by E. C. Jarvis
“A person who has tamed a Rifarin and who possesses physical gifts, such as fast healing. They are ancient legend in Eptora, and in our stories, they were highly regarded. That you are a foreigner makes things a little more complicated. I am taking you to my sister. She will look you over and decide what to do with you.”
“Your sister?”
“The Empress.”
Larissa almost choked on a lump of ham. “Empress?”
“We’ll discuss it further tomorrow. Enjoy your food and get some rest. You may use the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?” Larissa looked around the room; there wasn’t a second bed and she doubted anyone with the title of Princess would willingly sleep on the floor. Had she known Elena was so important, she would have offered her the comfy desk foot well to sleep in on the pirate ship. She stifled a snort at the idea.
“There is a room beside this one. I only ask that you do not leave this room without my permission to do so. Though you are a guest here, the men on board this ship fear you and the creature at your side.”
Larissa looked around the room once more. She couldn’t see Imago anywhere.
“Believe me, your cat is with you, even if you can’t see him all the time.”
“I think I may need to read up on your ancient history.”
“Soon. Goodnight, Larissa.”
“Goodnight, Princess Elena.”
As the door closed behind Elena, Larissa sprang to her feet and turned out the lanterns around the room. She hadn’t spent a comfortable night in a bed in months and wasn’t sure she’d get another chance after this. She balanced the plate of food on her arm and carried the jug of water over to the bed, then settled them both down on the sheets as she kicked her boots off. Her feet smelled like death, but she didn’t care. Some distant part of her mind felt guilty for dragging her stinking, dirty body into such a pristine bed, but the mattress was so soft and inviting that the guilt was short-lived.
After scoffing the remainder of food—and receiving an instant bout of indigestion for doing so—she leaned back against the soft pillow. Her head sank into a dip and her eyes fluttered closed. Instead of falling into a blissful sleep, or seeing a blank plain of darkness, her vision was immediately assaulted by thoughts of her father. His heavy hand falling on her shoulder, possessive, yet unfamiliar. The truth of all the things for which he was responsible. How easily he could have just returned home, returned to the family, and her mother would have welcomed him with open arms. A tear escaped her closed eyes at the thought of all the things she’d missed out on, the hardships she’d been handed, and the people who’d lost their lives because of his maniacal plotting. It was as though the weight of all his failures now settled firmly on her shoulders, and she had no way of ever shaking it off.
Inevitably, her mind turned to Holt, and as soon as it did, she lost out to deep, unrestrained sobbing. She rolled over and buried her face into the soft, downy pillow, drenching it with hot tears which refused to subside. Her body shook violently with the strain of escaping emotions. Her head ached harder than if she’d been hit with an iron bar.
Hours passed filled with fitful sobbing and pitiful moans as she finally allowed the stress and strain of everything she’d experienced to escape into the soft cradle of the Eptoran Captain’s bed. Eventually, the cabin grew quiet and Larissa was temporarily released from her wretched grief by a deep slumber.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Holt awoke after the second night in the desert and cracked his jaw, finding a disgusting crunch between his teeth. Sand. He lifted his head, which had ended up planted face-down. A hot breeze caught at his hair, whipping it about atop his head. It took the rest of his body a few more moments to catch up to wakefulness—something which worried him. He was no stranger to testing the limits of his body physically, but it was rare to end up quite so desperately fatigued. If he managed to survive the travel through the desert, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d have enough energy left to fight anyone—if it came to that.
He pushed up on his hands and brought his knees up under his chest. His head felt dizzy at the new height and he had to take a moment to let it adjust. He reached for his pack and checked the canteen, only to find it completely devoid of water. The tracks in the sand were gone, replaced by gentle sweeping patterns along the flat plain of desert ahead. Even the dunes had reduced in size. He looked behind to find the same view in all directions, no sign of the volcano on the horizon, no markers to help. He wasn’t even sure he’d woken up in the same position in which he’d laid down. He’d made an effort to lay down with his head pointing in the direction he wanted to continue travelling, but that didn’t mean he’d lain still all night long.
He gave a sigh, collected his pack, and trudged onwards, knowing it wouldn’t be long before his body failed without access to water.
Hours passed. His steps slowed and breathing became laboured. His mind wandered to distracted thoughts—visions of his brother, pale and suffering before his death, plagued him over and over. Imaginary visions of Larissa trapped in the volcano, consumed by lava, jumped into the mix of harrowing thoughts. The memory of her strung up in the pirate airship, battered and abused, not by his hand but by his fault. He should have been quicker to rescue her. He should have given up on his stupid mission of vengeance and held onto her while she was still there and still willing to have him. He should have been less of a coward and admitted his affections for her. It was too late for all that now.
“Orother, Covelle, the President.” His voice, barely audible, whispered the names over and over. “I’m sorry, Larissa. I love you.”
A shimmering in the distance caught his eye. The horizon flickered with the promise of some sort of structure. He raised a hand to his forehead and squinted, though he was too far away to make sense of it yet. Holt grabbed the rifle from across his back and sucked in a determined breath. The promise of civilisation gave one part relief and two parts trepidation. Still, he managed to find the energy to pick up the pace, marching onwards, and resume his stoic mask.
The structure grew up from the sand as he moved closer. It was something manmade, akin to the familiar hub-like domes found in most Daltonian Cities. This was far smaller and appeared to be made up of thin metal struts surrounded by glass panels connected in a dome shape. What interested him most was the large expanse of water at the base, reflecting the blue sky in a mirror-like precision. Holt licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue. It seemed too easy to come across a lake of clear water when he was on the brink of dying from thirst. Even the sight of the strange, wheeled contraption in which he’d seen Covelle escaping parked beside the building didn’t thrill him as much as it should have. There was still the possibility of it being some delusional, brink-of-death mind trick.
He approached the structure with caution, ducking down low to the ground, though there was no cover nearby. The dome was constructed partially over the water and, despite being surrounded by glass, he couldn’t see inside. The panels reflected the horizon back at him. The sand underfoot thinned out, replaced by solider ground. Small shoots of grass poked through in places surrounding the water. He dropped to his stomach and crawled to the water’s edge, half eyeing the structure for any sign of movement. After sniffing the water to check for any unpleasant odour, he dipped a tentative hand into the cool liquid. Ripples parted across the otherwise still surface, growing larger as they moved farther across the expanse. He took his hand out and sniffed it again, then dipped it back in to scoop a handful up to his mouth. It tasted clear and cool and refreshing. In a moment of uncharacteristic relief, he let out a chuckle and dipped his head straight over the edge, plunging into the water.
As he emerged, he found himself feeling lightheaded and mildly hysterical. He had no idea if there was something in the water or if it was just some frenzied reaction to not dying in the desert—and he didn’t really care either way. He hooked his rifle across his back again, shifting his pack up higher, checked the structure one las
t time, then waded out into the water until he stood waist-deep in it. He dipped his canteen in, filling it to the brim, then immediately drank the entire thing, gulping it down. The cool liquid felt icy-cold as it travelled down his scorched gullet.
He filled it a second time, drinking more gulps and tipping the remainder over his face.
“Would you kindly stop drinking the water?” a feminine voice called from behind him.
Holt didn’t react. If he’d heard Larissa’s voice, he might have whirled around, but the accent was Eptoran and the tone unthreatening, and he seemed to have lost any sense of self-preservation. He stuck his canteen into the water and let it fill up for the third time, ignoring her.
“There are men here to kill you,” she continued, “but I’ve asked them not to shoot you while you stand in the lake. If you bleed in the water, it will further contaminate the supply.”
“That’s not much of an incentive to make me get out.” He glanced up at the glass structure as he took a small sip. A few faces reflected in the angled glass. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should be irritated at them for sneaking up on him so easily, but the emotion did not come through. At least three women glared daggers at the back of his head, and behind them stood four large men with rifles aimed at him.
“Perhaps we can negotiate,” the woman said.
“Fuck negotiations, I’ll go in and drag him out,” a male barked in a clear Daltonian baritone. The men seemed to have no issue with using the women as shields.
“No. No more contamination,” the woman screeched at him.
Holt calmly took another sip, mulling over the options. His would-be killers were carefully positioned behind the women. If he were in peak physical condition, he might manage to swing his rifle around, turn in the water, and drop the men without getting seriously injured. His head still felt foggy from the effects of days spent without water and it was unlikely the men would obey the pushy woman’s commands if Holt started shooting.
Though the woman had shown willingness to negotiate, he wasn’t a fool. Any promise she might give would hold no weight the moment he gave up his advantage.
The only option remaining was to get out and let them kill him. He chuckled again, taking another sip.
“Well? Come on, we haven’t got all day. We’ve got a shipment to prepare.”
Holt tucked the canteen into his pack, raised his hands above his head, then dove forwards. The water whooshed over his head and his legs kicked, pushing him down through the water. Muffled sounds of gunshot echoed from behind, and a bullet came whizzing past his shoulder as he stroked on. The shooting seemed to stop abruptly, but he didn’t dare stop to look back. The water was so crystal-clear and bright, he could see the dome building come into view up ahead and a large gap leading in through the water. He pressed forwards, lungs screaming for air, arms and legs protesting at the lack of food and water.
As soon as he’d passed through the gap, he kicked for the surface. Emerging with a gasp of air, he immediately scanned the inside. The glass panels had hidden the interior incredibly well. It was almost dark, the other side of the glass coated in some kind of darkened film, blocking out the sunlight. There was an enormous machine suspended over the water by an intricate network of metal mesh plates and walkways. The machine consisted of two large turbines partially submerged in the water, the turbine blades filed to a sharp point, glistening with the dim reflections of light from the water’s surface. A network of pipes protruded from the centre, disappearing off to different sections of the building.
Holt swam for the water’s edge and hauled himself onto a walkway, slipping behind a section of pipe. He reached for the rifle, only to pause and grimace as he realised it would be waterlogged and non-functional. Instead, he removed a pair of knives from his belt and stalked along the walkway. It didn’t take long before he heard voices up ahead—muffled muttering punctuated by the occasional expletive. He puffed a laugh through his nose at the ineptitude of his would-be attackers.
He scanned the structure above for a route to gain an advantage. Some of the pipes were coated in a black paint and thicker than tree trunks; others were the standard metallic grey and made of smaller sections with potential handholds. The upper levels consisted of thin metal crossbars connecting the glass panels together at various structural points. He balanced a knife between his teeth and began a stealthy ascent up a pipe. As he reached the top, where the pipe bent at ninety degrees, he paused, checking if his dripping-wet feet had left behind a trail. Some pipes appeared to have water leaks, the resulting trails of water providing useful masks to his own arrival.
He moved across the criss-crossing pipework towards the entrance to the room where the voices grew louder and dropped to his stomach, using the dim light for further advantage. Three women appeared first, followed by the men he’d seen outside.
“Do not shoot any of the equipment in here,” the lead woman barked. The man following her had one hand on her shoulder, effectively pushing her in front as a shield, a motion to which she seemed oblivious. The man bent over and scanned the water, aiming his weapon with his other hand. “If you cause any damage—”
“Shut your trap, woman. I’ll shoot whatever I have to, including you, to get my payment. Where did that fucker go?”
One of the men at the back with a large mop of red curly hair broke free from the other three and stalked between the pipes. He was the only one who made any effort to look up as well as down. That made him Holt’s first target. He crawled on his belly, the cool metal seeping through his wet shirt. Red Head came to a stop at the water’s edge, right where Holt had climbed out. Holt turned himself around and slid down the pipe, landing in a silent crouch as the man’s head tipped backwards to look up at the ceiling. Holt lunged forwards and jabbed the knife into the soft flesh at the nape of Red Head’s neck. The man’s arms lifted and flailed for a moment, but the cut was too deep. Holt laid the man down on his back and instantly noticed his biggest problem as the bright red blood gushed out, dripping between the gaps in the mesh walkway and tainting the water below.
He grabbed Red Head’s gun and quickly ascended the pipe again, crawling around on his stomach to see where the others had gone.
“Shit,” a male yelled from down below, “there’s blood in the water. Fucker killed Summers.”
Holt dropped his head down to stay out of sight as he heard hurried footsteps clanging on the walkway below. The sounds faded away towards the door, and he looked up to catch a glimpse of a pair of feet disappearing along the corridor out of the room. The solid metal door banged shut, echoing around the domed room, followed by clunks and scrapes which sounded like bolts and locks being thrown. He glanced back down to the water, which had taken on a distinct reddish tinge from the blood, and considered swimming back out again when another large clunk made his stomach churn, followed by the sound of an engine from behind the large turbines.
He dropped down to the walkway just as the pair of turbines turned, slowly at first, but it didn’t take long for them to pick up speed and create a current within the water.
The door was bolted shut, the water churning too quickly to swim out, and as the turbines entered some faster phase, drawing the air out of the dome and pulling him towards them, he desperately sought out the best plan to keep from being sucked in.
“Shit,” was the last word he could utter before the noise of the turbines consumed every other sound.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cid stared up at the dark wood ceiling inches from his head. His hammock bed swayed gently with the ship’s movement. The Eptoran military men had directed him to this hammock rather specifically, muffling laughs as they left him to climb inside. Now he realised the joke; the hammock was positioned right above an enormous cannon on the lowest gun deck. It was bloody awkward enough to get into and hung a little too low, so every movement meant his backside dragged along the cannon’s edge. Hours had passed, staring up at the ceiling, ignoring the burning sensati
on in the back of his neck telling him the soldiers nearby were watching, waiting for him to get out and complain. Bastards were probably waiting for an excuse to shoot him in the face. His ass burned from the constant rubbing and his older injuries gave relentless complaint. To top it all off, he really needed to pee but, stubborn as ever, he remained staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore it all.
“Where is my guest?” a familiar feminine voice called out. Cid’s shoulders tensed and he immediately tried to counterbalance the swinging hammock with his body, not wanting to draw her attention to his dangling, scraping backside.
“Up there, my Princess,” a soldier answered.
Still, Cid didn’t move; for some reason he felt he should pretend to be asleep, though there wasn’t any logic in that. He spent so long debating and analysing whether or not he should acknowledge having heard her, he didn’t notice when she climbed up onto the cannon and stuck her head into his hammock. He flinched, his arms leaping out to grip the hammock material and stop him from toppling straight out.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Elena said with half a smile.
“So it would seem.” He wrinkled his nose at managing yet another inane response. “My Princess,” he added awkwardly.
“Come.” Her face disappeared from view. Cid sighed and rolled himself out, torn between not hitting his head on the ceiling and not slipping down the round cannon barrel. He settled on concentrating on his feet and somehow managed to climb down with a modicum of grace. Elena headed up the staircase and he followed after, ignoring the icy glares from the soldiers.
She led him straight up on deck. A cool bite to the early morning air made him clutch his body. The sky was slowly growing light with pinkish sunrise hues. He looked out behind them and saw the pirate airship powered by the Anthonium engine still following behind. A rare and wry smile spread across his face; it was nice to put something together which actually worked.
