Haven Divided

by Josh de Lioncourt

  He stopped at last before a boy who had seen perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers. Gods! Were they really giving command commissions to children these days? It seemed they were, but this boy was one of the solemn-faced ones, and he sat straight-backed and at attention. His dark features were unmarked by any lines, and his hair was cropped shorter than was the current fashion in Seven Skies.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Vuc, sir,” the boy said with the faintest trace of an accent.

  Marcom’s gaze flicked down to the insignia clipped to the boy’s chain email. It bore the crest of a lion with a battle axe clutched in its jaws.

  “One of Martin’s men then, are you? From Kingsrock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. To the wall with you.” Marcom motioned toward the plain stone wall behind him. Vuc exchanged a brief glance with the man beside him, then rose and stood facing the gathering with his back to the wall.

  The man who had been sitting beside him got to his own feet. He was a full head and shoulders shorter than Marcom, at least, but powerfully built, and practically clanking with all the knives strapped to every part of his body. It was hard to judge his age—older than the boy, but not yet in his middle years, Marcom thought.

  “I didn’t ask you to stand,” Marcom said, lacing his tone with just enough sharpness to rebuke. He wanted these men to respect his authority, but respect, in his experience, was a give-and-take proposition. No need to court resentment.

  “No, you did not,” the man agreed. He, too, had an accent, thicker than Vuc’s, but of the same strain.

  “So you’re from Kingsrock as well, are you? Where’s your insignia?”

  “One of the privileges of being captain,” the man said, flashing his teeth in a humorless smile, “is that I don’t have to advertise my allegiance. I have found that if you don’t stand out amongst your enemies, you tend to live longer.”

  There was an uneasy ripple of mirth from the other men, and even Marcom couldn’t keep his lips from twitching. It felt strange to be on the edge of a smile, and he wondered, distractedly, just how long it had been since last he had.

  Another memory surfaced—a gold holder, bouncing on the cobbles and gleaming in the morning sunlight—and he pushed it away angrily. It went, and the smile died in its wake.

  Marcom gave the man a curt nod. “I have to say, I’m relieved that not all the kingdoms are giving command of their forces to boys. What’s your name, Captain?”

  “Elijah.”

  “And have you got someone who can stand in your stead if you are otherwise occupied?”

  “Yes, I do. Vuc is my second in command—” he inclined his head toward the boy behind Marcom, “—but there are several men I would trust with my life who are quite capable.” He had a strange way of speaking, beyond his accent, as if he had to carefully articulate each word in turn. It put Marcom in mind of the actors who staged elaborate stories at the Samhain and Winter Solstice festivals.

  With a frown, Marcom scanned the faces before him one last time. He hated this situation. He hated the very thought of striking back against the Dragon’s Brood with strangers as his generals. He’d have preferred to have his own men—but all his best men were dead.

  “All right, then,” Marcom said at last. “You and Vuc will be coming me with to Coalhaven, well ahead of the rest of our force. We need to do some reconnaissance before we tip our hand.”

  “With all due respect, Captain,” Elijah cut in, “I am quite certain that the Dragon’s Brood already knows we plan to march on Coalhaven to flush them out. They have ears everywhere, and it is not like my men or any of the others have been exactly…covert…in assembling here at Seven Skies.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Marcom said, the temperature of his tone dropping a few degrees, “but we need to find out where they’re hiding before storming the city. I want as few civilian casualties as possible.” He paused, meeting Elijah’s gaze. “There’ve been more than enough of those already.”

  “What about King Astus? Surely his men have some intelligence of where the Dragon’s Brood is hiding,” a voice spoke up amidst the crowd. Marcom scanned the faces before him, but he hadn’t caught who’d spoken. It didn’t really matter. Everyone was watching him expectantly for an answer. His jaw tightened. He needed to remember that these commanders were young; some had probably never seen much, if any, of the world outside the kingdoms and cities they’d come from. While Marianne held domain over all, the governors of each territory were responsible for their own guard, and that guard could be commandeered by Marianne and Seven Skies in times of crisis—like now.

  “Astus is a doddering old fool,” Marcom said, “and almost certainly bribed to have his guard look the other way if they spot Broodsmen in their midst. We can trust him only about as far as a Reaver, I’m afraid.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir?”

  Marcom turned toward the far end of the room where one of his own men, looking supremely uncomfortable, stood in the doorway.

  “What is it?” he asked wearily, certain there was some new crisis unfolding outside the fortress’s walls.

  “Miss Caireann would like a word, sir.”

  That caught Marcom by surprise. Never in all their years together at Seven Skies had Caireann ever sought him out here at the guards’ towers.

  He scanned the rows of men before him one last time, then looked back at Elijah, measuring the smaller man with his gaze. These were what he had to work with. In the end, it didn’t really matter whether or not he could trust them—he simply had no choice but to do so and pray for the best.

  “Organize the other battalions into groups,” he told Elijah, “and prepare your own men to stand with your replacement. Then pack lightly for travel—” his gaze cut to Vuc, still standing at attention against the back wall, “—both of you. Meet me back here in two hours. The three of us will leave then for Coalhaven. Understood?”

  Elijah nodded, saying nothing as he fingered the long blade of the dagger that was strapped to the inside of his forearm.

  Marcom made his way to the door, refusing to catch anyone’s eye. He nodded to the guard who had brought the message and stepped outside.

  Caireann was waiting at the foot of the path that wended its way through the little grove of trees separating the guard towers from the rest of Seven Skies. Beside her, Dorothy stood, looking solemn and somehow older than her years. They watched him as he made his way across the stones toward them, his boots crunching loudly in the brittle leaves that had already begun to carpet the courtyard. The cool air felt crisp on his face, and the sunlight seemed overly bright. Samhain would soon arrive, but what sort of spectacle would it be this year? Would the stalls still go up? Would the actors still speak their lines? Would the minstrels still sing and the dead still walk among the living?

  “I told her yeh were leavin’,” Caireann said quietly, meeting his gaze steadily. “She wanted to say goodbye. Nay, she demanded it.” She gave him a tired smile, but he sensed something more behind her words. She seemed uneasy, though as composed as ever.

  He opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but her eyes flashed a warning, forestalling him.

  Dorothy pulled away from Caireann and lifted her arms toward him. He only looked down at her for a long moment, uneasy himself now, then he stooped and swept the little flyer girl off of her feet and into his arms.

  She shrieked with surprise and delight, then threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.

  “Don’t go,” she said into his chest.

  “I have to go,” he said gently, and he felt his heart break a little at the words.

  He set Dorothy back on her feet again, and she stared up at him with wide eyes that glistened in the autumn sun.

  “It’s because of the bad thing, isn’t it?” she asked seriously, staring at him with such ferocious intensity that Marcom, who had faced hellions and drunken sailors and worse, had to resist the urge to take
a step back.

  “The bad thing?” he echoed.

  “The one that made the fires.”

  He stared at her for a long time. He could feel Caireann watching him—watching them both—and he wondered how he should answer.

  Finally, he decided on the truth.

  “Yes,” he said, matching the girl’s seriousness. “That’s right. He—er, well, it, I guess—hurt a lot of people, and I want to keep that from happening to anyone else. I have to make sure that those who sent it never have a chance to do anything like that again.”

  She nodded, as if this was the answer she had expected, and she’d only been waiting for him to confirm it.

  “Like he did to Dah,” she said.

  Caireann knelt down beside her, taking her tiny hands in her own.

  “Can yeh tell us what happened to yer dah, dearheart?” she asked gently.

  Dorothy shook her head and looked up into the branches of the trees above them. Most of the leaves were gone, leaving only bony fingers behind to reach impotently toward the cloudless sky.

  “First we make a ghost,” the girl singsonged, “of the man we love the most…”

  Her voice trailed away, and Caireann and Marcom exchanged an apprehensive look.

  The silence spun out, and Dorothy only went on staring upward into the trees with wide, clear eyes.

  He was about to say something when Dorothy spoke again.

  “He wanted a quarter,” she said, and then stopped again.

  “A quarter of what, dear one?” Caireann asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “He wanted a quarter,” the girl repeated more emphatically, “but there were only dollars. She gave him a quarter, though.”

  There was another long silence, then Dorothy looked back over at Marcom and smiled.

  “Bring her back,” she told him. “I miss her.”

  Caireann reached up and brushed the girl’s hair out of her eyes.

  “Bring who back? Yer ma, is it?”

  Dorothy only shook her head and would say no more.

  At last, Caireann shrugged, gave Marcom an apologetic look, and got back to her feet.

  “It’s time we let the captain do his work,” she told the girl. “And it won’t be long before it’ll be time for yehr midday meal.”

  Dorothy made a face, but went quietly. She turned back once to Marcom and waved, her tiny wings spreading out in an affectionate gesture. He thought he saw hope in her eyes, and something else—was it confusion?—before Caireann bustled her away.

  Marcom watched them make their way down the path between the trees. There was something Caireann wasn’t telling him—something too deliberate in that last shrug, that last look. What was she hiding? Did it even matter?

  …First we make a ghost…

  When they were out of sight, he turned back toward the guards’ towers. He felt, for the first time, the weight of his years beginning to drag at his bones. He felt, rather acutely, the ache of the mark upon his forehead. He mourned the absence of the eye he’d lost so many years ago. He wished he could take back the commands that had led, finally, to Matthew’s death.

  He wanted a quarter, Dorothy had said, and the words echoed through his mind. But there were only dollars… What the devil was a dollar?

  And then…

  Bring her back—I miss her.

  Emily

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Time stood still as the moment lengthened and the tension grew. Emily’s heart, pounding against her ribs as they’d fled the blaze, suddenly stopped, and her stomach clenched. Beside her, she heard Corbb’s breathing catch; she felt the muscles of his back tense beneath her arm. No one moved.

  The Sarqin loomed over them. In the pools of shadows between the buildings, Emily could make out little beyond his matted fur and enormous stature. Celine’s face hung over them like a pale moon as she dangled from one huge fist, the light of the distant flames dancing in her eyes and the wind blowing her hair out behind her. She seemed strangely composed.

  They’re just people, Em, Celine had said, but Emily was finding that very hard to accept just now.

  With a hiss, Rascal dove out of the sky toward the creature’s face with legs splayed, claws extended, and his wings flapping madly. The Sarqin swiped at him, like a bear trying to swat a fly, but Rascal dodged easily, baring his teeth as he swerved around his head.

  “Rascal, no!” Celine cried, wriggling in her captor’s grip and trying to keep the kitsper in sight.

  The Sarqin growled, swinging a paw-like hand at Rascal again, but he soared up and out of reach, circling them and plainly waiting for another opportunity to attack.

  Emily let the arm she’d had around Corbbmacc fall to her side and slowly stepped away from him. If she could rush their attacker while he was distracted by Rascal, maybe he’d drop Celine, and her friends could get away. It was a long shot, but what other choice did they have?

  “I’m a’right, boy,” Celine called, craning her neck to look up at Rascal as he circled above them. “Go back to Em.”

  The Sarqin’s gaze was still fixed on the kitsper, and Emily realized she might not get a better chance than this.

  She let her hand fall to her side to draw her sword—and her fingers closed around empty air.

  Fuck!

  In the rush to get out of the tavern, her sword had been left behind, and the bow Garrett had given her was probably little more than ash by now. All she had was the pouch Marcom had thrown from the mountaintop still dangling from her belt, and a fucking iPhone and a hockey puck were not going to be very effective weapons.

  She let her gaze drop to her hands. Her palms were dirty, her fingers scabbed, nails jagged and broken. They seemed very small to her now as she contemplated rushing, weaponless, at the Sarqin. Could it make a difference? If only the knowing would come—but it didn’t.

  Her eyes snapped back to Celine, hanging like a ragdoll above the dusty path, watching apprehensively as Rascal circled above her head.

  Knowing or not, she had to try.

  Emily took another step away from Corbbmacc, steeling herself to charge.

  “Emily,” he whispered, her name coming out mangled and warped from his burned and cracked lips. His injuries were catching up to him. It was almost enough to stop her; it was enough to make her hesitate.

  “It’s okay, Galak,” a woman’s voice called, making everyone start. “Put her down.”

  The voice, laced with bitter disappointment, came from almost directly overhead. Emily looked up. She could just make out a shadow crouched on the edge of the low rooftop, little more than a silhouette against the darkening sky. But that voice sounded…familiar…

  Where had she heard it before? It seemed like something half remembered in a dream.

  “Are you sure?” the Sarqin rumbled, shaking Celine a little.

  “Of course I’m sure. Put her down. I know them. Well, I know these two anyway,” the shape gesture at Emily and Corbbmacc. “And they’re not Reavers.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, the Sarqin gently lowered Celine to the ground and set her back on her feet.

  “Just when things were getting fun,” he grumbled and began to clumsily brush some of the ash and soot from Celine’s shoulders.

  Bewildered, Emily looked back and forth between the woman above and the Sarqin below, dusting off his erstwhile prisoner, and tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Emboldened by the fact that his enemy was no longer paying attention, Rascal swooped down again toward his mistress, raking his claws through the fur on the Sarqin’s arm as he passed.

  “Ouch! That hurt!” Galak cried, taking a few hurried steps away, but Rascal had already propelled himself into Celine’s arms. She stumbled back a few paces toward Emily, who reached out and steadied her with an arm around her shoulders.

  Still uneasy, Emily looked back up at the figure on the rooftop again. “Do we know you?” she called.

  The shadow swung her legs over the e
dge and lowered herself slowly, dangling for a moment from the edge before letting go and dropping to the alley beside them. As she did, the moon came up over the low buildings, and light spilled across a dark face and a mop of unkempt hair.

  “Maddy?”

  “Emily.”

  The two young women stared at one another for a long moment as Emily tried to absorb the strangeness of stumbling over her fellow captive again. The last time they’d seen one another, they’d been working together to make the most of Daniel’s distraction in Marianne’s crystal mines. When those mines had collapsed, Emily hadn’t had any way to know whether Maddy had survived or not.

  “I’m glad you got out,” Emily said, reaching out toward the taller girl with her free hand.

  “Yeah, well, no thanks to you, right?” Maddy said bitterly. “What’ve you been following me for?”

  Emily let her hand fall back to her side.

  “Those were your fires we saw coming down off the mountain?”

  Maddy just glared at her.

  “We weren’t following you at all,” Emily said as the pieces began falling into place. “We’re looking for the Reavers—we’re going after Daniel.”

  Maddy’s eyes went wide, and then her expression softened.

  “You meant it, then,” she said, her voice suddenly very quiet. “When you told him you’d go back for him…you meant it.”

  It wasn’t a question, but something inside Emily took offense at the insinuation and demanded she respond.

  “I did.”

  There was a long pause. Dimly, Emily was aware of the fire’s crackle becoming louder and the increasing smoke around them. They would need to get moving soon.

  “Em…” Corbb croaked. She felt his fingers touch her shoulder, and she let go of Celine to turn toward him with a twinge of guilt. So much had been happening so fast that she’d hardly spared him a thought.

  His lips moved as he tried to say something more, but no sound came. With shocking suddenness, his eyes rolled up, revealing the whites, and he crumpled.