by Aaron Yeager
“Just what was that?” Spirea whispered, grabbing Dr. Griffin by the collar and yanking him away from Ryin. “Why did those things explode just now?”
“You should be happy,” he asserted. “That means we’ve found what they were homing in on.”
“But what would have happened if that had gone off while they were still on my head?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, waving his hand, “that could never have happened.”
“Why?”
“It’s actually quite simple, let me explain...” Dr. Griffin paused, his eyes rolling this way and that, as if searching for a title among a stack of books. “Okay,” he finally admitted, “I guess I never really thought about it.”
Spirea released her grip on Dr. Griffin and placed her face in her hands. Phrases such as “How did I get here?” and “I don’t belong here.” worked their way out between sobs.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Dr. Griffin scolded as he pulled something from his pocket and crawled over to the ledge. It was about the size of an orange and at first appeared to Athel to be a ball of glass, but as he held it out over the edge it rippled in his grip, and she realized that it was actually water, held in the shape of a sphere. At his command the sphere elongated, becoming a lens that magnified the view of the schooner and sailors down below.
On closer inspection, the crates were pocketed with air holes, meaning that they were made to carry something living. Athel couldn’t make out any insignia or banners, and the sailors were not from any kingdom she knew of. The real question was how a ship of this size came to be down here. It was far too large for any of the exits to the cavern that they could see.
At one end of the crates there was a small pool of clear fresh water. Even now and again one of the misshapen sailors would walk over to the water and stand in it, and the water would rise up and close around him like a swirling jaw. When the water dissipated he was gone, only to reemerge a moment later carrying something when the water repeated the process.
Dr. Griffin adjusted the view and centered on a pair of men standing on the deck of the schooner. The taller one had long hair, golden brown like wheat, pulled back into a sailor’s ponytail. His face was arrogantly handsome, but he carried himself with lightheartedness as he scratched his well-groomed goatee and spoke with his companion, a dog-faced hard-body from Hazari.
“I wish I knew what they were talking about,” Athel lamented as she watched the pair converse.
“Here, let me see,” Dr. Griffin mentioned as he tilted a blue-colored lens in front of his eyes. “They’re talking about dinner...now penguins...and now the taste of a persimmon...”
He paused, rubbing his tongue against the front of his teeth as he thought deeply.
“You can’t read lips, can you?” Athel accused.
“No,” he admitted.
Athel groaned in disgust and ran over to Spirea, who was sobbing something to the effect of, “I have to get out of here. I have to get away from these people,” when Athel brought her to her feet.
“Spiri, pull yourself together,” Athel commanded, using the tone that her mother always used when speaking in public, which instantly caught Spirea’s attention. “Our kidnapped shopkeeper is down there, probably in the hold, probably with some others, and I’m gonna’ need your help to save them.”
Spirea looked at Athel oddly with her red, puffy eyes. At first Athel thought it was because she hadn’t understood, but then quickly realized that it was because she had used her mother’s voice around her for the first time.
Ryin moaned weakly as he lay on the ground. His fresh bandages had already soaked through and dark red blood was dripping off them onto the cave floor. Athel walked over to him and placed a hand on his cold shoulder, gripping it tightly.
“Don’t worry, Ryin, we’re not going to let you die,” she said solemnly. “We’ll do whatever it takes to save you.”
“He’s already lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Griffin admitted, coming to Ryin’s side. “His core temperature is falling. One of you will need to strip down and press your body against him to warm him back up.”
There was a moment of silence as Athel and Spirea considered the gravity of his words.
“Don’t worry, Ryin,” Athel said, gripping his cold hand. “We will avenge your death. We will never rest until your killers are hunted down.”
“Athel!” Dr. Griffin said, disappointed.
“Well, you do it, then!”
* * *
Down on the schooner, Tigera Hissledorf tugged on his goatee as he watched his dog-faced companion widen his stance and place his hands on his knees.
“You do realize that you look like you’re using the bathroom?” Tigera asked mirthfully.
“Look, you know I need quiet,” his companion Murphi responded as his long floppy ears rose up, lifted by the power gathering around him. Tigera felt the energy in the air. Hazari magic was among the most dangerous of any of the kingdoms, except perhaps the Stonemasters themselves, yet he felt perfectly calm as the air began to trill and wooden planks groaned beneath their feet, bits of debris hovering in the air around them. The air became thick, so thick that he could feel his eyelashes cut through it when he blinked. He felt as cold as he had ever been, yet his skin seemed to burn.
“Do you know the difference between flotsam and jetsam?” Tigera asked playfully.
“Man, stop trying to distract me,” Murphi warned, a thick drop of drool oozing from the corner of his black lips.
“You see, flotsam are pieces of debris that are accidentally thrown from a ship, while jetsam are intentionally thrown overboard.”
“Look, I told you to be quiet,” Murphi insisted, bringing his arms up, pointing at the wine bottle that had been placed on top of a flat-nosed stalagmite some distance from the ship. The buzz in the air became the most incredible noise he had ever heard, overwhelming his sense of hearing completely.
The attack only lasted a fraction of a second. A bolt of blue lightning leapt out from Murphi‘s hands, dancing through the air, tendrils licking out and striking the mound of rock. The air burned and sizzled. With a flash of light the stalagmite exploded. Chunks of heated stone and pebble rained down around them and Murphi stood up, looking quite satisfied with himself.
Several of the startled sailors yelled obscenities in protest from below, but Tigera ignored them, instead laughing and applauding his friend. “That was marvelous,” he praised, “only it was a bit messy. I mean, wasn’t the point to destroy just the bottle?”
“Yeah, better too much force than too little, eh Tig?”
“Yes, but what if you were trying to free a hostage or something?” Tigera asked, picking up a steaming piece of burnt rock. “You’d end up with lots of little hostage pieces.”
“Man, why’d you ask me to do it if you’re just going to be all up and criticize what I do?” Murphi complained as he scratched behind one of his large brown ears. “You should be praising my abilities, thanking me for learning you so much.”
Tigera heard a thunk behind him and turned around, startled to see the bottle spinning at his feet, not even a scratch on it. “Oh, I see,” he began, picking up the bottle. “You managed to destroy the entire rock the bottle was sitting on while leaving the bottle itself completely unscathed. That’s quite an achievement. What control that must take. Tell me, how many years did it take you to master such a thing?”
“Man, you need to shut up,” Murphi barked, revealing his long white fangs as Tigera laughed. Tigera loved to laugh and no one made him laugh as often as Murphi, which is exactly why he chose him to be his protégé.
Fingering the finely crafted necklace of golden teeth around his neck, Tigera sent out a simple command, and a small bat flew down and landed next to the bottle. Sniffing it suspiciously, it grabbed the neck with its tiny claws then slammed the bottle against a crate, smashing it successfully.
“Now, I suppose this is the part where you tell me that control is more important than force
,” Murphi scoffed.
“Not at all,” Tigera said, slapping his friend on the back, “This is where you pony-up the money you owe me for losing the bet.” As Murphi grumbled and pulled out his money pouch, a small rat ran along the deck and scurried up Tigera’s leg, coming to a rest on his shoulder, where it whispered softly to him. Tigera listened carefully then tossed the animal a peanut as payment for its trouble. The rodent leapt down and snatched up the morsel, scratching its head as Tigera released it from his control.
“It looks like a small band of port authorities managed to break through our barrier and are working their way down here from the ledge above,” Tigera reported, a flicker of excitement in his eyes.
“Man, I told you that slug-lady was a stupid idea,” Murphi complained as he grabbed a matched pair of throwing axes. “I’ll rouse the men and go hunt them down.”
“Wait,” Tigera cautioned. “If they made it through the barrier that means they have a Stonemaster among them. That complicates things. Let’s just you and me go and get a better look.”
The pair climbed down the accommodation ladder on the side of the ship and ran past the sailors loading crates. Leaping up on top of the stacks, they began to make their way to a dark corner, where the torchlight was blocked by a rising rock formation. Tigera felt a surge of excitement as he drew close to the intruders. They obviously felt confident that they would not be spotted in the place they had chosen, for he could hear them whispering to each other as he approached. A pair of women, with strange accents that Tigera had never heard before.
This excited him even more. There were only a handful of kingdoms he had not visited intimately, with or without permission, and the newness of the experience gave him a desire to drag it out. No quick painless strike today. He wanted to know more about these people.
Murphi widened his stance, preparing to summon a lightning attack, but Tigera signaled him to stand down.
That idiot will cause a cave in if I let him do that, Tigera thought to himself as he quietly stood up at the edge of the crates and looked down at the young women in the dim light. They were both in their late teens and had successfully pried open one of the crates. They were pulling out the sleeping occupant, Margaret, the shopkeeper, along with a lot of packing material.
The raven-haired girl was very pretty, but it was the redhead that caught his attention. Her face beamed with strength and confidence. A softness of feminine features combined with eyes of piercing intelligence, and although the silk dress she wore was very modest, unlike her companion, he could tell that her body was very shapely.
She seemed to him like an angel, a beautiful angel sent to him by the Beast Gods themselves.
“You don’t look like Stonemasters at all. Might I ask your names?” he asked aloud before he realized what he was doing.
The two women looked up, and the redhead let out a yelp of fright, tripping herself as she reached for the saber at her side and falling down into a puddle of mud.
“St-Stay where you are, you swine!” she yelled as she clumsily held out her weapon, as if to threaten him as he stood above her. “We are officers of the Imperial Navy and we are here to put you all under arrest. If you resist us we’ll be forced to, uh, cut off your ears.”
Tigera felt his heart sink within his chest. She was no angel at all. She was crude and clumsy. What’s worse, she was a Navy puppet, and it made him long again for the silent beauty of his animals. They had such a quiet dignity.
“I see your beauty is wasted here in the shadows,” he commented sadly, scratching his goatee.
“Yeah, well, justice penetrates all shadow, you know?” she retorted.
“‘Justice penetrates all shadow?’” her raven-haired partner complained. “Where do you get this stuff, Athel?”
“Spirea, less talk, more fighting,” Athel ordered as she rose and drew her pistol.
“You don’t have the right to give me orders,” Spirea complained.
“I joined the crew before you, so I have seniority.”
“By about thirty seconds,” Spirea complained as she drew out her staff.
Tigera sighed and pressed his fingers against his temple. Speaking in the common tongue was bothersome enough for him, but the chattering sounds of these women were already giving him a headache, and he longed for the pure communion of animals.
“You went to an awful lot of trouble to hide these kidnappings,” the one called Athel accused, keeping her pistol trained on him as she began to circle.
“Did I?” Tigera said, a wry smile on his face. Irritating people in authority was a skill that came very naturally to him. Officers always operated under the assumption that a criminal’s overinflated ego would always lead them to disclose things when prodded. In reality, the opposite was more generally true, and it was the officer’s ego’s that caused them to get upset with someone who refused to play the game by their rules.
“Why are you kidnapping people and boxing them up for transport?”
“How should I know?” Tigera asked, picking a piece of wax out of his ear and flicking it to one side.
“Just forget it, Athel,” Spirea called out. “Let’s just collar him and get it over with.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tigera saw Murphi illuminated by a flicker of torchlight as he slowly worked his way along the cliff face to get behind the one called Spirea.
Just another half minute and he’ll have her, he realized.
“My good officers,” he began, raising his hands up above his head and walking toward Spirea. “As you can see I’m completely unarmed, and you’ve got enough evidence here to put me away for a very long time.”
“Stop where you are,” Athel warned, “or I will shoot.”
Tigera chuckled deeply. She was obviously a rookie. “Look, love,” he began, “you would never shoot me because...”
Athel fired her pistol, and before Tigera could even blink, he was held fast by strong vines that bound him from neck to toe.
“...or perhaps you would,” he finished. Athel wasted no words, climbing up to the top of the crates where he stood, keeping her pistol trained on him. Tigera smiled warmly at her as she searched him for hidden weapons. The vines would loosen and part enough for her to check a pocket, and then return their grip once she had withdrawn her hand. Now that she was focused, her movements were radically different from before. Nothing wasted or sloppy, every angle and motion calculated to maintain a dignified posture as she worked. Then, when she searched his money pouch with her right hand, her left hand twitched involuntarily. Most people would have missed it, but Tigera knew exactly what it was and what it meant. Nerves recalling the pain of discipline for a misplaced finger or a sloppily angled position.
No doubt about it, this woman has been brutally trained since birth.
“I’m impressed,” he admitted, spitting the tip of a vine out of his mouth. “I’ve never seen a real live Wysterian up close before. Charming magic, really, making things grow and all that.”
“Yeah, we’re just a bunch of happy little fairies,” Athel commented as she discovered a throwing knife concealed in his boot and tossed it to Spirea.
“Although joining the Navy seems like three rungs down the social ladder to me,” he goaded. “So I wonder what would lead a blueblood such as yourself to slum in the caves with the commoners.”
The woman stood up and looked him squarely in the eye. Tigera loved that look. Outrage mixed with wonder. No doubt she was wondering how he could know such a thing, but what satisfied him was the way every piece was now in place for something truly theatrical. Two rats creeping up behind Athel, two bats hovering above, and Murphi now prepared to take Spirea from behind. It was perfect, and Tigera applauded himself for his excellent sense of drama.
“How did you know that?” She asked.
“Actually, I didn’t know you were royalty until you verified it just now,” Tigera said honestly as he leaned in a little toward her. “I just wanted to keep you distracted from y
our partner.”
Athel snapped her head to where Spirea was, just in time to see her being thrust to the ground by Murphi, her arm twisted into an elbow lock as he kicked her staff out of reach. Athel moved to raise her own staff, but screamed instead when a small rodent bit down into the fleshy part of her hand. She flicked her hand to free the animal, dropping her staff to the ground, which was scooped up by a pair of bats that carried it off into the darkness. She raised her pistol, but another animal bit into that hand, forcing her to release the weapon. She stumbled back, cradling her injured hands, her eyes revealing the shock of a prideful, wounded animal, which Tigera found extremely satisfying. The vines binding him loosened and Tigera broke free, stretching as if he was just returning from a hard day's work.
“You see, that’s the problem with using a staff as the source of your power,” he said slyly. “You can’t do much of anything without it.”
The woman smiled, which he realized was a bad thing, as she withdrew a small seed from a pouch at her waist.
“You don’t know anything about us. Our staffs focus our powers, give us greater range, but they are not the source of anything.”
Athel slammed the seed into the ground with the flat of her hand, and the cave seemed to shake with the power of her tree-singing. Several of Tigera’s animals began to run in fear, but he grasped the tooth necklace around his neck and stilled their minds.
Athel stood up and crossed her arms in front of her, obviously satisfied with her victory, as a wiry little green shrub with pairs of oval leaves sprouted out of the ground. Everyone was quiet for a moment as they looked at the pitiful little plant, as if expecting it to do something miraculous, but it only rustled weakly in the breeze.
“It better do more than that,” Spirea called out as she writhed under Murphi’s grip.
A pair of rats leapt up at Athel’s face, small but vicious claws and teeth borne to attack. Athel cartwheeled sideways, catching one of the animals with the toe of her boot, creating a tiny squeal of pain. The second rodent landed and sprung again, only to catch the back of Athel’s fist as she stood again, slamming a second seed into the ground with her other hand.
