by J M D Reid
“I know.” Ary was glad how easy those words came. He did believe them.
“I just wanted her, Ary. Badly. It consumed me. I couldn’t think of anything but her. Nothing mattered to me, not even you.” His fist clenched. “Especially not you. I had to make myself despise you, convince myself you were this monster, that I was rescuing her. I believed it. But you’re not, Ary. I’m realizing that. You’re not the one who could hurt her.”
Ary nodded his head but wasn’t sure what to say. The wound in his heart bled, throbbing with agony.
“We can’t ever go back to being those two boys fishing off the side of Vesche, can we?” Vel asked, his eyes liquid, pleading.
“No.” Ary said the word flat. Tears stung at his eyes. The memory of that night when he’d learned his friend hated him, had lied to him for years, tore his heart in twain. “Thank you for the stew, Vel.”
“Yeah,” Vel answered as Ary headed for the stairs to head above deck.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lheshoa 11th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Skein Wriavia stood on the edge of Tlele just south of the port of Onhur. His talons gripped sere grass. The edge dropped precipitously before him, covered in a riotous mass of green corals to which schools of fish returned to shelter as night descended. Wriavia ruffled his wings. A month into autumn, and the shorter days gave way to chillier nights.
Wriavia had grown used to the hot summer in the southern skies. This time of year at the Aerie, frost would cover the fields in the morning and ice crusted the puddles. The first snows were only weeks away, if they didn’t come earlier. Here, the days could still be warm even if the nights weren’t. The temperature extremes bewildered his body.
He gazed out at the Dauntless. Even with his Luastria vision, the ship was barely more than a speck. For nearly two weeks it had hovered there, quarantined. Onhur hummed with rumors, chirping like a school of songfish in spring: fear of the Bluefin Raiders, the plague breaking out across Tlele, and the Miracle.
News of the Miracle had reawakened Wriavia’s hope in his mission. A Cyclone defeated at Ianwoa by Riasruo’s divine fire meant Her feathery light still shone strong against Her dark sister’s chaos. The Storm Goddess couldn’t protect Briaris Jayne forever.
In fact, the Human may already have perished. Wriavia itched to know if his target had succumbed to the sickness. The waiting twisted his gizzard. Without a shader, he couldn’t risk flying out to the ship to confirm it.
He’s probably alive, thought the assassin. Briaris Jayne possesses more luck than a storm-tossed albatross.
Wriavia was to implant his sabotage plan. He’d found a dilution of fortified water to take three and a half days or so to set off the charge. Plenty of time for the Dauntless to fly out into the sky and be “lost.”
This mission had dragged on for months longer than it should have. Please, Riasruo, shine your feathery light upon me. Help me slay your enemy. Hold back your meddlesome sister’s touch.
Wings flapped, startling Wriavia out of his prayer. A plump Luastria settled next to him wearing a dark-green robe. Wriavia blinked wide eyes and cocked his head at the sight of Skein Xaipiai. The shorter Luastria gave a friendly chirp.
“So the Synod has lost confidence in me?” Wriavia asked, his talons digging into the soft, dry soil. He tore up a tuft of brown grass with his left foot and threw it out before him. Despite expecting this, Xaipiai’s presence hurt. However, his failures were too great to be ignored.
“They merely feel that a second pair of eyes would not go amiss,” Xaipiai answered.
Somehow, that plucked more feathers from Wriavia’s pride. He wasn’t replaced, just not trusted enough to act alone. His talons twitched. Failure had consequences. He would accept these and continue serving Riasruo.
“Finding a ship to sail here proved difficult, brother,” Xaipiai said.
“The pirates have everyone scared. The Autonomy’s eastern fleet is greatly weakened,” Wriavia answered. “An Autonomy frigate, the Bravado, is overdue. A second is suffering from the choking plague, and a third lost its crew to a Cyclone before training finished.”
“A sad state,” Xaipiai chirped. “Is the plague your doing?”
“Yes. Though I doubt it will kill him. Fire, poison, and even violence have failed.”
“Yes. Your report indicated he healed after you hamstrung him.”
Wriavia nodded his head. Irritation stewed in him. “I had him disabled. I was trying to finish off his wife, but she proved a canny fighter. The Autonomy trains its scouts well. They include using Pressure as a shield.”
“Interesting technique,” Xaipiai chirped. He whistled for a moment. “Never fear. With my aid, we shall finally adjudicate his sorry soul.”
“In Riasruo’s name,” Wriavia prayed, focusing on his Goddess, his purpose.
Xaipiai’s wing brushed Wriavia. “I also have tidings from Ianwoa.”
Wriavia cocked his head. “The Miracle?”
“Happened. Riasruo answered the Bishriarch’s plea for help. A ray of red fire destroyed the Cyclone. Only one died. Bishriarch Swuiuprii IV.”
Wriavia’s gizzard tightened on its stone. He swayed, clucking, “May Riasruo’s fire cleanse her soul.”
“The fire cleanses us all,” Xaipiai chirped, head bowed.
Wriavia rustled his feathers, the silence deepening around him. Theisseg’s power swelled. “Come, let me explain my plans. We still have Riasruo’s will to obey.”
*
Nrein fumed as he stared at the map of Thugri Sound in his cabin aboard the Iron Horse. The pirate thought the winds favored him, propelling him forward into history. By capturing an Autonomy warship, rechristened the Black Fear, his forces rivaled the Autonomy’s own eastern fleet. But two weeks of hunting had netted him only a single whaler.
The Vionese were learning.
Their ships must be swinging farther south, he decided, tracing his finger down the rift, taking the old route along the Grion Rift and around the Fringe. It galled him. He had mastery of the strait and no rewards to show for it. Even worse, the Hammer was missing.
He had sent Konch Sevenfingers and the Hammer to Offnrieth to recruit replacement raiders to crew his new ships. Keddalr had reported, via fire, that Konch had never returned. He had either decided to win his own fortunes, or the Autonomy Navy had destroyed him. Nrein had spotted the Adventurous, an Autonomy frigate, patrolling the strait a week ago. A frigate was a match for a single corvette like the Hammer. Even the Gallant or the Dauntless could have destroyed the understrength ship.
Nrein ordered his fleet to regroup at Offnrieth. The Shark’s Maw, repairs completed, still needed her raiders. Nrein had a slight advantage, and he ached to press it. He hungered to reave the Fringe and carve out a strong kingdom.
A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Cap’n,” Tsossar said, voice grim, “we’re coming up on Offnrieth. You’ll want to see this.”
Nrein snagged his greatsword leaning on the wall and slung it over his shoulder by the strap. He crashed out of his quarters and onto the deck, marching towards the bow of the ship. Tsossar awaited him, his one eye fierce. He handed over a spyglass.
Fires had ravaged Offnrieth, consuming the docks and half the town. Char spilled like mold from the port. Teams of horses pulled rubble to the skyland’s edge. Fresh graves covered the nearby bluff around the rotten watchtower.
“Dhessech’s flaming feathers!” he cursed. “Was it the Autonomy or an accident?”
“I see cratering,” Tsossar said. “I’d say the town was shelled.”
The repaired Shark’s Maw floated in the harbor, its sails reefed. Keddalr’s horse galloped across the sky towards Nrein’s ship, hooves beating up sparks. Keddalr’s black hair flew behind him.
“Reef the sails!” Nrein barked. “No wind!”
The cowed Windwarden obeyed. The gusting breeze died, the sails falling slack. Press-ganged sailors worked in the rigging underneath a cracking whip. The Iron Horse drifted to a sto
p. Keddalr rode over the gunwale and settled his mount on the well deck, hooves drumming on wood.
“I just spoke with the city’s elders,” Keddalr growled as he dismounted. “An Autonomy ship arrived in the dead of the night near two weeks back. They fired the dock, but then another ship arrived. I think it was the Hammer. Would’ve been ‘bout the right time for her to arrive.”
Nrein’s fists clenched. “Was the Hammer destroyed?”
Keddalr nodded. “Both ships fought, their shots fallin’ down in the town. The fire spread and the townsfolk tried to fight back. They may have killed a few marines, but then the Hammer just exploded. Lit up the whole sky.”
Nrein’s cheek muscle twitched.
“Once the Hammer was destroyed, the Autonomy ship fired its ballistae and killed a good two or three hundred. They ain’t sure how many. Half the bodies were just pieces. Others were killed in the fires.”
“The Autonomy was huntin’ for us,” Tsossar spat. “They thought we were sailin’ from Offnrieth.”
“The elder did say the Autonomy ship lost its mainmast. It limped off after the battle, sailin’ towards Onhur.”
“Lroff!” Nrein bellowed. “Get your stinkin’ carcass up here now!”
Lroff sauntered up, stroking his double-braided beard. “Aye, Cap’n.”
“You still haven’t heard from Hestril?”
“Nope. She hasn’t contacted me in ‘bout two weeks.” Lroff shrugged. “Nothin’ unusual with that. All them Autonomy ships are scourin’ the strait.”
“Then why didn’t she tell us that one of the whore-poxed Autonomy ships has limped back to port? We could have pounced on Onhur while she was under repairs! Replacin’ a mast takes days!”
“No idea, Cap’n. I’ve been on the Iron Horse for the last two weeks, same as you.”
“Contact her!”
“I thought we ain’t supposed to do that. What if she ain’t alone?”
“Rusted iron! I don’t care! I want to speak to her right now!” Nrein clenched his fists. The crew was watching him. I need to keep in control. His blood thirsted to draw his sword and hack Lroff in half. Can’t do that. Firedrinkers are rusting rare.
Without Lroff, Nrein couldn’t communicate with his ships.
Lroff knew his value. He didn’t fear Nrein’s wrath. His insolence inflamed Nrein’s blood. Pain burned in his hand, ragged fingernails biting into his palms. Sticky blood squeezed between his digits.
With a wave of his hand, Lroff summoned fire to dance on his palm. Somehow, he sent the flames to Hestril. The flames wavered and swirled before they contracted into the form of a young woman in a dress.
“What are you doing?” Hestril snapped, her voice popping and crackling through the flames.
“Why didn’t you tell me ‘bout a damaged warship?” Nrein demanded.
“Do not take that tone with me,” Hestril huffed. “I’m done with it. I can’t do it any longer. I will not be partnered to your crimes.”
“Killin’ Vionese is no crime, but our duty!” Nrein roared.
Hestril laughed. “Mother would be so disappointed in you. She never wanted you to be a pirate.”
“She never wanted you to be a whore!”
Hestril’s figure wavered. “It’s more honest work than yours. Good day, brother.”
The fires died.
“How far out is the Black Fear?” Nrein demanded.
“She’ll be here in a few hours,” Lroff answered.
The omission of the captain hadn’t escaped Nrein. The entire crew had just heard Hestril’s defiance. The Hammer was missing, and he had lost his calm. Raiders lounged, polishing their swords. Contemplation burned in their eyes.
Fear nibbled on the edges of his heart.
“We sail for Onhur!” he roared, letting the words consume his fear. “If the Autonomy wants to burn Agerzak ports, then we’ll burn theirs!”
The crew bellowed for blood.
“We’ll reave their naval station and salt the earth! We’ll raid the town. Women and booty for all! The Vionese turned our sisters into whores! We’ll do the same to theirs! No more raidin’ their whaling ships. We burn plantations! We rape their daughters! We drive them from our land! Because we’re the Bluefin Raiders!”
“Bluefin Raiders!” howled the crew.
*
Lheshoa 12th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
After two weeks of hovering off the edge of Tlele, the skyland just a smear on the horizon, Lieutenant Jhoch lifted the quarantine. Pride swelled through Chaylene. Only eleven perished because her husband had saved the rest.
She wanted to tell everyone. She couldn’t.
“I can scarce believe how light our casualties are,” Lieutenant Jhoch often spoke, voice awed. The Dauntless had sailed from Onhur with a crew of seventy-two. Seven died in the fight off Offnrieth, dropping the crew down to sixty-seven. Forty-three fell ill to the choking plague. By the medical officer’s estimation, three in four should have died—thirty-one.
The crew celebrated their miracle as they limped into Onhur. The captain, despite the loss of her left leg and leaning on her crutch, stood strong and proud on the stern deck beside the rebuilt helm.
The death of eighteen of the crew between the plague and battle left holes in the ship. The Dauntless was down to two-thirds of its full strength of eighty-seven. The command structure was hardest hit. Both the first and second officers had died along with an ensign, a Windwarden, the master carpenter, the quartermaster’s assistant, the carpenter’s assistant, and a petty officer. There weren’t enough sailors to staff three deck sections, the third’s survivors split between the first and second. The Dauntless begged for repairs, but only a single carpenter had survived. While the ship waited for quarantine to break, the captain had promoted Bon Rheb to carpenter’s assistant. The young man led sailors in replacing damaged hull planks. They dangled off the side of the Dauntless to pry off planks damaged by the pirate ship’s ballistae. They dropped the splintered and cracked wood down into the Storm while fresh boards were lowered from the deck.
Chaylene was thankful she didn’t have to perform that task.
She spent a day mucking out the pegasi stalls. For nearly three days, the poor beasts hadn’t been fed or watered. Whitesocks’s black eyes shone with gratitude when she entered the menagerie, sticking his head over the stall door and nickering.
“Lieutenant Jayne,” the captain called.
Chaylene still wasn’t used to that title. The captain had given her a battlefield commission three days before. She knew navigation better than any of the ensigns, so the captain had also made her the navigator in addition to commanding the scout cohort. It still bewildered her that she was the ship’s second officer.
“Yes, Captain,” she answered after climbing up the steep stairs to the stern deck. The new first officer, the promoted Lieutenant-Captain Ompfeich, stood nearby. Chaylene thought him a good replacement for Lieutenant-Captain Pthuigsigk since his thick, Agerzak beard gave him a similar grim demeanor only spoiled by his youth.
Of course, I’m only a year younger than him. Chaylene often felt older than her seventeen years.
“Sir,” she saluted.
“Are you still not sleeping?” the captain asked her.
“A little,” Chaylene answered, grit coating her eyes. The Vionese sailor awaited her when she closed them, demanding to know why he’d had to die. “I’m fine, Captain.”
“Admiral Grelen, signaling by mirrors, wants a meeting when we arrive. Be ready to give your report on the ship that attacked us. You spotted her first. Do you remember the bearing?”
Chaylene frowned. “Um, yes, Captain. It approached from the southeast.”
The captain frowned and closed her eyes as she said, “Not the west or southwest?”
“I’m certain. I thought it was odd.” Chaylene’s cheeks warmed. “I should have mentioned it, but . . .”
“Yes, it has been chaotic. And I think you’re right. Why did it come from that direction
?”
“I’m not sure, Captain. But it was a Vaarckthian corvette painted in unusual colors. It was crewed by Vionese under guard of Agerzak raiders.” Chaylene shuddered. “The, um, Vionese were manning the ballista firing at us and . . .”
“Yes, Ienchie delivered your message right before the mast collapsed.” The captain’s eyes hardened. “‘War makes monsters of us all. It covers the soul in blood and mire, choking away all good desire.’”
Chaylene frowned. “Is that a . . . poem, Captain?”
“Something my father would quote. I didn’t believe him. Minstrels sing of glory and honor, of men fighting to the last for country and cause. They never sing about those who survive that glory and the scars we bear.”
“Do the dreams ever go away?”
The captain’s gaze grew distant. “No. But they lessen.”
What horrors did she witness in the Zzuk Aggression Wars?
“Let your husband know about the meeting,” the captain said.
Chaylene nodded, casting her gaze across the deck for Ary. He stood on the well deck, drilling a group of sailors. They kept racing to the gunwale, falling into a defensive kneel, then springing back to start over. Ary had taken his promotion to adjutant-lieutenant and third officer seriously.
“I will.” Chaylene paused. “Captain, if you don’t mind me asking.”
The captain arched an eyebrow.
“Why did you promote Ary? He’s more than a little dumbfounded.”
“Because of the whipping? Or because one of the ensigns should have received it?”
“Both, I guess, sir.”
“That’s why.” The captain nodded at Ary. “He’s getting my men ready for our next tangle with the pirates. He’s drilling them to be faster, encouraging them, boosting their confidence. The entire crew is talking about him. Everyone who was sick remembers Ary’s and Vel’s attention. Riasruo shone upon us and kept most of us alive, and she shone through your husband and Vel. I could hardly promote someone who’s not in a leadership position whereas Ary’s already a sergeant. Besides, it gives him a commiserate rank to lieutenant.”
