There was another tagalong in their group with the slave brand on his cheek; Sebastian. He and Raylan became friends when the group had come across a settlement of escaped slaves in a giant forest on the Dark Continent. Together they rescued Marek the night of their escape, as Marek and Sebastian were long-lost friends. They were originally captured together by the Stone King’s forces when they were just children. They had not only survived years of brutalities, but had also been a vital part of their daring exit from the Dark Continent—especially Marek. The teen had offered the needed knowledge and ingenuity to prepare and launch the small scouting airship they had stolen from their enemies.
Raylan smiled at the thought of how perfectly comfortable the adolescent now was around the dragon. It was a strong contrast to the first time they met, less than fifteen days ago during their escape from the enemy harbor. Marek had been below deck, working on the vapor oven to get the ship in the air. He had been unaware of most of the fighting, along with the fact that a dragon had traveled with the group for weeks.
When everything was over, Marek finally came up from the lower decks for some air. There, he had stumbled upon the sleeping dragon, who had taken enemy fire during their escape and was exhausted from his efforts. Marek had let out a scream as he tripped over Galirras’ tail, startling the dragon awake. In turn, Galirras had let out a roar of surprise at his rude awakening, jumping to his feet and spreading his wings so wide they hit the ropes on both sides.
The youngster had instantly wet himself—though this was heavily denied afterward—and fled back below decks. It took some convincing before the two would officially meet again, but eventually apologies were made and the two had hit it off.
Raylan looked back at Galirras as Marek disappeared behind the curve of the balloon. Looking at his size, it was hard to imagine the dragon had not even seen six full moons yet, but from his behavior anyone could see the world was still new to him.
“Here is my chance,” said Galirras in his head. The dragon shot forward and dove off the deck, his long tail whipping after him.
Galirras’ ability to see the wind, and control it if needed, had saved their hides many a time. Now, Raylan only hoped it was enough to prevent his friend from being ripped apart by the gale force winds. He tightened his grip around the rope, feeling the tension on it as the balloon was pushed back and forth. The storm threw their little ship around like a ball tossed by a child.
Most of their squad was below, working the bladed fan at the back of the ship; if they wanted any control over the ship, they had to keep moving forward. Raylan had taken the deck. It allowed him to manage the sails—whenever possible—but also kept him near his winged friend, as the deck was the only spot on the ship large enough to house the dragon. Galen, their heavy hitter, assisted them in case they needed more muscle—which, with these winds, was not an unnecessary luxury.
Raylan watched as Galirras struggled, back and forth, up and down. Even with the ability to shield himself by diverting some of the wind around him, Galirras needed all his concentration to prevent him from slamming back into the side of the ship.
Raylan blinked. He had only taken his eyes off him for a moment, but now Galirras was nowhere to be seen.
“Galirras!” shouted Raylan, with voice and mind. But his only answer was the roar of the wind.
Raylan waited for another swing of the ship and then pushed off to the other side, where Galen hung on for dear life.
“Galen! Did you see where Galirras went?”
The big guy shook his head. Raylan grabbed the ropes and hung over the railing to look down. Saying visibility was poor would be an understatement. They were surrounded by clouds, with no way of knowing if they were a mile or a foot above sea level. Raylan peered into the different shades of darkness.
A lightning flash deep within the clouds illuminated everything for the briefest of moments. Galen grabbed Raylan by the shoulder and pointed. Another flash showed the silhouette of a dragon on the port side of their ship.
“Galirras, can you hear me?”
Still no reply. He was about to shout again when, out of nowhere, Galirras sheared past them, narrowly missing the ship.
“Sorry, I cannot talk. Winds…are very strong.”
Raylan felt the strain on the dragon’s thoughts. Galirras needed all his concentration to stay in the air. The dragon disappeared again, swallowed up by the clouds, this time for longer. When he re-emerged, Galirras positioned himself in front of the ship and tried to keep his place. Immediately, Raylan felt a jolt, as though a force pulled them forward. The vibration of the ship decreased.
“What are you doing?” he reached out to Galirras. “You said the ship was too big to protect.”
“A bow wave…to smooth out the ride. But I cannot keep it up for long,” said the dragon. Raylan saw him struggle to move his wings in powerful enough strokes. “I do not think we can climb. Marek is almost done, but it will take time to refill the vapors. So, down we must go. There is a way; sharp right turn. It is close.”
Raylan relayed the message to Galen and ran to the other side, reaching for the sails. Several of them could be swiveled horizontally, acting as diving rudders.
A long, high-pitched howl reached Raylan on the edge of his hearing.
“Was that Marek?”
“He is done. Securely fastened…and apparently enjoying himself, howling like a wolf against the wind.”
“He reminds me of a certain captain,” remarked Raylan, absentmindedly touching the whirlwind scar that snaked along his arm.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just tell me how far we need to dive.”
Close by, Galen was shouting orders down the voice tubes to the rest of the squad.
“Come on, put your backs into it!”
A jolt ran through the vessel as the team below increased their efforts to turn the bladed fan, propelling the ship forward. Raylan kept a close eye on Galirras, who kept pushing forward, using his wind power as much as possible to pull the ship in his wake. The clouds around them turned darker.
“Are you certain this is the way out?” asked Raylan.
“Fairly certain. Though things can change swi—”
Galirras retracted his wings and rolled into a straight dive. A moment later, a lightning flash shot through the air. It barely missed the dragon, but struck one of the side sails’ metal rings. Its mast ripped apart. Wood splinters flew everywhere. Raylan ducked and covered his ears, ringing from the deafening thunder that accompanied the lightning strike. Part of the sail caught fire.
Raylan smacked the side of his head a few times to counter the pain inside before rushing toward the sail to cut it loose.
“Galirras, are you alright?” screamed Raylan, while he hacked at the sail’s rope.
“Keep going. We are almost there.”
A final slash from his blade sent the burning sail flying; it disappeared in the blink of an eye, sucked up by the storm. Raylan tightened another rope and hoped the strain would not rip off what was left of the side mast. He ran to the stern again.
The darkness lifted. He looked over his shoulder and was greeted by a few tiny rays of sun. The clouds ahead of them split apart, forming a gray cotton tunnel for them to pass through. The ship shifted as a tailwind pushed them past the storm’s border and into clear air. Relieved, Raylan let out the breath he had been holding.
“It seems we live another day to tell the tale. Thank you, Galirras. Make sure you come on back when you need a rest.”
Chapter 2
Caves
The rumbling of thunder brought Trista back into the world. Wet drops fell on her face; first a few, then a lot as the clouds released their cold ocean rain.
She blinked and groaned; it took a few tries for her eyelids to clear the double vision, though the pain in her head seemed less inclined to abandon her. She sat up carefully when a lightning flash crawled across the clouds in the distance. Another rumble followed.
A shi
ver ran through her. Despite the warm night, the rain cooled her down quickly. The hairs on her arms stood up. She rubbed her damp skin and noticed the stars that filled the sky to the east, where the storm clouds had not yet covered them up.
How long was I out?
She got to her feet, needing a moment to find her balance. She touched her forehead where she had struck the boulder. A big lump, and…wet. Rain? Or blood? She looked at her fingers. Blood.
The village!
The thought shook her. She spun around and squinted. The orange glow was less, but still present. Without it, Trista doubted she would have seen the houses at all against the dark skies. She looked up once more, but could not see the moon.
Is it midnight already?
She started moving again, slower this time, her head pounding with every step. The blood trickled down her cheek and washed away with the rain.
Following the cliffs, she saw campfires on the beach, each one encircled by shadows. Small boats were pulled up onto the sand. As she got closer to the village she heard screams and laughter carry through the night. The sounds terrified her, but she forced herself forward. She wanted to go home—to find her parents and brother.
Staying on the village's outer edges, she saw no one. Some of the houses were destroyed. Burned down. One or two were still on fire. Crawling through the low island shrubbery, she struggled to put some distance between her and those awful sounds, moving away from the laughter mixed with screams and closer to her family's house near the beach.
Maybe it has been spared…
It was a wishful thought against her better judgment, but she thought it nonetheless. As she moved on, still crouching, her hand bumped into something cold. The lifeless eyes of Moran—one of the elderly fishermen—stared at her from the darkness. Trista pulled back her shaking hand, swallowing tears of fear. A large gash split the man’s neck and his mouth hung strangely crooked to one side, pulling his lips into a thin line. Suppressing a sob, she closed her eyes and moved around the body.
Just keep going, Trista. You’re nearly there.
When it finally came into view, Trista saw part of the structure had collapsed. Flames and glowing wood lingered in small piles of rubble. Her heart raced in her chest. She had trouble breathing, as though a heavy stone rested on her throat.
Standing up, she stepped through a hole where the wall had once been and entered the house. All their possessions, their furniture, her bed, her clothes—nothing was left. New tears stung her eyes.
Outside, two male voices intruded on the silence. Trista ducked against the wall and listened to the strange words as footsteps strolled lazily by the house. She wished she knew what they were saying, but few on the island ever learned the more exotic tongues of the Southern Cities…and she was not even entirely sure this was one of those.
When the conversation moved away again, she risked a brief glance through one of the remaining windows. Two soldiers in thick, dark armor were on their way toward the village. Trista leaned closer to get a better look.
Her elbow knocked against the stone bowl resting on the windowsill. It teetered, then clattered to the floor, shattering in a dozen pieces. She ducked back down as both men stopped their conversation and looked back in her direction. Her heart jumped in her throat when she heard the crunch of footsteps near the house again. Metal scraped slowly against leather as one of the men drew a sword. Close by, a masculine voice called out a question.
Trista clamped both hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound of herself hyperventilating. Just in front of the house, a plank creaked as the soldier put his weight on the first step up to the veranda. Trista desperately looked around for anything that could serve as a hiding spot, knowing full well any movement would immediately give away her presence. She was trapped. Her eyes widened as another plank creaked just outside the door, which hung crooked on its hinges. A large hand with hairy fingers grabbed it, ready to pull it open.
A loud clang rang out from the side of the veranda. The soldier turned, and with two quick strides brought down his sword. Trista peeked over the windowsill just as he grabbed something from the sand and held it up, evoking a laugh from his fellow soldier. In his hands dangled the severed bottom half of a lizard.
The soldier cleared his throat and spat on the floor. He tossed the slain lizard aside, then wiped his sword on the side of the house and sheathed it. He jumped down the stairs and commented on something that received another loud and hearty laugh.
Inside, Trista released her nose and mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the soldiers’ voices disappeared once again toward the village. She waited another thirty counts before she dared another brief look.
They were gone. She let out a sigh, resting her hurting head on the windowsill. When she finally looked up again, a strange shape on the ground in front of the house drew her attention. It was difficult to see in the low, dancing light of the flames, but the gnawing feeling in her stomach already knew what it was.
“No, no, no….” she whispered. Nausea overwhelmed her, and she stumbled outside.
She approached the remains of her mother and father and fell to her knees beside them. She cried uncontrollably; the strange mixture of salt, rain and iron from the blood invaded the corners of her mouth. She clawed at the bodies, trying to pull them in, to hug them as close as possible. All the while she wailed at their loss, burying her face in their clothes and smothering her own sounds with the cold, lifeless shells that were once her parents.
“I’m sorry, father! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” she cried, “Oh, mother…”
All of a sudden, her anger of the day felt like the most regrettable thing in the world. Storming out. Screaming at her parents. She would never be able to apologize for it.
She never could recall how long she sat there that night. She remembered that she was afraid of someone finding her, but her hands were unwilling to let go. In her head, though, reason gradually gained ground against the raw emotion of loss. Eventually, with great effort, she forced her fingers to release their grip. Her parents were here, but there was no sign of Decan. Trista stood, weak kneed, and looked around in the remains of the house, scared of what she might find. But there was no sign of her brother anywhere.
Perhaps he really did get away…
Another high-pitched scream. She looked toward the village.
Or perhaps not.
She did not want to go to the village center. Turning into the wind, she heard men laughing and shouting; people wailing. But she had to know if her little brother was still alive.
“Mother, father…I’ll go look for Decan now. I hope he’s okay. If he’s alive…I’ll do everything I can to save him, I promise. So please watch over us. I love you both so much,” she whispered.
She started moving toward the village, but halted after a few steps. Turning around, she quickly ran back into the destroyed house and started digging in the rubble. A moment later she emerged with two of her small fishing spears and a knife. She had hoped to find more, but most of her gear had not survived the collapse of their roof.
It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Trista dried her tears and headed in the direction of the dreadful sounds. She made sure to keep low and moved through the high grass for as long as possible. She used the houses, or what was left from them, as cover to get as close to the village center as she dared.
Hidden behind a couple of fish-filled barrels with a mass of nets and other fishing gear piled on top, Trista was finally able to lay eyes on the village square. She barely recognized their clan’s gathering place. Two large bonfires burned on either side of the square—in their light she saw the dark color of blood tainting the stones on the ground. Crude cages had been constructed by tying pointed branches together. She could see women and children sobbing within them; at least, that was what she assumed the little trembling piles of clothes and flesh were.
This late in the nigh
t, few soldiers were still awake. It seemed they had located the village’s liquor stores and helped themselves to the edge of fall-flat-on-your-face drunk.
Some of the more resilient types were laughing loudly at their own self-made entertainment. Trista saw one of the soldiers pull a woman out of a cage, dragging her to one of the burned-out houses as she kicked and screamed, trying to get away.
To the side, several men with ripped clothes were on their knees, hands tied behind their backs with rope that also encircled their throats. Trista counted seven of them.
In the center of the square, two more men—bare-chested—faced each other with their fists up, but seemed to lack the spirit to fight. The soldiers were cheering and bawling at the two unwilling combatants, shoving them in the back if they lingered too long around the edge of the makeshift circle. Trista suddenly recognized one of them.
Landon!
Her mother’s voice from this morning echoed in her mind.
“We chose Landon for you! He’s kind and handsome!’’
Her fiancé-to-be was breathing heavily, his skin covered in black smears of dirt and blood, his dark blond hair filthy and full of knots. His knuckles were bleeding, probably from the fight. His opponent looked no better, but seemed to be the better fighter as he landed two blows on Landon’s ribs and another on his nose. As they went at each other again, the soldiers cheered, throwing their drinks over the duo and kicking up dirt if either one of them ended up on the ground near their feet.
Trista recognized the exhaustion in their movements; they must have been at it for a while now. As they clung together in a momentary embrace, Trista finally got a good look at the second man's face.
Wait, Sterak? That’s Landon’s best friend!
Landon let out a roar of frustration as he put his remaining energy into a final flurry of punches. Sterak, unable to withstand the force of the blows, slammed backward onto the ground, unable to get up. A number of soldiers cheered loudly; it seemed they had bet on the winner. Landon fell to his knees, looking at his blood-covered hands. His defeated friend lay on the floor, motionless but for the heaving of his chest.
Wavebreaker (Book II of the Stone War Chronicles): Part 1 - Trickle Page 3
