Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

She broke the kiss, looking again like an innocent maid, her slanted eyes tremulous.

  “Esty?” he asked, his breath coming fast and heavy.

  “I’ve never been with a man.”

  “How?” Estan gaped.

  Movement caught Estan’s vision, attracting his gaze to the bed where a naked woman lay, pale and lovely, one arm thrown over her head, a smile promising heat gracing her lips, her beaded braids spread—

  He yelped and jumped back, startled not only by the woman’s sudden presence, but by the face she wore. Esty’s face. He crashed back into the wall of the narrow room, too shocked by her sudden appearance to drink in the visage before him.

  She gave him a winsome wink then just as suddenly as she’d appeared, she vanished faster than an eye blink. No ripple in the air. No disturbance Estan could detect. His jaw dropped. His head shook from side to side as he sought to find words, to gather his thoughts scattered by a powerful wind.

  “What did I tell you about my Gifts?” Esty asked him.

  Confusion died in his mind. A single memory flared with crystalline brilliance. “The Second Gift of Stormsight lets you conjure illusions.”

  “And I possess the Third Gift.”

  “But surely it is only light and not solid?”

  “I have the Third Gift,” she repeated. As quickly as her image vanished, so did she. He felt her fingers clasp his hand, tingles, not unlike his charge, racing from her caress. Her clothing rustled, her skirt pressing, unseen, into his legs. “I only have to watch and control my image. It’s still . . . foul, but at least—”

  Estan kissed her invisible lips.

  *

  Vel sat down at the dice table in the Last Home Tavern. The Agerzak men nodded to him, dressed in the rough cloth of laborers, shirts stained and mended in places. At a nearby table, a pair of sailors mocked a third clutching a swollen nose.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” Vel said as he placed his bet, a sapphire penny.

  “Oh?” an Agerzak man with a thick beard asked. “And who might your friend be?”

  “He’s a Luastria. He likes to dice.”

  The Agerzak laughed. “Oh, I know the bird. Won a few fair pennies off of him. Bad dicer.” The man barked another laugh. “My favorite kind.”

  “I’m looking for him. Do you know where he’s at?”

  “Owes ya money, does he?” another Agerzak asked with squinting golden eyes and a ruddy face.

  “Something like that,” Vel said as the dice were tossed, rolling a three and a four.

  “You forgot to name your toss,” laughed an Agerzak who scooped up Vel’s penny.

  Vel shrugged. “I guess me and my friend have a lot in common. Do you know where he stays?”

  “Mayhaps.” The man rattled his dice.

  Vel placed down another penny.

  The yellow-white, carved bones with off-set divots for the numbers rolled across the wooden table. Vel lost. The man snagged his coin. “I hear he likes to dice at the Crooked Wind.”

  Vel groaned. “Over at the Crooked Wind, they said he gambled here. I need to find him.”

  The man shrugged.

  Vel’s fists clenched. His guts boiled. Wriavia had lied, and Vel wanted—needed—to know why.

  He pushed up from the table and headed for the door, passing sailors gossiping about the “miracle.” He paused when Ary and Chaylene entered, greeted by Guts and a short scout Vel vaguely recognized from Camp Chubris. As they shared laughs and smiles, Vel’s heart constricted.

  I could have been a part of that if I wasn’t such a Storm-tossed fool.

  Vel knew he could never have that now. The crushing weight of his actions, the eleven he’d murdered on the Dauntless, would never give him succor. They visited him in his dreams, their throats swollen and black. All he could do was find Wriavia and ensure the Luastria paid.

  Vel didn’t think killing Wriavia would lessen his burden, but it just might help.

  He marched into the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lheshoa 13th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Chaylene’s head throbbed when she woke up the next morning. Sunlight stabbed at her eyes, and her mouth tasted of dirty feet. She winced as she rolled onto her side beneath the blankets, the revelry horns echoing through her skull. Ary stirred beside her.

  “How are you feeling?” Ary asked her.

  “Hungover,” Chaylene muttered, and then she smiled. “I could use a bit of your Healing touch.”

  Ary rubbed her shoulders from behind. His fingers dug into her muscles followed by the warmth. She let out a sigh as it spread through her body, melting away the pressure trying to crush her skull. She remembered all those times he’d massaged her sore flesh after days spent training at Camp Chubris. All the times she’d felt the heat of his touch and had just assumed it was passion he stirred in her.

  She giggled.

  “What?” Ary asked.

  “You healed my hangover once before. Back before we left Camp Chubris. You massaged my throbbing head and the pain went away.”

  “Huh,” he grunted. “You know, maybe during the fire, too. When you passed out, I breathed air into your lungs and you woke up.” Her husband’s hands squeezed her shoulders. “So . . . no nightmare?”

  “No nightmare,” she smiled. “I guess I was too drunk.”

  “You had to kill him.”

  Chaylene nodded her head. “I know. I just wish my heart would agree.”

  The sailor’s face rose in her mind, centered in her scope. Why did I have to die . . .?

  Chaylene squeezed her eyes shut. Ary was the only person to whom she’d talked about her dream. He understood.

  “I need to go,” Ary groaned. “Captain wants to start early.”

  “What’s Article 12?” Chaylene asked, furrowing her head. It was easier to forget about the sailor when she focused on other things.

  “Press-ganging civilians into the Navy,” Ary said, words blunt. He rolled out of bed, and she noticed his exposed skin pimpling. The night’s cold had stolen into their house. She squirmed beneath the warm blankets as Ary padded over to their chest of drawers.

  “Press-ganging?” Chaylene asked. “You mean forcing them into the Navy?”

  Ary shrugged. “It’s no different than the draft. It’s an emergency. Besides, we’ll take sailors that’ve served before. Dauntless needs a full crew.”

  “The pirates press-ganged, too,” Chaylene muttered.

  “The pirates enslave. They kept them under guard. You said so.”

  “And yet you’re assembling your marines to do the same.”

  His face grew dark. “What are you accusing me of doing, Lena?”

  Chaylene squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not a pirate, Ary.”

  “No, I’m just like one?”

  Theisseg’s scrawny feathers, she cursed in her mind. “I’m sorry, Ary. You’re nothing like a pirate.”

  “I’ll just be forcing men to join the Navy at sword point,” he growled as he almost stabbed his legs into his blue trousers.

  Chaylene rolled out of bed, wincing at the cold floor stinging her bare feet. She padded to him. “I am sorry. I’m just tired. We were out too late last night to be up this early.”

  “Zori’s your friend,” Ary said. “You could have said no when she kept ordering drinks.”

  “Have you tried to say no to Zori?” Chaylene asked with an arch of her eyebrows. “Ask Guts; it’s hard.”

  Her husband gave a snort of laughter and shook his head.

  Chaylene gave him a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth. “So are you still mad at me for my silly comment?”

  “Silly?”

  “It was,” she declared. “Right?”

  Ary furrowed his brow. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m the one who’s wrong?”

  Chaylene shrugged and dug into the chest of drawers for a clean chemise to wear. “Have you done something wrong, Ary?”

  Ary’s eyebrows
furrowed more, the wrinkles deepening into canyons.

  “You need to get ready,” Chaylene told him.

  “Is that an order?”

  “Yes, Adjutant-Lieutenant,” she said, her back snapping straight. “You are commanded to forgive your wife’s silly words. Further, you shall buy your wife a suitable gift as a token of accepting her apology.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ary grinned, snapping a lazy salute. He grabbed his red jacket and pulled it on, buttoning it securely. “So, what’s your day like?”

  “I’m meeting with the scouts from the Gallant and the Adventurous. We’re going to figure out duty shifts for the mission.” Chaylene yawned. “So, looking at maps and doing math.”

  “Exciting.” Ary gave her a kiss. “Oh, Gretla’s letters are on the table if you want to read them. The second one is amusing.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Chaylene smiled, eager to dive into something light and playful.

  *

  Ary blinked as Estan jogged up to morning formation with a bounce to his feet and an energetic eagerness Ary had never witnessed in his scholarly friend. Though last to arrive, he appeared more rested than the others.

  “You’re almost late, Private,” Corporal Huson snapped. Nearly dying of the choking plague hadn’t changed her stern demeanor.

  “Sorry, Corporal,” Estan answered, falling in beside Guts.

  A big grin crossed Guts’s face. He glanced at Ary. “He didn’t sleep in the barracks last night, Adjutant-Lieutenant.”

  A smile sprouted on Ary’s lips, joy for his friend spreading through him. “Spending time with that special lady, Private?”

  “Yes, Adjutant-Lieutenant,” Estan answered. A shy smile split his lips.

  Jhech let out a whistle and Zeirie gave Estan a considering look.

  “You will maintain discipline in the ranks!” bellowed the corporal. She marched up to Guts. “Do you understand me?”

  Guts had thrice Huson’s mass, stood a head taller, and still swallowed. “Yes, Corporal!”

  Corporal Huson turned, nodding to Ary. “The marines stand ready, sir.”

  Ary’s mood soured. Chaylene’s words hung around him. “Captain Dhar has invoked Article 12. We’ll be press-ganging sailors to serve on the Dauntless. If there is any resistance, you may use your charges to stun. Any who assaults a member of the Navy, or tries to obstruct us, will be arrested. Questions?”

  The joy on Estan’s face faltered. The other marines tensed.

  “I know it’s not the greatest act, but most of you were drafted. This isn’t much different.” It’s nothing like what the pirates do. Every citizen of the Autonomy has the obligation to help defend our nation in times of need. “Hopefully, our presence will intimidate them into cooperation. I want you all looking as mean and hungry as the biggest, most bloodthirsty sharks in the skies. We’ll get through this as fast as possible. Once done, we’ll spend the afternoon running assault drills. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Adjutant-Lieutenant!”

  “Parade rest until Captain Dhar arrives!”

  The marines fell into a more relaxed stance. Ary drifted towards Estan, wanting to escape their duty for a few minutes. “So, you spent the night with her?”

  “Yes,” Estan answered, his jubilation returning. “We had quite the stimulating conversation.”

  “I bet,” laughed Guts, slapping Estan on the back.

  “She told me some interesting things.” Estan’s eyes fell on Ary. “I would love to discuss them with you and your wife. Perhaps during lunch break? We are overdue for our Dawnsday talks.”

  Ary nodded his head. “That’s fine, Estan.”

  The limping approach of Captain Dhar ended the conversation, her crutch clunking with every step. Despite it, she maintained her poise. The marines snapped to attention. In two days, they would sail into battle, and it heartened Ary knowing Captain Dhar still commanded the Dauntless.

  “Your men look ready, Adjutant-Lieutenant,” she observed.

  “They’re hungry, Captain.”

  “Then let’s get this over with.”

  “Marines, form up around the captain!” Corporal Huson bellowed.

  Ary marched beside the captain, matching her pace. “Have you done this before, Captain?”

  She nodded her head. “During the last war. My cohort impressed an entire merchant ship. It’ll go fine. Serving in the Navy will pay better than crewing a merchant ship.”

  “But it’s not safer.”

  “Sailing isn’t a safe occupation. And they don’t need to know the full risks.”

  Ary gritted his teeth against his objection.

  They march out of the Rheyion Naval Port into the adjoining commercial docks of Onhur. About half the piers were occupied with merchant ships. Along the boardwalk, teamsters led boar-pulled wagons loaded with molasses, sugar, and pineapples. They guided their hogs with flicks of long, slender goads. Dockworkers and sailors bustled around the ships, loading the merchantmen with crates, sacks, and barrels. The first ship birthed was an ebony-hulled schooner from the Tribes of Zzuk, the hulking Gezitziz sailors hauling heavy barrels with ease.

  Captain Dhar passed this ship. Press-ganging Zzuki would be pointless; they were a clannish race, and if these sailors weren’t part of the same tribe as the Dauntless’s auxiliaries, it would only lead to friction. The next ship was a Vionese merchantman, made of the same pale, white-yellow cedar as the Dauntless. It had two masts and a jib, its hull wide and deep, easily double the warship’s beam. Its crew streamed up and down the gangplank, loading cargo while a plump man with a black tricorne hat watched from the stern deck.

  The sailors melted out of the path of the marines and the limping officer. They set down their sacks, scratching their faces or spitting off the side of the pier. Ary felt their eyes. The marines, Guts in the lead, boar-rushed up the gangplank and spilled onto the deck, forming a line. Captain Dhar hobbled up the ramp, struggling with her crutch on the slope, gripping the rope railing with one hand. Ary strode behind her, his left hand hovering, ready to grab and steady her if she should fall.

  She didn’t.

  “Who is the captain of this vessel?” she demanded upon gaining the deck.

  “I am,” the plump man said; his face drained of blood. “What can I do for the Navy, Captain?”

  “Assemble your men! Per the Twelfth Article of the Navy, the Autonomy requires seventeen able sailors, two carpenters, and a Windwarden. They will serve for the remainder of the enlistment year, to be mustered out when new replacements are trained, or for as long as the Navy requires.”

  The merchant captain’s face paled. “You need one of my Windwardens?”

  “Is that a problem?” Captain Dhar demanded of the paunchy man.

  The merchant captain’s eyes flicked to Ary and the big Agerzak greatsword he carried, and then to the six other marines. “N-no. I am happy to comply with the needs of the Navy, Captain.”

  Shame flushed through Ary. Fear sweated off the merchant captain as he gave shrill orders. Ary pushed down his wife’s words as he did his duty.

  *

  Estan found the press-ganging process to be most distasteful. None of the sailors looked pleased to be selected. Captain Dhar chose the youngest and fittest. Seven of them had served in the Navy and, theoretically, knew how to fight. The marines marched them and the Windwarden, who’d made the most fuss, back to the Naval Port. There, new uniforms were drawn from the quartermaster’s store, and they were given over to the Bosun to aid in rigging the Dauntless’s new mainmast.

  Already, the sailors had the towering column of wood seated, thrusting bare and lonely above the Dauntless’s deck. Sailors scrambled up and down it to attach the horizontal spars from which draped the sails. What seemed like leagues of ropes and cables, along with a hundred pulleys, lined the dock beside the Dauntless, ready to create the complex rigging.

  The marines returned to the parade ground and drilled, assaulting fixed emplacements as the morning waxed. Estan grew mo
re and more nervous as noon approached. He needed to swallow his fear and speak with Ary. Estan was positive his friend had healed the sick crew with the Third Gift of Fleshknitting.

  He healed the crew and risked exposure, Estan reminded himself again and again. Ary had come close to speaking of it before his brawl with Sharthamen. He couldn’t be afraid. Consequentialism demanded Estan seek a way to end the Storm without crashing the skylands.

  He could see no other solution to the Cyclone problem.

  “Okay, we’ll reconvene in an hour,” Ary declared.

  “You heard the adjutant-lieutenant,” bellowed the corporal. “If one of you is late, you will spend the evening digging the new latrines.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Estan shouted with the marines.

  With that, the marines broke apart. Estan marched to Ary, swelled by his confidence. “Shall we?”

  “Sure. Let’s find my wife . . . and . . .” Ary turned in place then pointed. “She’s over there.”

  “How do you know?” Estan asked as they marched towards a wooden building.

  Ary shrugged. “My gut’s telling me she’s over there.”

  Esty did say a Fleshknitter forms a bond with a person they’ve healed multiple times.

  “Wait outside,” Ary said when they reached the building. “I’ll go see if she’s free.”

  Estan took his ease leaning against the building, a posture his mother would have found horrifying. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his blue trousers. A chilly wind blew. He studied the gray clouds billowing and rippling above. They spread from the skyland’s interior. They weren’t natural clouds, but ones created at a Weather Tower to provide rain to water the crops of the surrounding plantations. A school of fish flew before the spreading clouds, rippling as they flashed overhead, fleeing the conjured storm.

  It must interfere with their sense of the natural world, Estan suspected. They must have something akin to a barometer inside their bodies which is confused since artificial clouds are not accompanied by the lowering of air pressure that precedes natural weather events.

  “He’s lost in thought already,” Chaylene said, her voice playful.

  Estan blinked and shook his head. “Lieutenant.”

  “Oh, I get enough of that from Zori and Velegrin,” Chaylene groaned. She hooked his arm. “We’re friends, and we’re off duty.”