The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  The manak roared in pain, releasing the sailor, who collapsed onto the deck, a shipmate diving to their aid.

  Other sailors flailed at the manaks with belaying pins and cutlasses, but they fared little better. One took a slash from a claw, and the largest beast climbed and gnashed through several lines by the mizzenmast.

  Manak skin was laced with aerstone, which made for amazing fluttering cloaks that defied the pull of the Mists. It was also incredibly hard to pierce. But not impossible.

  The beasts made a tight turn forty yards out, coming back around for another pass.

  Michiko stepped up next to Kris, carving Adamant Shield. Smart. She placed it just beyond the ship, covering the railing and the masts above. It was an impressive working. The beasts would have to fly dozens of yards up to go over it, or dive under the ship to attack on the other side. Kris started their own Adamant Shield, aiming it right next to Michiko’s. The two shields snapped into place in quick succession, Michiko’s golden dome activating just before Kris’s blue. With their shields combined, they’d closed off the entire starboard side of the ship.

  The manaks were wise enough to avoid the shields, but it meant that they split in their attack, one going left to the bow, the other two going right to the stern.

  “Take the one on the left!” Kris sidestepped to the right and carved Grizzly’s Might, a triangle comprised of the symbol for a mountain repeated three times beside it.

  As the sigil activated, Kris’s blade became as a feather in their hand. With both speed and strength enhanced, Kris leaped high in the air, flipping and throwing their entire body into a falling thrust. Kris’s blade speared through one of the manaks, plunging beast and bladecrafter to the ground. Kris prepared their landing and rolled off the beast, drawing their blade out and leaving the creature to bleed on the deck. Its partner bit at Kris, who dodged back and met claw with blade. Sparks flew, and the creature disengaged.

  To their left, Michiko scared the third manak off with lances of energy that pierced the beast’s hide like grapeshot. Impressive. Kris revised their assessment of the Kakutan, then checked to make sure the manak on the deck was properly dead and not thrashing.

  But Kris had misjudged the spooked manak. It circled back and charged again. Not at the deck, but at the hold. Kris heard the sounds of wood splintering and tearing.

  Kris grabbed a loose rope, wrapped it around their free hand, then dove off the side of the ship.

  Reorienting, Kris focused on the manak, which was gnashing at someone inside the ship. Kris ran across the hull, hopping over portholes.

  They shouted, trying to draw the beast’s attention. Instead it lunged again, cracking more of the wooden hull and eliciting screams from inside. Kris carved Blazing Bolt, loosing a ray of energy that pierced the beast through the side. A split second later the beast shot out from the ship, blasted back by a sigil more powerful than the quickly cast bolt Kris had used on the move. Whoever had carved that sigil was very powerful, very experienced, or both.

  The manak flailed in the air, then finally thought better of its assault, diving far down toward the Mists.

  Kris kept their momentum moving to keep from falling from the deck. “Coming in!” they shouted, jumping into the open hole in the hull.

  Kris rolled onto the deck and came up to see an aged, cloaked figure with a matted white beard. They held a blade like they’d been born with it, the intricate sigil for Blazing Bolt just now fading.

  “Who are you?” asked Kris.

  Another elder stepped forward. “You’re not permitted to be here. Say anything of what you’ve seen and the captain will toss you to the Mists herself.”

  Kris was torn between confusion, awe at the bladecrafter’s skill, and indignation at the brush-off.

  But the battle had been won, and there were wounded. Kris saluted the bladecrafter, then bounded through the door and up the stairs to look around for those wounded and to move debris while the power of their sigils remained.

  Very curious. Who was this bladecrafter? Some ringer brought in by some nation to stand against Kris in the Gauntlet? Was that even allowed? Kris might not tell the sailors, or Michiko, but Alyx and Nik were their staff, and Rumikan leadership would certainly want to hear about a mysterious master bladecrafter traveling to Twaa-Fei.

  •••

  With the wounded tended to and the lines repaired, Kris and Michiko reclined on small stacks of cargo that had been rearranged into a makeshift seating area. They shared a large bowl of hearty dumplings, one of many the chef had brought up after the battle had been settled. Fighting was tiring, fighting using magic doubly so.

  “That was an impressive display,” Michiko said, hands folded on her lap. She’d gone from gentility to combat and back without missing a beat. She was composed, restrained, every movement efficient and deliberate.

  After a fight, Kris couldn’t help but sprawl in happy exertion. Sitting and eating diplomatically felt rather silly after having just risked life and limb and harnessing the infinite might of the universe.

  “That was barely a fight,” Kris said. “A beast like that is no real challenge for a bladecrafter like you or me. Your Adamant Shield was very impressive.”

  Michiko took a sip of her tea. “Thank you; that’s very kind. I imagine that the crew will be speaking of your exploits for some time.”

  “Our exploits,” Kris said, raising their bowl to toast. Michiko met the bowl with her own, and Kris caught the hint of a smile on her lips before she drank.

  Not even to Twaa-Fei and I’ve made friends with one of the junior warders, Kris thought. And all of that without revealing my most powerful sigils. Not a bad start to this journey.

  Looking out at the clouds, the faint shapes of distant islands, and the glint of light off the tower of Twaa-Fei, Kris breathed deeply and imagined the adventure yet to come.

  Chapter 3

  Ojo

  Ojo Kante carved Distant Friends on the surface of a pool. The ritual sword was lighter than his dueling blades, but still familiar. He’d wielded this blade as the warder of Quloo for over a decade, and would wield it awhile longer if fate permitted.

  The sigil locked and the clear pool of water rippled, resolving into a view of his old friend Chigozie. The miner had hickory-colored skin just a shade darker than Ojo’s own. He wore an orange-and-blue cloth woven in triangles and diamonds, wrapped around his waist and then over one shoulder. His hair was concealed by the folded and pinned head wrap of a guildmaster.

  Like Ojo, the crow’s feet at the edges of Chigozie’s eyes grew a bit larger every year. They were neither of them young upstarts anymore.

  “Good afternoon, old friend,” Ojo said, his blade resting at his hip.

  “I wish it were good. I have the latest reports from the assayer’s guild. The island’s tilt has reached two degrees.”

  Ojo flinched as if struck. A thousand questions assaulted his mind like an advancing pike square. How could it have gotten so bad, so quickly? Did they need to evacuate the western cities now, or could it wait? Did Mertika know?

  Quloo was sinking. This much everyone knew. But how much? That Ojo and the Twelve Guilds had kept very close to the chest.

  His people had mined too deeply of their island’s aerstone, building up their fleet to put Mertika in check.

  And now their island sank year by year.

  He took a long breath, gathering himself. His heart still beat like a pounding war drum. “How quickly is it tipping?” he asked.

  “On that, they are less clear. If we continue to relocate people from the western tip of the island, it may slow some. Perhaps even more if we demolish the western ports.”

  Demolish. They spoke so plainly about drastic concessions, cities abandoned, lives uprooted.

  “Will it be enough?” Tens of thousands lived in the west, and that was just the ports and outlying towns and farms.

  Disaster. They’d been so foolish, pushed further and further by Mertika.

&n
bsp; Chigozie shook his head. “We just don’t know.”

  Quloo had ceased all mining of aerstone, traded neighboring nations for enough to finish their last handful of ships to prepare for the inevitable conflict.

  But still the island sank.

  “One of the assayers said that they think the island could touch the Mists themselves within a generation if we do not massively increase the island’s aerstone quotient.”

  Fates be merciful. Ojo’s mind flashed to waking nightmares, visions of mist-fiends terrorizing his people, carrying off children into the unknowable Mists below.

  “We will not let that happen, Chigozie. The Rumikans are sending a bladecrafter to face the Gauntlet. If they succeed, I may be able to secure a steady supply of their refined aerstone. And if we can avoid war with Mertika, my projections show that it would take only five years of trade and installation to halt the sinking.”

  The Rumikans’ new method for refining aerstone made it three times as powerful. Quloo could trade for aerstone elsewhere to allow the Rumikans to expand their capacity for refining, then Quloo could sell some to keep the operation going.

  Chigozie raised an eyebrow. “Are these projections as optimistic as your last set of figures?” This was an old saw between them. Chigozie saw the risks; Ojo saw the opportunities.

  “Five years or seven, we can do it. And a trade alliance with Rumika can lay the foundation for a defense compact. There is reason to hope, Chigozie, even with these latest numbers. The Rumikan arrives today.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. One last bit of news. A Mertikan prison on Kakute was attacked. Some kind of explosion. There’s a rumor that the empire may have lost a high-value prisoner. Some say it is the Golden Lord of Kakute.”

  Truly? Lavinia would be incensed. “That would certainly be something. How solid a rumor?”

  “We’re nearly certain on the escape, less so the prisoner’s identity. If it is the Golden Lord, I cannot expect he’ll be headed anywhere but Twaa-Fei. If you can secure him asylum . . .”

  Ojo beamed. “We could drive a wedge into the empire’s control of Kakute, maybe blunt their aggression. . . .” This was the first weakness Mertika had shown in years.

  If it was true.

  “Perhaps ask some of your friends down-island?” the guildmaster asked. “The High Skies faction will see this as a chance to make their case for a preemptive strike.”

  Ojo nodded. “Of course.” As Quloo’s future grew more dire, the High Skies faction was growing more vocal, more aggressive. But the others were keeping them in check. For now.

  “Then I will leave you to your preparations. Send word when the Rumikan is ready to discuss terms.”

  “Please give my best to Nualla,” Ojo said.

  “Of course. When this is sorted, you should come home for a while. We miss you.”

  Ojo had not been home in years. There was never a good time, not with Lavinia’s aggression and Quloo’s scramble to reorganize their entire economy. “I will do my best.”

  Ojo dissolved the sigil, and the image faded, leaving an empty pool showing only his own reflection.

  There was a presence at the door. It was Yochno Vens, the seneschal of the Warders’ Circle. Yochno was a handsome man in his fifties with light amber skin and short, once-lustrous black hair mostly gone to silver. He wore an unreadable neutral expression, like a mask. Nothing occurred within the walls of the embassy that Yochno did not know of, including many state secrets. But he was sworn to neutrality, a model of Twaa-Fei’s dedication to sign no alliances, show no favorites. They hosted the Circle and enforced its laws, but nothing more.

  “The Silver Sparrow has been spotted on the approach.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. I will be ready momentarily, if you’d care to travel out together.”

  “Warder Kensuke is waiting at the lift,” Yochno added.

  Of course he is, Ojo thought. Kensuke yielded to Lavinia at every turn, but he knew when his presence was required. And if Kensuke were to have any influence on his junior warder, he’d need to get to her before Lavinia did. “I will be right out.”

  Walking through the circular chamber on the way to the ancient lift, powered by magics older than any of the nations of the embassy, Ojo returned the ceremonial blade to its place on the great round table. The other five blades were there, hilts facing inward to show their nation’s commitment to peace. That symbolism was little more than custom, at times, and would be tested soon enough.

  Vania, Tsukisen, Kakute, Ikaro, Mertika, and Quloo. This room, this Circle had been Ojo’s home for many years. He just hoped that it would not also be the home of his people’s downfall.

  Ojo squeezed the bridge of his nose to relieve tension. He could not let such despair cloud his mind. Today was a momentous day, and he would meet it with the joy and hope it deserved.

  Chapter 4

  Ojo

  The city of Twaa-Fei was unique among the nations of the sky, with three islands stacked one atop the other, connected by a golden tower that ran through all three. Built long before the nations took to the sky, the tower remained a reminder of Twaa-Fei’s forgotten past.

  Docks rimmed the border of each island. To the lowest level came the bulk freight, raw materials, and migrant workers. The middle level welcomed ships carrying trade goods, merchants, and better-off travelers. The top level, where Ojo would meet the diplomatic ship, received the rich and beloved: traveling nobles and government officials, prominent artists and performers.

  Ojo, Kensuke, and Yochno rode through the wide streets of the top level, each in an open carriage: less secure, but far better for enjoying the city’s beauty and retaining the favor of its people. While the city was officially neutral in political matters, each resident had their own relationship to that neutrality. Those descended from the earliest people of Twaa-Fei placed more weight on neutrality than the descendants of Zenatai, for instance.

  Behind Ojo, Yochno led several carriages filled with attendants and materials to create the proper grandeur.

  Ojo thought back to his own arrival, nearly fifteen years previous. The city looked much as it did then, high spires flying banners of proud houses, the embassy ringed with the flags of nations great and small. Ojo’s first role in Twaa-Fei was as a negotiator for the mining guild. He’d worked closely with Warder Ekah first on trade, then as the junior warder, taking over when she retired a decade ago. Since then, he’d seen many diplomats come and go.

  Throughout it all, the warders did their jobs, negotiating trade agreements, settling territory disputes, and keeping the peace. Where a conflict flared up, warders stepped in to settle the matter. Sometimes with diplomacy, sometimes with the blade. A deal signed in the Warders’ Circle, however it was settled, carried the full weight of Twaa-Fei and the consensus of all member nations as expressed by their warders. The warders stood for their nations, and the warders stood together to maintain order.

  The new arrivals came none too soon. Mertika banged the drums of war, parading their new and even more powerful ships, their latest levies from Kakute and Ikaro. And who would stand against them? Vania maintained their alliance with Mertika despite Penelope’s concerns. Rumika was on the rise but did not have the fleet to wage sustained warfare. Tsukisen steered clear of conflicts and alliances. That left Quloo alone to match Mertika’s escalation. And for their commitment to balance, they now teetered on the edge of the abyss.

  New blood brought new perspectives. An ascendant Rumika could, with the right guidance, put a check on Mertika’s dominance.

  The carriages pulled over by the embassy docks, and Ojo stepped down, peace-bound blades at his hip, silk robes in the green and black colors of Quloo.

  The Silver Sparrow had clearly been through a battle. Slashed and reknotted lines, mismatched sails, and a hastily patched hole in the hull. Probably a manak attack, given the patterns. The embassy attendants scrambled into place, holding flags aloft; musicians tuned their instruments; and carriage drivers r
eplaced functional seats with lush cushions. Everything would be perfect. Outward display was the best way to show respect, grandeur, and confidence.

  Ojo spotted the Kakute and Rumikan arrivals. The tall fencer with the long hair, boned bodice, and skirts would be Kris Denn of Rumika. The small young woman in a red silk tunic and the simple brown belt of a colonial subject—that would be Oda no Michiko of Kakute. Her complexion was the color of prairie wheat and she had her hair tied back with a ribbon.

  Kris cracked a joke, eliciting a wry smile from Michiko. They’d had time to bond on the trip, then. Perhaps Michiko could be a moderating force to balance Lavinia’s fervor. With time. And the proper mentorship.

  The gangplank lowered to the docks, and Yochno stepped forward to be the first to receive the newcomers.

  “Greetings and welcome to Twaa-Fei! Your future awaits you.”

  Kris turned, following Yochno’s voice. They put on a broad smile and descended the gangplank, hand resting on the pommel of their blade. They moved with grace and ease, and the invulnerable confidence of youth.

  Yochno offered a hand of greeting to Kris as they stepped down from the gangplank.

  “I am Yochno Vens, Seneschal of the Warders’ Circle. We are honored by your arrival and offer the warmest greetings to you and the people of Rumika.”

  Kris thanked Yochno and introduced themself and their companions. “Rumika sends their gratitude to the people of Twaa-Fei for receiving us.”

  Kensuke stepped forward, an older man with fair skin, a narrow jaw, and sleepy eyes. His was mostly a political appointment, as his bladecrafting skills had never impressed. Ojo took Michiko’s arrival to be another in a string of moves by Mertika in preparation for war. The elder warder addressed Michiko, saying, “I am Heike no Kensuke, warder of Kakute. May the favor of the empress shine upon you this day as you pledge your heart and hand to her service.”