by Morgan Rice
“Not the most comforting of images,” Akila replied.
Felene didn’t care. She wasn’t there to be comforting. She saw Akila’s healer move to him, whispering something in his ear. Felene could tell from the general’s expression that it wasn’t good news.
“Your healer’s telling you that I’m dying, isn’t she?” Felene asked.
Akila hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Felene didn’t have much time for sympathy then. By the sound of it, she didn’t have much time for anything.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Felene replied.
The healer didn’t seem willing to stop, though.
“Your wound has festered,” she said, “and worse, I think there is a flake of metal left in there. If I’d been able to get to it earlier, I might have been able to help, but as it is… I’m sorry.”
She said that in the tones of someone who had already looked at too many dying soldiers today. Felene couldn’t blame her for it. She had to save her blame for the people who deserved it.
“And you told Akila rather than me because you wanted him to decide if I ought to know. Because it might be better to send me off not knowing.”
That got a slightly frightened look from the healer. Felene waved it away.
“I’ve known how this ends since I left,” Felene said. “It doesn’t matter, does it, Akila?”
She watched as he looked out toward the bulk of the Felldust fleet.
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
He held out his hand to her and Felene took it. She could feel the strength there and the certainty. She hoped that she felt the same right then.
“Wish you’d stayed on Haylon when I gave you the chance?” he asked.
“Wish you’d stayed?” Felene countered.
He was going to die, as surely as she was. She might bleed to death, or die fever-ridden and raving. He was going to be crushed by the fleet. Either way, it was better than dying old and toothless years from now, their glory days long forgotten by all around them. Although somewhere in between those two points might have been nice.
“Be lucky,” Akila said.
“I’d rather be deadly,” Felene said. “Luck comes in two kinds, after all.”
Akila nodded at that.
“We’ll do what we can to help you,” he promised, “but that’s little enough.”
“You’ve a battle to win, after all,” Felene said. She made a joke of it, though it didn’t seem like a funny one right then.
“Maybe I’ll climb onto their ships singlehanded and demand that they surrender.”
Felene guessed she deserved that. Even so, looking at the fleet ahead, it did look pretty impenetrable.
“Can you do one thing for me?” she asked. “Can you give me a way in? There are plenty of spots where a smuggler might land, but I don’t want to find myself chased by half of the battle while I do it.”
“Then I’ll try to move the battle for you,” Akila said. Then he nodded. “I’ll draw them off, give you an opening. But you’ll need to be fast.”
Felene was always that. Fast, and deadly, and certain. Soon enough, she decided as she started to climb back to her boat, Stephania would find out exactly how much of all three she could be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thanos stared at the space where Felldust’s coast gave way to the villages of the Bone Folk, trying to hide the trepidation that he felt about going to a place like that. He’d heard as many of the stories about what they did to outsiders as anyone.
More than that, he still didn’t know if this was the right move. His heart ached to be back in Delos, helping Ceres to defend the city. Yet he was just one man. Alone, he couldn’t hope to stop the invasion. He needed allies.
“Are you sure about this?” the captain asked, as the crew started to lower the small boat that held Thanos and Jeva, the Bone Folk woman he’d saved on the docks.
“I’m sure it needs to be done,” Thanos said.
He saw Jeva nod gravely.
“People must always do what is needful,” she said. “And what the ancestors would approve of, of course.”
“Which just happens to include butchering strangers,” the captain called down.
Jeva gave him a contemptuous look, but Thanos thought he could see a flash of humor there beneath the pale ash that covered her face.
“Some of our ancestors were very violent,” she said with a shrug. “Who are the living to dispute with the weight of the dead?”
Thanos felt the boat hit the water, and he started to row before he could change his mind. Over his shoulder, he could see the village advancing. Many of the buildings were wooden, but they’d obviously been dried out by the sun and worn by the wind, bleached until it looked as though Jeva’s people lived in buildings made from bone. It didn’t help that there was an arch down by the spot where the water met the shore, built from the bones of some sea creature so vast Thanos was glad he wasn’t meeting it while it lived.
“I know that look,” Jeva said. “It is the look all your kind get. It says that we are barbarians because we honor the dead properly and carry them with us. It is the look that comes before the insults, which come before the violence.”
“Maybe I don’t understand you,” Thanos said, “but that’s not the same thing as hating you.”
“I have found it to be the same, many times,” Jeva said. She shrugged again. “Your sailor was right. My people are not often friendly to strangers. This is a place for pirates, not farmers. After your assistance, I will help you to speak with them, but I can promise nothing.”
That was already far more than Thanos could have hoped for.
They beached the rowing boat together, dragging it up to where the tide wouldn’t claim it before they headed into the village. Jeva seemed to be leading him in the direction of one of the few stone built structures there: a many-sided hall with chimneys that belched out acrid smoke.
There were guards on the door, bare-chested and wearing kilts of tough leather, carrying staffs with bulbous ends, obviously meant for crushing. They frowned as Jeva approached, but she said something in a language Thanos didn’t understand and they stepped back.
“What would have happened if I’d tried talking to them in Felldust’s language?” Thanos asked.
“They would probably have ignored you,” Jeva replied. “Barbarians are rarely worth speaking with. Remove your boots. The house of the dead must not be disturbed by the dirt of the living.”
Thanos did it. He noted that she didn’t ask him to leave his weapons.
Inside, it was obvious that this wasn’t just a hall, but something close to a temple. People thronged about, talking and arguing, while above, on a raised platform, men and women in silk robes very similar to Jeva’s stood in front of great fires that burned in pits.
Ordinary members of the Bone Folk came up to them, receiving something that they put on their tongues before returning to the crowd. Some paused to speak to those there in the language Jeva had used, and judging by the tone of the crowd those around them either called out their support or condemned their words.
“Is this some kind of religious ceremony?” Thanos asked. “Some kind of public forum? Something else?”
“All three,” Jeva answered. “Those who go to the priests receive the ash of the dead to bind them to our ancestors. Some claim to speak with their voice, but that was a rare talent even in older days. Even the priests must cast runes and read signs. Most of those who speak say things that are their own.”
Thanos saw one man step up to the stage, only for the priests to step back, shaking their heads. The man stood there firmly, holding out a hand.
A priest stepped forward and struck with a long dagger, slashing it across the man’s throat. As he collapsed, the priest shoved his body into one of the fires, letting the flames consume him. It was so sudden and brutal that Thanos could only stand there in shock.
“Not all are judged worthy,” Jeva sa
id. “That one was a thief and a liar, who dared to sell one of our kind to slavers. He was told he could not be one with the dead anymore. They treated him as they would an outsider who demanded to speak when he should not.”
“You’re saying they’ll kill me?” Thanos asked.
Jeva shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But you must take the ash if you wish them to listen. I will translate.”
She led the way forward as if it were obvious that Thanos should follow. Maybe it was, because the facts hadn’t changed. He needed the help of the people in this room. He stepped after her, following her through the crowd. It occurred to him as he followed that Jeva looked remarkably similar to the priests up there.
“Are you one of them?” he asked.
She looked back at him. “I have been through the rites, yes. They thought I might speak with the voice of the dead.”
Thanos frowned at that. “Do you?”
She didn’t answer, heading up to the platform. As Thanos followed, he saw people staring at him. Although they all seemed so strange here, he knew that he was the one who stood out as not belonging. When Jeva led him to the raised platform, Thanos even heard a few gasps.
He certainly heard the sharpness of the priest’s tone when one of them stepped forward to speak with Jeva. She said something back, and Thanos had the impression of a fast, determined argument. Finally, Jeva stepped to a spot where an urn stood, taking a pinch of ash. Thanos thought she was about to consume it, but then he realized that she was holding it out to him.
“If you hesitate now,” she said in a harsh whisper, “they will never listen to you.”
Thanos opened his mouth, letting her place the ash on his tongue. It tasted bitter and dry in the moments before he made himself swallow.
“Speak to them in Felldust’s tongue,” Jeva said. “They will understand, and I will translate for those who don’t.”
Thanos nodded, looking out over the crowd of the Bone Folk. He’d addressed people before, but rarely with so much riding on the outcome, and rarely with such a terrifying audience.
“I’m here to ask for your help,” Thanos said. “You know of the fleet that Felldust has sent against what’s left of the Empire. They are attacking Delos as we speak. Without assistance, it will fall, and people I care about will die.” He hesitated, just for a moment. “The person I care about most will die.”
“All people die,” a man called from the crowd. “And a war between the First Stone and some far-off city is no bad thing. It means that we do not have his ships harassing us. Why should we help you, outsider?”
Thanos had known that question would come ever since he’d come up with this plan. He’d been thinking about what to offer, and what to demand, ever since he invited Jeva onto the ship.
“I’m not asking you to do this from the goodness of your hearts,” Thanos said. “The Empire has gold, and would be grateful to anyone who saved it.”
He’d expected that to get a response. This was a community of pirates and robbers, after all. It was just a short step from that to being mercenaries.
“Irrien offered us your gold,” one of those in the crowd called out. “He said we could keep what we took, but we didn’t trust him. He has spent too much time attacking us.”
Thanos looked out at the man. He had hair that had been spiked into elaborate shapes, and scars from plenty of conflicts.
“Then this is your chance to defeat him. If we do that together, he cannot be a threat to your people anymore.”
“Or he destroys us completely for daring,” the man shot back. “Anyway, the Empire has been no friend to us.”
Probably because it didn’t like having its ships attacked. Thanos could only think of one more thing to offer.
“What about land?” he asked. “You don’t have much here. I am the son of a king, his rightful heir. I could give you new places to live.”
“Away from the lands of our ancestors?” one demanded. “You would take us from our own lands?”
“That’s not what I—” Thanos began but they were already shouting over him. Worse, one of the priests was advancing, the threat in his drawn weapon obvious.
Thanos felt Jeva’s hand on his arm.
“Time to go, unless you want to end up on the pyre,” she said.
Thanos didn’t argue, although right then, it felt as though it didn’t make much difference where he ended up. He’d been so certain he could get help for Delos, and he’d failed. He followed Jeva back out of the hall, but he kept looking back toward the platform as he did it.
“Who is this person who is going to die in Delos?” Jeva asked as they came out into the open air.
Thanos thought about not saying anything. It hurt too much to think about it right then. Yet he felt as though he owed Jeva something for getting him this far.
“Her name is Ceres,” he said. “She… she’s in charge of things there, I guess. She and I…”
How could he hope to explain everything between himself and Ceres to someone else? There had been too many things stacked one atop the other, between the rebellion, and Stephania, and thinking she was dead.
“Ceres?” Jeva asked. “The girl who has the Ancient Ones’ blood running through her? This is for her?”
Thanos nodded. That seemed to be one detail that had spread rapidly.
He expected Jeva to take him back down to the small boat and send him on his way. Instead, she stood there, her hands balled into fists.
“What is it?” Thanos asked.
“The Ancient Ones… they are called that for a reason. They are some of the oldest of the ancestors. Those who claim to speak to the dead say their voices are loud even after all this time. Wait here. Do not move if you value your life.”
She left Thanos standing there, heading back into the hall. He wanted to follow her then, more than anything, but her warning had been so clear, and so determined, that he didn’t dare. Not for his own safety, but because this moment felt like a gossamer thread, and he didn’t want to snap the possibilities embedded in it.
So he had to wait, instead, standing in the middle of the village, listening to the arguments coming from inside the hall and barely, barely beginning to hope.
When Jeva came out again, there was blood on the chain she carried. There was also a crowd of her people following her. They spread out around Thanos, looking at him now as though seeing him for the first time.
“What’s going on?” Thanos barely dared to ask the question.
Jeva smiled grimly. “I told them that you spoke with the voice of the most ancient ancestors. They will not fight for you, but they will fight for one of that blood. You have your fleet.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Akila ran across the deck of his ship, shouting orders as he went and hoping that his men could keep up with them.
“Bear to starboard! Full stroke! Signal the others to regroup. They’re getting too spread out!”
He felt the ship lurch as it changed course, its timbers creaking with the effort of coming about so rapidly. Speed was what it took, though, in the middle of the battle that had been raging in front of Delos. Speed was the only thing keeping him and his crew alive while they harried the larger fleet from Felldust.
When had he last slept properly? Akila had become good at snatching sleep when he’d been a rebel fighting in the mountains of Haylon. Now, there seemed to be a fresh attack looming every time he closed his eyes, dragging him up to assess and direct, command and hope.
With an enemy this powerful, sometimes hope was all there was.
Now, Akila ran his squadron of fighting ships at the edge of the enemy fleet’s line, rushing past it with all the speed his rowers could pull from their banks of oars.
“Archers ready!” he bellowed, and the fighters waiting on the deck drew their bows. The great ballistae on the deck cranked back their strings, flaming bolts fitting into place. “Fire!”
They strafed the nearest ship as they passed, and Akila felt a flash of
triumph as their flaming bolts caught the other ship’s sails. But they didn’t slow, keeping going while enemy ships near the ones they’d run by turned to follow. Akila let them. He could have ordered the rowers to find yet more speed, could have put up full sail. He could have sprinted for the open ocean. Instead, he let the galley jog there, its foes almost keeping up.
“Ready,” Akila called out. “Wait for it… now!”
The oarsmen hauled, his pilot hauled on the tiller, and the galley turned. At the same time, more of the rebellion’s ships came in from the side, catching the chasing foes between them right at the moment when they started to realize how far they were getting from the main fleet. The rebellion’s ships closed, throwing grappling hooks, firing arrows, and charging across at their enemies.
The combat was quick and brutal. The battle for Haylon against the Empire had taught Akila the value of hitting fast, hitting hard, and not showing mercy to enemies who might be there to kill you tomorrow if you did. This was the same thing, carried out on the water, with strike after strike against their foes, designed less to win than simply to hurt them until they got tired of being hurt.
It wasn’t working, though, and Akila knew he had to think of something else. The only question was what. Each strike hurt the Felldust fleet, but even the burning ships Akila left behind barely slowed them.
He stared out over the water, wondering if Felene had made it to shore yet. He’d given her the distraction he’d promised, but the rest would be up to her. He had to admire the kind of determination that would send her hunting across the sea for Stephania, in spite of wounds that would kill her. She was like an arrow sent after its target, no matter the consequences.
In that moment, Akila knew what he had to do.
“Form up the ships,” he called out. “Signal the others. We’re going to end this.”
He set out his plans to his men. He could see the grim set of their features as he told them what he intended, but none argued. None even questioned. This was the best way. The only way.
He signaled, and they sprang into action.