Alliances

by B. T. Robertson

  Underwater at the stern of the ship was a small device connected by gear shafts to a box hidden near the captain's bridge. Mortwar kept an energy source, gifted to him by the elves in Mynandrias, hidden there: Lenthan crystals. The Dwarves of the Dragon Mountains had awarded the elves the crystals during the rebuilding period after the War of Calaridis. The elves didn't know Lenthan crystals, when kept together, multiplied. It was a slow process, and the elves had never stored the crystals together in one place, choosing instead to scatter them across their city to light the streets and causeways. Mortwar had accidentally discovered the true purpose of the beautiful blue crystals: renewable energy. Using a technological process developed by the Senantor Pirates to break down other fossil fuels, Mortwar was able to extract the energy from the Lenthan crystals and use them to propel the ship across the waves at a far greater speed than with sails.

  The crystals expelled their energy quietly, so stealth wasn't sacrificed to gain the benefits of windless speed. However, the crystals burned at a far greater rate than they could replenish themselves, and once too many of the crystals were used, they stopped multiplying. So, Mortwar had to play a game of timing to know when and when not to use them. If used too much, he would run out and have to make plans to pay for more, which would be impractical while at sea. The crew knew where the largest store of the crystals was, but he kept another stash hidden to avoid tragic mistakes. A savvy captain always had more than one trick up his sleeve.

  "We'll stay here until the Demoron passes Dalen on the southern side,” Mortwar said to his crew during their evening meeting, “then we'll follow them silently."

  "Sir, is it wise to use the crystal energy so much?” Buck asked. The others nodded, also concerned.

  "We will raise the mast and sail under the moon, but the daylight will unmask us, so we must use the crystals then. Men, you are up to this task, I trust?"

  "We haven't failed you yet, Captain,” said one. The others agreed.

  "Then let's turn in and get a good night's rest. I will go ashore tomorrow and make sure the local magistrate there aids our search for the Demoron so we can stay behind the island. In return, we will run some trade negotiations for them back in Drameda when we complete this mission.” It was a halftruth, of course, but Mortwar had no choice. Doing favors for locals wasn't anything new, but if the crew knew what their exact mission was, what the mission had become, they would see right through the so-called trade negotiations.

  The local magistrate on Dalen wasn't aware of what Mortwar was planning. Dalen's citizens kept to themselves and rarely needed any help from sailors or mainlanders, except for the products not produced locally. Mortwar's mission wouldn't draw any attention unless it brought a change to their peaceful society. His goal was to keep from upsetting their peace by going to a trusted friend on the island—Lucas Yitman. He was trusted because he wasn't part of Mortwar's crew and was the one person who would accept money to watch for the Demoron's approach without asking any further questions.

  That night, the ship rested peacefully despite the constant lapping of the waves against her hull. The crew was more than used to it and slept soundly, except for Mortwar, as usual.

  The next morning, Mortwar boarded a small skiff and rowed ashore, but not before waking his First Mate to resume the watch. After concealing the skiff in a small cove out of sight, he blended in with the common folk of the bustling town—the only town.

  Dalen wasn't an island name more than it was the name of the town nestled between the arms of the lone mountain. Everyone on the mainland referred to both as the same since the island was small enough to hold only the one town anyway. It had all the usual refinements Mortwar would've expected in such a place: a market where merchants competed for sales, a couple of small inns, a blacksmith, a shoemaker, a baker, a courthouse, and more than enough taverns for the locals to drink at. There was even a small school for the children of Dalen, a common site in the towns of men.

  A day in the life of Dalen started early, before the sun rose. Mortwar used this to his advantage. Dressed in his usual leather garb, complete with his floppy leather hat to conceal all but his chin and cheeks, he mixed with the townsfolk at the marketplace, the loudest spot on the whole island. Between the clinks of coins, squawking of chickens and other fowl, people bargaining for the best price, and merchants vying for the attention of shoppers, Mortwar's presence went unnoticed. He was to meet Lucas near the far end of the market street, toward the darker side of town. After dealing in Drameda for so many years, this town's “darker” side seemed more than a bit amusing.

  The sun was rising in the east, but would remain hidden on that side of town until nearly midday, due to the mountain blocking it out. In the shadows of a dark alley, Mortwar waited for Lucas Yitman.

  The silence was broken by someone coming down the alleyway from behind the buildings. Mortwar pulled his weapon, cocked back the metal hammer, and aimed it toward the source.

  "Ah, Mortwar Brendain,” came a lighthearted voice from the darkness, “it's good to see you haven't changed much.” The stout figure of Lucas Yitman came into view. Mortwar lowered the weapon, and it disappeared within the confines of his leather trench coat.

  "You're late, Yitman,” scolded Mortwar with a smile playing on his face.

  "I know, Man, but I couldn't help it. The woman who runs my house wouldn't let me leave without eatin’ somethin'.” He patted his gut and chuckled.

  Mortwar couldn't help laughing to himself. Apparently she never lets you leave without a good meal. As much as he wanted to pay him for his services and be done with it, he knew Lucas craved small talk before business talk. So Mortwar patiently waited while Lucas gave his usual report of his family, the town, and the local rumors floating around. Though the talk was light, Mortwar listened attentively. Lucas had no idea of how much information the seasoned scout gathered during such banter.

  Once Lucas was finally done telling tales of the brothel and of the local dogs who defecated on his front lawn, it was down to business. Mortwar withdrew a parchment envelope filled with the standard paper currency valuable to Dalen and handed it to Lucas, who leafed through it with his fat fingers while counting quietly to himself. Satisfied, he buried the envelope somewhere on his person.

  "The Demoron left Drameda's port no more than two days ago.” Lucas’ voice had a more serious tone and was little more than a whisper. “She hasn't been seen since, but if she stayed her course along the usual lanes, she should be here in the next few days at most."

  "Lucas, it's very important a watch be kept for her,” Mortwar stressed. “My ship can track the Demoron easily enough, but she must get ahead of us so we can plot a course."

  "Why didn't you just wait and follow her out of Drameda?” Lucas asked.

  "I had a confrontation with one of her crewmen, and I didn't want to look suspicious by following her out of port. Pirates have many resources at their disposal, and I didn't want any more trouble. I set sail early to throw off anyone who might've been paying attention. If the Demoron sails past here without stopping, then the plan might've worked."

  "You've put Dalen in danger, Mortwar,” Lucas said heavily. “If the crew of the Demoron even has the slightest notion you sailed out ahead, they know this is the only place between the mainland and the rest of the world across Arthean's waters. They will attack us."

  "They haven't attacked you so far, Yitman, so stop your worrying,” Mortwar snorted, annoyed. “If they had any inkling that this town had anything of value, they would've plundered it a hundred times over by now. Anyway, you have your money, and you have your job to do. See to it. I'll wait for your signal that the Demoron's past. Don't screw it up.” Mortwar pointed his index finger at Lucas, who cowered a bit.

  "Of course, Mortwar. You can count on me, as you have in the past."

  Just don't eat yourself to death before she passes by, he thought, nodding.

  Lucas slapped him on the shoulder when he moved past him to the market stre
et. Mortwar watched the plump man stop at a bake stand to sample some of the pastries there and shook his head. Instead of going the same way, Mortwar snaked around the dark alleys and back to the skiff hidden in the cove. Once back aboard Arunir, he reported to his crew, who had already begun the chores of the day.

  Winter was upon them now, inescapable, and it was worse on the sea. The warm water mixed with the frigid air, causing billows of fog to settle on the ocean's surface, shifting and morphing. The sun's rays, almost powerless in winter's icy grasp, did little good. What the men could see of the sky, though minimal, was a clear, blue blanket dotted with more clouds. And deep down, Mortwar thanked the gods for the fog. If the Demoron should happen to circle wide around Dalen for fear of breaking on the rocks of the shore, the fog would obscure Arunir.

  Throughout the morning and mid-afternoon, the crew watched and waited. Mortwar sat in the bridge reading books and looking over maps while he conversed with Buck. The chores complete, the crew played shankra and other card games on the deck of the ship. Mortwar was perceptive of the need to keep the crew content; with the mast down and the anchor dropped, there was no need to press for extra tasks to be done. There would be plenty of time for hustle once they set the Lenthan crystals to work.

  No matter how hard he tried, Mortwar couldn't shake the questions from his mind about the ring acquired from Callaway's severed hand. Why would such a lowlife have had his father's ring? Though he hadn't seen his father in years, it was disheartening to speculate about his sire's fate. What if it were just stolen from the house? What if he sold it for money because he had nowhere else to turn? What if it was simply an identical ring belonging to someone else? The questions flooded his mind constantly, but he had no answers. He had no choice but to play the game of wits with a pirate who was obviously being protected by an evil force able to kill anyone who threatened him.

  Perhaps I could send word to my family somehow, he thought suddenly, remembering the hunting birds they kept below decks. When food became scarce out on the high seas, they would set the beautiful falcons loose to search for food, such as fish and other morsels. Doves were kept, as well, to help them search for land. If a message could be sent to them . . . His thoughts trailed off. Who was he fooling? Even if the bird survived the journey inland, how would it find his family? He possessed no magic with which to guide the bird, nor could he speak the language required to make it understand his intentions. Maybe Yitman knows of someone on the island. Sadly, his thoughts quickly faded when he realized he simply had no time to worry about it. He had to find Callaway intact to get the answers he was looking for and bring his crew back safely in doing so. Their sole choice was to wait for the Demoron.

  "Curse Mortwar to Zamas,” Callaway spat. The good doctor was working on the bloody stump where his hand used to be. He had had enough whiskey to dull the pain, but each cauterizing singe brought a new sensation of stinging pain. It had started to smell from the onset of gangrene; Callaway had been too stubborn to get it cared for in Drameda. Ironically, he distrusted the locals.

  "Hold still, damn you,” snapped the doctor, struggling to burn the last of the damaged nerve endings. Cauterizing the wound would accelerate the healing process. “If you want me to fit you with a new hand, you have to stop fighting me. This is necessary."

  Callaway took another gulp of whiskey, wiped his mouth, and then threw the bottle against the wall, shattering it. He grunted; the doctor finished his work. The smell of dead and burnt skin filled the room below the deck of the Demoron. Once finished, the doctor bandaged the stump and gave Callaway another bottle of whiskey.

  "Don't break this one. If you do, you're outta luck because I'm not wasting the best anesthetic on an ill-tempered patient.” Callaway scowled at the doctor, but didn't argue further. He popped the cap off the new bottle and took a few large gulps of the amber liquid. The little man gathered up his things, toweled the sweat from his bald head, and tossed the bloody apron he was wearing out the open window into the sea. Adjusting his glasses, he headed up the steps to the upper deck. He paused once and ordered, “Don't scratch the wound if it starts to itch. It'll delay your recovery."

  "Thank ya', Doctor,” Callaway shouted, annoyed. “That'll be all."

  The doctor continued up the stairs and headed to his next assignment. Callaway took another swig of whiskey. A defiant look swept across his dirtstained face when he noticed the blood starting to seep slowly through the end of the wrapping. Then, quite unexpectedly, he began to chuckle. Chuckling turned to laughter, laughter into talking aloud to himself.

  "You may have the ring, Mortwar,” he mused, “but I have the Elfstone fragment. Yer wastin’ yer time chasin’ me down fer somethin’ that don't even matter in the long run."

  "Do possessed pirates make a habit out of talking to themselves?"

  Startled, Callaway dropped his whiskey bottle and unsheathed his long knife. “Who's there? I'll slice ya’ from yer groin to yer windpipe!"

  Out of the shadows stepped a figure, but it wasn't a man, woman, or creature. It was a small boy. Dressed in tattered and soiled rags, the boy looked malnourished and neglected.

  "A child?” Callaway asked, surprised. He sheathed his knife, picked up the whiskey bottle and tried to ignore the boy. “Git outta here. This is no place fer ya'."

  "I chose to be here, Callaway. I've been watching you for some time.” The boy took one step closer to the drunken, one-handed pirate.

  Callaway eyed the boy, brows furrowing. He capped the bottle and set it aside. “Now look here, boy, if ya've been spyin’ on me, I don't care. I'm sure all ya've learned is how ta’ curse like a sailor and drink like one too.” He grinned, showing off his rotten teeth.

  "I have learned as much.” The boy took another step. “But drinking and cursing aren't for boys like me. I've been interested in the trinket you carry in your pocket."

  Callaway put his hand on the outside of his pocket, making sure the stone was still there. “This charm has made me popular. First Mortwar, now you. I reckon that pickin’ the pockets of strangers is yer specialty, but if ya’ think about pickin’ my pockets, boy, you'll wish ya’ were back suckin’ at yer momma's tit.” Callaway pulled his knife halfway from its sheath, baring the sharp blade for the boy to see. “I'll slice ya’ just as fast as I would any other man."

  The boy stepped closer again, this time bringing himself within arm's reach of Callaway. “I don't want to steal it from you, Callaway Sir; I just want to assure you I'm watching. I want to work for you, not steal it from you."

  Callaway twisted his head and screwed up his face in question. “Ya’ want ta’ work fer me? I'll not be havin’ a boy on my payroll any time soon, so forget it. I don't need anyone workin’ for me, ‘cept me."

  "What about what happened back at the dock? Do you know what happened? Do you know why your attacker was killed?"

  "No, and I don't care. I know one thing's fer certain: you didn't do it."

  "What if I told you, Callaway Sir, that I know who did?” The boy's eyes never wavered from their lock on Callaway's.

  "I don't suppose you'll be tellin’ me without yer ransom demand ta’ be on my payroll,” Callaway said, more a statement than a question. He started to think about how the boy seemed to be far more intelligent and bold than he should be, especially for a boy who was so destitute.

  "I don't want gold or treasure of any kind. I don't have much use for those things. Just provide food and water for a starving lad, and I'll be your eyes and ears on this boat. You're outnumbered here, and even though you were protected back in Drameda, the captain may think otherwise out here on the open sea. You'll need me."

  "Very well then,” Callaway agreed. “We have an accord then. I'll provide food and water fer ya’ each mornin', afternoon, and night in exchange fer your snitchin’ services. In fact, that'll be yer name: Snitch.” He held out his only hand to the boy, who quickly shook it in return. Callaway grasped it tight and pulled him close. The boy could smell his rot
ten breath. “And if ya’ even think about turnin’ tail on my trust or pickin’ my pockets fer the piece I carry, the last thing you'll see is yer guts spillin’ out onto the floor. Understand me, Snitch?"

  The boy wrenched free and stumbled back, rubbing his hand.

  "And one more thing,” Callaway added, “who did cover me arse back in Drameda, hmm?"

  "Someone who's ever watchful and knows your deepest thoughts, Callaway Sir. Don't disappoint him, or bad things will happen."

  Callaway said nothing; Snitch ran back into the shadows of the cargo hold. The pirate pulled the whiskey bottle back to his lips and drank until he nearly passed out. He stumbled over to his bed, took the Elfstone from his pocket, looked around to make sure he wasn't being watched, and placed it under a floorboard he'd loosened.

  Let him pick my pockets, he thought as he chuckled to himself, he'll find nuttin'. The next moment, he was asleep.

  Deep inside the cargo hold, the boy huddled in a cold and damp corner, shivering. He whimpered, pulling his knees up close to his face. “No, stop, don't!” he shouted, squinting his eyes and rubbing the side of his head with his hands.

  You'll do as you're told, Boy. I have you now, and you'll obey me, or perish.

  Snitch started banging his head against the hull, tears streaming down his face. “Stop it, it hurts. Please."

  Do as you're told, and you'll live. I have uses for Callaway, but I need him to confide in you, to put his trust in you. You must be his eyes and ears on this ship. People will come for it, try to take it from him. You can't let that happen. If I command it, you must take the trinket from him and keep it safe. I don't want to have to force my hand here and reveal what is to pass before it is time.