Alliances

by B. T. Robertson

  "What are ya’ doin’ down ‘ere, boy?” Buck sneered. He didn't trust anyone, not even such a young lad, especially one that kept company with thieves like Sakreega and his men.

  The boy was pale, skinny, and wore tattered rags. He didn't answer, just stared at them curiously, smiling.

  "I asked what are ya’ doin’ down ‘ere all alone, curse you!” Buck snapped loudly, this time scaring the boy so much that he turned and scampered off into the hold, leaving Mortwar and Buck stumbling after him.

  "Now look what you did!” Mortwar slammed his knife into a crate, splintering it in frustration. “The lad was the closest thing we've seen to another form of life down here, and you have to go and scare him off! Damn, Buck, why don't you just hold your tongue sometimes?"

  "Bah,” Buck spat, “no use fer ‘im anyway. A wharf rat like him can find his way out easily enough. He didn't seem ta’ have a problem scurryin’ through ‘ere now, did he?"

  "Not the point. He might've known where Callaway is."

  For a change, Buck held his tongue. They kept moving and searching, but watched their backs from then on.

  Back at the main stairs, Atrio kept watch for anyone trying to double their way back to the main deck from below. Mortwar had gestured silently and Atrio took position. Atrio was a brute of a man, strong enough to take on three men at once if attacked, but Mortwar had remained silent; apparently he didn't want to give anyone the advantage of knowing only one man guarded the stairs.

  The light pitter-patter of the rain outside meshed with the silent tension pervading the lower part of the ship. Atrio stood guard. His weapons of choice were two double-guns; they were named for the two metal barrels, two triggers, and two hammers, giving him four shots before having to reload.

  The figure waited in the shadows until the other two moved down the hallway away from him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had already secured the item from the floorboard hiding place in his cabin. He had to get past the lone guard. Not going to be an easy task ta’ get past that lug. Slowly, Callaway slipped from shadow to shadow, making his way down the forward passage toward the ladder amidships. His drunken stupor of the night before had completely worn off, and now his crude pirate survival tactics were in full effect. He had to pass Atrio to get topside to the main deck. From there he could launch the skiff and escape, or stowaway on the Arunir. Snitch was little more than a passing thought now; all he cared about was escape.

  Atrio turned his head; Callaway sprung. Lunging toward the brute with his scimitar, he was like a man possessed. Atrio turned just in time to counter the blow enough to keep it from instantly killing him. Instead, the redirected blade caught him in the right shoulder, slashing it deeply. His arm fell as the muscles snapped and tore, but he still managed to pull both triggers on the first double-gun. BOOM! BOOM! Both shots rang out loudly, shattering the eerie silence on the ship. One of the slugs caught Callaway in the foot, sending him to the ground hollering in pain. The other slug slammed into the deck floor, ripping a hole in it the size of an apple. Smoke filled the area.

  Callaway, though wounded and limping, clawed his way to the top of the stairs and out onto the main deck. One of Mortwar's crewmen shouted for him to lie down and stop moving, but when he crossed the gangplank with his sword drawn, Callaway reached up and threw a small knife at him. It found its mark in the man's neck. He froze, shocked, then fell off the plank and into the sea, dead.

  Atrio picked himself up off the ground, right arm sagging and bleeding profusely. He took aim and fired the remaining two rounds at Callaway, but the pirate had sense enough to roll out of the way. The slugs blasted the top two steps. Splinters of wood rained down on Atrio, and more smoke blinded him, keeping him from pursuing the wounded Callaway. He began shouting for Mortwar and Buck, but there was no sign of them anywhere.

  Buck fell backwards when the slug blasted through the deck ceiling above and pierced the hull's outer shell. Water sprayed upward like a fountain after the hole opened up.

  "Atrio! Let's go!” Mortwar shouted, pulling Buck to his feet. Without waiting to see if Buck was at his heels, the pirate raced to the stairs.

  Taking them three at a time, Mortwar pulled his trusty gun from his coat once more—the second time onboard the Demoron. Stealthily, he kept low as he approached the main deck's stairs. Atrio wasn't there! The smoke from the recently dispatched slugs still wound lazily through the halls, but the big man was nowhere to be found. A trail of blood smeared its way along the floor and up the stairs, and the walls were sprayed as well. Mortwar cocked the hammer back on the gun and inched forward.

  The rain had soaked the uppermost steps, washing away the blood trail there. Mortwar heard shuffling on the deck, and saw a green luminescence reflecting off the main mast beam where it stood menacingly against the night sky's backdrop of dark rain clouds and lightning strikes. Mortwar went up the stairs. Buck was at his heels, finally.

  Suddenly, Mortwar shouted, “No! Atrio!” He and his first mate dropped to their knees when they saw the sight before them.

  Atrio was hanging upside-down, strung out between two of the ropes used to raise the mast's main sail. His body looked as though it had been squeezed with an immense amount of force; his entrails had burst out from multiple points through his skin, near his abdomen. His skull had been crushed. Buck vomited on the deck; Mortwar stood and went to his Main Gunner's corpse.

  "Who...who did this...to him?” Buck wheezed and wiped the vomit from his chin.

  "Callaway,” Mortwar said, hanging his head with grief. “I should've told the crew to stay away from him. Damn it."

  "What? What are you talking about?” Buck questioned.

  Mortwar turned to his first mate, his face burdened with guilt and shame. “Our mission was twofold, Buck,” he managed. “We were to find out where the scoundrel was going with the Elfstone—this part you knew—but what you didn't know: he also had my father's ring. I took it from him at the Dew Drop when I cut his hand off.” Mortwar held up his hand for Buck to inspect. “My own personal mission was to seek the answers to those questions as well, questions I alone could ask him."

  "Cap'n Mortwar,” Buck interjected, “any one of us woulda done the same thing. Ya’ know that, don't ya'?"

  "There's more,” Mortwar admitted. “I also saw a member of Sakreega's crew get dismembered right in front of my eyes when Callaway was threatened directly with physical force. I should've warned the crew. Atrio is dead because he tried to take Callaway down. Damn if I didn't kill Atrio myself!"

  Buck laid his hand on Mortwar's shoulder. “Mortwar,” he said, more openly than ever before, “you have been my Cap'n and friend fer the betta half o’ ten years now. I've trusted ya’ with me life fer as long too. Ya’ did what ya’ thought was best under the circumstances. I wouldn't be yer first mate if I didn't see the quality o’ leadership in yer soul."

  Mortwar was, for the first time in his life, shocked and humbled by Buck's faithfulness. He simply nodded to his first mate, and grasped his forearm in thanks. “I thank you, Buck,” he added. “Let's cut him down."

  After they cut Atrio down, Mortwar called to his remaining crew to come over to the Demoron to help secure any provisions before it sank into the abyss. The leak in the hull below was small, but the force of the leak would eventually open the hole further. Having secured the crew of the Demoron in the prisoners’ quarters, Mortwar's crewmen did what they were told. They took food, maps, gunpowder, one of the smaller cannons on the main deck, and water barrels. The whole time, Mortwar wondered about the boy below, and what had become of Callaway.

  "Cap'n Mortwar, sir,” one of his crewmen shouted, “one of the skiffs is missin'. Someone got away!"

  Mortwar and Buck exchanged glances. “Don't worry about it. They won't get far in these waters.” Yet Mortwar couldn't come to believe what he was saying, nor could Buck, he knew. If Mortwar had never trusted Buck fully, he would have to now. With Atrio gone, Hyrum would be promoted to Main Gunner, and Hyrum
was the most wild minded and rebellious of the crew. If Buck managed to turn Hyrum on his captain, the result would be an immediate mutiny. Mortwar had to act fast to catch Callaway, who now had a more maneuverable craft at his disposal to get to Dunandor.

  And, Mortwar thought, Callaway had the power of an evil force at his beck and call. Finding him would be easy; getting the information he needed would be an altogether different undertaking.

  Safely aboard the skiff, Callaway gazed out over the churning waters with the monocular scope he'd taken from Sakreega's bridge safe. “We're almost there,” he said gleefully. “Keep rowin', or else ya'll have Mortwar breathin’ down our necks again."

  Snitch nodded and kept rowing as ordered. Through the blinding wind and rain, a smile played on the boy's face while he watched the filthy excuse for a pirate glass the horizon, where Dunandor's weather-beaten coast was just coming into view. No amount of direction from Callaway would steer Snitch away from the course the Voice whispered to him between the bolts of lightning and claps of thunder. The fear of sea creatures was washed away; promises of protection the rest of the way were put tactfully into his head.

  The boy smiled, and kept rowing.

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  Chapter 8—Kelorn

  The land of Kelorn lay south of the Forest of Spirits, separated from the rest of Vaaluna's lands by the most treacherous of borders: the Creshtun Mountains. Kelorn was home to only one race of beings—the Dark Elves of Kelorn, who had claimed the region for their own after Hydrais’ defeat following the Great War of Calaridis. All of the lands were up for grabs at the time, and Kelorn was thought to possess none of the attractive qualities the other lands possessed. It wasn't suitable for farming, grazing, or mining—arguments between darklings and the dwarves broke out over the latter, but the dark elves won—so no one challenged their claim.

  The dark elves, or Kelornian Elves as they would come to be named later, thrived in the solitude the Creshtun Mountains granted them. Creshtun, after all, translated into “Crest of the Moon” in the Kelornian language, named for the shape formed by the range around the land within. Their leader, Jjyn Cormulan, reigned supreme over the Kelornian race from high atop a tower that pierced the clouds when they settled low in the valley's winter sky. It was the architectural marvel of the day, its simple shape inspiring awe at the power it emulated. A large, black spike, wide at the base and brought to a brilliantly sharpened point at its pinnacle, was a symbol to the Kelornian people of Jjyn's belief in their vast superiority.

  Jjyn sat upon his throne located near the top of the tower. It was said: to look out his window made one think they could walk on the clouds and fish for birds. The Kelornians were much more technologically advanced than their Anwarnian counterparts, illustrated no better than inside the tower. Elevators powered by the famed Lenthan Crystals were built to run the entire center of the tower, allowing easy access to each section. They were built more for Jjyn and his Council than anyone else, but they served all who needed them.

  The chamber of the king was submerged in silence while Jjyn scrutinized the disturbing report brought to him. King Hrathis’ reinstatement on the throne of men was bad enough news, but even worse was reading about Aeligon, in the company of lesser elves, racing across Salanthanon toward Lunathar. Jjyn's dark hand traced lines on his slate-gray skin while he mulled over the implications.

  Jjyn was not a king of many emotions, which was evident in the way he dealt out his judgment. His often-unsettling demeanor was only subdued by his heavy-handed will, ironed out through years of deliberate research into the science of governing by force. Few of his people had ever seen him, let alone felt the cold stare of his crimson eyes when his laws were carried out. Most swore loyalty from sheer fear of the unseen, the unknown. After all, there was little chance of anyone escaping the land of Kelorn through the Creshtuns—the only way was south, straight into the Sandseas.

  Jjyn's Council, which alone knew the true power of its leader's patient toil, was in his chamber when he received the report that day. None of the twelve would move a muscle or speak a word unless directly spoken to or by first asking permission to speak. They were not even allowed to argue amongst themselves. Any who did were immediately thrown from the tower by the guardians of the chamber: four Sharumar Trolls, the menacing creatures from the Underworld.

  Finally, after what seemed like countless minutes of unbroken silence, Jjyn rose to his feet and addressed his twelve subjects. His voice was monotonous, ice cold, and eerily soft, his eyelids moving lazily when he blinked. He almost appeared to be of the walking dead.

  "I summoned you all here this evening to reveal recent news I have received.” There was a tense pause; the twelve all leaned forward in their seats in the middle of the chamber. “It seems a small party of our elfin kin has begun a quest to find the missing Elfstone stolen from the city they helped build many long years ago.” He took a breath, rolled the report scroll, and tossed it to the ground where it burst into red flames. “Not for your eyes,” he added.

  He slowly descended the stairs of his glamorous onyx throne. It was coal-black, but shimmered like a moonlit lake on a dark eve. Jjyn's slim body was concealed beneath blackened silk robes flowing like the misty clouds. “I have foreseen this for some time, as has the wizard Haarath. Aeligon thinks he has found the chosen one to wield the Sword of the Elderon, which would destroy Hydrais forever if ever reborn into this realm."

  The twelve lesser dark elves exchanged glances, but uttered not a word.

  "Yes, Council,” he reinforced, “it is true. Aeligon knows about the stolen Elfstone, the danger to Sheevos, and the likelihood of another war in our realm. Time has come for us to act on the prophecy spoken by my late father. Kelorn will mobilize its armies and march against whatever armies stand in our way until the prophecy is fulfilled."

  Kylan, one of the council members and spokesman for the twelve, rose to his feet. In accordance with the etiquette of Kelornian law, he asked for permission to address his lord. Jjyn nodded, accepting the request.

  "My Lord,” Kylan began, “we will do what you ask of us, as always. However, I have a grievance to declare."

  Jjyn brushed back his oiled black hair, which glistened like the onyx throne. “What is the nature of this grievance, Kylan,” he asked harshly.

  "Yes, thank you, My Lord,” he replied. “The economy of Sector Nine has been badly hurt by the death of our traders after you learned of their scandalous thefts. Without the proper income level, our factories and mills have suffered large manufacturing losses due to lack of the required raw materials."

  Jjyn raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, visibly annoyed at Kylan's complaining. As smoothly as a river stone, he said, “Then it would seem to me, Kylan, that the ruler I chose to oversee my operations in Sector 9 has proven to be a disastrous one. Trolls, see Kylan out please."

  At a wave of their lord's hand, two giant trolls stepped out of the shadows. Kylan screamed and pleaded for his life. “My Lord, please, no! I inherited a recession after you executed Dindt! It was not entirely my fault."

  The trolls snatched Kylan up from his seat, stomped to the nearest window, and tossed him out. They could hear his wailing screams fade while he plummeted to his death below.

  Jjyn examined his fingernails. “Not entirely.” He glanced back up at the remaining eleven like nothing had happened. “Now, have you any more grieved statuses?” None of the eleven even so much as flinched. “No? Then I suggest you make it a point to get the remaining eleven sectors in line. Excuses are futile if the armies are not equipped and ready to march in one moonturn from this day."

  Irritated, he waved the others out, then called for his only aide in the tower. “I need a replacement for Sector Nine. See that I have a more worthy candidate this time, or it will be you who is sent out the window."

  The King of the Kelornians sighed, casually went up the stairs to his throne, and resumed his evening, albeit annoyed. His meditation would b
egin soon, so his mind had to be clear for what was to come.

  Sebon sweated profusely, burying the head of his pickaxe deep in his assigned section of granite wall. Red gashes striped his dark skin, but the bruises remained hidden. He didn't like the increased work he was forced to do down in the mines, but realized events were transpiring topside to demand it. It had been nearly six hours since his last break, and he was parched to the core.

  "You know, working us like this doesn't get the job done faster,” he snapped when a Kelornian Elite guard marched by. He earned another flogging from the guard's whip, ready at her hip, but he didn't care. By then, Sebon was so numbed by the pain of his laboring that he barely felt the lash.

  Sebon was a Kelornian Skraag—the lowest form of a dark elf. He was born to a Skraag family and the curse. They provided the labor force to work the mines and factories of the Kelornian underground and to bring the raw materials of the land to the war machine toiling day and night, nonstop. It was all he knew, and he had grown used to it over the years.

  Elves were gifted with long life, which made them prime fodder for the Elite Kelornians who dwelt topside. Kelorn was divided into twelve sectors, each one with its ruler. Since no one ever saw Jjyn Cormulan, they accepted their unworthiness to behold their leader. Such was the lot of a Skraag, who worked to benefit the Elite.

  But Sebon hated life in Kelorn and hated every part of the Elite who lived topside. He jested and caused trouble for the Guard every chance he got, which usually landed him some sort of physical punishment. It didn't matter to him; the whippings would eventually happen for another reason anyway. The mischief gave him the only pleasure he had in life, so typically the Guard just left him alone. He worked hard despite his deep-rooted bitterness for the luck which made him a Skraag.

  Still, in contrast to the tough life during the day, he treasured his time alone at home. His father had been killed long ago by an Elite Guard who took a little too much liking to Sebon's mother. The retaliation had resulted in a swift death for his father and chilling dishonor for his mother, who later died from the injuries she sustained. Sebon, though filled with rage, knew he could never avenge them dead, so he hollowed out a spot in his mind where the memories were pushed aside until needed again. At home, he secretly plotted his escape and his revenge.