Ambiance. He liked that word. He had heard the queen mention it before the winter ball. It felt…weighty.
Linus carefully chose a key from the many on his keyring—he had an image to maintain, after all—and turned it. The metal lock produced a scraping sound. He turned the key back and reached into the satchel that hung on his back, producing a tiny jar of grease from it. He dipped his finger in the grease and pushed it in the keyhole. He wiggled his finger around, careful not to get stuck, until he was certain he had hit the right spot. The jar disappeared back in the satchel as quickly as it had been produced, before he gave the key another try. He jiggled it back and forth a few times to loosen the mechanism before turning it. With a characteristic clunk the iron door unlocked and swung open. Linus stepped out of the dampness of the lower tunnels and entered the warm, dry air of the guardhouse main hall.
Six similar doors led to this hall, which had a pleasant fire going in the central fireplace. Some of the doors led to the other cells, and one to the catacombs. The others merely worked their way toward the castle’s upper levels. It was a crossroads, of sorts.
He looked back one more time down the dark stairwell to where his king was being kept in such an undignified manner.
The king has always treated me well.
“Why is it that you bottom feeders are always limping around instead of just walking properly?”
Startled, Linus closed the door, revealing Corza, who casually leaned behind it against the wall. The High General took a bite out of the apple that sat firmly staked on his Roc’turr.
“I don’t dare guess, High General…sir,” said Linus, his voice instantly beginning to shake.
Corza sneered at the elderly servant, unable to keep his face from betraying his loathing for the tiny man. It was like the world had combined all the worst aspects of his fellow human beings and then put them together inside this crippled waste of air. Even the large white hairs from the man’s nostrils vibrated annoyingly with every pointless breath the man took.
“I trust you are taking good care of your king?” said Corza.
“Yes, sir, High General, sir,” the old man quickly answered. “I do my best.”
“Excellent. We wouldn’t want him to miss his appointment with the proud people of Tal’Kabur.”
“No, sir. Not at all, High General, sir.”
The servant waited nervously, hopping from one foot to the other as though he needed to relieve himself. Corza observed him in silence for a moment, letting the man's discomfort drag on.
“Alright, you can go now,” Corza said finally, waving the man out of his sight. “Off you go.”
The man scurried away toward the kitchens. Corza watched him go before turning in the opposite direction.
Time to check on my other project, he thought as he started to climb the many stairs.
He was beginning to know the castle quite well. It was by no means as large as the Dark Palace, but Corza still managed to get himself turned around every now and then. He passed a few windows that looked out over the main plaza. All the signs of fighting had been removed, the bodies taken away, and a summer’s rain the other day had washed away most of the blood. Still, not many people in the city dared set foot on the plaza nowadays; not without good reason.
Corza saw his soldiers practicing with the new steel nets they had constructed. They were lighter than the original nets fabricated back on the Dark Continent—one of the many perks of Talkarian steel—and twice as strong. Which meant his men had less trouble handling the dragon-catching tools.
He was pleased that one of his lieutenants had developed a new folding technique by observing the fishermen in the harbor. It allowed the men to throw their steel nets in a much more controlled manner, providing the maximum chance of hitting a target. Right away, Corza had ordered several groups of men from the windships to practice day and night until they could hit their target with their eyes closed.
Next to the group of men on the plaza, a large platform was being constructed. The scaffolding was high enough for all to see, even from the very edge of the large square. It was nearly finished; ready for the big day, two days from now. King Baltor would finally hold his official announcement.
It had taken longer than expected for them to restore order in the city. Who knew these Talkarians would be such poor listeners? But slowly, surely, the Doskovians weeded out every part of the opposition. Corza was certain there were still some pockets of resistance left—there always were—but none would be able to do any real damage. The Stone King was counting on the King of Iron’s announcement to eradicate that last lingering will to fight, but frankly, Corza did not care. It was nothing they could not handle; besides, he was forming his own plans for that idiot king who had dared to strike him.
Corza passed a soldier standing guard. The man saluted him with fist on heart and opened the door to one of the higher tower chambers.
Inside, Corza was greeted by the sound of deep, erratic sniffing. Ignoring it, Corza walked over to the balcony and opened the thin, wooden doors, letting the last rays of sunlight fall into the room. He stared at the balcony across the way. The doors were closed tight, but he knew they were in there. After all, he had carefully chosen this very room because of it. The doors were not enough to block out the screams of pain. Corza could sometimes hear the sounds of their soft sobbing carried over on the slightest of wind movements. He took quite a bit of pleasure from it, especially the first time, and he was proud to say it had happened several more times since.
The Stone King had ordered him not to touch the queen and her daughter. He had said nothing about that disrespectful twin brother.
Corza took a deep breath, enjoying the cool evening air that filled his lungs, and turned around. Life was good.
“Now…where were we?”
Trista peered over the edge of a large rock at the three black ships. Her bare skin pressed against the rough stone surface. She glanced behind to where Dalkeira and her brother were both asleep; Decan made soft noises and moved his arms around in a restless dream. She was worried about him. During the day, he was quiet and withdrawn, while at night he would startle them awake with screaming. It was dangerous; a few nights ago, they were nearly caught when several soldiers had heard him from their camp nearby. Trista and the others had rushed back to their little boat and sailed off into the night to escape them.
She looked back at the ocean; the ships were barely specks on the horizon now. Just as she had expected, their little rocky island was of no interest to the soldiers. She slid down, ignoring the scrapes on her arms and legs. It was doubtful anyone would spot her from so far away, but she did not want to risk standing up.
Back on the ground, she turned her clothes over where they lay drying on a rock. She grabbed the spitted fish roasting over their smokeless fire and bit off a piece before proceeding to flip over Decan’s clothes as well.
She startled as the boy let out a yelp in his sleep and kicked out wildly. Dalkeira stirred as one of his feet hit her tail. Sleepy, she raised her head.
“Are you alright?” asked Trista.
“I am fine. But I could use a bite to eat. Is there still fish?” rumbled the voice.
Trista tossed her a raw fish, which the dragon neatly caught between her teeth before tipping her head back to make it disappear down her throat.
Their current island was only a few hundred yards across and did not have freshwater. It was only a quick stop to get some rest—or if lucky, sleep—before the final stretch to the mainland. In the distance, the coastline was already visible on the horizon.
“Are your clothes dry yet?” asked Dalkeira.
“Almost. The sun is making quick work of it. We should be able to leave at dusk.”
Trista shivered as a breeze temporarily cut through the sun's warm rays.
“It will be another day or two before we reach the continent. Then we can leave these dangerous seas behind.”
She sneezed.
�
�Are you certain your body is not badly influenced by the long swim?” Dalkeira said with some concern. “Perhaps you two stayed too long in the water?”
“Possibly, but it couldn’t be helped. If we hadn’t jumped overboard, the crew on those ships would surely have spotted us,” said Trista, switching to a whisper.
Over the last week they had evaded half a dozen black ships thanks to Dalkeira’s sharp eyesight. Thankfully, they had not seen any more of the flying ships, but one of the encounters with an ocean ship had been a very close call.
“I still cannot believe they were so easily fooled,” said Dalkeira.
“When I heard the sounds from their deck, I thought we were goners,” confessed Trista. “But it did the trick.”
When the black ship had unexpectedly loomed up from one of the island bays, attempting to make their little boat look abandoned was the only thing that had popped into Trista's mind. It was also most likely the only reason they were alive right now. With lightning speed, she had pushed both dragon and brother overboard—much to their surprise. She had ripped down their sail, kicked a few things over and then thrown herself over the edge after them.
When the ship was finally distant enough for them to climb back into their boat, the current had dragged them far away from the island they had planned to stop at. But that was not the only problem; the summer water might be mild, but it was still quick to cool down anyone who stayed in it for too long. When the time came for them to climb back into the boat, both Trista and Decan were too cold and too tired to lift themselves out of the water. In the end, the siblings clung to the boat's side while Dalkeira dragged them toward this small, rocky island. After that, even Dalkeira, who had been swimming and pulling the boat every day, had been glad to get some solid ground under her claws and rest.
Trista looked at the dragon as she chewed on another piece of fish. The blue of Dalkeira’s scales had deepened. It made it harder to see where she swam underwater. The green glow of her skin was still present, but not as strong as before. Most notably of all, the dragon had clearly grown several inches; Trista estimated Dalkeira’s body mass had nearly doubled, and she could see that the blue dragon’s constant exercise was resulting in a lean and muscled build. Dalkeira caught and ate fish whenever she could. Trista did not keep track of precisely how much the dragon ate, but she thought it was quite a lot more than she and Decan. And despite getting that excellent meal out of Rudley during their foggy escape, the dragon’s hunger had only increased.
Dalkeira’s swimming skills also continued to improve. She was an exceptionally fast swimmer, and could spend large parts of the day in the water so long as she could rest by floating on the surface. Her webbed claws let her maneuver swiftly, while her tail and hind legs provided most of the propulsion.
That day, Trista had discovered a new feature in the dragon’s magnificent build; the dragon had two smaller wings of sorts. They were right at the base of the main wings, and often moved as one with the large membranes, which was likely the reason she had never taken note of them before. She had only spotted them earlier after seeing them fully stretched out in the water. They were sturdier than their larger counterparts, able to withstand the force of the water while her main wings were tightly folded against her body to minimize drag. Trista was certain they improved the dragon’s maneuverability as she weaved through the water. Trista had already given the wings a name of their own: rudder wings.
“Which do you prefer? Flying or swimming?” asked Trista out of the blue.
Dalkeira looked out across the water.
“Both. They are unique in their own ways, each providing joy and excitement. I would not feel complete if either one was not possible,” said the dragon after some thought.
“You’ve been able to stay underwater for longer and longer,” said Trista. “At least fifty or sixty of my normal breaths.”
If not for their mental link, Trista would have been worried sick whenever Dalkeira stayed underwater for so long. But they often chatted privately while the dragon swam, though Trista noticed that the distance between them needed to be smaller in the water than in the air to easily hear each other.
“I am certain I can do much better with practice.”
“Well, because of you we’ve made much better time than I expected. If not for you, we would still be drifting or rowing miles back thanks to those windless days—not to mention you saving the day this afternoon by bringing us ashore. Much longer and both Decan and I would have drowned, so thank you.”
“It bewilders me that your clan ever dared to venture out to sea in the old days, being so fragile before the elements of water.”
“Our fear teaches us to be humble. It keeps us sharp and feeds our admiration of the ocean's might; thus grows our respect for the goddess’ domain,” answered Trista in her childhood teacher’s voice. “It is one of the core values of the waterclans.”
Dalkeira stood. “I am going for a drink.”
“Alright. Our clothes should be dry by now. I’ll wake Decan, and then we’ll go.”
Trista licked her dry lips. She was thirsty too, but would have to wait a while longer before she could drink. Food was not really a problem; Dalkeira provided plenty of fish meals for Trista and her brother. But their water had almost run out. A couple of days earlier, high waves and strong squalls had left the trio battered and broken from lack of sleep and their water barrel completely mixed with seawater.
Dalkeira was fine with drinking the salty water; she simply secreted the excess salt through her scales, making them slightly dull. But Trista and Decan required fresh water to get through the hot afternoons. They had gathered some rainwater the night before after emptying the barrel, but there was barely enough to last the day.
And we need to ration it for two more.
Trista swallowed the last piece of fish she had been chewing and licked her lips again, still wishing for a drink.
Think of something else. Like…we’re almost there, and we won’t get caught.
She had no idea what to expect on the mainland. The black ships were often headed in that direction. Trista and the others had already encountered multiple wrecked ships, and those islands big enough to hold a village or two showed large black columns of smoke rising skyward when they passed. It did not fill her with confidence.
Trista began to get dressed. The sun was just touching that distant, dark line of land on the horizon. It would be night soon. She walked over to one of the two most precious beings remaining to her in this world and softly shook his shoulder.
“Come on, little brother, we'd better get going. It’ll be dark soon.”
The click of the door made Bronson’s eyes widen. His throat fought the short bursts of breath he tried to inhale. His mouth was dry. He thrashed around in his restraints, but none of them budged, and the straps burned his wrists and ankles.
Corza walked past him. Bronson’s stare was drawn to that horrible dagger on the high general’s hip. His flesh remembered every slice it had made—and every single time the wound was cauterized with a hot piece of metal.
The thought made him nauseous. Several times already, he had thrown up from the smell of his own sizzling flesh. And if he passed out, he often woke to the stinging sensation of someone cleansing his wounds.
Corza slowly crossed the room and opened the balcony doors. Bronson attempted to avert his face when the bright afternoon light stung his eyes, but there was little room to move with his head also strapped down to the thick wooden frame.
He tugged again at the leather straps holding his arms; a futile attempt. After days of imprisonment, he lacked the strength to fight. Stretched out as he was, his limbs, back and chest were all fully exposed, giving the high general—and that blasted dagger—all the access he needed. Bronson was entirely at the mercy of his captor, who in turn offered very little of it.
Occasionally, the merciless man rolled him out onto the balcony. There, the bastard would flip him upside down for the she
er joy of seeing the increased blood pressure to his head add to the pain of being cut and burned. Bronson's screams would echo between the city’s smoking chimneys. His twin sister was near; so was his mother. He did not always see them, but he heard them every time they ran onto their balcony and begged Corza to stop, to show mercy. But the high general simply continued until the Prince of Iron fainted, at which point he was simply left in the sun in view of his family, who could only wonder if he had died or not. But Corza was careful—always careful—and while it seemed he had no intention of killing Bronson, neither was he merely toying with him.
“Now…where were we?” said Corza. “I always like to pick up where we left off the day before.”
Bronson’s voice screamed angrily through his gag. He shook wildly. Corza hit him across the face with his gauntlet.
“It’s great to see you still have some fight left in you. There’s still so much for you to learn.”
Corza tilted the frame on which the prince was strung until it was horizontal, giving Bronson no choice but to stare at the floor. The high general circled his prisoner, letting his Roc’turr carefully slide across the prince’s body.
Bronson’s skin twitched at the sharp blade's touch. He clenched his teeth in expectation. What was left of his clothes hung in rags around his body.
Corza suddenly halted.
“It seems we have a problem,” he said. “There are no places left to teach you anything else.”
Bronson’s entire body was covered with healing, burned and open cuts. Only his face had been spared, apart from the occasional punch.
“Perhaps you have a suggestion? Oh, wait. Never mind; I see I missed a spot here,” said Corza as he walked behind the helpless prince. “Without your help, I might add. You know, it wouldn’t hurt to occasionally participate more actively in the process.”
Wavebreaker_Book II of the Stone War Chronicles_Part 1_Trickle Page 19
