by CM Raymond
Laurel grabbed her glass and looked into it. Brown liquid with a sharp odor stared back at her. She crinkled her nose. “What is it?”
“Stan calls it ‘bourbon,’” Illah told her. She sniffed her own and took a slow sip, which made her beautiful fur-covered face pucker. “Smooth,” she said, though her voice had dropped an octave. “Takes some getting used to, but a glass or three of this and look out!”
Hannah and Laurel knocked back their first taste of the powerful elixir as if they had been drinking a beer. The burn ran down Hannah’s throat and settled in her stomach. “Damn! They ought to call it ‘firewater.’”
Vitali laughed. “I think he has some of that, too.” He sipped his own slowly. “Just sip it, and the bourbon will become a dear friend.”
They sat for a while, sipping bourbon and laughing at Laurel’s reactions. Finally Illah asked them to pick up where they had left off, at the story of Arcadia and the oppression of Chancellor Adrien. Hannah obliged, but she was happy that she was feeling a warm, gentle buzz. It helped smooth the rough edges the story still held for her. As she went on Laurel jumped in and pointed out a missing plot point or two, and Vitali and Illah—but especially Illah—would interject questions or a string of expletives.
Hannah finished an hour-and-a-half and three glasses of bourbon later.
“That’s some crazy shit,” Vitali sighed. “And now you’re off to save the world?”
“Yep,” Laurel quipped with a little slur. “As if Arcadia wasn’t big enough.”
Hannah’s smile faded and she got serious. “I don’t know about that.”
Laurel let out a little drunken gasp. “Really?”
Hannah shrugged. “As far as I can see, if we just fight every asshat anyplace in Irth, we’ll never stop.” She put her hands over her face and laughed. “This sounds terrible, but, sometime, I just want to be able to stop. Settle in.”
“And what, have like a million kids?” Laurel was almost yelling.
“No! Nothing like that. I mean, if I’m needed I’ll go at the drop of a hat, but at some point I want to make something—something I love…”
“Like Ezekiel started with Arcadia.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But I won’t leave it. I won’t forsake it. I’ll see it through to the end . Build something badass and beautiful.”
“Sounds nice,” Illah said. “I’ll come live there.”
Hannah’s eyes danced as the strange elixir’s powerful effects reached her brain, and she leaned back and smiled. “Well, you, my furry friend, have an invitation any time in my city. I’ll save you a special spot, especially if you promise to bring some of this borgon with you.” She held up her glass and rolled it, sloshing the liquid around.
Vitali and Illah lost it, hands over their thin mouths. “It’s ‘bourbon,’ Hannah. Bourbon,” Illah said through her purring laughter. “And I’ll bring it along if I can get a bottle or two from Stan.”
“If you ask nicely,” a deep, growling voice cut in from the door, “that ol’ bastard might just give you some.”
Hannah spun, almost falling off her chair, spying a Lynqi with mangy gray fur dressed in filthy, worn hiking clothes. He dropped an overstuffed pack by the door, and Vitali and Illah were on their feet and by his side in a heartbeat.
“Stan!” they both shouted at once.
“Calm down, kittens. It’s only been—what, a few days?”
“Try a month,” Vitali said, slapping him on the back. “Definitely thought we lost you this time.”
“Hell, you always say that,” the old Lynqi growled. He stepped back and pointed at Illah. “And don’t you be eyeing my damn booze. I’m not dead yet.” As he walked toward the table, he looked at Hannah and Laurel. “Now stop being so rude and introduce me to these baldies taking up spots at my table.”
The old cat-man grabbed a seat while Vitali put together a plate of food and a tall pour of bourbon for him. Illah introduced Hannah and Laurel, including a few details about the journey that had brought them to Kaskara.
He sat quietly except for the deep rhythmic purr coming from his chest, which heaved as he breathed. When she finished the story, Stan shifted in his chair. “Arcadia, huh? I’ve traveled for years. Gone hundreds of miles in these boots, but I’ve never heard of it.”
“Makes sense,” Hannah said. “It’s thousands of miles away.”
Stan laughed, leaning over the table. Once he regained control, he looked at her. “OK, baldy. Really, where’re you two ladies from?”
“Really,” Laurel told him, “we are from a ways away.”
“Impossible. You’re young enough that you’d have been walking for half your lives to get here. Maybe half that if you were atop a couple of healthy steeds.”
Hannah looked at her hands and then back up at Stan. She didn’t know if she could trust him with information about the ship, but then she asked herself, what difference does it make?
“We have a trusty steed of sorts named the Unlawful. It’s a flying ship, and it carried us here across the skies.”
Stan’s eyes went wide and his little black nose twitched. “You’re not shitting me?”
“It sounds crazy, but no, I’m not. It was built by our oppressor, but we freed it from his ownership. That is, right after I killed the bastard.”
“Oh! This is really something! How does it work?” Stan spoke quickly, like a kid on his birthday. “Wait. Don’t tell me…a fluid capacitor?”
“A what?”
“Oh, right. No. I got it. You found a damned antigrav, didn’t you? Yes, yes, that’s it. I have an old…” He jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ran to the shelf of bound parchments. “I have something... Where the hell did I... Ah, yes. Here it is.”
Stan carefully set the book on the table, and opened it with the gentleness of a new father. The inside of the book was full of words written in a foreign tongue, with sketches of machines every few pages.
“Where is it?” Stan purred to himself as he flipped through. Finally he stopped. “Ah, here. Is this it? Does this power your machine?”
“Not quite the same,” Hannah said, “but close.”
“I’ll be dipped in Muur shit. Where is it? I have to see this ship.”
“Sorry, furball,” Laurel said, feeling brave with the bourbon in her belly, “it’s not here. Our friends have it in the mountains.”
“Furball?” Vitali asked.
Hannah jabbed him in the arm. “He did call us ‘baldies.’ Only fair.”
Stan ignored their exchange. “Is it coming here?”
“Hopefully,” Hannah said. “They’re hunting crystals, but we were sent here to retrieve a different device.”
“Tell me everything.”
Stan put the book back and Hannah took her time telling him about the mission they were on for Lilith. Stan asked a million questions during the tale, and Hannah wished that Gregory was there to help fill in the details. The entire time, Stan listened intently and was patient with her inability to answer his technical questions. A pure gentleman.
“What do you know about the tech in the tower?” she asked.
“Very little. I have never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot, both in real life and in those parchments. Not to mention, I spent years exploring that tower. Saw the tech you speak of more than once. Tell you the truth, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
“You’ve seen it? Will it be easy to get to?” Hannah asked.
“Wish it was. I stopped going there once the ghosts really took over the place. Was bad for a while, but I’d just sneak around the place. But those damn things kept multiplying. I haven’t been in the towers for years.”
“It’s never easy,” Laurel said.
“I don’t mean to be the sourpuss here, but I wouldn’t call this one ‘not easy.’ I’m going with ‘damn near impossible.’”
Hannah’s mind raced, and she wished she’d had a little less of the old cat-man’s strong elixir. “They’re magic
users, then?”
“Magic?” Stan shouted a laugh. “I’m telling you, these things don’t use magic. They aren’t people, they’re fucking ghosts. The undead.” He shook his head and kept laughing. “It sounds crazy, but I’ve seen them walk through walls, appear out of nowhere, and disappear just as quickly. People say they’re the lost souls of whoever lived in those towers during the time of the Sickness, but who the hell knows? Who the hell cares? I’m not going anywhere near them.” Stan grabbed the bottle. “And with that settled, I just got back from too long away from Kaskara. Time to get pissed.”
He poured more drinks for everyone, all a bit quieter than before. Stan dropped the bottle on the table and nodded to a shelf on the opposite side of the room. “Who the hell moved my compass?”
All eyes, wide as saucers, swiveled to Hannah.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The bright morning sun shone upon the row of fighters as they stood proudly before their king. Their armor was the finest Gregory had ever seen—newly cleaned and oiled, made of the rarest metals, and decorated with gemstones.
Even to the young engineer’s relatively untrained eyes, it was armor worn more often for ceremony than for war.
In that respect only did Karl stand out among the fighters. His armor was dented in so many places it almost looked intentional. Dried dirt and blood remained, despite his early-morning scrubbing. It was the armor of a fighter—and he had come here to fight. The king had attempted to outfit Karl in shining new armor, but of course the proud rearick refused. He had earned every scratch on his gear, and he sure as hell wanted his opponents to understand that.
Aysa stood next to him, clearly bored by the proceedings. She was half a foot taller than almost anyone else in the line.
King Aardash stood before his champions, going on and on about the glories of the festival and the honor that they were bringing to their houses. Gregory had stopped listening a while ago, but he rose with everyone else and cheered when it was over.
The rules were simple: Fighters would be randomly paired off in a single-elimination-style tournament. The only hiccup was that each fighter was required to use the same weapon—a blunted short sword and buckler.
“Why the hell can’t I use my hammer?” Karl had asked when they handed him the dulled weapon.
“Because this isn’t a fight to the death, Karl,” the king had said. “We don’t want you smashing anyone’s head in.”
As Gregory studied the rearick’s face from the stands, he thought that Karl still might bash some heads in—hammer or no.
Lots were cast, and Aysa and Karl received their first fights—luckily not against each other.
“How far do you think she’ll make it,” Hadley asked as Aysa prepared for combat.
“She’s fierce, strong, and gutsy,” Gregory said. “I wouldn’t bet against her.”
“Begin!” the king yelled, and Aysa moved into action.
The Heemite she was fighting was part of the “past their prime” group of fighters. This man had probably competed in dozens of tournaments, and yet had never come out on top. But he kept fighting anyway, honoring the gods as best he could. In the back of his mind, the man thought that maybe he would get to experience paradise before he tasted death. From the looks of him, he only had a few more chances.
It was clear from the get-go that he was far more familiar with the short sword than Aysa was. Precise cuts and stabs were far different moves than pounding relentlessly with her bolas, but she had the advantage of youth and reach and she quickly disarmed him, ending the fight without bloodshed.
Next came Hendrix, who was met with a large wave of applause. Gregory was interested to see the competition in action, and he wasn’t disappointed.
The large Heemite was paired against a clearly experienced fighter named Jeb, but the poor man didn’t stand a chance. Hendrix attacked immediately, charging toward the man and wailing on him. Jeb raised his sword to parry, but Hendrix’ sheer strength was unbeatable. His first strike knocked the sword away and his second shattered the man’s wrist. If the ceremonial swords had been sharpened, he would have cleaved Jeb’s wrist.
“Damn! That man has serious issues,” Gregory said as they carted Jeb off the field.
“I tried to enter his mind, but he’s so fixated on winning that I couldn’t gain any ground. I’ve never seen someone so focused on violence.”
A few uninspired fights came next, followed by Karl’s first victory. He had been paired against a kid even younger than Broderick, and the youngster was visibly shaking as he took to the field. Karl made sure to take his time, even letting the kid get a few good hits before the rearick slipped his blade up to the kid’s neck, ending the fight.
The audience was clearly pleased with Karl’s display and his kindness to the young man. They shook hands after the fight was over, and Gregory heard him giving the kid some advice.
The day continued like this, and by noon only a handful of fighters remained. Besides Jeb’s wrist, Hendrix had managed to shatter two collarbones and knock another man unconscious. He still hadn’t woken up, and there were rumors that it might turn into the first tournament casualty in several years.
Aysa finally lost when a Heemite warrior exploited an opening in her shield defense. Every time Aysa attacked she let her shield drop a little, and the fighter got inside with a “killing” blow.
She grumbled as she took a seat beside Gregory and Hadley. “Stupid, stupid mistake. I’ll get them next time.”
“Next time?” Hadley said. “You’re planning on coming back here for another tournament?”
“Shut your damn mouth, mystic, before I throw you off this mountain.”
Broderick finally lost when Hendrix plowed into him with his shield, knocking the kid over. It was an ugly way to lose, but the kid took his defeat honorably. And when Karl disarmed a stout woman with a fancy twist of his sword, it left only the two men.
“I have to admit,” Hadley said, “that I’m actually a little nervous for him. That Hendrix, he’s not messing around.”
“The man’s all muscle. No finesse, no real skill,” Aysa said, anticipation of the fight pulling her out of her foul mood. “There was something Karl told me the first time we trained. ‘Skill will beat strength every time.’”
“I hope you’re right,” Gregory said. “We don’t really have a Plan B to get those crystals.”
As Hendrix stepped onto the field, he raised his sword high into the air. The crowd of Heemites roared in excitement. He was their champion—their best fighter. And despite the blood he had spilt, they were still excited to see him work. Karl had won their hearts with his exploits in the festival, but their commitment to the local fighter ran deep.
Karl walked up with little fanfare, and Gregory noticed that Mariah waved to him. He couldn’t tell from this distance, but he could swear Karl blushed.
“My good people,” the king said. “We’re down to the final moments of the tournament. Two warriors, each clearly blessed by the gods, will come together in a final battle. The winner will honor us all by taking his place in paradise. May the gods choose wisely.”
The king clapped his hands, and Hendrix didn’t hesitate. With a roar, he sprinted forward. Karl stood still, not even raising his sword.
Hendrix was only five steps away. Then four. Karl didn’t move.
“What the hell is he doing?” Gregory yelled.
“Showing these mountain douches a proper champion,” Aysa said.
Hendrix raised his sword high as if he was going to chop Karl in half, but right before the blow struck Karl stepped deftly to the side. He stuck out a boot and the large man sprawled forward, his momentum propelling him into the air. As the brute’s body passed, Karl spun with the speed of a druid and swatted his opponent’s broad arse with his sword.
Hendrix landed with a thud that Gregory swore he could feel in his seat. The fighter’s head crashed against the hardpacked dirt, knocking the man unconscious.
T
he whole mountain was silent as they stared in awe at the toppled warrior.
Karl looked up at the king and shrugged. “So... Did I win?”
****
Gregory clapped in rhythm with the townspeople as he stood between Hadley and Aysa, who were doing the same. The claps and cheers rose to a frenzy as they watched four men, each holding a rail of a massive litter, marching toward the king’s residence. In a chair on the deck of it sat Karl, with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, waving to the crowd and thoroughly enjoying his victory.
“Guess we’ll never live this down,” Aysa said.
They kept clapping and smiling and watching. Gregory responded through his grin, “I don’t think there’s a chance of that. I’m sure we’ll be hearing the glories of Karl’s victory for the rest of our journey.”
Hadley laughed. “For the first damn time, I’m kind of wishing for an early death.”
After the procession passed they fell in with the rest of the crowd, following the litter toward the king’s residence. Standing at the perimeter was a line of guards.
The common folk knew the rules, and tradition kept them in their place. Gregory, Hadley, and Aysa, however, wove their way through the throng toward the armed men.
“No farther than that,” one of the guards said, teeth gritted and fist clenched firmly on his club.
The man next to him jabbed his friend in the chest and said, “Dammit, they’re with the victor.”
The other man blushed. Looking down at his feet, he said, “Forgive me.” He stepped to the side and motioned toward the king’s house. “Welcome to the party.”
The three friends shot glances at each other and climbed the stairs. When they stepped inside they found that the great hall looked like the servants had been preparing for months, though they all knew that the display had been created just that day.
Grand chandeliers hung from the oak beams, with hundreds of candles lighting the room. Streamers and banners ran in every direction, and Karl’s portrait had somehow been painted in time for the celebration.
“How the hell did they do that?” Aysa asked.
