The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel

by Patrick McClafferty

  Jorse mumbled a curse under his breath and the innkeeper raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  He gritted his teeth and smiled at the innkeeper.

  “Sorry, my friend. I’ve spent too many months at sea associating with sailors. Their language is somewhat rude.”

  The short man let out the deep breath he had been holding. “Quite understandable, My Lord. No apology necessary.” He held out a key. “Third floor, overlooking the harbor. Dinner tonight is a mutton stew with fresh vegetables and potatoes. The bread is just two days old—very fresh.”

  “Do you have bathing facilities?” Jorse asked, looking at the man intently. Surprisingly, the innkeeper seemed to puff up.

  “My Lord we not only have bathing facilities, but in our better rooms, which you have, we have tubs in the very same suite, set into a small tiled alcove. Hot water is piped down from heating tanks on the roof. We have ALL the modern facilities.”

  “Hot bath? Well, now.” The thought of washing off weeks of salt and dirt was almost overwhelming. “Please send up a bottle of wine and a glass.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Make that two bottles. I like to take a somewhat leisurely bath.”

  The man smiled back, knowingly. “It will be as you say, my Lord. We must keep our customers happy, mustn’t we?”

  “Absolutely.” Jorse replied with a straight face.

  The mutton stew that the inn served for dinner was so heavily spiced that it made Jorse sweat and Anya, after sensing what he tasted, disappeared into the deeper recesses of his mind. Thanks to the smoldering, poorly ventilated fire the smoky common room was only sparsely filled, with most of the customers intent on their drinking, or puffing fragrant smoke from ornate hookahs. What was a surprise to both Jorse and Anya, was the young man and woman who came to provide the evening’s entertainment. The gawky pimple faced boy played a scuffed and scratched mandolin, while the rather plain girl in a gray homespun dress played a simple ceramic flute. Their music was exquisite, and after the second brisk reel, many of the customers, those who were still conscious, began to dance.

  Jorse tapped his feet to the music, all the while missing Anya’s company terribly. The lonelier he became the more he drank. It might be noted at this point, that the local Aion wine, although similar in color and taste to the Vaigach vintage, was much more potent; so much so that two hours later Jorse had considerable trouble getting up the stairs to the third floor. Once he managed to find the door, it seemed to be moving around on its own volition, and close it; the rest was, as they say, all downhill.

  Someone was pushing an ice-pick very slowly through his temples. If they kept at it long enough the ice-picks, one going in each temple, would meet in the center. Jorse winced. Maybe then he would die. He sincerely hoped so. He licked his lips and noted that his mouth tasted like camel dung. It was only a slight improvement over the dovecote. He shuddered. It might even be worse. This wasn’t the first time he had felt this way. He remembered the agony. He wasn’t sure, however, that he remembered his name. A low groan escaped his lips.

  A female voice whispered from inside his head. Jorse open his eyes. He seemed to be lying on the floor. That was odd. He moved his head a few inches; it was all he could manage at the moment. The bed was empty; as a matter of fact the bed appeared not to have been slept in at all, and that too was odd. The woman who was speaking to him must be around somewhere. It might all make some sort of sense if he could only remember his name. The female voice in his head said. She sounded angry, for some reason. Jorse! That was his name. It all came back in a rush, all the music and all the drinking, especially the drinking. He lay there on the cold hard floor. There was no one else in the room, so that left the getting-up part up to him.

  < I feel dreadful.> The voice came from deep inside him.

 

 

 

  Anya’s voice was like acid. Jorse shrugged, pushed on the floor and stood—very very slowly. The floor appeared to be swaying from side to side. His eyes lit on an ice bucket sitting on a small night stand, with an empty wine bottle in it. It took a superhuman effort for him to reach the bucket, remove the empty bottle and drop it on the floor. The wooden bucket was large, and Jorse was able to submerge his entire head in the icy water inside. Distantly, he heard Anya scream; he should have warned her, he supposed.

  It was the dull, muffled pounding that alerted him. He pulled his head out of the bucket, letting the ice water drip down the front of his shirt. The pounding was much louder now. He thought to himself. He pulled it open.

  Standing there was a grim faced soldier, flanked by four others, resplendent in their bright shining ceramic armor. The bright shining part made Jorse wince in agony as the stabbing light seemed to pierce his brain. The soldier took in Jorse’s bloodshot eyes and pasty pallor. “You tried our local wine?” His voice was coarse and rough.

  “I thought it was Vaigach wine.” Jorse croaked.

  “Not bloody likely. We use the local wine to clean our armor.” His face softened. “I am Captain Krasauskas of the King’s Guard. Are you Jorse Schwendau?” Jorse nodded; he was surprised his head remained attached. The captain looked into the disheveled room, taking in the unused bed, wine bottle on the floor.

  “The King would like to see you.” The captain glared. “Right away!”

  Jorse put a hand to his aching head and growled. He wasn’t feeling very social this particular morning. “If you would please be so kind as to wait downstairs; I will change, freshen up a bit and be down in no more than fifteen minutes.”

  Captain Krasauskas continued to glare, as if trying to find some intended insult in what Jorse had said. “Fifteen minutes, no more.” He snapped. At his brief nod, the squad of accompanying soldiers turned and clanked off down the hallway.

  Inside the room Jorse slumped, back against the closed door, aching head in his hands.

  “I feel like dying,” was all he could get out at the moment.

  “That can be arranged.” An ice-cold voice replied.

  He opened one eye. Anya stood before him in a crisp clean dress, every hair in order, and a scowl on her face that matched the grim faced Captain of the Guards. “How did you...?”

  Her smile was malevolent. “Maybe I’ll tell you, someday. I suggest that you get dressed now. Those soldiers didn’t look at all sympathetic to your plight.”

  “Soldiers are paid NOT to look sympathetic.” Jorse picked himself up off the floor, removed his sodden shirt, and dunked his head in the ice water one more time—just for good measure. Anya was holding out a towel for him. “Could you hand me my clean shirt, please?” He asked as he dropped the now soaked towel on the floor next to the bath tub. Anya tossed his shirt over his head, and turned her back on him. It was going to be a very long day.

  The throne room of King Serak of Aion was narrow and dark. After the nearly blinding early afternoon sun, the dimly lit corridors looked gloomy and threatening, or maybe it was just his splitting headache and queasy stomach. Armored guards stood at attention in the shadows, spears in hand, eying the newcomer warily.

  King Serak was a middle aged man, probably fifty years old or so, Jorse guessed, with squinting washed out blue eyes, thinning gray hair and a moderate paunch that came from sitting on the throne and behind a desk too much. He supposed that it was an occupational hazard.

  “My dear Captain Schwendau, how good of you to accept my invitation.” The remarkably short king exclaimed, standing. His voice was high and slightly effeminate.

  “I didn’t realize that it was an invitation,
Your Majesty.” Jorse replied dryly, shooting a quick glare at the guard captain who was standing rigidly erect by his side.

  “Oh, my!” The King actually looked flustered. “Captain Krasauskas didn’t mistreat you, did he?”

  “No, Your Majesty, he was the absolute soul of gentility.” The Guard Captain paled visibly.

  “Good, good.” The king rubbed his hands nervously, paying no attention to what Jorse was saying. “I have a proposition for a man of your, ahh, unique talents.”

  Jorse frowned, wondering where all this was leading. “And what talents would those be, Your Majesty?”

  “Oh, the talents of Jorse the Corsair, of course; the man who sank the dreaded ship killer Dreadnought; escaped the treacherous fleshpots of Little Wassaw, and the rescuer of little girls. Flotilla Commander. Shall I go on? You’ve had an extensive career for one so young.”

  “And what possible use could Your Majesty have for a man like me?” Jorse let out a mental breath that the King hadn’t mentioned the Schwendau connection.

  “I’ll be blunt, sir. My wife has been kidnapped, by the notorious brigand Hatch. If I send in the Imperial Guards my wife will be killed. This whole thing is very unusual. Hatch has sent me no demands, no ransom notes. Nothing! Kalista, my wife, was visiting her sister at her private estate in the east, and their caravan was set on during her return trip home. One serving woman survived to bear us the story. I assume the rest were killed or taken to his stronghold, the Temple of Hades deep in the Southern Waste.”

  “Does the brigand even realize that he has taken the Queen captive?” It was an obvious, juvenile question, but the King looked surprised.

  “I... I assumed that... I don’t know.”

  “And you want me to find her and bring her back to you, is that it?”

  The King thought for a second. “Yes. Bring her back.”

  “And my pay?” Jorse ignored the Guard Captain who was glaring down the back of his neck.

  “Why, whatever you want, young man; title, lands, gold. You can have it all.”

  Jorse and Anya had a quick discussion. “This will cost your Majesty nothing.” The King frowned. “All I ask is that you will owe me a favor. Just a favor, that is all. I may ask for the favor next year, or in ten years or not at all.”

  The short King thought about it, for all of ten seconds. “It will cost me nothing up front?”

  “Oh, a few horses, a couple of men, some supplies, and a few coins for lodging and food for a couple of months. Once we free the Queen we will probably have to buy her a new wardrobe.” He winked at the King. “You know what that’s like, don’t you?” The King smiled back, a bit wanly. “Maybe a bit more for bribes. That should be about it.” Jorse’s eyes lit on a woodsman, standing in the shadows. “And I’ll take THAT.” He said, pointing to the man’s staff. He unbuckled his stelwood sword and scabbard, which he tossed to Captain Krasauskas as he passed him. “Please hold this for a moment.”

  The captain’s eyes seemed to bulge from his head as Jorse took the staff from the woodsman. The stave was fully six feet long, as wide as the one he had used in Boktor, and supple hickory. It was a fine weapon indeed.

  “That fool is choosing a stick over this beautiful sword?” The Guard Captain was screeching. An old and grizzled sergeant, standing in the first rank of soldiers behind the captain was shaking his head sadly. “Why, I could beat that boy with one hand tied behind my back, especially with this sword. Send me sire. This boy is a simple country lout who...”

  Maybe it was Jorse’s headache, or maybe it was the tone of the captain’s voice. The result was the same. The staff whirred and lashed out, catching Captain Krasauskas behind the knees. The man slammed down with a crash. The staff, buzzing angrily as it spun, lashed out again and struck the kneeling captain on the back of his head, just below the helmet. The soldier clattered face down on the marble floor, a thin trickle of blood flowing from his broken nose. Jorse caught his toe under his sword scabbard and flipped it up, catching the weapon with his free hand.

  “I think I’ll take this back to Captain Idzy myself. Your captain seems a little unreliable.” He smiled at the confused King, and then pointed at the sergeant. “Make this man your captain, and make this man,” he pushed the body on the floor with a toe, and the captain groaned, “a private. Your guards will be better for it.” He tucked sword and staff beneath one arm. “Please have two guides five horses and supplies for a month ready in three days. And some money too. We will leave then. Please have your best guide meet me tonight at my inn, where we can discuss our plans.” The King looked stunned. Jorse bowed deeply. “Your Majesty. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” His black cape swirled as he spun and began the long walk towards the door.

  Four Priestesses in a black carriage were waiting for him as he exited the Imperial Palace. His head was still pounding and he really wasn’t in the mood.

  “You are needed in the Temple of Selene, Jorse Schwendau.”

  He looked at the coldly imperious woman. “You have, of course, heard about what happened at the Temple of Selene in Elandia. Don’t make me mad.” The woman flinched.

  Anya commented dryly.

 

 

 

 

 

  Jorse felt a shadowy hand slip into his.

  Similar in size and shape to the one in Aethalia, this temple was all arrow slits, crenellations and thick marble walls. The ever present white halls were filled with light and the smell of freshly cut lilacs. Jorse tried to shake off the welcoming feeling that seemed to be seeping into his bones. The four Priestesses stopped and indicated that he should enter a small, lushly appointed sitting room. It was, Jorse noted with interest, already occupied. The tall, wide shouldered man who was staring out of a window at a flowered garden turned, and regarded him with dark laughing eyes. Jorse felt his knees buckle in surprise.

  “Uncle Mirek?? What? What are you doing here?” His gaze fell to the young woman standing at Mirek’s side. She was still wearing his locket over more utilitarian men’s dark leather clothing, and her black glossy hair was tied back with a simple leather thong. Thirteen or fourteen years old, Dala was a tall and lithe young woman in the first blush of womanhood. In the corner of the room rested a long bow and quiver, filled with arrows.

  “You do get around, Jorse Schwendau.” There was a twinkle in her eyes, and the corner of her lips just lifted. “Well, don’t just stand there like a lump, say something.”

  “What are the two of you doing here?” Jorses eyes took in the two before him. While Dala had grown into an attractive young woman, Mirek had grown—younger. The man standing before him could have passed for forty years old... and he had two arms.

  “You’ve changed, Jorse. You’ve...” Dala broke off and he could tell that she was having a conversation with Tessa. “Tessa says that you and Anya have merged. Jorse, you know that was forbidden. You...”

  “We didn’t have much of a choice, and neither will you and Tessa, or Janica and Dalan or Mirek and Naween.” He winked at his Uncle.

  “Who are Janica and Dalan?” Dala blinked.

  “Captain Svetla, from the Dagfred and her advisor.”

  Dala nodded. “And why don’t we have much of a choice in what happens to us?” Her voice sounded angry.

  “We’ve all been had, Dala, Uncle Mirek. Selene set us up to make sure that we all merge. She wants us to merge so that eventually we can all merge with Her.”

  “Selene?” There was disbelief in the Mirek’s voice. “What if I don’t want to merge with Naween or with Selene?”

  “Sorry, my friends. It is a done deal. When the Priestesses la
id hands on me in Aethalia, what they really did was to offer me to Selene, and she accepted. Part of her is in me. Part of Selene is in Anya too. Eventually Anya and I will merge completely, and you and Tessa will merge, and further down the line we all will merge with Selene.”

  “I...” Dala sounded scared. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that. I kind of like my spirit right where it is, thank you very much.”

  Jorse wisely changed the subject. “So, tell me what the both of you are doing in lovely dusty Altai?”

  “Elsbeth sent me to keep an eye on you, if you really want to know.” Mirek chuckled. “Your exploits have been driving both Elsbeth and Dala crazy for months now. Especially since that mute girl arrived in Dewar. Elsbeth had her brought to Prangli as soon as she found out, and the stories that the girl told...” The Count gave him a curious look. “She would just love to be your personal slave, you know. She’s more than a little in love with you.”

  “What do you mean, the stories she told? She’s mute.”

  “Did you ever ask her if she could write?”

  “Ahh, I was a bit busy at the time.”

  “So I’ve heard. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

  “But...” Jorse hesitated. “You coming I can see Uncle Mirek, but why Dala? This is dangerous country.”

  “I’m coming,” Dala said firmly. “because you said I could.”

  “What?” Jorse replied, confused.

  “You sent me to train with Aunt Elsbeth. She sent me here. This is, you see, my final exam.”

  “I did?” Jorse said in some confusion.

  “Yes, silly. When I graduate from her training she is going to give me my first dozen spies, just to get me started, so to speak.” Dala smiled broadly, showing small white teeth. “Aunt Elsbeth said I needed more experience in the field, so...”

  “So here you are.” Jorse finished for her, feeling trapped.

  The young woman had a satisfied look on her face. “We, Aunt Elsbeth and I that is, have things all worked out.”