by J. C. Staudt
The ketch slid effortlessly downstream, unable to stop. The polemen heaved, and the barge advanced until it was directly in the ketch’s path. Its prow grew until it was all Maaltred could see. When the bowsprit split the sky above his head, he closed his eyes and braced for impact. The polemen gave one final shove, and the barge slipped past the keel with inches to spare.
It was too soon for celebration, though. The barge bumped its corner on the ketch’s hull and lurched, drawing a cry from the passengers as it threw them sideways and sent an unfortunate poleman overboard. He submerged and reappeared downstream a few moments later.
The guide rope caught the ketch’s forestays, then its mast. The three remaining polemen pushed toward the far shore as fast as they could, but now the ketch held the guide line in its grip, and it wasn’t stopping. As the rope stretched to its furthest point of tension, the ketch slowed for the briefest of moments.
“Gods… it’s not going to hold,” someone shouted.
The post tore loose from the far riverbank as though spat out by the earth itself. The cranking mechanism burst to pieces. The rope whipped free of its supports, carrying a thick cylinder of wood on its end, and splashed into the river.
The barge, now clear of the sailing ketch, drifted free of its tether. Passengers screamed anew as the rapids swept them downstream toward a set of shallow rapids. Two of the remaining polemen leapt overboard, leaving the head ferryman to steer the craft on his own.
“Curse you bloody priests,” he shouted. “Curse the both of you.”
A dip in the stream sent the passengers bobbing side to side and threw the ferryman off-balance. He let out a pitiful yelp as he lost his push pole and dropped overboard. The barge was now wholly without guidance and subject to the river’s whims.
Norne raised a hand and began to chant, but there was no time for a spell. The barge tipped into the cluster of rapids and struck a huge stone, knifing the riverbed hard enough to sling half the passengers overboard. Whitewater surged over the side to engulf those who managed to hold on.
Maaltred felt his feet leave the deck. Then he was underwater, floundering and unable to discern up from down. The rapids spat him into a deep pool where he was finally able to right himself and surface for air. Pieces of the barge were floating around him, half-barrels and wooden planks and hempen ties. Other passengers surfaced nearby and clambered onto the banks.
He paddled to shore and dragged himself through a stand of rushes to collapse on a muddy hillside, dripping wet and breathless. He hadn’t lost his pack, thank Yannui. The sphere, he remembered with alarm, and slipped off one strap to check inside.
It was there, dark clouds churning within its depths as always. Droplets of water freckled the glass and shone against the bleak sky. You’re responsible for all this, you accursed thing. You brought the overgrowth, the choppy seas, the sandstorms, the river rapids. This is all your fault. Maaltred caught himself, realizing he was speaking to an object incapable of reply.
It occurred to him that the sphere itself wasn’t to blame. He was the one who’d wrought the thing. He was at fault for everything that had happened. Yet if he hadn’t been the one to answer the king’s summons, who would’ve? A lesser glassblower, no doubt. He shuddered to think of what the spheres might’ve done to the world if they’d been crafted without his expertise.
Further down the shoreline, Vicar Norne flopped onto the bank, gasping like a fish. He coughed and spat water, then lay on his side, breathing heavily. Maaltred put away the sphere and rushed over to help.
He checked the vicar’s arms and legs for injury, and was relieved to find none. “I can’t believe that just happened. It feels… surreal, somehow. Every time we go near water, it threatens to destroy us.”
Norne slipped off his satchel and rolled onto his back. “I can’t believe I just lost my entire coin purse. Everything I had was in that purse. Sullimas would’ve advised we practice patience. He would’ve suggested we find a boat to take us across the river. It would’ve been safer. It was pretentious of me to believe I could bring us to the other side despite the dangers. Yannui is surely displeased with us.”
Maaltred gawked in disbelief. “When, since the very beginning of this venture, might Yannui have taken any sort of pleasure in what we’re doing? We’re the king’s henchmen, don’t you see? If ever there were a pair of men destined to go down as footprints in the mud of history, it’s us. We’re nothing but abettors to Olyvard’s atrocities, to be discarded and forgotten once we’ve exhausted our usefulness to him.”
Norne sat up on his elbows and gave Maaltred a sobering look. “You’re wrong. And I’ll thank you not to blaspheme the name of the king. As his priests, we must do nothing for vanity or greed or glory. We are to act as stewards of the power granted us by the almighty will of the goddess. We—”
“Will you shut up about the goddess for one moment and listen to me? It’s time we started making decisions for ourselves. Time we acted according to what we see with our eyes instead of accepting mystical signs and omens as interpretations of what we’re supposed to do.”
“To walk without faith is to cross the threshold of madness, Brother Maaltred. If your faith is weak, I suggest you find a place of peace within yourself. Our destiny awaits us, if only you’ll—”
“Here,” Maaltred said. “Here you go.” He threw down his pack and wrenched it open, removing the ironglass sphere and dropping it on the bank beside Norne.
When it rolled downhill toward the water, Norne caught it with his foot and scooped it up. “How could you be so careless?” he said, glancing around.
“I’ll tell you how. Because I’m done being scared of the king. I only came with you because I feared what would happen to me if I didn’t. I’m no Warpriest. I’m not even religious, for heaven’s sake. I’m a glassblower. I’ve forged the king’s weapons for him. That was all I ever intended to do. He can have me hunted down if he likes; I’m sure he’ll have plenty of time to worry about me while he’s ruling his bloody empire. I’ve grown weary of this burden. It’s turned me into someone I don’t much like. It’s yours to carry now. Bear it well.”
“Maaltred. Brother Maaltred. Don’t do this. Come back. You’re sounding madder than ever right now. I command you to return this instant…”
Norne’s voice faded into the distance as Maaltred made his way, boots squelching, across the fields toward the road leading to the city gates. He couldn’t put his finger on what had set him off; he only knew he didn’t care anymore. Not about the girls, or the king’s mission, or the war, or any of it. He wanted to get as far away from the sphere as possible. If he had to spend his last coin on a horse or a guide or a mapmaker, or all three, so be it.
It wasn’t long before he could hear Norne rushing through the grass behind him. “Wait. Wait for me. Brother Maaltred. Please.”
Maaltred whirled. “What?”
Norne was holding the sphere under his arm. “I can’t go on alone. I need you.”
“Why? Because you gambled away your last coin?”
Norne hesitated. “Well… yes. That’s part of it.”
“And the other part?”
“I can’t be… how shall I say this? Tainted.”
“By what?”
Norne looked down at the sphere.
Maaltred was confused. Then it dawned on him. “You mean to tell me the sphere is—”
“Yes,” said Norne, with a solemn nod.
“So that’s why the king bade me carry it. Not because I’m its creator. Because its power is too vile to risk on anyone important.”
“The spheres offer great capability to their wielders. Yet they also debilitate. Their prolonged use stains the mind. Geddle’s journals foretold as much. His rituals had a degenerative effect on anyone exposed to them over long periods of time.”
“I’ve been wondering why I can’t stop seeing the storms in my head. Why I feel the need to watch them all the time. I’ve forgotten the faces of my wife and niece, a
nd when I close my eyes I see the sphere instead. Do you know what this means? Sullimas lied to me. He lied to me from the outset. So did you, and so did the king.”
Norne averted his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Maaltred. “I am. Good luck with your sphere.”
“Wait. Please, Brother Maaltred. I’ve nothing left. I’ll carry the sphere, if you like. But I beg of you… don’t leave me here alone with nothing.”
Chapter 16
Two corsairs in Ralthian orange sat on the Cove Runner’s gunnel with their legs hanging over the side, speaking in dour tones as they passed a brown glass bottle back and forth between them. A crescent moon peered out from behind shreds of wispy cloud, casting the deck of the single-masted cutter in muted blue. From her hiding place on the docks behind a stack of wooden crates, Alynor caught sight of a third soldier in plumed white shirtsleeves. He discarded his orange overcoat on the boat’s railing, then lifted himself onto the boat’s companionway roof to lay beneath the stars with his fingers laced behind his head.
Alynor’s heart was thudding in her ears, the hilt of her sword slick in her palm. She watched Kestrel dart across the pier and climb one of the mooring lines, still nimble as ever. He swung onto the deck and crept up behind the companionway where the soldier was dozing, then leaned out for a glimpse at the other two. They were facing the open sea, their backs toward him. All he needed to do was approach without being detected and push them overboard.
This is going to be easier than I expected, Alynor thought, too soon. Just as Kestrel was about to make his run, the hatch opened and four more carousing corsairs piled up from belowdecks. Kestrel ducked behind the companionway and drew his short blades as the soldiers dispersed, unaware of his presence.
When none rounded the corner where he was hiding, he sheathed his swords and lifted the gangplank off its hooks on the wall behind him. Checking over his shoulder, he tiptoed to the shipside and slid the gangplank over the gunnel. Axli was waiting on the pier to take the other end. She lowered it to the dock and scurried up, drawing her bludgeons along the way.
That was when the corsair atop the companionway noticed them. He sat upright and called out to his fellows, then rolled away from the two intruders and flung himself off the far side of the structure. The others drew their sabres and scrambled to respond, though half were drunk and the other half were close enough.
Two corsairs barreled across the deck toward Kestrel side by side. He yanked a sword from his scabbard to knock away the first blow, then drew the other sword and parried a downward cut from the second. He kicked the first man in the knee and drove his pommel into the face of the second to send him reeling.
Axli took on the main group, smacking and buffeting the corsairs across faces and knees and fingers to disarm and disable them. Alynor had always been impressed with how well Axli could fight for a peasant girl. There was a fierceness about her, yet her form was poised and deliberate.
The corsair who’d removed his orange overcoat slinked around behind the companionway and charged Kestrel from behind. Alynor nearly called out to warn him, but she bit her tongue, knowing better than to give away her position too soon. There was a plan in place, and her part was yet to be played.
The corsair’s sword flicked out. An arrow flew from the darkness and pinned his shirtsleeve to the companionway, stopping him before his blade could reach Kestrel. The singer spun and whipped the corsair across the temple with the flat of his blade. The corsair’s head snapped back, and he fell limp with his sleeve still affixed to the sidewall.
Kestrel offered a wave of thanks to the darkness from whence the arrow had come. A corsair came at him from the other direction, but a second arrow pierced the deck in front of his boot and tripped him. Kestrel stepped aside to let the corsair fall, then gave the darkness a stiff salute.
Axli had immobilized a handful of corsairs and was now locked in a bitter duel with one of their more skilled swordsmen, fending off his thrusts but unable to connect with her clubs. Triolyn’s third arrow punched the bludgeon out of Axli’s left hand and struck the corsair on the head with it. He stumbled backward, giving Axli an opening to sweep his legs out from under him.
Alynor turned from the ship to see a gaggle of Ralthian soldiers running down the street toward the docks. She cast a spell, hoping against hope to awaken the mage-song despite its weakened state. Her hopes faded when the spell flickered and died on her fingers.
As the mob of soldiers drew near, Darion stepped out from his hiding place and stood in their path with sword in hand. Draithon fled the low stone wall he’d been hiding behind and raced toward the ship’s gangplank with Lund strapped to his back and Lupin slung afront. Kestrel and Axli began tossing the corsairs overboard.
It was time. Alynor unhooked the first mooring line from its bollard, then moved to the second, passing the gangplank on her way to the third. Darion attempted to cast a spell, but it failed as Alynor’s had. He stood at the entrance to the pier with only his sword to hold off a dozen Ralthians.
“Leave off, Darion. We’re going,” Alynor called, even as the third mooring line stuck fast in her hands. She grunted with the effort, but the rope wouldn’t budge.
The Cove Runner was already drifting away from the dock, so she ran to the fourth and final bollard and unwound the line. At the clatter of steel, she looked up to find Darion in a sea of Ralthian orange. Either he hadn’t heard her, or he was trying to buy her more time.
Draithon hurried up the gangplank with the boys while Kestrel and Axli prepared the sails to catch a backwind. Despite the chaos of the moment, Alynor was proud of them for taking so well to the limited sailing instruction she’d been able to give them ahead of time. As she returned to the stubborn third mooring line and tried to wrench it free where the knot refused to give, she heard a man scream in anguish. His scream echoed down the gravel streets and put a chill in her bones. She turned to look.
Darion was fighting the Ralthians, but something was wrong. The men who lay around him were not moaning of their bumps and bruises and knocks to the head. The pier was dark and wet in the moonlight, the orange overcoats of the corsairs stained, their cries desperate. Darion wasn’t fending them off as he’d always done before whenever a king’s soldiers stood in his way.
He was killing them.
She saw her husband’s blade sink through a man’s center and emerge with a crunch and a spill of blood. Darion shoved him away and withdrew the wet steel to hack another man’s forearm nearly in two. The last few corsairs, seeing their cohorts felled before them, broke and fled.
Darion came over, his face and clothing spattered, his eyes wild and terrible. “Get on the ship.”
Alynor didn’t argue. She wobbled up the gangplank, knees threatening to buckle beneath her, and turned back to watch Darion hack at the stuck mooring line until the rope was red and frayed.
When it gave way, he sheathed his blade and took the rope in hand. He rounded to the prow and gave the Cove Runner a long and powerful push. Then he leapt off the pier and swung over the water, stopping himself against the hull with his boots. He walked up the side and clambered over the gunnel, passing Alynor and Draithon both on his way to help with the rigging.
Just like that they were away, drifting toward the open sea as the night deepened around them. The wind caught the sails, and Kestrel took the wheel while Alynor helped Darion and Axli with the rigging. It wasn’t until Atolai’s lantern-lit streets were a mere glimmer in the distance that Alynor realized they’d forgotten someone. She waited for Darion to finish his adjustments before asking the burning question on her mind. “What about Triolyn?”
Darion’s look was dour. “He didn’t want me to tell you—”
“He isn’t coming.”
Darion shook his head.
“Why would he abandon us?” Draithon asked.
“He has his reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Master Triolyn is his own man. Always has be
en. He takes little enjoyment in ocean travel, as we’ve all recently come to witness. Our voyage on the Trident’s Grace was the first time he’d ever been at sea, much to my surprise, and he wasn’t ready for another go.”
“Sailing is wonderful,” said Draithon. “It’s elegant and adventurous and lively.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it. You’re like your mother in that way. I’ve had my good and bad times with it, personally.”
“Master Triolyn can’t stay on the island forever. Can he?”
“I don’t think he will.”
“He’s tougher than that. He could’ve managed.”
“It was about more than the sea, Draithon. Much more. He wanted to make sure we weren’t followed, for one. I doubt we will be, but he wanted to be certain. There was also the matter of Halbrid…”
“Reminding him of his father?”
“You know how Triolyn’s always felt about standing up for the oppressed. He could scarce do better than to stay and help Halbrid defend his island kingdom from the Dathiri.”
“That surly old bastard saved my skin,” Kestrel called from his place at the ship’s wheel, “and I never got to thank him.”
“I wish I could say you’ll get the chance to.” Darion swayed on his feet and fell against the mainmast. A drop of blood splashed to the deck beneath his left arm.
Alynor moved to support him. “Gods, Darion. You’re cut. Here, sit down.”
She lowered him to the deck and pulled back the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a deep slash across his upper arm.
“There was a time when I might’ve dispatched with the lot of them, never taking a scratch, never harming them beyond passing injury.”
“I remember that time,” she said.
“Alas, I grow old, and the mage-song has forsaken us.”
“Darion, you once claimed you couldn’t fault a soldier for serving his king. For carrying out his duties. What’s become of your sense of mercy?”
