Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  “I guess.” Ary glanced at his wife. “You’ve really grown a taste for orange wine.”

  “I know . . . I used to hate it. My mom’s breath always had that sour-sweet reek from it. Sometimes, it seemed like all she cared about. I don’t even know how she got her wine half the time. But now . . . I understand a little. Life is stressful, and a little wine is . . . relaxing.”

  “Just a little, though.” A smile spread across his face. “You don’t want to be on the floor, surrounded by bottles, and wondering where your dress went.”

  “It was on her.” A giggle burst from Chaylene. “Oh, she was so drunk that day.” Her smile fell. “She was so drunk every day by then.” The face of her mother in her last years, her ebony skin waxy and sagging, swam in her thoughts. She tried to recall the beautiful, if sad, woman of her youth. Couldn’t. “She’d given up on life.”

  “Good thing you’re stronger than her. Just remember that. Your mother never could do the amazing things you have.”

  A smile crossed Chaylene’s lips, confidence swelling. She nodded her head. Having a few glasses of wine isn’t the same as drinking whole bottles in a day. Besides, I have far worse things to forget than she did.

  Half the beds were occupied in the medical building. In addition to the three from the Dauntless, another ten had joined them, the bulk from the Gallant. The Bosun was one of the three, her leg broken when the Dauntless had collided with the Bravado. As Ary moved between the wounded, giving them encouraging “pats” as he aided their recovery, Chaylene drifted over to her friend Ienchie’s bed.

  “I see you found a way to get out of dangerous duty,” Chaylene said.

  Charlim, sitting at Ienchie’s side, shot to his feet. “Lieutenant.”

  “Relax, Sailor.” Chaylene found it awkward being saluted. Sometimes, she couldn’t understand how high she had risen in such a short time. Training had ended only a month previously. “Nothing better for advancement,” the Bosun had said after Chaylene’s promotion, “than bloody wars and sickly seasons.”

  “Hi, Chaylene,” Ienchie said, her brown face pale with pain. A bandage wrapped her leg where she had taken an arrow. “If you want, I can have Charlim shoot you with a crossbow, and you can join me in here.”

  “That’s tempting.” Chaylene sat down on the other side of her friend’s bed. “But I’m not sure Charlim is a good shot.”

  “That’s a fair point,” Charlim agreed. “It’s why they stuck me down in the magazine now. Grabbing shot for the hoist is safer for everyone.”

  “You better not drop any of those shots,” Ienchie told her lover, shooting him a meaningful look.

  Charlim kissed Ienchie’s knuckles. “I have a strong grip.”

  Ienchie giggled and then winced. “Oh, wow. That hurt. Ooh, I think I need more of the morphine.”

  Ary stepped up beside Chaylene and touched Ienchie’s shoulder, saying, “I’ll go fetch a doctor.”

  Ienchie sighed, her face relaxing. “No, no. The pain’s passing. It comes in pulses.”

  Chaylene smiled at her husband.

  Able Sailor Aychene burst in. “Captain’s looking for the pair of you, Lieutenants! We’re sailin’ in an hour.”

  Chaylene sighed. I guess the wine will just have to wait until we get back.

  *

  “Be careful,” Esty whispered as the horns blared, summoning the crews to their ships.

  “Are you going to hate me when I return?” Estan trembled as he studied her amber eyes.

  She caressed his face. “Why would I hate you?”

  Estan closed his eyes, savoring her silky touch. “Because . . . we are endeavoring to kill your brother.”

  “I’m more afraid he’ll kill you.” Esty swallowed. “Don’t fight him.”

  “Did you . . . see something?”

  She nodded. “My brother will win. Do not fight him.” She threw her arms around Estan. “Please. He’s already lost to me. I . . . I don’t want to lose you, as well. I . . . I . . . I love you, Estan.”

  His arms tightened around her. Estan savored her words as her lithe body shook in his arms. “I’ll come back. I shall battle through anything, brave the darkest storm, the fiercest winds to return to you.”

  A sob escaped her lips.

  Estan recited a poem that sprang into his mind:

  Through storm so dark and weather bold,

  My sails shall billow with love’s strong wind.

  O’er skies of danger, my ship shall journey,

  To shelter in the harbor of my love’s embrace.

  Esty looked up at him, tears shimmering in her eyes. “That was beautiful, Estan. Did you . . .?”

  “I fear a poet’s heart does not beat in my breast. However, my scholarly pursuits have allowed me to study their words. Arthun Xoshejh composed it for his lover a hundred years ago. But the words more than adequately describe my feelings.”

  Her embrace tightened. “You shall always find shelter in my embrace, even if you bring me news of Nrein’s death.”

  Dread’s hand relaxed from about his heart. The horns sounded again. “I must depart.”

  Esty’s hot lips kissed him. He shook beneath her fierce passion. Trumpets blared. Estan groaned, somehow finding the strength to wrench himself away. He wanted to stay here always. But Ary, Guts, and his other friends awaited. They would need his Lightning and blade.

  *

  Ary enjoyed Chaylene’s weight curled atop his chest as they lay on a makeshift bed on the floor in the cramped cabin they shared on the Dauntless, eschewing the two hammocks. The captain and first officers each had their own cabin, while the second and third officers had to share.

  Ary didn’t mind sharing.

  Chaylene slept softly as the Dauntless sailed east towards Grion Rift. They’d left port two hours ago. Admiral Grelen led the small fleet from the Adventurous. “We sail to rid our skies of the vile pirates,” the admiral had boomed before the assembled crews. “These scum think they own the skies and can prey upon our citizens. They are woefully mistaken. They thought to attack us, and we bloodied them. They flee before us, revealing the true strength of their winds. We shall descend upon them, sharks ravaging a shoal of fish.”

  The captain wanted the marines and scouts rested in the calm voyage to the Rift. Sleep eluded Ary. Even after uniting his fires with Chaylene and with exhaustion weighing him down, he couldn’t sink into its welcoming arms.

  We’ve been fortunate, Ary thought as he stroked Chaylene’s blonde hair. Neither of us have been seriously injured in any of the battles. Battle was a slaughterhouse. Healthy men and women entered, hunks of meat exited. Ary could heal, but what if Chaylene took an injury beyond his reach?

  Chaylene let out a whimper, a sudden sweat covering her body. Ary held her as she trembled. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. It’s just a nightmare. You didn’t have a choice.”

  Ary understood her pain. You had to forget your enemies were sentient beings. You couldn’t think of them as creatures with feelings, dreams, and loved ones. They were only things. If that illusion slipped, then you weren’t a soldier. You became something worse.

  A butcher.

  With a gasp, Chaylene’s gray eyes shot open. For a moment they were wild and unfocused before she noticed him. She hugged him tighter. “Did I wake you?”

  Ary shook his head. “You didn’t have a choice, Lena.”

  “I know.” Her eyes closed. “Get some sleep.”

  Ary wished he could take away her pain. He would carry it for her, a lighter burden than finding a way to release Theisseg without bringing down the skylands and keeping the Church from killing him. His eyes closed. Her breathing became his whole world as darkness overtook him.

  *

  The roar of the Rift increased as the small fleet rounded its tip near the end of their first day of sailing. The growling rumble tensed Chaylene’s skin. She studied it from the Dauntless’s stern deck. A wall of hazy, white clouds peppered with floating rocks loomed
off the starboard bow. The first wave of scouts took off from the Adventurous. They soared ahead of the fleet towards the Rift and its powerful winds.

  Her stomach knotted as they dwindled into specks on the horizon. Chaylene felt responsible for their safety. Her plan to use scouts inside Grion Rift, against Autonomy Naval doctrine, put them in danger.

  A blossom of kelp drifted towards the rift, swarming with schools of fish darting in and around the floating mass. Where the rushing clouds met the Storm, squalls built in the complex eddies were created by clashing currents and pressure turbulence. They would break away from the chaotic mass and spin out into the sky.

  “What is a rift?” Ary asked Estan, the pair standing nearby.

  “There are numerous theories, of course,” Estan smiled.

  Ary groaned. “I don’t need to hear them all. What’s the right one?”

  Estan’s smile grew. “I would hate to overload your mind with the effervescent facts spilling from my lips.”

  “Effer-what?” Ary’s eyes narrowed. “You’re using big words on purpose.”

  “Guilty.” Estan laughed. “The look of consternation upon your face as you ponder unfamiliar words always brings a glad smile to my lips.”

  Chaylene grinned, too.

  Ary shook his head. “Why do I speak with you?”

  “Because, despite your claims to being simple, you enjoy learning. Maybe not as much as your lovely wife, but there is an appetite for understanding buried within your large frame.”

  Ary squeezed his eyes shut and muttered beneath his breath.

  Chaylene rubbed his back, a smile crossing her lips. “He’s right. You’ve always loved to learn about battles and the military.”

  “Fine. So what causes a skyrift?”

  “Their origins date back to the raising of the skylands,” Estan answered. “Every rift has long been charted. No change in their size or position has ever been recorded nor have any new rifts formed.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “So what’s your favorite theory?” Chaylene asked. “And please, don’t explain your mathematics to support it. That will just make my husband’s head ache.”

  “And yours.” Ary grinned while slipping his arm about her shoulders. “But thank you for thinking about my delicate brain.”

  “Nothing delicate about your brain.” She giggled. “I’ve seen the blows you’ve taken to your head.”

  Ary rapped his skull with his knuckle.

  “A Zalg scholar claimed that Talt’s Theory of Atmospheric Tearing, which is poorly named, has the best explanatory merit. When Riasruo raised the skylands from the ground up through the Storm, great eddies and ripples ran through the eternal maelstrom. The forces were disruptive and titanic. Parts of the Storm suffered violent wind shears. Massive downdrafts formed and atmospheric pressure appears to keep them stable.”

  “Could you see the ground through them?” Chaylene asked. “If you could get through the cloudwall?”

  “Yes. While the turbulence around a rift can extend for miles, they are only a few hundred ropes across. A bold Soweral scholar named Xostrial flew a Sowerese rake over the Neta Rift. The ship had three Windwardens and flew at the altitude limit over the smallest of the skyrifts. Despite this, the ship was still almost sucked down as it sailed through the cloudwall and sustained moderate damage to the hull and rigging crossing. But Xostrial made remarkable observations, reporting a green and hilly land.”

  Ary whistled. “Why would anyone take such a risk?”

  “For knowledge.” Estan’s voice grew breathy with excitement. “To push the horizons of our understanding. Any risk is worth that lofty goal. Even laws and religious decrees should be pushed and broken for this noble end.”

  Chaylene shivered, Estan’s threat from last night sticking in her mind. What is the real reason Estan keeps Ary’s secrets? Friendship? Or the chance for knowledge? How far would he go to understand Ary’s abilities?

  *

  Lheshoa 16th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Ary gaped in awe at the majesty of the sun setting through the boiling clouds of the skyrift at the end of their second day of sailing. The billowing cloudwall glowed with oranges and reds, tinging to deep inks on the edges. The majesty arrested him, his heart laboring beneath the spectacle.

  Late the day before, the fleet had rounded the skyrift. Now, they sailed south down the eastern side, searching the chaotic mess for the pirates’ lair. Ary had faith Chaylene was right, even if some of the crew grumbled.

  This close, the rift’s roar overpowered, vibrating the air. A jumble of skylets the size of large buildings, easily bigger than the Dauntless, filled the sky while smaller boulders orbited their larger kin. Fish twice or thrice a man’s height flew through the strong winds, feasting on the pink patches of krill and other detritus that were sucked towards the cloudwall.

  From above, a sailor called out, “Scouts returning!”

  Ary wrenched his gaze from the setting sun. Relief released tension’s grasp on his guts as Chaylene and Zori emerged through a streaming cloud rushing for the rift. They didn’t fly smoothly, the raging winds bouncing and buffeting their mounts. No scout could be out longer than a few hours. The pegasi grew tired too fast.

  Ary headed up to the stern deck, tracking his wife as she soared past the Dauntless. They were the last flight for the day. The three ships planned on holding position here. Ropes groaned as the rear unfolded. Ary leaned on the aft railing by the ballistae, Lieutenant Tharele moving up beside him.

  “I’ll give them a nice bubble of calm,” the Windwarden assured as Chaylene wheeled Whitesocks around. The pegasus flapped his wings hard, battling against the sucking winds to maintain level flight.

  Ary held his breath, gripping the railing. Nothing was more perilous for a scout than landing upon a ship, particularly one as narrow-hulled as a corvette. Chaylene, followed by Zori, battled closer.

  Ary’s blood pounded and his lungs screamed as he held his breath.

  She hit the calm. Whitesocks jerked hard to the left, no longer fighting the wind. Ary gasped as his wife hurtled towards the hull. Wood groaned beneath his clenching hands, the railing protesting his fear. Then, with apparent ease, his wife leaned over and corrected the pegasus’ trajectory right before the collision. She vanished inside the ship. Hooves thudded on wood, proclaiming her safe landing.

  Ary’s breath exploded from his lungs.

  Moments later, Zori followed.

  Ary shook. The fear bled out of him as he waited for her report. He’d watch her land upon returning four times from scouting the rift, and each one seemed more perilous than the last.

  Captain Dhar stomped up. “Your wife’s an excellent flier.”

  “She loves it,” Ary answered.

  Boots thudded upstairs. Chaylene, still wearing her goggles and wool scarf, burst upon the stern deck. “We found their base!”

  *

  Lheshoa 17th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Nrein expected the mutiny to come any time. He stood atop the tower rising from the center of the ruined fortress, gazing down at his pirates. The Vionese sailors huddled in their courtyard cells, but none of his pirates guarded them. Clusters of Agerzak raiders gathered around wannabe-captains extorting the crews to back them.

  Occasionally, fights broke out, narrowing the field of candidates.

  Nrein had come so close to crushing the Autonomy. Then the rusting, oppressive clouds had rolled in. He hadn’t slept since the defeat. When he closed his eyes, the room’s crushing darkness engulfed him. He couldn’t breathe. His blood screamed through his veins.

  Fire burned through his body. His Fleshknitting banished the fatigue and the headaches. Nrein had never used his power for so long. He needed his strength. The mutiny would come at any time.

  Both the Iron Horse and Shark’s Maw languished at their moorings. No repairs had begun despite his orders. Nrein knew only fear of his reputation kept the mutiny from already exploding through the fortress. It
would come. The longer a man lived with fear, the less he noticed it. It faded into the background, subsumed by other desires.

  Desires to be captain . . .

  The world grew brighter as the sun rose over the Storm. He scanned his fortress over and over. Disgust filled him. None of the walls were manned by guards. No one watched the skies in case the Autonomy followed their retreat. All his pirates cared about was who’d be the next captain of the Bluefin Raiders. Once, Nrein had joined groups like that, whispering sedition against Masrein, the previous captain. He brushed the scar that ran across his cheek and nose. He could have healed his wound, but he chose to remind his men that he had killed the old bastard.

  Any who challenged him would pay in equal amounts of blood and pain.

  Nrein just wished one of them had found their iron balls and attacked. Waiting gnawed at his bones.

  I almost had my kingdom . . .

  His fists clenched as he slowly walked the tower’s perimeter, examining the courtyard and the empty walls. It was only by chance he noticed the three shapes on the horizon. The movement of a cloud streaming towards the boiling rift caught his attention. When it passed, three Autonomy warships sailed for him.

  Nrein grinned. The wait was over. The pirate captain didn’t care if it was his own men or the Autonomy who killed him. Either way, he would die carving his blade through his enemies’ corpses.

  “To arms, you cursed guppies!” Nrein bellowed, pointing to the north. “The sharks have come to feast!”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ary fought the nervous exhilaration pumping through his veins with deep, slow breaths. Whitesocks neighed and tossed his mane. Hooves stamped on the rush-strewn floor of the menagerie. Ary shifted in the saddle, strapped in and sitting behind Chaylene. He pointed his thunderbuss to the left while Chaylene aimed her pressure rifle to the right. Behind him, Zori and Guts waited on Dancer with Velegrin and Zeirie, mounted upon Blackfeather, bringing up the rear. Ahead, the stern of the Dauntless yawned open, the wind howling towards the skyrift.

  “How much longer?” Chaylene muttered.