by T B Phillips
A week into the voyage, Braen pulled Eusari aside. His body had mostly healed, except for the ribs, and he had color back. She couldn’t help but notice that his face was a handsome one, beneath the long, blonde beard. Guiding her by the arm, he pulled her into her stateroom. He shoved a knife into her hand and shushed her when she had begun to protest. “Have this ready at all times.” He warned. Something had changed in his tone, and this version of Braen was on high alert.
“What’s going on?”
“I think it’s what we feared. I heard some of the men talking, and they plan to take over the ship.” Looking around, he asked, “Where did you stash my blades?”
Eusari led him to a chest beside her bed, opened it, and took out his items. Laying them out, she noted, “You know, I just realized that I’ve always seen you armed but I’ve never actually seen you fight.”
“Let’s just hope that I don’t have to.” He strapped on the longsword first, then placed the cutlass and axe in the hoops on his belt. Finally, he placed the large knife in the horizontal sheath in the small of his back.
She pointed at the longsword noting, “That is a little overkill on a ship isn’t it? How can you swing it in such a tight space?”
“I don’t. It belonged to my father, so I carry it for sentimental reasons.” The sword indeed had sentimental meaning to Braen. Highly effective in open combat, the blade had cut down many a Loganshire defender that went against his father and grandfather before him. Braen had learned sword stances and strokes from Krist Braston as soon as he could walk and hold a wooden version. Of course, he would share none of this with Eusari. Looking up at her, he asked, “Are you ready?”
Her green eyes lit aglow as she threw off her fur cloak to reveal at least twelve knives sheathed in strategic places along her leather breeches and tunic. The pathetic kitchen blade that he had handed her appeared comical in her gloved hand, and she winked at him as she tossed it aside. Pushing past him, she opened the hatch from her room, letting in screams and the sounds of struggle above. The mutiny had begun.
The duo raced up the ladder and emerged in a nighttime cacophony of fighting. Braen pulled his cutlass and knife from his belt and looked every bit as menacing as the man she had heard rumors about. Up until this moment she had doubted the stories, and fully believed that his prowess had been greatly exaggerated. But when Gorgeous George swung at him with a club, Braen moved like a boxer, dodging the blow and returning with a jab of his knife hand. The blade plunged in and out of the neck of the hideous creature, blood spraying as the northern captain spun, slicing his hamstrings with his cutlass and dropping him to his knees to bleed out.
“Braston, look there!” Eusari pointed at the forecastle, where six crewmen were pinned down by ten mutineers. The men loyal to Eusari were armed with whatever they could grab. One man, Giovani, was fresh from scullery duty and was armed with a meat cleaver. He swung violently and screamed obscenities while the more confident mutineers watched and laughed at his foolishness.
Braen seized the opportunity and ran behind the group. He flung his knife, burying it deep in the back of Theo the linesman. Flowing inside of them with his cutlass, he sliced the Achilles tendon of another man. Spinning low he pulled his knife from Theo and braced for a blow. Two men lunged from both sides and he parried a cudgel with the curved blade, ramming his knife into the attacker’s groin. He turned the man like a shield so that the other’s blade sank deep into his back. Stepping aside and swinging his cutlass, he left the second attacker’s hand still gripping the knife stuck in the back of the first.
Braston was an artist with his blades and painted the deck of the ship red with stroke after stroke against the mutineers. Eusari, not wanting to let him have all the fun, became a flurry of steel herself. She quickly dispatched Raulphe, the navigator, by flinging a knife into his neck below the base of his skull. As soon as she released the blade, she had produced another from her collection, embedding it in the chest of Simone. She could not remember the role he served on her ship, only that he was a total asshole when they had played cards.
Inspired, several of her crew members joined the fight and she saw that Peter had turned a small two-pound cannon. He laughed as he fired it into the face of a man she didn’t recognize. Turning to her right, she saw that Devil Jacque had moved into a defensive position beside her. The remaining two mutineers threw down their arms and surrendered, but she dispatched them quickly with a flung knife to each of their throats.
“Why did you do that?” Braen screamed across the deck.
Eusari tilted her head to indicate the hatch leading below. “We have bigger problems. There’re fifteen more in the hold, and only eight of us.”
Smiling and holding up his cutlass, he asked, “Why is that a problem?”
“Because they’ve probably broken into my armory by now.”
Braen dropped his smile and shrugged. “Well then, that’s a problem isn’t it?”
Peter spoke up, “Can’t we just chain them in, Captain?”
“Not if we want to share their food and water. Jacque, gather up weapons from the dead and redistribute. Pete, roll that cannon over the hatch so we can rest while recovering our wits.”
Braen sheathed his weapons and pulled the captain of She Wolf aside, whispering in her ear. “Turn back to Estowen’s landing, Eusari. With this wind, we can be there in two days, less if lucky. We have enough dried foods and water above decks to make it if we conserve. We can trawl fishing nets to help.”
She nodded and gave the first real order as a legitimate captain on her own vessel. They brought the ship about and stood watch over the captives below, ensuring that the hatch remained secured. She Wolf had a captain, a cook, a master gunner and a quartermaster. She would need a navigator, a first mate and new cooper. Her green eyes met the icy blue of Braen’s, and she mouthed a silent, “thank you.”
Chapter Twenty
Lord Nevra sat in the great hall relishing his new title. Artema’s plan executed perfectly and handed over power just as promised. His mercenaries had quickly dispatched the loyalists, and everyone in the town had witnessed the fake death of the former king. Stefan should have been happy with his new title and power, but instead worried over the little things. Those being the many loose ends that had failed to tie.
The first of these was Samani Kernigan. That man posed danger while loose and would no doubt raise support to challenge his rule. If only I had access to his network of spies, he stewed. He had lost many nights of sleep over this problem, and ultimately decided to send his own agents to ports throughout the empire. Their primary mission was defaming his opponent’s name and blaming him for the death of Horn. A bounty of ten thousand Imperial marks was placed on the capture or death of the man wanted for regicide.
He concocted the story as plausible as possible and word spread quickly that Kernigan had bribed Horn’s guard to fire upon his ship as it left the harbor. His plan had failed after destroying Wench’s Daughter, when a battle broke out between Stefan’s guard and Samani’s loyalists who conspired against the beloved Artema. After the assassination, Lord Nevra was the hero who dispatched his own men to put down the revolution in the streets. Facing certain death and humiliation, Kernigan fled on Ice Prince with the crew of his co-conspirator.
Braston made an easy patsy, and it was believable that he was power drunk on his newfound success as the “Kraken.” Stefan had spread word that Braston wanted to ride that glory and rule alongside Samani. He also placed a bounty on his head, five thousand marks to the man who captured the Kraken and brought him to kneel before the King of The Cove.
Nevra laughed at how easily the guild accepted the story, and how Horn’s own “Inner Sanctum” had been his downfall. He convinced them that he should rule as a singular despot over the guild. He did not need advisors, only followers. He owned the army, the financial system and was the wealthiest man in The Cove.
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br /> He heard footsteps approaching and then a clearing throat broke his concentration, snapping him from his thoughts. “What is it?” He growled.
Alec Pogue stood in his perfectly arranged uniform. “My Lord. One hundred fifty men have refused to surrender. Should I dispatch them or exile them?”
“Exile?” Nevra sneered. “If you capture a rat and set it free outside of your house, it will gnaw its way back in. If you kill it, then you starve its children.”
“So, I should kill them, Your Excellency?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Put them in the lower prisons until I do.” Nevra picked up his ledger book and opened it to review his inventories. “Yes. We have enough rations to support them. I think a month in the cells may turn a few more. How many of Horn’s former supporters have already surrendered?”
“Two hundred, sir.Nevra chewed on his quill while he thought aloud, “So that brings the wall strength up to seven hundred men with another five hundred in reserve.” Flipping pages, he opened the book to update those numbers as well. “That includes another two hundred housed in the barracks and supplementing the city patrols.” He slammed the book shut with a satisfied smile. “Have any of the evacuated ships returned?”
“No sir. We only have the twelve moored during the turnover.”
“Who is due in first?”
“Captains Dominique, Gordman, and Creech were out raiding the Southern Continent, and are unaware of the change in power. They’re due back any day.”
“As soon as they arrive, dispatch Harper, Lindeman and Schott to patrol the northern coastline. I think Kernigan will head to either Eston or Diaph.”
“Their orders, sir?”
“Here is a list of names who I trust. I want them delivered to ports all along that region and set up as legitimate business owners. They’ll be my eyes and ears.”
“And the funds for that?”
Nevra’s brow furrowed, questioningly. The nerve of Pogue. Is he implying that I should pay for it from my own funds? “Take it out of the treasury. Here’s a writ for the withdrawal.”
“Aye, sir.”
Stefan picked up a general news dispatch that had arrived that morning. Reading it, he motioned Pogue over and handed it to him. “It seems that the western empire is having some difficulties. The caldera has had some minor eruptions that have driven the Pescari to the walls of Weston. Is that special prisoner still alive?”
“He is, My Lord.”
“Good. When he reaches full health, I want to ransom him. He’ll bring in a good sum if his father becomes desperate or sentimental enough.”
Pogue nodded. “Will that be all, sire?”
“No. Did the engineers figure out what those projectiles were?”
“Yes, my lord. Apparently Braston’s assistant had a laboratory in their apartments. We brought everything to the keep and set it up here to research.”
“What did they find?”
“The rounds were filled with several chemicals, mostly pitch, sulphur, and turpentine. As they burned, the released gas drove off our crews.”
The new king nodded thoughtfully. “Is there any way to counter the effects?”
“The engineers are working on a device that our men can put over their faces if the same rounds are used. They think that they can be effective against all types of smoke and gas. Well, for a short amount of time at least.”
Clever, he thought. Braston and his team are always clever, but not cleverer than me.
“You did well, Pogue. Now go deliver that writ.” Nevra waved his fingers dismissably and the Captain of the Guard again left him alone to his musings.
After a few moments he decided that his concentration had been broken for good and went for a walk to get it back. Three of his personal guards flanked him, and he was thankful for their presence. Unlike Horn, Nevra was not a fighter and depended on the loyalty of his personal cadre of thugs. He paid well for their loyalty and slept well knowing that they were outside of his door.
As he walked, he passed a detail of soldiers carrying his trunks and books to Horn’s former chambers. If he were the new Pirate King, then he wanted the most secure quarters in the keep. One of the men stumbled on a loose brick in the floor and tumbled backward, spilling a chest open. Dozens of Stefan’s precious and personal ledgers fell out, dumping pages out like loose leaflets into the hall.
Rage burned inside of the little pox-faced man as he screamed, “Be careful with those!” He quickly scrambled to his knees, scooping up page after page of several decades of his life’s work. After he had finished, he rose to his feet and turned on the man. A knife flashed from the soldier’s belt aiming for the King’s neck. Nevra stepped back with a scream and two of his guards moved in to grab the arms of the soldier. Once they immobilized him, another drove his sword into the gut of the would-be assassin.
Once the soldier was on the ground and the knife removed from his hand, Stefan began kicking and wailing on the corpse with his fists. Stooping down, he picked up the knife and stabbed it into the corpse, over and over. His guards watched with smiles on their faces as he cut off ears and disfigured the man’s face.
Alec Pogue raced up the hall, having heard the commotion. He was halted ten feet away by one of the private guards. Just beyond, Nevra sat on the belly of a bleeding corpse, plunging his knife into the chest with his face distorted in an angry sneer.
“Let me through.” He tried to push his way past the guard.
“Sorry Captain. We’re gonna let the king have his fun.” The man was a brute, one that Pogue didn’t know. He must be one of the hired mercenaries.
Finally, the king was out of breath, energy spent on his tantrum. “I already dismissed you, Captain. Go about your tasks.”
Pogue stepped into attention, saluted, then turned an about face and headed down the hall. Looking down he still had the writ and the instructions with agent’s names in his hand. It was crumpled into a ball within his fist.
Chapter Twenty-One
Marcus Esterling walked with confidence, smiling as he took each step leading to the Rose Palace. Matteas Brohn and twenty sworn soldiers flanked the prince, six of whom carried a simple pine box. The parade made quite an intimidating sight as they approached the stairs, and the palace guards saluted his return.
The squad slowed as they approached the doors to the Room of Light. Marcus had never been allowed in during council, but he had snuck in on many occasions when it was not in use. He smiled and waved for two sentries to open the doors before him.
One of the men cleared his throat and addressed the prince. “I’m sorry, Prince Marcus. Only the Queen Regent and her cabinet are allowed beyond this door.”
“Well, that won’t be a problem. You see, the Queen Regent is dead and in that box.” He turned to indicate the coffin. “Open the door.”
The sentries looked at each other with shocked expressions, then looked to their captain general. “Um… Sir?”
“For Cinder’s sake.” Brohn strode forward and kicked the doors open, startling the cabinet members inside. The sentries jumped out of the way and stood useless, watching the prince and his entourage march by.
Marcus entered the room with his smile plastered on. He waved his fingers at the old men sitting around the table playing their political games. “Hello, useless sacks of wind. Kindly go with my soldiers and no one will die.”
The chancellor sat in his usual seat. He wore an irritated and angry expression, but Marcus noted that he was far too old to stand and argue. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am dreadfully sorry to interrupt your geezer party. Well, not really. Actually, I was looking quite forward to this.” Still smiling, he added, “While my Mommy and Captain General Brohn were ‘rescuing me,’ the outlaw Braen Braston killed my mother, lopping off her noggin.” He snapped his fingers and one of his soldiers handed hi
m a velvet sack. Marcus reached in with his hand and pulled out Lady Crestal’s head by the hair. He looked at it adoringly for a moment, then kissed the severed head on the lips and left it as centerpiece on the table. Frowning, he turned it so that the open eyes stared vacant, directly at the chancellor.
While the men gasped in horror and moved their chairs backward, Marcus pointed at the head and said, “Look Brohn. She’s still seated at the head of the table.”
The chancellor finally found his voice and courage as he stammered, “You can’t do this! This is disrespectful and a desecration of her body.”
“No. The disrespect was when you paid off the Braston pirate to kidnap me. She was forced to ransom me back, and your thug killed her in the process.” He slowly walked around the table as he talked, until he stood directly behind the older statesman. Leaning in close to his ear, he whispered loudly for all to hear. “Unfortunately, he told us of your involvement. Also, that it was your plan to have him kill my dear mother so that my brother would take the throne.”
“That’s preposterous!” The man’s face turned scarlet at the accusations.
Brohn spoke up next. “Actually chancellor, you have the most motive to overthrow the Regent and place Prince Robert on the throne. Everyone in this room knows how she despised and often humiliated you behind these doors. In fact, the last time we met you were crying and wet yourself.”
The other men around the table nodded their agreements, murmuring as they remembered the events of him lying on the floor of this very chamber. The man began stammering, tears flowing down his eyes as he looked at each face around the table, recognizing the guilt that they attributed to him.