Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  The breeze was stiff but the surf was little more than a lover’s kiss on the hull. The fresh sea air flooded her lungs and she steadied herself. Neenahwi’s hand went to her pendant and she could have sworn it pulsed in her grip. Releasing her hold, she noticed the blood that still wept from the wound; the needle on the pendant’s rear had continued to scratch at her flesh, the constant sting of the irritation forgotten. She’d gotten angry with Crews, and in truth, she hadn’t really meant to. It was the demon stone. It seems that with great power, comes the ability to get really pissed off.

  Calls for full sails chained through the sailors on duty and The Drake overtook the other ships of Crews’ small fleet to take the lead. He was new to the admiral job, and though she was beginning to admire his bravery, she would have to talk with Mareth about getting him to hold the rear in the future—they didn’t need to lose another admiral who felt he had something to prove.

  The distance closed quickly, little more than half an hour before the Pyrfew fleet became visible as independent ships. The ships sailed in groups of four, in what appeared to be a fairly tight formation. A larger ship such as the one they fought earlier that day, with the smaller ships flanking and one at point. All except for one group of three smaller ships that was missing its big sister—surely the broken ship they had left behind.

  “Prepare arms!” came the call from Woodell, Crews’ first lieutenant. Marines scurried on deck from their resting places—weapons sharpened, naps taken, or prayers given; she did not know. But this was a well drilled lot. She watched with interest as teams assembled around each of the ballistae, turning the repeating crank to test the mechanism and confirm they had a full complement of armaments.

  The Pyrfew ships were less than a mile away now and the whole crew was holding its breath. All except Woodell, who shouted words of encouragement or admonishment. The silence would be gone soon. The Edland ships came alongside each other, matching speed, heading face-on toward the arrow formations of the Pyrfew fleet.

  Half a mile. She could see the ships clearly now. The smaller vessels looked odd—even to her now that she thought about it—quite unlike the scouting ships of Edland. But before she could give it further thought, Woodell called out again.

  “Forty-five degrees to port! Line them up!”

  The Drake listed as the wheel turned and the sails were set. Neenahwi looked behind to see the other four Edland vessels match course and speed, falling into procession behind them. Ships of the line against their wedge formation.

  The turn sent them toward the most northerly of the group of ships. Whether this tactic took their opponents by surprise or not she couldn’t say, as they did not change their course. They were close now. She could see the smaller ship at the head of the formation clearer now. Its deck was completely clear and glinted in the sunlight; metal sheets? Oars appeared from their holes in the side of the smaller ships and dipped into the white-flecked sea in unison, propelling them forward. All the smaller ships had matching figureheads; something reptilian.

  Were these small ships going to ram them? They were so small they wouldn’t be able to do anything. So what was going on? It was not like Pyrfew troops to blindly rush to death.

  Neenahwi descended from the fore-castle, taking the steps two at a time as she hurried to make her way to Crews, when Woodell called the distance to fire.

  “Shoot on the lead. Ready, aim, now!”

  Thwum. Thwum.

  The silence ended and the chaos began. The steady sound of the ballistae repeating their action. The cranking of the iron cogs and gears. Men and women calling out to each other to adjust the aim. All this filled the air and Neenahwi couldn’t help but find herself drawn to the railing as a moth to a bonfire, eager to see their work.

  The results were mixed. Some of the initial volley stood out from the wood of the lead ship like whiskers on a teenager’s chin, but more skittered off the armored deck to fly uselessly into the sea. Shit! These ships have a shell.

  “Mast!” went the call from Woodell, perhaps desperate for an effective target. The withering volley concentrated on the single mast of the lead ship. It was a tough shot with two moving vessels and the constant shifting of the ballista under its repeating action, so most missed the mark. But one hit the target, splitting it a third of the way up. And then another struck, bringing the square-sailed rigging down onto the deck. But the ship did not stop. The oars beat a steady rhythm. It did not change course.

  A great rattle of wood and metal, ropes and pulleys, were audible across the sea. Neenahwi watched in trepidation as huge stones fired into the air from the larger ship of each group. She had not rebuilt her defenses, so mesmerized was she with the action all around her. She closed her eyes and fractured her mind, once and then again. One aspect of her consciousness pulled on a thin thread of raw power from the demon stone and weaved it once more into a shield in front of her, the hardened air pushing aside marines standing by her side. The other aspect of Neenahwi remained waiting, alert—she needed to be ready.

  The rock sailed through the air serenely, growing larger and larger. It was falling too close to The Drake, it might even hit it and she didn’t want to risk that. The other aspect of Neenahwi pulled another thread from the demon stone—she could feel it calling out to her, wanting to take more—and formed it into a thrust of counter force enough to disrupt the boulder’s course; it splashed into the sea. But one of the other ships of the line was not so lucky. She heard the screams as the rock plowed through people and wood.

  Neenahwi hurried up to the aft castle, pushing aside the crew and marines alike with her shield to clear a path. She had to find Crews.

  The Drake, as first ship of the line, was now past the first armored Pyrfew ship, and the ballistae could not swivel far enough to fire at the ship in its wake. The Orca opened fire on the lead armored ship to little effect, and now its two similarly-built companions were closing as well.

  “Crews!” she called.

  He didn’t turn to face her and his profile betrayed little apparent concern. Crews surveyed the emerald-green battleground through his looking glass. “They mean to harry us with the small ships. Skirmishers. And then pick us off with their catapults. These are old tactics…”

  The lead Pyrfew ship quickly closed on The Orca, its oars tearing up the waves in time to a muffled drum beat. The ship’s low design made it impossible for the ballistae to fire down at it as it came close. Its oars picked up speed and there was a shuddering smash as it hit the larger Edland ship on the starboard side. Without missing a beat, the marines on board dropped ropes and scurried down to the metal-coated deck slippery with sea spray, crossbows slung across their backs, looking for signs of people or their egress. Neenahwi grabbed the spy glass from Crews fist without so much as a murmur of apology. Looking through it she saw the looks of confusion on the faces of the marines. There was neither door nor defender. Crews calmly took another spy glass from his pocket and matched Neenahwi’s focus.

  The second group of Pyrfew ships was nearing the third ship of the line. The other two armored ships of the first group had now closed with The Orca as well, turning to avoid collision. Their line was being swarmed by the smaller armored ships; it looked to Neenahwi like a family of turtles nipping at the heels of the bigger ships.

  Turtles? No. Surely not…

  “Turn us around, Crews! We have to help them.”

  The flag girl looked to her Admiral to see if he would give her new instructions. But Crews had another mind. “No. Belay that order. We stick to the line!” Neenahwi muttered a curse at the man’s pig-headedness. Crews’ belief in Edland’s naval superiority was clouding his judgement.

  The Orca tried a different tactic against the turtles dragging along at its sides. Small objects arced through the air, thrown by hand, to hit the surface of the armored ships. Fire arrows followed quickly after. The surface of the deck burst into flame. Pitch bombs, bringer of fire and chaos to any normal ships. But metal armor did
not burn.

  And the Edland ship was not the only one with fire.

  Neenahwi watched in horror, her stomach sinking, as the reptilian figureheads of the two pursuing ships opened. Great spouts of fire erupted, shooting across the twenty feet of sea separating them from The Orca.

  The flames hit the side of the Edland ship like a torrent, churning and tumbling upwards and across the hull. The fire spilled over the deck of the ship and sailors ignited like human candles. Neenahwi’s knuckles were white as she gripped the spy glass, scanning to see what was happening. Some of the sailors leapt into the burning sea, others ran around wildly. The flames did not stop coming; the tempo of the Pyrfew ships’ oars increased to bring the draco-turtle ships either side of The Orca. The fire-spewing spouts turned to bathe the ship completely, streams of flame flicking from side to side like a drunk trying to piss straight.

  “What is this?” gasped Crews, removing the looking glass from his eye, staring slack-jawed at the devastation behind him. More flame erupted in the bright, crisp afternoon. The third ship of the line, The Falcon, under similar attack. Neenahwi stared at him, momentarily at a loss as much as he was. Admiral Crews was the first to snap out of it. “Come about!” he hollered. “Signal the rear to disengage!”

  “Get me close!” called Neenahwi, her mind racing, the anger building inside her. The demon stone throbbed against her chest. So, Pyrfew has some secret weapons, eh? Well Llewdon, we’ve got something you weren’t expecting either.

  The Drake lurched as it turned. The crew scrambled to adjust sails and not stall. Marines stood still at their posts. Good training or fear? She’d give them the benefit of the doubt today. Watching your friends on The Orca be consumed by fire was not something they would see every day. She was sure they would shed a tear for their fallen comrades while at the same time saying a quiet prayer to Atarah that it wasn’t them. The turtle ships scoured the tall wooden sides of the ship. Flames licking up and onto the deck. Ropes lit up in a blaze; small, dancing fires raced up to catch hold of the sails.

  The Orca was fucked. Another mark against you, Llewdon.

  The Drake completed its turn, coming about with the stricken Edland ships between it and the larger Pyrfew ships that had resumed their onslaught of catapulted rocks. Neenahwi rushed down the main deck screaming obscenities to clear her some space at the railing. She gripped the demon stone pendant in her left hand and squeezed hard. The needle sunk into her flesh. It felt like the sharp metal squirmed, gouging a hole in the palm of her hand. Blood dripped down her wrist.

  She focused on her right hand. All of the anger, all of the power from the stone, she brought into herself and weaved into a tight ball of heat and hate. She would never have been able to do this without the stone. Here at sea there was no mana for her to draw on. Her own life force would have been spent like sparked tinder. But with the pendant and the hard-won little red rock set in it by her father, she was powerful.

  Neenahwi flung the fiery ball at the turtle’s side, another aspect of her mind carrying the ball of energy straight and true where her arm would never have been enough. Though no smaller than her fist, the ball exploded satisfyingly on contact with the hull, the rear quarter of the starboard side blown to pieces in a shower of splinters. Oarsmen, little more than chum after the explosion of wood and metal, fell from the rent into the water.

  “Aim for that hole!” called a voice. Woodell. Thankfully he had been paying attention and the ballista crews resumed their firing with glee to have such a vulnerable target. Bolts ripped through the breach in the hull, screams audible from the oarsmen inside. Other bolts smashed into the hull which broke off in long planks now that the turtle’s shell had been cracked open.

  “Set course between The Orca and The Falcon!” came a call from the rear. Neenahwi looked up to see Crews staring down at her, a steely look in his eyes. He nodded his respect at the display of her talents. She shrugged off the unwelcome attention and squared her shoulders, raising her chin to look down at her destruction. She was not just a fucking scout. She was the daughter of Jyuth. She was a Wolfclaw!

  The Drake split the distance between the two listing, blazing bonfires of the Edland first-class ships. At least this would give her more chance to even the tally.

  Neenahwi focused on drawing another ball of energy as she calmly made her way across deck, people scattering to get out of her way or pushed aside forcefully by the shield that still surrounded her. A turtle ship was pouring fire on The Falcon and she could see straight down its reptilian figurehead.

  The fiery ball flew out of her hand. Her attention guiding the missile—Neenahwi almost one with the ball—until it smashed into the carved reptilian neck.

  There was silence for a fraction of a second, the air and all sound sucked into the impact. And then Neenahwi and her crew mates were reeling from the deep boom of the explosion. She blinked. The turtle ship was gone. Burning debris rained down on the waves from a greasy black cloud.

  Chapter 2

  Scouting

  “Have I ever told you that I don’t particularly like the great outdoors?” grumbled Trypp.

  “I think you might have mentioned it a few times over the years. Which is a shame because you’re so good at sneaking around,” countered Florian.

  Motega raised his hand for his friends to be quiet. Sound traveled strangely in these woods. You might think you’re alone, but a conversation could carry half a mile to the wrong people. They all needed to be good at sneaking right now. This was Pyrfew territory. Aye, the northern reaches of it, but still dangerous. They’d been tromping back and forth across the ambiguous border between Edland and Pyrfew for the past four weeks, searching for signs of what their expansion-minded neighbor was up to.

  So far, all signs had pointed to them not being good neighbors—more like the kind that would move your fence in the dead of night. Which was not surprising, given their history of conquest, slaughter, and child abduction. Motega and his friends had discovered two new keeps close to the border; wooden constructions, quick things to knock up with enough men. And there sure were plenty of soldiers around.

  “I can’t wait to get back to Redpool,” Trypp whispered to Florian, unable to stop talking. “It’s been weeks. I need alleyways. Roads. Marlth, I could do with a beer.” He paused and looked up wistfully. “A bit of action. I miss Sharavin…”

  “I bet you do,” chuckled Florian.

  “Shhh,” said Motega. Something was wrong with Trypp. Normally he was the consummate professional while on the job, silent and undetectable, but this little adventure was making him antsy. They’d been in the wilderness plenty of times before—various jobs to retrieve something from a tomb or help a village with monsters, the usual stuff—but this was different. Even Motega had to agree that in some ways this reconnaissance mission that Florian had volunteered them for was exhausting. You needed to be constantly on alert. Always focused. So far, they hadn’t gotten into any entanglements with Pyrfew soldiers. They needed to keep it that way.

  Once his friend was quiet, Motega could hear a faint rhythmic thud. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was his blood pumping in his ears. But it stopped for a few moments before resuming once more. Sounded like chopping wood. Motega had scouted ahead earlier that morning, using Per’s eyes to fly above the forest canopy. In these northern reaches of Pyrfew territory forest met hills, nature met civilization, with the trees giving way abruptly to pastures. Motega knew they were heading for a place along the border where the forest had been thoroughly stripped away. They’d be more exposed and that made him nervous.

  Motega turned to face his friends. He cupped his ear. He mimed the swing of an axe with his index finger. Trypp and Florian nodded. Not the most complicated of sign languages but it did the job. Florian loosened his sword in its scabbard. Trypp twisted his belt so that his knives were accessible. Motega took a moment to string the bone longbow his sister had passed on to him. It really was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship; weighted
perfectly, and its symbols and swirls so intricately carved, thankfully still visible even after he had painted it black—after all, a white bow would hardly do in their line of work.

  Twenty minutes of carefully picking a path away from the sound of man versus tree and the forest thinned enough to see more than a just a pin-prick of sky. A sense of anticipation gripped Motega as they reached the edge of the forest and slid down into the brush and dead leaves to look out across the cleared land.

  This was the end point of their mission. Traitor’s Keep. At least that was what it was known by to the inhabitants of Redpool. Who knew what it was called by the soldiers now inhabiting it? Originally built by Edlanders a few hundred years ago—one of a string of forts to demarcate the border—they had all been lost to superior Pyrfew forces, or in this case, to a traitor turning coat in the middle of the night to open the front gates. Uncle Uthridge had asked them to scout from the shore to here, and once they’d finished, Trypp would be able to get the city-fix he craved.

  “So, wait until night and creep closer? Or use Per now and get back to Redpool quicker?” he asked his friends, already knowing how they would answer.

  “Per,” they both said.

  Motega nodded his agreement. He was eager to get out of there too. Maybe Neenahwi would be in Redpool by now? It had not been that long since he had last seen her but after being reunited following more than ten years apart, he didn’t want to be separated for long.

  Motega’s peregrine falcon spirit animal was hunting as his mind reached out. Man and bird melded, becoming one, and Motega soared high above the world.

  Per had felt confined while they had been traversing through the forest. The canopy was high enough so Per could fly, but it was a stunted and hard-worked effort, moving from tree to tree. This was a bird made for soaring in the open sky. As the falcon beat his wings to gain altitude, he could feel the joy in stretching his wings. He reached a height where he could soar on the early autumn warm air, gliding toward the keep centered in the broad clearing.