by T B Phillips
“And where is that precisely, Artema?” Braen was still stewing with anger on the inside, but the prospect of a secret mission was indeed alluring.
Artema smiled as Braen took the bait. “Back to your favorite place!” He winked and added, “Estowen’s Landing.” Eyes serious he added, “Again, tell no one.”
“I promise. And… I’m sorry that I got angry, Artema.” Braen looked again toward Eusari as he apologized, nodding again to her. As he did, a second glance revealed that beneath her anger, something was deeply troubling the woman. He looked back at his mentor. “Regarding this promotion, I’m not worthy of being your advisor. I’ve told you many times that I…”
His words were cut off by the pirate king, who once again returned to his jovial demeanor. “Enough of that whale piss of an excuse. You’re a nobleman and were trained since birth to rule over a kingdom. You lead like other men drink ale. Leadership is in your birth and your station, Braston.”
Eusari’s face softened at Artema’s words and looked up at Braen with a surprisingly adoring look. “So, you’re the oldest son of Lord Braston?”
“Not anymore.” Braen averted his eyes from hers. At that moment, the door opened and Stefan Nevra and Samani Kernigan joined them at their table. The hulking Sa’mond turned quietly and left without an order from anyone. The eunuch knew his place. Braen lifted his gaze back to his mentor.
“Let’s get down to business,” a very serious and now dangerous Artema Horn proclaimed.
“Let’s not,” Samani Kernigan protested, “there are tavern wenches dressed like mermaids in the banquet hall, and better food.” Something about Kernigan chafed Braen’s sense of duty and propriety, but Artema smiled and winked. Of course, his mermaid was waiting for him in his chambers just down the hallway.
Eusari was obviously irritated at their lack of respect for women and shifted in her seat. Stefan Nevra starkly contrasted the other two men with his pox-scarred rat face. He stoically narrowed his eyes at them and opened a fat ledger. His fingers glided across pages until he stopped at a line, moving his fingertip under each word like a child learning to read. “Our business is more important than your cock or what you put into your mouth, Kernigan. We must discuss the defensive fortifications of The Cove. Especially after our newly crowned ‘Lord Kraken’ has angered the entire Imperial Fleet.”
“Isn’t cock the only thing that you put into your mouth, Stefan?” Kernigan quipped from behind his mug of ale. He downed it, refilled it and quickly winked at Braen as if he had just won a debate. Nevra scowled while Artema and Samani chuckled.
Braen watched as Horn and Kernigan shared the joke, still smiling like teenage boys in a brothel. In the years he had spent running missions out of The Cove, he had never had much dealing with any of the counsel of Artema’s Inner Sanctum.’ He silently wished he had taken more interest in their politics over the years, instead of acting as a private mercenary for Horn.
The rat-faced man ignored the joke and continued, “We need to move some of the batteries off the walls and place them closer to the entrance of the harbor. That would require placing more men on the walls to increase our ability to repel an amphibious assault.”
“Since when are you a general, Nevra?” Samani asked. “You seem to have gone beyond counting sacks of flour.” Shrugging, he added, “I guess I can go back to my mermaids.” Kernigan poured another mug of ale as he looked at Nevra. There was obviously some division to the counsel that he could not pinpoint. Kernigan finally looked away from Horn and added, “Artema, we’ll need to dispatch our flagships to rejoin their battlegroups, so as not to get trapped in the harbor. I recommend we do so quickly. We should keep them close by, but out of the eye of the Imperial scouts.”
“Agreed.” Artema drank from his mug and then continued, “In case Esterling does see through my ruse, we’ll need to scatter to the seas. Wench’s Daughter included. Ice Prince will remain behind, since Braen and Eusari will be on She Wolf. The others will be given a rotation to return after four weeks at sea. That should allow us plenty of time. Nevra, you and Kernigan will run things in The Cove while I’m away on Wench’s Daughter. It’s been a while since I’ve raided. After having some fun, I may head down to the Southern Continent for a break.”
Braen rose from the table after all the business concluded. He watched Artema leave the room toward his private chamber. Lord Nevra brushed passed Braen like a slimy eel, twisting his head to whisper as he passed, “We need to speak in private soon. There’s much that we have to discuss.” Braen shuddered slightly at the strange encounter, as brief as it had been. He could not fathom how such an odd man had wormed his way into Artema’s private counsel. He stared after him as he left, much as sailors watch sharks swim off the stern.
Braen watched as Lord Nevra also pushed past Eusari, knocking her slightly off path. A look of disgust flashed briefly across her face as she watched the eel swim into the passage before her. “Goodnight, Eusari,” Braen offered. She returned his greeting with a flat stare, nodded, and then she turned to follow Nevra into the silent dark. She intrigued him. Although attractive, Braen knew that his interest was not sexual. He was intrigued by her mystique and composure, and the prospect of learning her story bolstered the excitement of their mission.
After Eusari exited, Braen realized that he was left with Kernigan. The man appeared to want to talk with him further and alone.
“He’s a true lord, you know,” Kernigan indicating that he was speaking of Nevra with a brief nod toward the door.
“I’d heard.” Braen looked from the door at Kernigan, then turned to follow and try to catch up with Eusari.
Kernigan must have had business to discuss on some private agenda, and spoke flatly as if Braen had no pressing matters. “Do you trust him, Lord Braston?”
Braen paused with irritation. “Not a lord, and barely a Braston. Why wouldn’t I trust Nevra? Artema seems to trust him fully.” Again, he tried to make for the door, but the persistent man’s next words froze him in the doorway.
“I wasn’t speaking about Nevra, I was speaking about Artema.” Kernigan held out a hand toward the chair nearest Braen. “Nobody trusts Nevra. Well, nobody except you, apparently.” His face scrunched as if eating a sour pickle and then took on a more serious, thoughtful look. Artema keeps him around for his logistics expertise. He’s no tactician, a poor sailing master and a slimy weasel with a knife in someone’s back at all times. However, he keeps our mercenaries and taxes paid and ensures that the Empire is always looking the other direction. No, Lord Kraken, I want to know if you trust Artema.”
“Of course, I do. He allowed me into The Cove when I had nothing.” His blue eyes burned with distrust at the politician gesturing to the chair. “He’s trusted me, mentored me and today raised me to his private counsel. Yes, he has my unwavering loyalty.” Braen refused the chair that Kernigan offered. He narrowed his eyes further and looked closely at the shorter, seated man. He was more muscled than most men of luxury and held a posture of confidence that was often masked by his aloof personality. Braen realized he had never really looked at Samani Kernigan before and grasped that this man was more dangerous than he had believed.
“Where is he sending you and Eusari?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course, you can’t. He has your ‘unwavering loyalty,’ doesn’t he?” Rising, Samani offered his hand to Braen. The larger man ignored it, causing him to smile and walk out of the room. Pausing as he opened the door to leave, he spoke without turning his head. “Be careful, Northman. Squid is a delicacy, and pirates are no different than nobles when it comes to politics.”
Braen waited a few minutes, then followed hoping that Kernigan had exited the hallway. Passing Turat and Amash, he shook hands with his large friend. “Come by the apartment tomorrow night for cards. We need to catch up.”
“That we do. I heard rumors about the voyage.�
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Turat’s ears perked up at the mention of cards. “I just came into some coin. May I join the game?”
Braen flashed a smile, “Only if you want to risk losing it to Sippen.”
Amash nodded. “You’d better have a plan to get the little fella drunk this time. Did you pick up any of Esterling’s private stock during your raid?”
Braen feigned a hurt look. “Do you not know me at all, Amash?” Smiling, he added, “Of course, I did. I stole ten cases and held back six for myself and Sippen. Why should the Esterling family be the only people in Andalon to enjoy a fine vintage?”
“Which year did you take?”
“Why, only the 754, my friend.”
Turat, who was listening, turned with eyes round with shock. “754 is their prized year! One bottle is worth a fortune!”
Braen beamed a smile, “It was their prized year. I took all ten cases and smashed the rest of their collection.”
Amash laughed hysterically while Turat stared dumbfounded. “You smashed their entire collection?”
“Well, not entirely. I left years 772, 773 and 781. I didn’t want to be a complete asshole.”
Amash looked thoughtful. “Wait a minute, weren’t those all extremely hot summers?”
“Your memory astounds me. Yes, in those years the grapes were drying on the vines and ripened unevenly. Right about now, Lady Esterling is drinking what amounts to piss and vinegar.”
Both large men laughed while Turat stood with mouth agape. “You really are an asshole, Braston.”
Braen smiled and nodded agreement as he opened the door. He quickly dropped his smile when he realized his party was still going strong. Pausing only to help a drunken Sippen up from the floor, he left the merriment behind and guided his little friend back home.
Chapter Six
Taros sat tall astride Falia and stared intently at his small band. A hot breeze warmed his cheeks reminding that they neared the Forbidden Waste. The eruption of an angry goddess had reduced his people to a pathetic pilgrimage of tattered desolation, and less than fifty villagers remained. Before him stretched a small assembly, a wretched lot that had traveled for several days. He was beginning to grow accustomed to their looks of despair.
The difficult trek across the steppes provided little in the way of forage. His people had salvaged anything useful from the village and packed their meager supplies onto sleds of animal skins stretched over three lashed poles. These dragged behind horses and dogs, but desperation demanded that some follow behind men. Taros’ people carried both their past and their future on the sleds, but they carried their present on their faces.
Taros thought about the day of the fire. His power had rivaled Felicima’s, but he sensed that was his problem. Am I her equal? Or had she “blessed” me with her power? By now, killing Cornin was only a distant memory in his mind, but the tremendous power troubled him as he ruminated. I held the flames in my body. Absorbed it, somehow. He thought about how the inferno had boiled up to match his rage. I was angry. Anger belongs to Felicima. Am I like her? Every Pescari knew fire belonged to the goddess, and to hold wrath is to challenge their matriarch.
Others doubted that Felicima had blessed him. He had heard the elders’ whispers behind his back, especially those of Daska, the most powerful. He openly speculated that their shappan had erupted with the power of the goddess, a power that he had stolen with his hatred for Cornin. Indeed, he had harbored years of animosity toward the chieftain, and that horrible emotion must have fueled the flames. But hatred was the way of the goddess and not the way of men, so the elders feared their young chieftain. Ultimately, they had agreed to watch and wait.
Pescari legend warned against a fabled ability to control the power of Felicima. The elders were taught that those who wielded the power in these legends were not heroes to the Pescari, but rather abominations to be feared. As a rule, Pescari children learned early in life to put aside their hot emotions and taught instead to embrace the cooling of humility. That was the reason for the tradition of the fireside. Only by keeping from her gaze could they avoid her fiery eruptions.
Taros did not know what to believe. Though it was true he was angry when his blood had boiled, part of him believed that the fire came purely from within and not from Felicima’s wrath. He had felt in complete control of the fire, as if it had danced to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Indeed, while walking through the fire he had been focused on keeping it away from his mother. At first, the heat had been searing. After a few moments, he felt as if it followed his will and avoided them both. The flame obeyed me as its master. It lived and I controlled it. The last thought brought a smile to his face.
Most strange was the sensation as the fire grew within his blood. Although the flames had licked at his skin, the searing merely warmed him while his insides felt as if his soul was boiling. A torrent stormed as his anger had raged, and his mind was consumed by the anger. He had seen Cornin burning in his mind before the flames had even exited his body. But how? How had my body produced the flames? Regardless, he was happy the man had burned.
“We should stop for the night, nephew.” Teot’s voice shook Taros from his thoughts. “Your people tire, and Felicima will sleep soon.” He pointed to their god as she dipped toward the horizon. “See? We have wandered far, and she is soon to slumber before us.”
“You speak true, Teot. I will tend to mother.” Taros nodded and Teot rode off to check in with his scouts.
The elders had gathered nearby. When he approached, he spun from the saddle and dismounted in one graceful motion. After his feet landed on the sand, Falia nudged him with her long nose and whinnied. “Easy, my friend. I will find you water, but first, I must tend to mother.” Falia protested by showing teeth, spitting and snorting her disdain. Soon, she busied herself with some blades of tall grass. The shappan ignored the men looking on.
Kneeling beside the litter he examined her, motionless on the ground. He felt the heat in his body rise momentarily as he felt a surge of panic, but then she coughed and wheezed before finally catching her breath in a smooth rhythm. He placed a waterskin to his mother’s lips. She was so weak that she could barely lick at the moisture. Once, he would have prayed to his goddess to heal her, but he could not bring himself to do so on this evening.
Rising from his mother he turned back toward Falia. She had turned up some roots and was grazing lazily. He unhooked the litter and laid it on the ground. Then, he hobbled the mare’s left leg. She bit at him and neighed in disgust. “Easy, girl.” Falia would never hurt him. Their friendship was too strong, but she always showed teeth when he took away her freedom. “I know, girl. But we’re near the waste. If you wander, you’ll not easily return to me and that would make me sad.”
Taros heard someone clear a throat behind him where the elders milled around nervously, awaiting his attention. He smiled to himself as he finished wrapping the restraint. Let them wait, he thought. They have been the center of the tribe’s strength for too long. He was the strength now, and they needed to know that a dying woman and a horse took precedence over their audience.
“Taros,” a voice stammered and cracked out his name, “we need to discuss some matters of importance to the tribe.” Taros slowly turned and recognized Daska. The man was the oldest and known for his legendary bravery as a youth. He had apparently retained that trait, as he demonstrated by stepping forward from the others who huddled in a group looking aghast. Despite their protests, he continued. “Even the moon knows a destination when it travels, Taros. Why are we wandering like the bison with no clear certainty that the next valley is greener?”
“Daska, all valleys are turning brown by Felicima’s wrath,” Taros responded, turning and respecting his boldness. “Her fire spreads and pushes us to Andalon. He glanced at the horizon and watched as the last of the goddess dipped into the western inferno. Disgust rose up in his belly, as he realized that Daska had o
nly displayed bravery after she had shown her people her back. “The people of Andalon have food and we do not. They will share with us.”
Daska stole a look at the others who were notably silent. Their eyes gestured for him to continue. Shaking his head, he turned back to Taros. “You are young, but you know the story of our people. I taught you, myself. You know about our treaty with the Andalonians.”
Taros nodded. “Yes. But you are old, Daska. Your time is over, and I lead with authority from Felicima.”
Daska bowed his head in respect. “You speak true. Cornin lost favor with Felicima and you lead us. You have our support.”
“Fear. I have your fear. Not one of you wants to follow me. I am a youth, and you think I lack wisdom.” Taros took a step toward the elders. All but Daska stepped backward in response. “See? You all cower like old men.”
“Not a lack of wisdom, my shappan, merely experience.” Daska had used the word “shappan” to stress his support for Taros, and the boy recognized the strength of the word.
“You call me father?”
“Yes. You are shappan to our tribe. You will protect our wisdom as duty to all of your people.”
Taros let the power of the old man’s words sink in. “You are trying to caution me to listen to your counsel. You think that, despite my intentions, I will lead you to death or starvation instead.”
“Yes. We are not like the bison. We lack the fat and fur to protect us if the next valley is as brown and burned as the last.”
Taros placed his hand gently on the shoulder of Daska, who somehow managed to only flinch a little at his touch. The boy narrowed his brow and looked through the cloudy grey eyes of the sage. “That is the problem. We see ourselves as bison, a mere herd upon the plains. We must learn to become wolves. We should take down the bison of the world with our numbers.”