!

  If Vel were alone . . .

  But he wasn’t. He manned the starboard gunwale of the stern deck. Behind him, the captain paced back from one side of the ship to the other, boots thudding as she monitored the progress of the marines. Lieutenant Xoaren, the surviving Windwarden from the Spirituous who had transferred with Vel and the other replacements, leaned against the back of the ship while the ebony-skinned first officer stood like a statue beside the helm. Other sailors lined the railings, weapons aimed at the docks.

  One shot, and you’re dead, Vel thought again.

  He wanted to pull the trigger. But there weren’t any Agerzaks attacking. As much as Vel yearned to free Chaylene, he wasn’t about to hang for it. Not after the words she said. Ungrateful sow. Vel knew she’d come round once the brute was dead. He won’t be around polluting her mind and twisting her against me. She’ll see I’m not dung.


  He ached for the Agerzaks to attack. He had a perfect shot. He’d plant his bolt right between Ary’s shoulder blades. The broad tip of the crossbow quarrel would penetrate his lung. The brute would die choking on his blood.

  Vel’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  His blood screamed through his constricting veins. Pressure clenched about his entire body. Teeth ground together.

  One pull . . .

  Vel’s courage failed him. He relaxed his finger.

  Trembles seized his body, shaking him. Cold sweat broke out across his skin. “Theisseg dammit.”

  “Relax, Sailor,” Captain Dhar said. Her hand squeezed his shoulder. “The marines will get the job done. They’re a hungry pack. Lean and mean.”

  Vel set his teeth. The woman sounded proud of the brute and his thugs.

  “Aye, Captain,” Vel muttered, his shoulders squirming beneath her grip.

  A cry drifted down from above. Chaylene? The captain’s fingers tightened on his shoulders.

  Chaylene’s second shout resounded: “Incoming!”

  Vel jumped and threw a look behind him. The first officer pointed off the stern of the ship. The air whistled. A blur streaked over the end of the ship, slammed into the first officer’s chest, and exploded. Heat peppered Vel’s flesh. A roaring growl hammered his ears. A giant hand swatted him. He struck the gunwale. The world spun around him, the dock below and the sky above merging together.

  Instinctively, Vel called upon his Blessing of Wind. He grasped the currents of air whirling past him and slowed his fall. His back struck the cobblestones below a heartbeat later. His breath burst from his lungs. He coughed, silence ringing in his ears. His face felt seared and tender as he blinked.

  Above, smoke poured from the rear of the Dauntless. Vel watched, his head stuffed with ostrich down, as the ship’s stern ballista fired. Flames exploded out over the harbor. Another fireball detonated against the Dauntless’s hull. Thunder clapped. A hot gust howled down at him. With Wind, he directed the shock wave from slamming into him as sparks snowed around him.

  “What?” Vel croaked, blinking. His thoughts quivered.