by Ben Cassidy
Maklavir nodded, but didn’t reply.
Kara turned for the stairs.
Maklavir sank back down onto the crate. He looked down ruefully at the half-patched trousers.
Kara stopped and turned. “Maklavir?”
He glanced up.
“I—” the redhead paused. Her cheeks flushed pink. “I never did say thank you. For what you did, I mean. Back in Vorten.” She tottered a bit as the ship rolled suddenly. “Joseph told me that you...well, that you left a lot behind. A house, servants, a job as a barrister and diplomat.” She braced herself against one of the wooden beams. “Veritas, even.”
“Ah, yes,” said Maklavir with a melancholy smile. “I do miss that horse. Hopefully he has a good new owner now.”
“And all of it for me.”
Maklavir looked her directly in the eyes. “And I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, Kara.”
She blushed even deeper, nodded, then headed for the stairs.
Maklavir picked up the trousers again with a sigh.
The ship suddenly lurched to the left. There was a series of shouts from above deck.
Maklavir looked up quizzically. “What the devil?” He stood, folding the trousers up and heading for the stairs.
The deck was a rush of activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, and the merchant captain shouted out a stream of orders interlaced with curses from the quarterdeck.
Kara stood off to one side, her red hair tossing and blowing in the wind.
Maklavir looked over at her. “What on Zanthora is happening here?” He looked up at the sky. “Is there a storm brewing?”
Kara braced her feet as the vessel turned even harder through the choppy water. “I don’t know. No one’s answered any of my questions.”
“Well,” said Maklavir under his breath, “we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” He turned and headed up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
“Maklavir, wait—” Kara called out behind him.
He ignored her and stepped up beside the helm.
The merchant ship’s captain, an older man with a weather-stained jacket and lopsided cap, was handling the wheel himself. He gave Maklavir an irritated look. “What do you think you’re doing? All passengers need to clear off the deck—”
“Now look here,” said Maklavir in his most imperious voice. He grabbed his feathered cap with one hand, holding it snug on his head in the strong wind. “I think you owe me an explanation. Why are we turning?” He glanced down at the compass fixed near the wheel. “I may not have gotten top marks in geography, but I know which direction Redemption is, and we’re headed the wrong way.”
“You stupid landlubber,” the captain fumed. “You want an explanation?” He thrust a calloused finger off to the right. “There’s your reason.”
Maklavir turned around.
A ship was just visible on the horizon. It seemed to be coming right at them.
Maklavir raised his hand over his eyes, still holding onto his cap with the other. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really—”
“Tuldor’s blessed whiskers!” the captain cursed. “Are you blind as well as stupid? Look again.”
Confused, Maklavir tried to make out what he was looking at.
That’s when he noticed a black flag streaming out from the approaching ship’s mast.
“You need me to spell it out for you?” The captain wheezed. “Pirates.”
“You’re out of uniform.” Olan gave a quick glance over the buff coat and militia uniform that Kendril was wearing. “Or is it even your uniform any longer?”
Kendril swept his gaze over the five Ghostwalkers in the room before him.
Tomas gave an embarrassed nod towards him.
Kendril looked at the chestnut-haired woman, and the slouching man against the wall. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting all your cronies, Olan.”
The Ghostwalker commander jerked a thumb at the woman. “Yvonne, Staff specialization.” He slung his thumb over towards the blonde-haired man. “Renaald, Sword specialization.”
“Well, well,” said Kendril drily. “You’ve got one of each, it seems.”
Olan turned his cold gaze back on Kendril. “Now answer my question. Where’s your uniform?”
“Actually,” said Kendril in a dangerously soft voice, “I think I’ll be the one to ask questions in my own fort. What are you doing here?”
Tomas stepped away from the wall. “What are we doing here? Come on, Kendril, you can’t be that obtuse.”
Callen looked down at the table, and refused to meet Kendril’s eyes.
Olan continued to glare right at Kendril, as if his gaze would burn right through him.
Renaald eyed Kendril callously, like a falcon studying a mouse.
Yvonne folded her hands on the table in front of her. “You have not contacted anyone in the Order for more than four weeks, Kendril. All attempts at communication with you have gone unanswered.”
Kendril flicked a glance at the only woman in the room. She could have been pretty, except for the cruel scar that marred her face and twisted her mouth into a perpetual frown. She reminded him of a young Madris. Disturbingly so.
And that was no doubt why Olan had brought her along.
“So now,” said Olan again, his arms still folded tightly together. “Where is your uniform?”
Kendril looked back at Olan. “While you’re here, Olan, you can use the proper address when speaking to me. Either general or my lord will do.”
Tomas covered his mouth with his gloved hand. He looked down at the floor.
Olan gave a slow shake of his head. “Great Eru. You’ve really gone off the deep end, haven’t you Kendril?” His eyes glinted steel. “You’re a soldier. A member of the Order of Ghostwalkers. And, I might add, under my command.”
“Funny,” said Kendril. He tossed his gloves onto the nearest table and looked around the mess hall. “That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing.”
“You’ve gone rogue long enough,” said Olan. His voice was strained. His jaw twitched ever so slightly. “You’re coming back to Archangel.”
Kendril lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You’re being reassigned.” Olan took a deep breath. “Up to Santaren. And from now on you’ll be working under Renaald here.” He tipped his head towards the man who lounged against the wall.
The room was quiet for a moment.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Olan,” said Kendril evenly. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
Olan lifted his head. “You made a solemn vow, Kendril. An oath to this Order.”
Kendril didn’t respond. His eyes flicked back and forth between Olan and Renaald, who was watching him intently.
Yvonne looked up at Kendril. Her hands were still folded on the table in front of her. “I must remind you, my lord—”
Olan looked down sharply at the woman.
“—that your penance has not yet been paid. You have not received pardon in the eyes of the Order, or of Eru.”
Kendril glanced down, meeting the young woman’s gaze. “That may be true of the Order,” he said in a low voice. “But I suspect Eru the One can keep His own counsel on such matters.”
Renaald stepped quickly away from the wall. A flash of metal came from underneath his black cloak.
“I’m not asking you,” Olan said. He unfolded his arms. “This is a direct order, Kendril. From a superior officer.”
Kendril looked Olan directly in the eyes. “I’m needed here, in Redemption.”
Olan’s mouth curled into a snarl. “You think I bloody care? We’re battling the followers of the Seteru across all of Rothland, for Eru’s sake. In the grand scheme of things, Redemption is nothing.”
“Redemption is my home,” said Kendril. His voice was low and measured. “And if I leave, it will fall to the Jombards.”
“This place was your home, my lord,” said Yvonne. She glanced over at Renaa
ld, as if imparting something to the man with her eyes. “But now you are a Ghostwalker. The things of your past are dead to you, just as they are to us.”
Kendril paused for a moment, his eyes darting from one person to another in the room. “Then I guess I’m no longer a Ghostwalker,” he said.
Olan gave a long, predatory smile. “You heard it from his own lips. He’s broken his oath. Turned his back on the Order.”
Kendril didn’t respond. He kept half an eye on Renaald to his right.
“My lord,” said Yvonne into the hush of the room, “you understand the seriousness of what you’re saying?”
Kendril nodded. “I do.” He looked over the Ghostwalkers. “You speak of the Despair as if it was just in Rothland. It’s not. It’s here, in Jothland, lurking at the borders of Redemption and threatening to spill into the entire civilized world.” His eyes flashed angrily. “I can stop it. I have to stop it, but I can’t do it as a Ghostwalker. I have to do it as a general, a leader of men, a war captain.” He stopped, and glanced down at his worn buff coat. “I have to do it as Lord Ravenbrook.”
“Even if that means losing your redemption, Kendril?” asked Yvonne quietly.
Kendril looked over at her. “If I have to choose which Redemption to sacrifice,” he said through gritted teeth, “then I’ll choose my own.”
“You think being a Ghostwalker is like joining a social club?” Olan’s face was flushed with anger. “You don’t get to just leave whenever you want. You made a commitment, a vow, before the rest of us and Eru.” He paused for a moment, taking a breath. “This isn’t just you leaving, Kendril. This is treason. And our Order has punishments for treason.”
Renaald’s hand darted to the hilt of a long rapier that was half-hidden under his cloak. He kept his beady eyes fixed firmly on Kendril.
Kendril didn’t move. He seemed strangely relaxed. His hands still hung at his side, an eternity away from the flintlock pistols at his belt.
Yvonne gave Olan a warning glance. “Commander—”
“Shut up,” Olan snarled at her. “I’m in command here, not you.” He shifted his eyes back to Kendril. Anger and ruthlessness simmered equally in his dark pupils. “Well, Kendril? Last chance. Are you submitting to my order or are you proving yourself a traitor?”
Kendril actually smiled. “You really are an idiot, Olan. You always have been.”
Olan took a menacing step forward. He put a hand on his sword. “Last chance.”
Callen got up from the table and backed against the wall.
Tomas swallowed. He stepped back. One of his hands was on the hilt of his sheathed dagger.
Yvonne sat placidly, her hands still folded in front of her.
Renaald stood ready to move, his whole body coiled like a snake about to strike.
Kendril still didn’t move. “Go stuff yourself, Olan.”
Renaald drew his long rapier and leapt forward.
Olan went for his own sword with a growl.
In a movement that was so fast it seemed instantaneous, Kendril grabbed a nearby chair and swept it into the path of Renaald’s thrusting sword.
The tip of the sword jammed through the wooden seat of the chair and held fast. Renaald yelled. He wrenched his arm back, trying to pull the sword free.
Kendril threw the chair aside and punched Renaald hard in the stomach.
The blonde Ghostwalker crashed back against the wall. He slid to the floor, gasping for breath.
Kendril turned, a pistol already in his hand.
Olan stopped, his eyes wide. He had drawn his sword and had started forward, but now found himself staring down the barrel of the loaded pistol.
Tomas took his hand off his dagger.
Renaald struggled to get back to his feet, coughing and holding his stomach. His rapier was still jammed into the woodwork of the chair.
Without taking his eyes off Olan, Kendril kicked Renaald hard in the face.
The man slammed into a nearby table and rolled off onto the floor. He didn’t move.
Kendril gave a sad shake of his head. “And you really thought I’d work under him?”
“You’re a dead man, Kendril,” Olan snarled.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that before,” said Kendril.
Olan’s face was a mask of rage. He lifted the sword in his hand, but didn’t move forward.
“Please,” said Kendril with a cold smile, “give me a reason to shoot you dead. I’d like nothing better.”
Yvonne stood slowly. “Olan—”
“We’ll hunt you down,” Olan spat. “The whole Order will be coming after you. We won’t stop until you’re dead, traitor.”
Kendril scrunched his face in mock thought. “Hmm. And here I thought you had a Despair you were actually fighting. But hey, if you really think that it’s worth all the time and resources to send a kill team after me, by all means go for it.” He glanced down at Renaald’s prostrate form. “Hopefully next time you’ll send someone a bit more skilled.”
The door to the mess hall flew open.
A half-dozen armed militiamen stormed in, headed up by a russet-haired man with a drawn cavalry saber.
“General,” he said, eyeing the Ghostwalkers suspiciously. “We heard a commotion in here. Are you all right, sir?”
Kendril slowly eased his pistol away from Olan’s head, and tucked it back into his holster. “Just fine, Sergeant Hann. These people were just leaving.” He raised his eyebrows at Olan and Yvonne. “Weren’t you?”
Olan gave a strangled curse and lowered his blade. He shoved it back into its scabbard as if he were jamming it into Kendril’s face.
“Consider carefully, my lord,” said Yvonne. “Once you make this choice, it cannot be undone.”
Kendril was quiet for a long moment. He looked back at Hann and the ragtag militiamen behind him, then back at Yvonne. “Redemption is my home,” he said quietly. “I won’t let it burn. Not while I have the strength to defend it.”
Yvonne gave a slow, sad nod. “So be it.”
Kendril turned to Sergeant Hann. “See that these people are escorted back to Redemption.” He gave the seething Olan one last contemptuous glance, then turned and walked towards the door.
“You’re damning yourself, Kendril!” Olan called after him. “You’re giving up any chance of redemption for your soul.”
Kendril paused. For a moment it seemed as though he would turn around.
Then he pushed through the door.
Chapter 7
Kara tripped down the stairs, nearly slamming her head against the low-hanging beams of the ship’s hold. She reached in the dark interior of the ship’s hold, cursing under her breath.
Her bag was jammed in between two crates. She grabbed it with both hands, pulling it out onto the floorboards of the lower deck.
From above came the shouts of the captain and crew. Kara could even occasionally make out Maklavir’s voice, his tone raised to a ragged pitch.
The whole ship was pitching and turning, lurching up and down on the waves. Each sudden movement caused Kara’s stomach to flutter a little.
She tore open the bag and fumbled inside it.
“What in Zanthora is going on?” Joseph staggered down the open aisle of the hold. He was bent almost double, his face a sickly pallor. He stopped and gave a groan as the ship swung around again, holding his stomach with one hand.
“Pirates,” Kara said breathlessly. Her hand closed on the firm wood of the Baderan longbow. She pulled it out of the pack, then reached back in for the quiver of arrows.
Joseph’s eyes widened. “Pirates?” He reached instinctively for the hilt of his sword, then realized that it wasn’t buckled on his belt. “I need to—”
Kara grabbed her hair, short as it was, and tied it back out of her face in one swift action. “Don’t be a fool, Joseph. You can barely stand.”
A cannon blast thundered out, followed almost immediately by a large splash of water.
The ship lurc
hed again.
“A warning shot,” Joseph said. He tried to stand, but collapsed into a heap on the deck. “Ugh, my stomach.”
Kara rapidly strung her bow. She glanced up at the stairs as a shout echoed from above.
“My rapier,” Joseph murmured. “I need to get it.” His face was an unhealthy color of green. He looked over at Kara’s bow, as if seeing it for the first time. “Kara, no, don’t—”
Kara ignored him. She drew the string tight on the bow, and tested the pull.
A gunshot cracked off from up above.
Joseph tried to move forward, but he could barely crawl. “Don’t,” he said with a shake of his head, “for Eru’s sake, Kara, don’t—”
She snatched up the bow and arrows, then turned for the stairs.
Then pirate ship was closer, looming disturbingly large off the starboard side. If Kara had entertained any illusions about them outrunning the pirate vessel, she had lost them now.
They were going to be boarded. Sooner rather than later.
The captain of the merchant ship was bellowing commands. It didn’t look like anyone was heeding them anymore. A blind panic had seized the crew. One actually leapt off the side into the tossing ocean.
Kara looked around. Her worst fears were confirmed. These sailors were no warriors. Only one or two had anything like a weapon, perhaps a dagger or belaying pin.
She glanced back at the approaching pirate ship.
The deck of the vessel was crowded with leering, gaudily dressed men. Swords glinted and flashed. An occasional puff and bang of smoke indicated a pistol fired into the air. There had to be at least a couple dozen privateers, all crowding the deck and side in anticipation of boarding.
This was going to be a massacre.
Maklavir came tripping down the stairs from the quarterdeck with a curse. He saw Kara and came running over to her. “This is a mess and no mistake. Where’s Joseph?”
Kara shouldered her quiver, then fitted an arrow to her string. “Down below. He’s still sick.” She took a breath, then tightened her hold on the bow. The expectation of the coming pain in her chest was enough to start her sweating.
Maklavir looked down at her bow. “Kara,” he said. He grabbed at her arm. “Kara, for Eru’s sake! Don’t be a fool!”
