by Jaxon Reed
Pirates and Wizards
The Forlorn Dagger Book II
Jaxon Reed
Contents
Pirates and Wizards
Dedication
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
The End
Dramatis Personae
Pirates and Wizards
Jaxon Reed
The Forlorn Dagger Book II
Dedication
For George
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 Jaxon Reed
Cover art by JH Illustration, jeaninehenning.com
Published by edbok.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.jaxonreed.com
Prologue
Prince Dudge, second son of King Nudge of the Clan Ore, stared up high on the back wall of the crypts behind Ore Stad Cathedral.
There in a far corner near the top, all alone, he could faintly make out the inscription for a fresh entombment: “Barley, Son of Wort, Clan Nugget, 3157.”
Deep inside, anger and resentment for the location of Barley’s remains simmered within him.
He heard feet shuffling behind him. He turned and noted High Priest Nubby walking toward him in the gloom of the crypts, a candle lamp in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Gold-trimmed white robes enveloped the high priest, who stood short even among dwarves. His grey beard stretched almost to the floor.
Dudge bowed his head, greeting the high priest. Almost all dwarves honored and respected their spiritual leaders. Despite his status as a member of the ruling household, Dudge followed his father’s example and gave priests their proper respect, even though technically the royal household stood higher in the social order.
Such considerations were necessary, his father had told him. “If we dinna respec’ th’ priesthood, nobody else will. Th’ people follow th’ example o’ their leaders, Dudge. So, show ’em th’ way y’ wish ’em t’ behave an’ they will do likewise. Always honor an’ respect th’ priests.”
It had become an ingrained habit. And Dudge realized over the years that actions dictated feelings. After venerating the priests for so long, he felt genuine reverence toward them. Especially the old high priest.
Nubby also hailed from Clan Ore. Nubby’s grandfather and Dudge’s great-grandfather had been brothers.
Nubby pulled up alongside Dudge and paused to catch his breath, leaning on the staff. Then he looked up into the gloom, and held his candle lamp high so he could make out the fresh inscription on the wall far above them.
The space had been carved out of the mountain. Barley’s remains had been placed inside, then solid rock, expertly fitted with no cracks or crevices, sealed the tomb. Over time, Barley’s bones would disintegrate and join the mountain under which Ore Stad had been built.
Nubby said, “I ken wha’ yer thinkin’, Highness.”
Dudge remained silent, but the anger flared up inside him again.
“Aye, yer upset wi’ th’ Council fer goin’ agin’ yer wishes. An’ I kinna blame ye. Barley was a true hero o’ th’ realm, an’ at firs’ they refused t’ e’en consider buryin’ him here. But ye held firm, dinna ye lad? Yer arguments were convincin’. So, at las’ they agreed. But, they said t’ put him here in th’ back, far away fro’ more recent heroes, some o’ whom died lesser deaths.”
Dudge nodded. As usual, the old priest cut to the chase. Politics had indeed been involved with Barley’s funeral and place of interment. Politics were involved with everything in Ore Stad.
Like Nubby said, the Council at first refused to bury Barley in the Tomb of Honor. It had taken Dudge an entire day of arguing with them before they finally relented and agreed to his request.
The royal family always had a say in who got buried in the Tomb of Honor. But some members of the Council hinted, although nobody had been bold or crass enough to come right out and say it, that the King (or at least the Crown Prince) usually made those suggestions. Dudge was merely Nudge’s second son, and not so high in rank to normally hold the privilege of nominating a hero to the realm. Especially not for a battle initially fought without direct sanction from the Crown.
Dudge held down his anger and calmly answered all the Council’s concerns, deftly deflecting the veiled criticisms. The battle directly affected the realm, even though it was fought in a foreign land. There had been no time to gain preapproval from his father for fighting, only barely enough time to come back and ask for reinforcements. The opposing side faced a rogue wizard wielding the Starfallen Blade, one of Lok’s greatest weapons. The humans called it the Forlorn Dagger, but it was one and the same. Most of Lok’s weapons had disappeared following his death, but the Forlorn Dagger was the worse of the lot.
At the mention of Lok’s name, a majority on the Council came around to Dudge’s way of thinking. Barley was a dwarf who had fought against forces drawing on memories of legendary evil. Surely he deserved to be honored in death, a few suggested. Most were eventually swayed to that line of reasoning.
However, following another three and a half hours of debate amongst themselves, the Council decreed Barley’s remains would be interred in the newest addition to the Tomb of Honor. The one in the very back. The one far away from other heroes of the realm, like those who had died facing Lok. The one in the section least likely to be seen by visitors.
Barley’s family had not noticed or cared about the difference. They attended the funeral. Dudge held Barley’s crying widow, and gripped arms with his son Fret. Then the family returned home, oblivious to the political machinations churning back in Ore Stad.
Dudge burned in anger at the memory of it all. It seemed like a deliberate slight against the honorable dwarf he had fought beside, and all because Dudge was merely the king’s second son who had engaged in what was deemed to likely be a relatively inconsequential battle despite its association with Lok and his weapon.
Nubby raised a frail old arm, and placed it gently across Dudge’s shoulders. It distracted the prince from his dark thoughts. He looked down into the short old dwarf’s wizened eyes.
How old was Nubby? Dudge could not say. He knew the priest must be well into his sixth century.
“Dinna worry, lad. Th’ Council makes their decrees, an’ we follow ’em here in th’ cathedral’s crypt. But broad dictates be subject t’ finer details.
“Aye, Barley be buried in th’ back o’ th’ tomb, in th’ newest section. But I decided where t’ place ’im. Th’ upper left corners be th’ positions o’ highest honor. Mostly they be reserved fer kings or others who proved outstandin’ loyalty an’ offered exceptional service t’ th’ realm.
“I ken wha’ Barley did. And I ken th’ Council sought t’ belittle ’is recognition fer political reasons. But I honored ’im wi’ th’ greatest measure I could. As th’ centuries pass an’ more heroes be entombed here, Barley will always hold th’ highest position of honor in this place.”
Dudge’s eyes grew wide as he looked at the old priest, his anger dissipa
ting as he realized the significance of Nubby’s actions. Indeed, as the first interment in this newest section of the Tomb of Honor, Barley had been placed in the highest, most honorable position. And there he would stay, because almost certainly future priests would not dare to move the bones placed by a previous high priest, no matter what outside pressures they faced.
While the Council had meant to slight Dudge by dictating Barley be buried in the very back of the crypts, Nubby had turned things around and given the slain dwarf a much higher honor than he otherwise would have received.
“Thank ye, High Priest. I dinna ken wha’ t’ say.”
Nubby patted Dudge on the shoulders and smiled, causing his many wrinkles to scrunch up in a complex and comical pattern across his face.
“Y’ dinna ha’ t’ say anythin’, lad. I ken yer heart be in th’ righ’ place.”
1
Stin stumbled down steep wooden steps into the stables aboard Dream of the Isles, seeking in vain a motionless part of the ship.
In the center hold with the livestock, the ship moved the least. But it still moved. Up and down seemed bad enough. The other movements from the combination of wind and water tossing the vessel to one side at the top of a wave, then another at the bottom, were even worse. The constant motion played havoc with his inner ear.
He stumbled over to Horse’s stall, oblivious to the stench of manure and the cattle lowing in the dark from nearby pens.
Horse poked his head out and regarded his master. Since stealing him and liberating him from a life of drudgery on the streets, Horse seemed to emote a modicum of equine affection for the man before him.
Stin looked back at the creature, his face darkening, tinged with green. He leaned over the boards of Horse’s stall and puked out what little breakfast he had left.
He stayed bent over the railing, groaning softly, his stomach protesting the constant movement of the ship.
Horse snorted, annoyed at the putrid mess on the straw in his stall. Stin ignored him.
“Stin, are you down here?”
Horse’s ears twitched in the direction of the narrow stairs. Bellasondra’s slim figure gracefully glided down the steep steps, her skirt slightly pulled up to give her feet free reign. A budding romance had blossomed between the two, but Horse cared little for human drama that did not affect him personally.
Bellasondra said, “There you are! Oh my.”
She gently pulled Stin upright, then found a cloth in her skirt pocket and cleaned up his face.
“Come along. The ship’s healer has a cure for your seasickness.”
“Quarl, that old spellbinder?” Stin muttered weakly. But he let her guide him up and out of the livestock hold.
In the sunlight and sea breeze, the stench of manure blew away and Stin had to admit the top deck felt like a better place to be, although the higher level seemed to accentuate more of the vessel’s motion.
She said, “There he is!”
The healer approached wearing a traditional brown cassock, his hood shading sandy blonde hair and matching beard, neatly trimmed.
Together he and Bellasondra bustled Stin to the healer’s quarters near the rear of the ship. Stin groaned again as he realized they’d be leaving the relatively stable middle section.
A moment later they entered the healer’s room, Stin leaning heavily on Bellasondra.
Quarl pulled his hood off, revealing shoulder-length hair.
“Lay down on the table.”
Bellasondra helped Stin climb up on the table. He felt like puking again, but doubted anything remained in his belly to throw up.
“Help him get his tunic off, please.”
Bellasondra reached down to Stin’s waist and pulled the tunic over his neck. Stin felt too sick to be embarrassed about disrobing in front of her.
The healer opened a latched cupboard and selected a bottle. He repositioned the leather straps holding other bottles securely in place, relatched the cupboard, and returned to the table.
“Ground willow leaves,” he said by way of explanation.
“Oh! For pain,” Bellasondra said.
He nodded, handing her the bottle. “Hold this for a moment.”
Quarl retrieved a candle from a drawer, and carefully lit it from the room’s lantern, then walked back to the table shielding it with his hand so the flame wouldn’t blow out. He traded Bellasondra the candle for the bottle, uncorked it and sprinkled ground willow leaves into Stin’s exposed belly button.
Then he swapped with Bellasondra again, taking the candle in one hand and reaching down to Stin’s stomach with his other.
“This will hurt a bit.”
The healer squeezed Stin’s belly button shut using his thumb and forefinger, then tilted the candle and dripped several drops of wax.
Stin yelled.
“What the . . .”
“Don’t move. Let it harden. We want a good seal in place.”
Stin glanced up at Quarl with a look of incredulity. He said, “How does sealing ground willow leaves in my belly button help with seasickness?”
The healer cracked a smile and gave a modest shrug.
“Truthfully, I don’t know. I only know it works. I learned it from the old man whose place I took. I apprenticed under him for three voyages, and this was his time-honored cure for chronic seasickness.”
Stin looked down at the quickly drying blob of wax over his navel and furrowed his eyebrows.
Bellasondra reached out and gently touched his shoulder. She said, “How are you feeling?”
He looked up at her and his eyes grew wider. The green drained from his face.
“Honestly, that’s a crazy cure . . . but it seems to be working. I do feel better.”
“Sail ho!”
All three looked at each other, eyebrows raising at the shout. A burst of activity out on the deck followed as sailors raced to catch a look.
Stin said, “That sounded like Kirt.”
Bellasondra nodded. “He’s joined the other boys. They spend time up in the rigging as lookouts.”
The healer blew out the candle, and replaced his bottle in the cabinet. He said, “You’ll lose him to the sea, Stin. Some boys take to life on a ship like . . . like a duck to water.”
He smiled and shrugged apologetically at the platitude.
Bartimo, Bellasondra’s twin, popped his head in the door. His high cheek bones and striking features matched his sister’s. Light brown hair and olive skin marked them as natives of the Ageless Isles.
“The captain says it might be pirates. ‘All hands on deck,’ he said.”
Stin, Bellasondra, and Quarl followed Bartimo out and crowded along the rail with everybody else. In the distance, a speck on the water drew steadily closer.
Quarl said, to no one in particular, “What flag is she flying?”
“If it be pirates,” a grizzled old sailor muttered, “They won’t show the black flag of Corsairs Cove until they be right upon us.”
Several others nodded. A few mumbled, “Aye.”
“The new boy has sharp eyes,” the old timer continued. “Reckon he’ll spy the flag soon enough.”
Stin and Bellasondra exchanged glances. He furrowed his brows and said, “The new boy?”
Bellasondra smiled. She said, “He’s fitting in well.”
“Well, I hope he doesn’t get used to it. As soon as we get to Refugio he’ll go back on land with the rest of us.”
Kirt’s voice floated down from above. “Flying the colors of Coral!”
Several men glanced up to the top of the sails where Kirt and four other boys clung precariously to ropes, shading their eyes, looking out over the water.
Bellasondra and Stin exchanged glances again. She smiled. He frowned.
“Eyes like a hawk on that one,” the old sailor said. Several around him murmured agreement.
An hour passed before everyone else could make out the orange-red flag on the ship. The captain came out and stared at it a while, short white h
air and long white beard fluttering in the breeze. He turned to the first mate, a tall and thin man with a deep tan.
“What do you think, Mattero?”
The first mate shrugged and said, “Flying the colors of Coral under false pretenses is punishable by death, Captain Frond. I doubt they’re insincere.”
“I don’t like it, Cap’n,” someone said.
Both men looked toward the older sailor, the one who’d sung Kirt’s praises earlier. Frond smiled at the man. Stin suspected he was used to the cantankerous old sea salt speaking his mind.
“Why not, Denn?”
“It don’t feel right. A ship this far out? And we be two days from port. It’s pirate waters, this direct route. Nothing but five days of sea between Coral City and Refugio. Nothing but water and pirates. Corsairs Cove is nay but a few hunnert miles from here, as the gull flies.”
The first mate shrugged. Defending his earlier assertion, he said, “The Ageless Isles belong to Coral. They have as much right to these waters as we do. If we’re going to find another ship out here, it would make sense she sailed under a Coral flag.”
Several men nodded, although some more reluctantly than others. The war in which Coral defeated the archipelago had been fought decades ago, before any of them were born. But it still rankled many natives of the islands, despite the passing of time.
Denn pressed his point. “Aye, but they ne’er do wander these waters unless they’re grabbing more taxes or making an official visit. And why is this ship headed straight toward us? I tell ye, Cap’n, somethin’ don’t feel right about it.”
