by Ben Galley
‘Summon a council. Everybody that wants a say. First, we eat, and forget. Farden had the right idea in Scalussen. We’ve had the funeral. Let’s give them a wake.’
Lerel nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘Aye, General.’
Elessi watched her leave, wishing she could blurt her decision to her. Or Eyrum. Even simple Bull. But she pursed her lips and steeled herself. They had named her leader. She would damn well lead. It was always better to ask forgiveness than beg permission. Even when spitting in a god’s eye.
‘Bull,’ Elessi whispered. ‘Fetch me Admiral Sturmsson. Sharp-like.’
‘What shall I say for?’
‘Tell him I have a favour to ask,’ she hissed as she swept away.
By evening, the beach was aflame. The village’s ashes were cleared for the masses. It turned out that the Jar Khoum were not a mere handful, but a tribe composed of hundreds, perhaps a thousand in all. They set to welcoming their visitors with wild hollers and dances. Scalussen returned the favour as meagrely as they could.
Palms were hacked down to build long trenches of charcoal. Hogs, goats, and fowl appeared from the forest in the dozens and turned on spits. Ships’ kitchens rebuilt themselves on the sand and boiled up broths and stews from everything and anything they had left in the stores. Smoked fish and lizards roasted to a crisp were passed around on sticks. Barrels of wine and ale were rolled from gangplanks and across the beaches.
It was a celebration of being alive. A defiant middle finger to the ocean that sought to drown them. A raised glass to both the dead and survived. It was a chance to sleep on solid ground, and a moment to drown all kinds of thoughts and sorrows in the liquor of conversation and the dribbling of barrels.
Once the sun had died behind the white fangs of the mountains, it took little time for the songs to begin. Songs of Paraia mixed with snowmad dirges and the keening of witches’ ballads. The Jar Khoum seemed quite fond of keeping hounds, and, between stealing morsels from plates, they howled along in chorus.
Elessi walked barefoot along the beach. She had known naught but forests and mountains and ice for what felt like an age. To have a warm breeze on her skin even at night, to feel water so warm she barely noticed it washing around her feet, it seemed as though the storm had taken them to another world altogether. Her fur coat had been left in the cabin. Akitha had left her a thin dress of fine silver mail. A shortsword, too, just how Elessi liked, yet even that felt too heavy.
Though the mood was jubilant upon the surface of the fire-lit night. Worry lurked beneath the patina of feast and music. Stern watches had been set on every crow’s nest and at the curves of the beach. Sleepy-eyed sailors worked shifts on the ballistae. Even amongst those on the beach, Elessi caught sour faces and tense huddles that fell silent as she walked by. They did not come from any particular tribe of Scalussen. Elessi saw mages that had served Modren, as well as Sirens she had known for years. Once the weed of discontent had been sown, it was near impossible to root out.
The bookships had been driven into the sand and beached. Between their huge anchor chains, long gangplanks ran from hatches lower down in the hull. Elessi sloshed past the brutalised Winter’s Revenge, where hammering could be heard within. The Vanguard was quietly aglow with scarlet lanterns as carpenters inspected her broken decks. Dragons roosted in her masts.
It was the Summer’s Fury she boarded.
Elessi gathered guards as she climbed the gangplank and strode across the deck. Suited in steel, they fell in behind her in silent succession. A dark maw of a hatch swallowed them. Stairs passed by her wet feet. The unoccupied and strangely empty layers of the Fury passed them by until they came to the expansive libraries. Lycans guarded the books of this ship. A familiar face of Roglurg showed teeth as she approached a wide, glass-lined room between the shelves. Elessi nodded to him and the piebald lycan bowed deeply.
Elessi had never been one for sensing the power of magick, only daemonblood. Even so, the gathered tomes and spellbooks gave off a thick air. It complimented the tension she felt upon entering the room.
The hushed yet urgent conversation died in her presence.
To the muted sounds of voices and music beyond the bulkheads. Elessi took her seat at the head of a long table. Normally festooned with books, space had been made for her summoned council. Only fluttering moth lanterns cast a cold glow.
The witches, snowmads, yetin, and the Siren queen stared at her from the far end. Beside her sat Lerel and Hereni. Eyrum and Sturmsson not too far beyond them. The latter nodded to her deeply as she sat. The gesture drew Lerel’s curious eyes.
‘Thank you for calling this much-needed council, General.’ Nerilan shattered the quiet, arms crossed and reclined in her chair. By the slight glow in one of her golden eyes, Towerdawn also joined the council from somewhere above. ‘We have come too far already. Spent too long away from—’
Elessi held up her hand. As much as her heart thrummed, it felt satisfying to shut the queen up without care. Nerilan looked as though she had to physically swallow her words. She had seen Nerilan whispering to her allies all day long. Whatever torrent of complaints she had prepared could wait.
‘I’ve spoken to Loki. He appeared on the Vanguard’s deck last night to parley with me.’
Splutters joined uneasy growls. Elessi continued before the complaining began. It had taken her this long to realise she was bored of their voices and complaints.
‘Loki has given us an ultimatum. He wants us to stay put and not to interfere. He’s given us free passage to build a new Scalussen here in Paraia.’
The lack of response was telltale and stomach-churning. Elessi could tell that wasn’t what they expected from the god. After all, it had surprised her no end, as well. She pressed on.
‘Loki said that if we stay here and make a home for ourselves, he’ll allow us to live. He’ll call the leviathan away, and what’s more, he will promise the safe return of Farden and the others. If we don’t, not only will Farden die, but all of Scalussen as well.’
The silence was damning.
Nerilan’s painted nails dug hollows in her arms. ‘And when were you going to tell us you’ve been parlaying with that god in secret? Accepted his offers? For too long have I let you order us—’
Elessi slapped her palm on the table, and only just managed to ignore how much it hurt. She pressed on to what she had spent half the day torturing herself with. ‘I called this council, not you, Queen Nerilan. I get you might misunderstand how this works, especially after our previous meetings, but this ain’t a discussion.’
Peryn spoke for Wyved, who made a sign in the air. ‘The High Crone says continue.’
Elessi thanked her with a nod. ‘Though it disgusts me to say this, Loki is right,’ she said. ‘We can’t all survive the journey to reach Farden. We can build a new Scalussen here, where it’s safer. Where the leviathan will leave us be and Arka pirates will be our only worries.’
Ko-Tergo shed sand on the table as he gesticulated. Like most snowmads, he spoke more with his hands than his words. ‘Though I appreciate you coming to your senses at last, General, do I hear right? You trust Loki’s promises?’
‘More accurately, do we trust his threats?’ Nerilan said in an unusually deep voice. Towerdawn had spoken.
Elessi’s face remained one of stone as she let them hear her decision. ‘I would sooner slit my wrists than do what he says. That’s why I’ve asked Admiral Sturmsson to clear all the survivors and dragon eggs from the Summer’s Fury. By dawn, I’ll sail this ship past the headland and south around the Cape of No Hope, across the Silent Sea, and give Farden and the others the help they’ll no doubt sorely need. With any luck, we’ll draw that last leviathan away with us.’
Nerilan immediately sat upright, eyes slitted in a glower. ‘You’ll… what?’
‘You heard me. She’s the least damaged and with a smaller crew and empty holds, she’ll be faster than anything on the waves,’ Elessi said, steadfast. She was sure everybody in the
room could hear her heartbeat. She tried to imagine the weight of a hand on her shoulder, as Modren had often done when standing at her back. Elessi looked to Lerel as she elaborated. ‘Loki might be the god of lies, but that’s exactly how he’s exposed what he truly wants. He might fear Farden in some way, but he wants him to himself. What he doesn’t want is this armada of ships and mages and dragons anywhere near his precious mage, and that’s why he threatens us into staying. I’ll bet it’s because of the weapon Farden’s looking for. It would throw a spear in the spokes of his plan.’
‘You take a big gamble, Elessi,’ warned Peryn. ‘What if the god wants you to think exactly that, and is trying to further separate the survivors?’
The general didn’t flinch. ‘That’s what it’ll take to beat this god: a gamble. And I saw inside that god’s mind last night. He made a mistake, a slip, and I saw it plainly as I see the relief on your face to be rid of me, Nerilan. Or your concern, Ko-Tergo. I know what you all see in me: no more than the wife of the undermage, a woman of work rather than of war. A general by name and consolation only. Then you underestimate me, because all the while I’ve watched how you people move and think, you leaders and you champions, you dragon queens. I’ve seen much and learned more. That is how I recognised that flicker of worry in Loki’s face last night, and I’d gamble everything on that.’
‘Admiral Sturmsson? You agreed to this?’ Lerel asked.
Sturmsson waggled his bushy beard, his thick Essen accent coarse but confident. ‘I did indeed. She’s our general, after all,’ he said, as if it was preposterous he should disobey.
‘And how far have you got stripping the Fury down?’
‘Half-done, Lerel.’
‘Then you can tell your crew to stand down,’ she replied.
Elessi felt her face grow hot. There was sweat beneath her hands. The admiral had chosen to betray her after all. ‘What are you doing?’
‘They’ll sure to be exhausted after the day’s work in this sun. I know I am,’ Lerel shrugged, managing a sly wink that only Elessi saw. ‘Those of my crew who’ve already eaten and rested can swap with yours, Sturmsson. Give yours a break. That way the Fury will be ready by sunrise.’
Elessi barely resisted the urge to slap her palm again and cackle in Nerilan’s face.
‘I’ll even sail her myself,’ added Lerel.
‘Aye,’ Sturmsson grunted. He looked somewhat relieved not to be facing the Silent Sea, and that both charmed and worried Elessi in equal measure.
Hereni thumped her fist on the table. ‘I’m in.’
The dragon queen didn’t look the faintest bit happy. ‘Once again, you toy with our lives, this time by risking Loki’s promised wrath!’ Nerilan began to say, but she halted suddenly. Towerdawn did not agree, and she quietly fumed instead.
Elessi got to her feet, steeling trembling legs. ‘I risk my own life, Queen. I know I’m right about Loki, and I won’t sit here waiting for him to plot and scheme. Farden is in danger. We may all be Scalussen, but he is our Forever King, the last Written. Not to mention the safety of Mithrid. Durnus, Aspala, Warbringer, and your very own Mad Dragon. Fact of the matter is they need us just as much as we need them. Together we’re stronger, and that’s something I think you’ve forgotten. Why else would Loki be so concerned with keeping us apart?
‘You should be happy, Nerilan; you’re getting what you wanted. I’ll even go as far as to say you were right. All of you. Though I did it to save us all, I pressed us into needless danger, even Farden and the others, by doing so. That’s why those we’ve lost since Krauslung will lie on my shoulders until my dyin’ day. Taking the Summer’s Fury east doesn’t make up for their loss, but it might just save the rest of us.’
Elessi took a breath. ‘The survivors will be safe here with the Jar Khoum. Lerel and I, and anyone else who feels fit or fool enough to take the journey, will sail at dawn on the Fury. Those are my orders.’
Elessi shoved her chair back under the table, caught each of their eyes, and then made for the doorway. Lycans stood between its pillars, jet eyes fixed and staring at her.
The slow yet defiant clapping of Ko-Tergo stopped her in her tracks. She turned when Hereni and Eyrum joined in. Then, the admirals. Though the witches and Nerilan did not, they made no complaint. They nodded along to the clattering applause. Its echoes escorted Elessi along the passageway, her heart trying to climb up her throat and hands drenched with sweat.
CHAPTER 25
THE YAWN
They say that in Lezembor’s baths, a visitor does not just shed grime and dust, but secrets, too.
OLD GRADEN ADAGE
Two days now, Farden had stood, statuesque, on the bilge-washed bow of the Seventh Sister. Not only to watch the north and the enclosing coastlines, but to mutter the name of the goddess of magick under his breath. Over and over. And over. Every hour that passed, the more that name turned from a request to a curse on his tongue.
If there was anything in particular the gods were useless at, it was being there when needed.
Farden looked down at the candle he had been carving into a stack of gurning faces. One angry. One sad. One laughing madly. It was all that kept the worry at bay. The figure on the clifftop waited for him every time he shut his eyes.
‘What is it you’re carving now?’ Mithrid asked, to the rattle of the dice on the deck. Durnus had won every game since sunset the previous day, and still she kept trying. She hadn’t figured the dice were loaded in Durnus’ favour. That was the vampyre’s true charm: looking helpless. Farden knew the truth.
‘I never know. When I carve, I see nothing else, just each cut of my knife until a face appears. A fine way of losing my mind to something other than our problems.’
Mithrid leaned over his shoulder. ‘That one looks like Loki. That one Malvus.’
The gold and silver knife Farden had taken from the Cathak corpse was a fine tool for carving. Sharp enough to slice each head from the candle one by one. The chunks of yellow wax landed amongst the dice game like the heads of the condemned.
‘If only it was that easy,’ he heard Mithrid whisper.
‘No sign of the goddess, Farden?’ muttered Durnus. The bags under his eyes were pronounced. More red flecks had gathered in his pale eyes. Scabs decorated his knuckles.
Farden looked at Durnus with a scowl that explained silently and perfectly how useless that question was.
‘Anything from the inkweld?’ he shot back an equally pointless comment.
‘Nothing. We keep missing them…’ Durnus realised Farden’s point. The vampyre poked a fang with his tongue, and the mage watched the crew instead.
They might have been pungent and spent half their time leering at their passengers, but they seemed to know their winds and currents.
Aspala slept off her injuries below. Warbringer spent her time in the cabin also, guarding their discarded armour and supplies and likely hating every moment of being on the ship. Perhaps more so than Farden. Only the question of the dark figure following them kept the unease of being at sea from his mind.
Foam and seawater showered them as the fat cog nosed into an ocean roller. Farden winced as the water ran down the neck of his armour, and caught the captain’s eye again. There was some heated discussion occurring on the aftcastle. Several of the sailors stood around the portly man, gesturing furtively. Their glances at their passengers on the bow were flitting. Suspicious. Perhaps it was boredom, or the lack of answers in his life, but Farden decided to investigate.
‘Where are you going?’ Mithrid asked. Always checking, always wondering, as she had since the Bronzewood. He was starting to suspect she didn’t trust him. Or thought him going slowly mad. She might not have been entirely wrong.
‘To see where we are,’ he replied.
Durnus’ map had given them a guess: somewhere between two countries called Normont and Hartlunder. The coasts had drawn inwards from the east and west as if the cog was a sword being shoved into a scabbard. A chokepoint of grey
cliffs lay ahead. The striped layers in the rain-lashed rock lay at an angle as if somebody had shoved them. Strange, bat-winged seabirds followed their wake as if the Sister was a fishing skiff to steal morsels from. They tucked their wings and plummeted into the ocean waves beak-first at breakneck speeds. Under the waters, they swam as nimbly as any fish.
Whales had also followed them for a league or two. Not the piebald orca that Farden knew of the waters of the ice-fields, but beasts three times as long, grey and mottled as stone, littered with barnacles and scars. They lay upon the surface of the water like upturned ships, blowing giant bursts of breath with great roars, or engorged themselves on shoals of silver fish with lunging gulps with their sail-shaped mouths. Their sonorous songs resonated through the Sister.
The whales left them behind when the waves grew in height and chop. The closer they came to the chokepoint, the more severe the seascape became. It stirred the mage’s stomach to gurgling complaints. Like the minotaur, he was no friend of boats and open water.
Farden’s boots clomped on the moss-slick stairs. He could imagine Lerel tearing this crew to pieces for the way they stood about or clustered to gabble. She would have them on their knees for a week, scrubbing every inch of deck and bulkhead until the Sister looked new.
‘For crew only! No passengers,’ said the scrawniest one of the lot. He tried to bar Farden’s path until the mage stared him down. He removed his hand and shrugged his jerkin as if it sat strangely on his shoulders.
The rotund captain eyed Farden sidelong, especially the Scalussen vambraces he still wore. Old habits were stubborn stains.
‘Everythin’ fine with your cabins?’
‘Tolerable.’
A few of the sailors looked between them as if wondering what the word meant.
‘Where are we, Captain?’
‘Fast approaching the Irkmire Yawn. Thin bit o’ coast between Hartlund and Normont. There’s a fierce wind following us. Should whip us right through.’