The Argument of Empires

by Jacob T. Helvey

  It was male, she could tell by the mane, and old, crossed with scars, its fur graying slightly along the sides of its muzzle. It padded across the bank on soft paws, silent despite its immense size. She was probably lucky to have seen it at all. Lucky to have seen my own death? she thought.

  That familiar animalistic fear began to assert its control, spurring her to run, but she didn’t, couldn’t. She was tired. Tired of running, tired of pain. The lion could have her now, for all she cared, as long as he made it quick.

  It roared, revealing rows of yellow teeth, each the size of one of Kareen’s fingers. The sound was deafening and she reached up to cover her ears. End it! She thought, almost pleaded, watching the beast inch closer and closer. Get it over with!

  It stalked through the shallow water, coming to within a dozen paces of her. Still, it didn’t pounce. Part of Kareen still screamed for her to run, but she shoved it aside, balling her fists and staring the creature down. She wouldn’t run. Not again.

  Something bright hit the animal in the side. The piece of fire, like a shard of the sun, hissed and whined as it buried itself deep in the creatures flesh. The lion let out a low keening, spinning to face the direction from which the projectile had flown. It took a single step forward, and then fell to the river stones. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, the scent making Kareen want to wretch. The steel bar—two feet of it stuck from the lion’s flank—began to cool from orange to red even as she looked on. Only then did Kareen realize what exactly it was that had felled the beast. Not a bar of metal, but a sword.

  She glanced around, searching for whoever or whatever had thrown the weapon. As if on cue, a man emerged from the tall grass on the opposite side of the stream. He wore a loose fitting robe of burgundy fabric, tied at the waist with a cloth sash. His hands and feet were bare save for bracelets of bronze and gold, fitted with uncut jewels. The skin beneath was drawn and wrinkled, dark tan, similar to the tribesman of the Kelil Desert.

  But his head was what truly drew her attention. It was hidden behind a covering of white fabric that concealed any discernable features, the bag-like garment cinched tight at the neck with a cord to match his robes. How did he breathe? The bag looked too thick to let much air through. For that matter, how did he see? Perhaps he was a monk of some sort. The more fanatical orders she had read about were known to perform strange rituals and set grueling punishments for even the smallest of infractions.

  “Are you a friend?” she asked after a wasted moment spent marveling at the figure.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid down the embankment and splashed through the stream to kneel beside the fallen lion, checking the wound he had dealt the creature. There was a mechanical quality to the way he carried himself, jerky and not quite human. He reached down and drew the sword, still smoking, from the lion chest. It was over five feet long, with a two handed grip and immense leaf blade that looked too broad to be wielded by a normal man.

  And it was made of bronze. Kareen frowned. That blade had been orange, orange as fabric dyed with saffron. Bronze should have melted at that temperature. A chill went unbidden up her spine. Who was this man? How had he heated that archaic blade? And why did he cover his face?

  “Are you a friend?” she repeated, more forcefully this time.

  He turned to her. She could almost see the shape of his face behind the cloth. Sharp cheekbones, an angular jawline, a long nose—positively ancient if his hands and feet were anything to go by. Still, it didn’t answer her question. Who was he?

  “Can you speak?” she decided to ask. Whatever this man was, Delver or otherwise, she had a feeling he wasn’t entirely human. She had read all the stories of course, and heard all the campfire tales that were told to local children. They spoke of thralls in the service of dark wizards, with no will of their own. They could only be killed by a weapons of silver, or fire, or fairy dust, depending on the legend. But there was a core of truth to many of those stories, wasn’t there? Perhaps this man was that truth.

  Seemingly uninterested in her plight, he turned and marched back the way he had come, crossing the river, scaling the bank, and heading into the tall grass beyond. Kareen gave a quiet curse that she was barely able to cover with a hand. She had spent too much time around Livran. She pushed the thought of the man out of her mind before it brought her back to tears. She couldn’t keep doing this, mourning him. There would be time for that later, when all this was done.

  I have to count my blessings. She had a feeling that Tirrak was looking down on her with great interest. He had already seen fit to spare her life twice today, even when, disturbingly, she had given up herself. Now, with this man, perhaps he was giving her a way out.

  Sixteen:

  Grith

  Grith wandered through a plain of tall grass. The sun hung low in the west, bathing the land in warm amber light. Grith ran his hands through the long stalks, wondering where he was. He should have been home, in the Marshes, where the air was warm and full of moisture. This land was dry, seeming to stand on the edge of death. One push in the wrong direction, one missed rainfall, and this place would quickly find itself a desert.

  There was a crevice up ahead. No, not a crevice, a canyon. Grith came as close as he dared to the edge. The scar upon the landscape was deep, disappearing into shadow so far below that it was impossible to guess the distance. Grith looked upward and across trying to keep his mind on the other side, rather than the depths below. He had to get across this gap somehow. There was no reason for the urge, he just had to.

  Grith blinked and a bridge appeared in front of him, where only moments before there had been none. The heavy span was constructed of thick beams of dark wood and along each side, in place of hand rails, posts had been tied. To the top of each of these posts was lashed the shell of a sea creature. Conchs perhaps?

  A dry wind stirred in the canyon and the air filled with a low hum. It was the shells, he realized. They acted like horns, channeling the wind into a discordant song that was somehow equally serene and disturbing.

  Grith gingerly took his first few steps onto the bridge, feeling its supports sway beneath him with every gust of wind. Fear wracked his body, telling him to stop, to turn tail and run. But there was something he needed to find on the other side. Something that kept even his terror in check. So, he pushed on,

  A figure emerged from… Grith could only describe it as shadow—on the other side of the bridge. It was wreathed in fire, hiding its features, but Grith closed on it regardless. His fear had fled him, replaced by a cold confidence—a certainty. A sword appeared in his hand, a curved saber. Strange… shouldn’t it have been a spear he carried?

  In response, the shadow drew its own sword, long and so dark as to cut the very light through which it passed. More shapes coalesced around it, drawing weapons of their own. But as Grith stepped onto the hard packed ground on the other side of the bridge, the figures shied away. They were afraid, afraid of him.

  And as soon as they appeared, the shapes within the flames were gone, taking the darkness with them.

  Grith found himself standing before two men and a girl, each wearing a ring of silver that bore a dark violet jewel the size of a knuckle bone on its top. The one on the left was young, still a teenager, with chocolate skin and a short, lithe build. He wore an officer’s uniform, black like those of the Corps and stood confidently, hands on hips.

  The man at the center was tall with hair as red as flame. He was wrapped in a white formal coat and the saber at his belt was not so different from the one Grith held in his hand.

  The third was a girl, no more than ten. Her hair was black as night, contrasting sharply with her bright summer dress. There was no heir of nobility to her. She had never even seen the halls of a palace, much less walked them. For some reason, that gave Grith hope. The violet signet ring was too big to fit any of her fingers, so she held it in her open palm, her eyes filled with won
der.

  “You will make the choice,” they said in unison, their voices, light and gruff, cultured and provincial, mixing in the air. It sounded like the pronouncement of a god. And, as quickly as they head appeared, they were gone.

  Images flashed through Grith’s mind.

  A field of corpses, picked at by crows.

  A burning city, familiar. He had been there before.

  A man in armor of gold, carrying a blue painted shield.

  The final image was of the violet ring. It sat on a withered finger. The man who wore it was dead, Grith could tell that much. There was a dread in his heart.

  * * *

  He woke to the sound of the world’s end.

  It took Grith a moment to remember where he was. He was on the Wind’s Caress. He had decided to get a few hours of sleep before they hit the storm. They were a day or more out from the Eye at the least, or so Captain Oshek had assured them. The ship lurched and Grith was very nearly tossed from his hammock. It seemed that in that regard, the captain’s estimate had been off somewhat.

  Throwing on his shirt and trousers, Grith ran barefoot from his cabin. If there was water on deck, he would get better grip without shoes. Visions of his dream still flashed through his mind, as if part of his body was still asleep. Perhaps it was the Eye. It had a powerful effect on Delvers, he and Tain were quickly discovering.

  Grith emerged onto deck and was immediately hit by a blast of ocean spray. He could just make out the crew through eyes blurred by salt water. The sailors were pulling on lines, tying down cargo, and unfurling the sails. And Spirits! There were men in the rigging! In this wind, it would be all too easy for a particularly strong gust to toss any one of them to their deaths.

  Grith stumbled up the ladder to the aftcastle and searched for Tain or Irrin. The High Lord stood with Captain Oshek at the wheel. The Heranan wore a look of grim determination on his face, working the wheel like a master, giving the ship rudder when it was needed, and letting off when the waves turned to violent chop. Grith had never sailed such a large boat, but he knew how hard it could be to control even a small canoe on calm waters. The Heranans were truly masters of their craft.

  “The Eye’s giving us a fight,” Oshek growled. “The bitch’s more active than she should be for this time of year.” He swayed with every rocking motion of the ship, never loosing balance. The same couldn’t be said for Irrin. He held onto the starboard railing like a madman, his face pale, but showing none of the fear Grith would have expected.

  “We could just be hitting a storm,” Irrin put forward. Storms thrown off the Eye were common enough, especially in the spring and summer months, when the sea was warm.

  Oshek pointed to the clouds above them. They were dark and angry, forming strange patterns in the skies. Almost like the patterns across the Sky Father himself. “The way the winds moves. Do you see the pattern in it?”

  “They’re circular,” Grith answered.

  The Captain nodded. “Only the Eye makes clouds like that.”

  “How long will it take to get through?” Grith asked.

  “Normally, ten hours, but with this…” He motioned to the storm ahead. “A day, maybe more.”

  Grith nodded. “Is there anything we can do to help?” The idea of being stuck below deck in a storm like this frightened him. It wasn’t the thought of the ship sinking that caused him fear. It was the idea of the ship sinking without him trying to do something to stop it. He hated sitting on his hands, helpless, when he could be working.

  “For now, keeping yourselves out of the way of my men would be the biggest help.” He gave Grith a quick glance. “But aye. In a few hours I might have some need of you and your friend.” His friend? He must have meant Tain. Yes, the strength of two Delvers could prove invaluable.

  “You should be below deck,” Grith said, turning to Irrin.

  “Just a few more moments.” Irrin was looking towards the Eye, Grith realized. The man drew his coat tight around him, his blue eyes fixed ahead. Grith followed the High Lord’s gaze. The Eye drew him as surely as Irrin, forward and forward. He found himself walking towards the ladder off the aftcastle, but caught himself before he could make the descent. He was still receiving intermittent flashes, images that appeared and disappeared so quickly that he couldn’t make out their meaning. These dreams… if he never experienced them again, it would be too soon.

  “They say there is treasure at the center of the storm,” Irrin said over the wind. “Tirrak himself placed it there, if you believe the legends. His armor, weapons, and anything else of value he brought with him when he descended from heaven to fight the last Titan.”

  “A load of shite!” Oshek said. “Aye, they say there’s calm water at the center, and an island, but how anyone could know such a thing, I can’t say. Nothing can reach the center, not even your war god.”

  “Tirrak is no war god!” Irrin spat back. “And you will learn to speak to your betters with more respect!”

  The captain nodded his head and gave a mock smile. “Of course… High Lord.”

  The man wasn’t wrong though. Grith had read parts of the Book of the Eye, the Akivian holy text. It was filled to the brim with tales of death and destruction, vengeance and retribution. In one story, Tirrak had laid waste to an entire city, washing it into the sea when fear had driven its inhabitants to worship the Titan Halmun. No, perhaps not a war god. Worse, a god of death and chaos, the perfect personification of the storm raging around them.

  “Now get below deck,” Oshek commanded. He grabbed the wheel with both hands and yanked hard, bringing The Wind’s Carress sharply about. One of the men on the rigging slipped slightly. Grith could hear the shouting of his comrades, but before they could grab hold of him, his fingers gave out and he fell headlong into the water along the port side.

  “Shite!” the captain shouted.

  Grith ran to the railing where the man had went overboard. There was already no sign of the sailor. He had already been dragged below the swell. Grith glanced back at the High Lord. “Get inside! Now, before we end up like that bastard!”

  * * *

  They found Tain sitting atop a barrel in the hold. He had a whetstone to his sword, running it back and forth across the blade’s leading edge. He looked up as Grith entered the room, Irrin in tow. “It’s getting bad up there.”

  Tain nodded. “Not much we can do now. We just have to trust in the skills of the Heranans and the strength of these boards.” He wrapped a knuckle on the hull.

  The ship pitched violently and Grith had to grab the High Lord to stop him from falling. “I don’t like this.”

  “It’s always this bad,” Tain replied lazily, returning to his sword. “But Oshek told me he’s made this journey two dozen times. We just have to trust him.”

  “I’ll find that trust better placed when we’re out of this storm,” Grith replied.

  “Well worth the risk.” Irrin lowering himself onto a barrel. “The two weeks we cut off the trip will be invaluable to our efforts.”

  “I sure hope so,” Tain replied. “For all our sakes.”

  * * *

  It took hours, but the call finally came from above. They were closing on the Eye proper, the whirling vortex at the heart of the storm. This was the most critical part of stormrunning, where their ship would either harness the twisting winds of the Eye to speed them southward, or they would find themselves torn apart in the heavy currents.

  At the sound, Grith rose to his feet. “What are you doing?” Tain demanded, sheathing his saber and fixing him with a serious gaze.

  “I have to see it,” he replied.

  “The Eye?” Tain looked incredulous. “I’d like to see it as much as the next man, but not badly enough to walk onto deck in a fucking storm!”

  Ignoring the other man’s complaints, Grith picked up an oil cloak that he had left laying acro
ss a barrel and threw it over his shoulders. He couldn’t put his desire into words, the desire to see the eye. It wasn’t for the wonder of it all, or for any sense of religious fervor. He just needed to see it.

  He took the steps two at time, rocking with the ship beneath his feet, suddenly thankful for the balance training he had performed with his father so many years ago. Standing on one foot atop a rocking canoe had seemed worse than useless at the time. Now he understood the value in the seemingly simple lesson.

  He opened the door to the outside and was shoved into a scene from a nightmare. The deck was battered by rain. Grith’s cloak provided only momentary protection before it was soaked through. A splash of seawater slapped him across the face and he nearly fell. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. Men ran back and forth around him. A sailor was on his knees at the bow, praying loudly in Heranan.

  “The hell are you doing!?” Oshek shouted from the wheel. “I thought I told you to stay below deck!”

  “You said you might need my help!” Grith shouted back. He stumbled to the wheel and leaned against the small aft mast that stood behind it. Spirits! He thought he could hear the wood creaking beneath his feet.

  “Aye, if the ship was about to come apart at the seams!” Oshek told him, keeping his eyes on the waves ahead. The swells must have been thirty feet tall in places, but the Heranan rode each of the mountains of water like they were ripples on a glassy pond.

  “So this is normal?” Grith asked incredulously. He shielded his eyes and scanned the stormy waters around him. Lightning struck nearby, half a mile from the ship by Grith’s estimate.

  The images flashed less frequently now, despite their proximity to the center of the Eye. The waking dream had been replaced by a constant pressure at his temples, not painful per say, but still an annoyance.

  “The storm started earlier than we expected. Caught us a bit off guard.” He nodded to himself. “But you could call this normal.”