Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  He stared at her feminine accouterments, the white dirtied by soot-stained, bloody fingers.

  *

  Vel gripped the metal sabre’s hilt. Its blade was shiny silver again, wiped clean of the Agerzaks’ blood. His face glinted in it, streaked with sweat and soot, his blond hair matted and wild. He felt old. Every muscle in his body protested as he forced himself to lumber across the deck to Ary and Chaylene.

  Ary knelt over her, the pair whispering. Vel studied her face. Pain twisted her features and sweat beaded her forehead. She coughed hard, her body shaking as Ary held her hand. When she stopped coughing, her eyes found Ary’s.

  Vel witnessed Chaylene’s feelings for Ary for the first time. He truly saw them as the pain eased in her face. For a heartbeat, he watched her burdens lessen. She loved her husband. All Vel had ever stirred in Chaylene was desire, something pale and fluttering, something that could only burn hot and fast. There never was any hope for us. His heart ached. I destroyed my friendship and almost killed both of them for nothing.

  Chaylene noticed him and turned away.

  Ary glanced up, his face transforming into fire-hardened pottery. “What?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks,” Vel muttered. “You . . . saved my life.”

  Ary shrugged. “We’re on the same side. I would have done the same for anyone.”

  Vel flinched at the bitterness in Ary’s tone. “Well, I’m . . . I’m sorry for the way . . . You know.”

  “For telling everyone my wife was your hussy?” Ary’s voice was low and gravelly. His shoulders tensed.

  And for trying to kill you. “Yeah.” Vel held out the sabre in both hands. “Here.”

  Ary glanced at it. “Keep it, or turn it in to the master-at-arms. I found a replacement.”

  Vel’s eyes flicked to the monstrous, ugly sword strapped to Ary’s back.

  “Is there something else?” Ary asked, already turned back to Chaylene.

  A deep shame burned across Vel’s face. He wanted to ask if there was any way to make things right between them, to mend the torn net of their friendship, but he witnessed the futility of the question in Ary’s dismissal. Vel had hurt Ary too much.

  Vel stumbled down into the hold to find a hammock.

  *

  “You don’t look good,” Ary said, Vel’s footsteps retreating away.

  Chaylene opened her mouth to speak but a hacking cough wracked her body. The hoarse sounds tensed Ary’s shoulders. It sounded . . . familiar. Memories of his little sister wheezing out her life echoed through his mind. He stared at his wife, his eyes flicking to her throat hidden by her collar. Was it . . . swollen?

  He shook his head. No, no, it couldn’t be that.

  “Should I fetch the medical officer?” he asked, stomach roiling. The idea burrowed into his mind, worry gnawing at him.

  “It’s just those damned bad vapors I inhaled,” she said, her voice grating like gravel beneath heavy boots. “I just need to sleep.”

  “I bet falling from the mainmast didn’t help.” He tried to sound light, but . . . She can’t have the choking plague. It’s not even winter.

  A wan smile crossed her lips. “Landing on a spar with my stomach was definitely a bad idea.”

  She’s just injured. That’s all. “Next time, land with your feet.”

  “I’ll try.” Her lips tightened; her eyes grew haunted. “Ary . . . I . . .”

  “I know.” The boardwalk drenched in viscera lurked in the back of his soul. “All the minstrels lie. There is no glory in war. Only blood and pain.”

  She nodded her head. “I shot him. Right between the eyes.”

  “Who?”

  “My bullet went in and—” A choking cough cut off her words. “Theisseg’s scrawny feathers, that hurt.”

  Worry squeezed his guts. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  Ary scooped her up and stood. She was light in his arms. The soreness from swinging that heavy sword, which wasn’t much different than swinging a scythe in the barley field, was gone. His healing power eased the strain, repairing the exhaustion in his muscles. No wonder I could perform a man’s work at ten.

  A few of the crew members nodded as he carried his wife past them.

  “Why don’t you do that?” complained a female sailor, nudging the man lounging beside her.

  “You’re man’s not as big as mine, Ienchie,” Chaylene said with a smirk.

  Ienchie giggled and gave a fond look to the sailor named Charlim.

  “You’ve been making friends,” Ary noted.

  “I needed someone to talk to when you were . . .” Chaylene winced.

  Ary grunted.

  “She saved my life when I was out on the sail. She grabbed me. I almost . . .”

  “You didn’t,” Ary said, his anger rising. His wife didn’t need to be in danger. None of them needed to be in danger. Damned Agerzaks. They just need to stay on their Storming skylands and not attack our ships. So many of them would be alive right now. I wouldn’t have had to kill so many of them.

  The greatsword weighed on his shoulder.

  “Sergeant Jayne,” a voice called out as Ary started down the stairs into the hold.

  “Yes?” Ary asked, turning to face Lieutenant-Captain Chemy, the Dauntless’s second officer. “Sir.”

  “You’re acting master-at-arms,” Chemy informed him.

  Ary blinked in surprise. The master-at-arms was with the third officer on the ship. “Did something happen to Lieutenant Ompfeich?”

  Chemy’s piercing red eyes grew hard, her hawkish nose fierce. “He’s acting second-officer. captain’s badly wounded and Lieutenant-Captain Pthuigsigk is dead. I’m ordering the Dauntless back to port. We’re having an officers’ and chiefs’ meeting in a quarter hour.” She glanced at Chaylene. “Warrant Officer, you’re excused.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant-Captain,” Chaylene rasped.

  Chemy coughed into her hand as she turned away. “Theisseg’s vapors are all over the ship,” she muttered as she headed to the door that led to the officer quarters. “She gusted an ill wind at us.”

  Fear rippled through Ary’s guts. It can’t be the choking plague. It’s just a bad cough.

  Ary carried his wife below deck into the reek of blood and moldering cheese. A woman screamed. Something thumped into wood like the thrashing of a body. Ary slowed on the stairs, wood creaking beneath his boots.

  “Hold her down,” the medical officer commanded. “And give her more ether.”

  Ary reached the bottom of the stairs. He swallowed as he witnessed Captain Dhar trembling on a table before the galley, a canvas cloth beneath her soaked crimson with her blood. Lieutenant Jhoch worked a bone saw through her leg above her knee, her lower calf torn and mangled. A pair of sailors fought to pin her down.

  Chaylene flinched in Ary’s arms as the captain howled in agony.

  Why did you betray me? echoed through Ary’s mind. He swallowed and carried his wife deeper into the ship’s bowels. He couldn’t help either screaming woman.

  *

  Chaylene sighed when Ary set her down on her hammock. Her skin felt stretched tight over her skull, squeezing it with feverish agony. The violence of her coughs swung her from side to side, every explosive exhalation rubbing fresh salt into her raw throat. Ary gave her hand a quick squeeze, warm and strong.

  When her fit passed, she gave him a wan smile and croaked, “Thank you.”

  Ary nodded. “Get some rest.”

  “That’s all I need.” She drew in a wheezing breath. “Congratulations, Ary.”

  He frowned.

  “You’re acting third officer, and you’re not even an officer.” She tried to laugh, but coughed instead, torturing her windpipe.

  “I’m master-at-arms,” Ary corrected. “While that normally is the third officer, I imagine one of the ensigns is instead.”

  Chaylene blanched. “What a useless bunch. Maybe that’s why you’re the master-at-arms.”

  “I’m the marine
cohort commander,” Ary explained. “I’m head of the ensigns for that particular role on the Dauntless. In fact, on the bigger class of ships that actually have marine officers, it’d be a adjutant-lieutenant or major who’d be the third officer.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes felt heavy. She let them close. “That’s nice, dear.”

  “I’ll let you get some sleep.” His lips were hotter than her forehead. But they felt so nice. Some of the tension eased out of her skin. “Love you.”

  She tried to speak, but only a mumble came out. Exhaustion pulled her down, the world drifting away from her. Ary’s boot steps grew distant, the screams of the captain dulled and vanished from her awareness.

  As Chaylene stood on the cusp of sleep, a thought intruded: The pirate ship came from the southeast, not the southwest. Why? Why did it come from the Grion Rift and not the Thugri Sound? It wouldn’t be plundering along the rift. No whaling ships sail near it.

  Chaylene tried to focus on that thought, but she was too tired. She surrendered into her dreams.

  She was a child again. “It’s my turn to be the marine!” she declared as she stood on the ruined watchtower overlooking Vesche’s edge. “It’s boring being rescued. Please, Ary.”

  Ary’s youthful face twisted with indecision so she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes. More and more, she was growing to appreciate the solid handsomeness of Ary. She’d already noticed Vel’s almost pretty face and broad smile. Every village girl giggled about him. But Ary was stronger.

  “Fine,” Ary grunted.

  “Who’s going to be the damsel?” Vel asked.

  “Ary,” Chaylene declared. “He’s got the prettier face.”

  Chaylene knew Ary couldn’t resist her flattery. She pursed her lips, adding the promise of a kiss. She had dreamed of kissing Ary a few times. They would lie on the grass and gently press their lips together.

  “Please, Ary.”

  He relented.

  Eagerness squirmed through Chaylene at her first chance to play marine. Vel stood at the top of the tower, guarding Ary, feigning to be an evil pirate. Chaylene brandished her stick and charged forward, but she tripped on her skirt. She recovered, hefting her weapon with the other hand as she climbed the stairs.

  Vel grew more fearsome and ugly as she ascended. It took far, far longer than it should have to reach him. His handsome smile transformed into an oily smirk. Chaylene’s anger grew. Finally, she closed and attacked; her stick slammed down onto his while Ary pretended to be in danger, halfheartedly pleading for her protection.

  “I’ll save you, Ary!” Chaylene declared. “I’ll protect you from the evil pirates.”

  Her stick battered Vel’s aside, and she mounted the crow’s nest. A ship sailed off Vesche, filled with more of the evil pirates. Ary huddled beside her as exploding ballista shots tore up the grassy hills. Chaylene aimed down her stick, peering through the scope at the ballista crew.

  A scared Vionese face filled her vision, forced to fire the ballista at Chaylene.

  “Please don’t!” she shouted at the Vionese sailor. “You have to stop! We’re trying to save you!”

  “Protect me, Chaylene,” Ary cried out, huddling behind her and clutching at her skirts.

  The sailor reached for the firing lever.

  “I’m sorry,” Chaylene sobbed and fired her stick.

  His head exploded in blood and brains. He dropped to the deck.

  “I don’t want to play Pirates and Marines any longer,” she sobbed.

  “But you wanted to,” Ary repeated. “You begged me. Now you have to keep playing. You don’t have a choice.”

  More Vionese sailors—the very countrymen she’d pledged to defende—neared the ballista, each reaching for the lever. Her stick shot them over and over while she screamed and sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I have to. I wish I could protect you.”

  “You didn’t protect me,” Ailsuimnae moaned, climbing into the crow’s nest, her ebony face split open by a Stormrider’s sword. “You were too busy protecting him!” Her bloody hand pointed at the scared Ary.

  “I’m sorry! I couldn’t watch the entire ship.”

  “You betrayed me, Iiwroa,” sang Ailsuimnae, her voice changed into something ethereal. “Why did you betray me? Why did you hurt me?” Bright, golden light burned from Ailsuimnae’s mouth. Her bloody hand seized Chaylene’s throat.

  Chaylene choked. She couldn’t breathe. She thrashed hard, trying to pry Ailsuimnae’s fingers from her neck. Fire burned around her. Heat suffused the world. The light from Ailsuimnae’s mouth blinded Chaylene.

  “I gave you everything! Free me! Release me from my pain! Destroy the foci!”

  Chaylene tried to talk, but no words could escape her lips.

  “I tried!” Ary sobbed beside her. “I tried to destroy it. But I would have crashed the skylands! I can’t free you by killing tens of thousands of people, Theisseg!”

  “Set me free!” Ailsuimnae screamed.

  Chaylene’s dream popped.

  She awoke thrashing in her hammock. Her mind blazed. Her skin smoldered. She struggled to breathe as her eyes shot open. The hold spun about her. She felt at her throat for the hands squeezing it shut but found only swollen, feverish flesh. She strained to draw in the smallest amount of air.

  She inhaled a short, wheezing breath.

  “I tried, Theisseg,” Ary moaned in his sleep beside her. Chaylene reached for him, needing more air. He twitched in his dream. “I can’t free you. The cost is too high.”

  “Aaaa . . . rrrr . . . iiii . . .” she choked out. She seized his shoulder, shaking him. With a mighty effort, she expelled her breath through her swollen windpipe. “Help!” Her throat burned, her head spun, the headache contracting about her skull, trying to crush her molten mind.

  Ary’s eyes snapped open. “I’m awake, Lena,” he muttered. “Damn dreams. I wish She would leave me . . . Chaylene?”

  Ary rolled off his hammock, looming over her. Chaylene thrashed, her mind boiling.

  “Hot!” she moaned.

  The Vionese sailor stood beside Ary, a hole drilled through his head. He stared down at Chaylene with cold disregard.

  “Why did you kill me?” the dead sailor asked.

  “Chaylene, what’s wrong?” Ary demanded. “Riasruo Above, no, no, no. Not that. Please, not that!”

  “I . . . had . . . to . . .” Chaylene muttered.

  “What’s that?” Ary asked. “What did you say?”

  “I . . . had . . . to . . . kill . . . you . . .”

  “Kill who? Talk to me, Chaylene!”

  She saw through Ary to the sailor who spoke: “But you swore to protect me when you were drafted.” Then, in her own voice, continued, “I, Chaylene Jayne, affirm that I am the Stormwall of the Autonomy of Les-Vion. I shall defend my fellow citizens from all enemies above or below the Storm with courage and fidelity. Serving with honor and pride for a term of no less than four years and for so long as the Autonomy requires.”

  “Someone get the Storming medical officer!” Ary roared. “Right now! Move it! Hold on, Lena! Hold on!”

  “You swore an oath to protect me.” The world grew dark, her vision narrowing like she peered through her scope, until only the sailor’s wounded head remained.

  “You . . . were . . . trying . . . to . . . kill . . . us . . . I . . . had . . . no . . . choice . . .”

  “Neither did I. So if I deserved to die, why not you?”

  Darkness overtook Chaylene.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Vel pressed into the group of sailors and marines gathering around Chaylene as she thrashed on her hammock. Ary stood over her, bellowing for the medical officer, awakening the entire ship. Vel’s stomach tightened as he peered through the clustered mass and caught a glimpse of her ebony face. Sweat drenched her features, her shirt plastered to her body.

  “Make way!” the medical officer shouted, his voice far more commanding than his usual fatherly tone.

  Vel parted with the oth
ers, watching the bleary-eyed surgeon pass, still wearing his blood-stained apron from tending the wounded from the battle.

  “She’s real sick, Lieutenant,” Ary croaked, his voice cracking.

  It can’t be the poison, thought Vel. It’s been nearly two days since she ate the poison. His stomach twisted, a wave of clammy sweat breaking out across his skin.

  The medical officer knelt beside Chaylene. He thumbed open her eyes, studying them. Her body convulsed as she coughed. Vel swallowed when he spotted her throat swollen to the size of a large orange. The medical officer probed her neck. Then he unbuttoned her shirt, exposing her thin, sweat-drenched chemise. He felt beneath her underarm, grimacing.

  “Everyone topside, now!” the medical officer barked. “She’s got the choking plague.”

  Vel sighed in relief without thought. It’s not the poison. Then he realized what the medical officer had said. The choking plague? His own throat tightened. Vivid memories of that feverish winter after the Cyclone when half of Isfe was stricken by the disease. He’d almost died.

  “How?” Ary demanded. “It’s a winter disease!”

  “It doesn’t matter how,” the medical officer growled. “Everyone topside, now! The hold is quarantined!”

  Sailors, faces paled to dull tans, backed away, muttering and forming the sun. Vel let them stream by him, buffeted by their flight. Vel’s heart constricted tight in his chest as he listened to Chaylene wheeze.

  “But . . . but . . .” Ary stammered to the medical officer, his features contorted. His little sister, Srias, had died of the disease. Everyone in Isfe knew someone who had perished that winter. Vel had lost his aunt and two cousins. “How could she have gotten it this time of year?”

  “It’s not a seasonal plague,” the medical officer answered. He pulled a clean rag out of his pocket. It grew damp in his hand as he used his Blessing of Mist to precipitate water out of the air. He laid the damp cloth across Chaylene’s forehead. “It’s believed to be spread by a black mold that likes the damp, so outbreaks often occur in late winter or early spring.”

  “There’s no mold on the Dauntless,” Ary muttered.

  “No. I haven’t seen any.”