The Kraken King Part IV: The Kraken King and the Inevitable Abduction

by Meljean Brook

  His gaze returned to the ship. With broad decks, multiple engines, and deep holds, the vessel was designed to carry the Khagan’s war machines—usually in pieces, and reassembled at the destination. The ironship wasn’t in the Golden Empire’s possession now. It was in the rebellion’s. Ghazan Bator stood on a gangway suspended between two smokestacks, a spyglass aimed up at the airship.

  At Ariq. As soon as he appeared at the airship’s rail, the general waved them in.

  “Who is that?” Zenobia’s grip hadn’t eased on his, but her voice had strengthened.

  “The general who asked me for the location of the machine.”

  And if they intended to use the ironship to transport it, they obviously knew nothing about the Skybreaker beyond rumors. Even ten ironships couldn’t have carried the machine.

  Zenobia’s gaze moved from the ironship to the airship’s masts as the timbers extended from the hull. The ribbed sails eased open, catching just enough wind to push them closer to the ironship. “Are we being transferred to that ship?”

  Not we. They wouldn’t allow her to stay with him. If Ariq escaped, he’d take her, and the general and the admiral would lose their advantage over him. So they would keep Zenobia on the ironship or some hidden site, while the airship flew to the location that Ariq gave them. After they verified the Skybreaker was there, they would return Zenobia to Ariq or tell him where she was.

  Until then, she’d be alone.

  Terrible pressure built in his chest. Was there any way to keep her with him? He couldn’t see one. If there were fewer soldiers on the deck, he might have risked killing them all and making an escape. But Zenobia could be hurt in the process.

  “You’re not so calm anymore,” she said quietly.

  He wasn’t. She held his hand between hers, watching him with the question in her eyes. Why? Ariq didn’t want to tell her, to add to her terror. But she’d appreciated when he was blunt—and this couldn’t be hidden for long, anyway. She needed to know.

  “They’ll separate us.”

  Her features became a frozen mask. “Are you sure?”

  He was. “It’s the most efficient way to get the machine. They’ll promise to return you to me after I give up the location.”

  Her fingers tightened. “Will they keep that promise?”

  “Yes. Every tactic they’ve used has been of minimal risk.” And it was much safer to return her to Ariq than not.

  “So my ransom will be that machine.”

  Ariq nodded.

  “And you will pay it? You didn’t give it up before. You must have had a reason. Will you give it up now?”

  He wouldn’t lie to her. Holding her gaze, he said, “Trust me.”

  She stared at him, her breath coming quick and shallow, before looking down at the ironship. Her eyes were unfocused, with tension whitening her lips.

  Maybe thinking of how many times she’d been taken. How many times she’d sat waiting for a ransom. Then she nodded, so faintly. Agreeing to trust him, but he felt no relief. Only the ache in his chest, because his wife was afraid, and there was nothing that could reassure her. Only the ache, and hot rising anger.

  At the boarding platform, Tatsukawa greeted Ghazan Bator. Allies, for now. The man who’d exposed his mother as a spy, and the man who wouldn’t save her because she was of no more use to the rebellion.

  But as often as Ariq had thought of killing the Nipponese admiral, the rage boiling in him wasn’t for his mother.

  My heart is iron. But they’d threatened his heart. They’d threatened his town. They’d killed too many of his people, and murdered too many others. Everyone aboard the airships they’d destroyed had become casualties in a war against Ariq that these two men had been waging in secret.

  They wouldn’t win.

  He waited for Ghazan Bator to come to him. Never would Ariq have done so before. The man was his elder, his commander. Both demanded respect.

  Ariq couldn’t give it. Not anymore.

  The general glanced at Ariq, his gaze settling on his bare chest. He frowned, then looked to the captain of the rebel team who had gassed Zenobia’s bedchamber. In another moment, a soldier approached Ariq with his tunic and belt.

  Briefly releasing Zenobia’s hand, Ariq shrugged into the tunic, glad to be covering his arms. Whatever agreement was made here, better to be formal than bare—and better that any insult came from his mouth, not from his missing sleeves.

  He reached for Zenobia again. Ghazan Bator looked to their linked hands as he approached.

  “My wife.” Ariq introduced her in French so Zenobia could understand.

  The general’s eyes widened slightly. It wasn’t often that he was surprised. In a quick scrutiny, he looked Zenobia over again.

  “My congratulations,” the general replied in the same language, and the wry humor in the other man’s voice said that he knew the marriage must have been a simple agreement in the vault.

  Ariq wasn’t amused. He’d have liked to court her. He’d have liked to bring her gifts. He’d have liked to give her more than just protection.

  But it was what he had to give now. “You’ve brought us here. Why?”

  “To see.” He pulled his spyglass from his belt and gave it to Ariq. “The island.”

  That wasn’t what Zenobia had expected. With a sudden frown, she glanced up at Ariq, then out to the island. From this distance, it looked like a bare rock jutting out of the sea.

  But it wouldn’t be. She hadn’t known this man as long as Ariq had. She didn’t understand how he fought.

  Ariq did. So he knew what he would see when he raised the spyglass. Even prepared, the sight stabbed him through the gut, and the old, old rage spilled out. He didn’t let it show. Breathing evenly, he looked—because to look away was to disrespect every single life that had been taken.

  It wasn’t a barren rock. It hadn’t been. Now it was. Whatever had been there, whoever had lived there, there was nothing left but charred remains and ashes.

  Silently, he handed the spyglass to Zenobia.

  “Eight thousand people,” Ghazan Bator said, and a pained gasp broke through Zenobia’s soft lips. “Their governor had asked the Khagan for independent sovereignty at the request of his people.”

  And that was always the way. Ariq could not count how many similar scenes he’d been shown growing up. It kept the rage hot, the thirst for war strong.

  “We have been fighting at the edges for too long.” The general took the spyglass that Zenobia blindly held out to him, with tears in her eyes and horror drawing her body in on itself. “We have to strike at the heart. To destroy him before another island, another village, is lost.”

  But the heart of the empire was not the Khagan. It was her people. And Ariq was no longer a boy easily blinded by his anger. “If you use that machine,” he said softly, “the path to the royal city will look like that island.”

  “This is his desperation. He knows his power is crumbling. This is to show that he still has control.” Though the general spoke as calmly as Ariq, he lapsed back to Mongolian, to familiar words that he probably uttered often. “You worry about a path when he will burn thousands more for the slightest resistance.”

  “Because your path will strengthen him again. Especially if that path is struck with the help of an enemy.” Ariq looked to Tatsukawa, who had joined them at the airship’s rail. The admiral’s face showed little expression as he listened, but his gaze rarely strayed from Ariq’s face. “Even those who would rather see the Khagan fall will support him, because he will say it is in their defense. He will reunite everyone under that banner.”

  The general smiled thinly. “Then what is our alternative? Should we abandon our people to his tyranny, as you have?”

  Ah, yes. He’d made certain to say that in French, so Zenobia could also be ashamed of her husband. But though she stiffened at Ariq’s side, she didn’t look up at him in dismay. Instead her eyes seemed to flatten as she regarded Ghazan Bator, and Ariq thought of what she
’d said about her father, and how the man had shamed her appearance and her sex.

  His bride didn’t think well of such tactics.

  And he’d never been ashamed of his choice to leave. He’d regretted it now and again—wondering if he should have made another choice or stayed longer—and wished that he had accomplished more. But the only time he’d ever felt shame had been after following this man’s commands.

  Now the general spoke as if there were no alternatives—as he always did—when in truth, he simply dismissed options that weren’t aligned with his.

  But perhaps he didn’t know of this one. “Temür Agha is returning from the west. He marches with the rebels who had been incarcerated in the outposts.”

  Not a flicker of surprise. He’d known. “With families. Old men and women.”

  “They have just as much reason to fight as young soldiers do.”

  Perhaps more reason. Not just anger or hate, but love.

  “And how long will it take—three years? More? How many will die while we wait?” His eyes narrowed, and his face grew long, as if he’d judged Ariq and found him disappointingly naive. “Do you think fewer would die than if we stopped the Khagan now, with the machine?”

  “No. Many will die, no matter how he falls.” Because there were many others who needed to go with him, or nothing would change. It would not be simple or easy. “But it is better that his remaining power crumbles because the ground is shaking from the impact of a hundred thousand marching feet, than to destroy him from above with one mighty fist—as if you are Tengri striking him down. That is what he has done to this island. You would be the same.”

  Jaw clenched, the general shook his head, but it was Tatsukawa who replied first.

  “You sound just as your mother did.”

  Sharply Ariq looked to him, suspecting mockery, and if Ariq had seen any contempt he didn’t know that anything could have stopped him from ripping the man apart. But there was only admiration in the admiral’s tone, and a sheen of tears in his eyes.

  Ariq hadn’t known the admiral had loved her. That he still did.

  He hoped his every waking day was a living hell.

  Zenobia abruptly pulled her hand from his. He glanced at her, and his heart clenched. Had she gone mad? With the fingernail of her right index finger, she scratched at the delicate skin on the inside of her left forearm, leaving a series of red rounded shapes and lines.

  Not scratching. Taking notes.

  Ariq folded his fingers over hers, stopping the rough scrawl, and she scowled up at him. Across the deck, a soldier stood with her glider contraption. “Captain! Bring that satchel. Give her the notebook inside.”

  After a nod of confirmation from the general, the captain did. With her lower lip trapped between her teeth, Zenobia scribbled a few words before tucking it into her belt—and he would never forget how she looked at him with gratitude and relief, or the warm clasp of her fingers when she took his hand again.

  He would never forget how the light in her eyes dimmed as Ghazar Baton said, “The time for talking is done. You will take Admiral Tatsukawa to the Skybreaker’s location.”

  Just as Ariq had guessed. So he nodded, while Zenobia’s stiff spine and her shallow breaths tore up his chest. “Let me say farewell to my wife.”

  There was no privacy at the side of the ship, so Ariq blocked her body from sight with his. He cupped her pale face in his hands, and kissed her, and stole a pin from her hair.

  Her fingers bunched in his tunic, holding him close. Urgently, her jade eyes searched his. Her voice was a strained whisper. “If you can’t give the machine to him . . . if you can’t let him burn that path to the royal city, tell Mara and Cooper. Tell my brother. They can come for me.”

  Ariq hadn’t known a man could survive so much pride and pain at once. Though she had no reason to care anything about his people, his wife would sacrifice herself to stop Ghazan Bator from claiming the machine.

  His wife thought that he would sacrifice her.

  Gently, he kissed her again and said against her lips. “I am going to kneel before you. Place your foot upon my hand to the count of five.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “So that you know where my loyalties lie.”

  And so that everyone would know that if he returned and found even a small bruise upon her skin, he would destroy them all.

  Though her confusion didn’t fade, she nodded. Ariq sank to one knee and lay the back of his right hand upon the deck. Her bare foot was long and narrow, and she barely put any weight upon his palm. But she was smiling, as if now she was the one who thought he might have gone mad.

  Behind him was a sudden silence.

  Ariq rose swiftly when it was done. Her smile had vanished, and her eyes asked him Why?

  “You are my queen,” he told her, and clasped her hand to his overfilled heart. Though emotion roughened his voice, he spoke quietly. This was only for her. “I am your sword and your shield. I am your wolf and your steed. Mountains will tremble at my approach, for they know I will tear them apart if ever they stand between us. But you need not be afraid, Zenobia Fox, because my heart is iron and my will is steel, and before the new moon rises, I will come for you.”

  Lips parting, she stared up at him, with a light in her face and a fire in her eyes. No fear.

  Good. He kissed her and as he pulled away, he wasn’t leaving her. It was just the first step back to her side.

  And he told her, “I’m coming for you.”

  Look for Part V

  THE KRAKEN KING AND THE IRON HEART

  Available from InterMix May 13, 2014

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Meljean Brook’s novel of the Iron Seas

  HEART OF STEEL

  Available now from Berkley

  Yasmeen hadn’t had any reason to fly her airship into the small Danish township of Fladstrand before, but her reputation had obviously preceded her. All along the Scandinavian coast, rum dives served as a town’s only line of defense against mercenaries and pirates—and only as soon as the sky paled and Lady Corsair became visible on the eastern horizon, lights began appearing in the windows of the public houses alongside the docks. The taverns were opening early, hoping to make a few extra deniers before midday . . . and the good citizens of Fladstrand were probably praying that her crew wouldn’t venture beyond the docks and into the town itself.

  Unfortunately for them, Lady Corsair’s crew wasn’t in Fladstrand to drink. Nor were they here to cause trouble, but Yasmeen wasn’t inclined to let the town know that. Let them tremble for a while. It did her reputation good.

  Dawn had completely faded from the sky by the time Lady Corsair breached the mouth of the harbor. Standing behind the windbreak on the quarterdeck, Yasmeen aimed her spyglass at the skyrunners tethered over the docks. She recognized each airship—all of them served as passenger ferries between the Danish islands to the east and Sweden to the north. Several heavy-bottomed cargo ships floated in the middle of the icy harbor, their canvas sails furled and their wooden hulls rocking with each swell. Though she knew the skyrunners, Yasmeen couldn’t identify every ship in the water. Most of Fladstrand fished or farmed—two activities unrelated to the sort of business Yasmeen conducted. Whatever cargo the ships carried probably fermented or flopped, and she had no interest in either until they reached her mug or her plate.

  When Lady Corsair’s long shadow passed over the flat, sandy shoreline and the first rows of houses overlooking the sea, Yasmeen ordered the engines cut. Their huffing and vibrations gave way to the flap of the airship’s unfurling sails and the cawing protests of seabirds. Below, the narrow cobblestone streets lay almost empty. A steamcart puttered along beside an ass-drawn wagon loaded with wooden barrels, but most of the good people of Fladstrand scrambled back to their homes as soon as they spotted Lady Corsair in the skies above them—hiding behind locked doors and shuttered windows, hoping that whatever business Yasmeen had wouldn’t involve them.

  They
were in luck. Today, Yasmeen only sought one woman: Zenobia Fox, author of several popular stories that Yasmeen had read to pieces, and sister to a charming antiquities salvager whose adventures Zenobia based her stories on . . . a man whom Yasmeen had recently killed.

  Yasmeen had also killed their father and taken over his airship, renaming her Lady Corsair. That had happened some time ago, however, and no one would consider Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste charming, including his daughter. Yasmeen had seen Zenobia Fox once before, though the girl had been called Geraldine Gunther-Baptiste then. As one of the mercenary crew aboard Gunther-Baptiste’s skyrunner, Yasmeen had watched an awkward girl with mousy-brown braids wave farewell to her father from the docks. Zenobia had been standing next to her pale and worn-looking mother.

  Neither she nor her mother had appeared sorry to see him go.

  Would Zenobia be sorry that her brother was dead? Yasmeen didn’t know, but it promised to be an entertaining encounter. She hadn’t looked forward to meeting someone this much since Archimedes Fox had first boarded Lady Corsair—and before she’d learned that he was really Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste. Hopefully, her acquaintance with his sister wouldn’t end the same way.

  A familiar grunt came from Yasmeen’s left. Lady Corsair’s quartermaster stood at the port rail, consulting a hand-drawn map before casting a derisive look over the town.

  Yasmeen tucked her scarf beneath her chin so the heavy wool wouldn’t muffle her voice. “Is there a problem, Monsieur Rousseau?”

  Rousseau pushed his striped scarf away from his mouth, exposing a short black beard. With gloved hands, he gestured to the rows of houses, each one identical to the next in all but color. “Only that they are exactly the same, Captain. But it is not a problem. It is simply an irritant.”

  Yasmeen nodded. She didn’t doubt Rousseau could find the house. Though hopeless with a sword or gun, her quartermaster could interpret the most rudimentary of maps as if they’d been drawn by skilled cartographers. That ability, combined with his expressive grunts and eyebrows that could wordlessly discipline or praise the aviators—and a booming voice for when nothing but words would do—made him the most valuable member of Yasmeen’s crew. A significant number of jobs that Yasmeen took in Europe required Lady Corsair to navigate through half-remembered terrain and landmarks. Historical maps of the continent were easy to come by, but matching their details to the overgrown ruins that existed now demanded another skill entirely—that of reading the story of the Horde’s centuries-long occupation.