by T B Phillips
She closed her eyes and pressed her back against the thick vines climbing the pillar. The slightest tickle of a leaf found her neck and she grinned up at the menace looming before her. In a whisper she answered, “Kiss my freckled ass, you feathered freak.”
The connection between air and leaf complete, Kali transferred it from her bonds into the ivy around her. The leaves seemed to know which part they wanted, soaking in the nutrients as the discarded portion dissipated like vapor into the air. She focused on the vines directly above the Falconers, forcing them deeper into the crevices and rapidly expanding them in girth. With her mind, she squeezed them behind each stone.
The hooded monsters turned their eyes upward as debris shook free and rained down. They laughed in unison, making an eerie display. Sounding more like a demon than a man, the lead Falconer spoke. “Valiant try, child, but your ignorance keeps you in our charge. The vines are gripping the stone tighter than before and will only make the structure stronger from the pressure.”
“Maybe,” she answered, “until I do this.” She knew each strand intimately, having traced them from root to frond. She found the branch that she needed and reversed the process, robbing it of the sugary sweet substance that acted as blood for the plant. Without lifeforce it shriveled and dried, shrinking like one discarded along the forest floor. The ceiling didn’t even shake as the stones fell, crashing down upon her foes.
Abruptly, her bonds released their grip and Kali quickly dragged Johan away. Falling stones crushed the pier behind them just as they reached freedom. Water splashed high into the air and the nearby soldiers dove into the river to avoid the flying splinters and debris. Her friend scrambled to his feet and raced alongside her up the riverbank. Neither stopped until both felt confident of their freedom.
Kali wheeled around in anger, her face red and seeking revenge. The pressure in her head throbbed as she controlled the remaining vines, but she held on a little longer. She felt like a dam was breaking on the inside.
“What are you doing, Kali? We need to get away!”
“Not yet. Not until the soldiers are far enough down river to get away.”
“Away from what? What are you talking about?”
“Away from this.” Kali released the vines which abruptly released the stored air and water. In an instant they resembled shriveled plants of summer desperate for an evening storm. The ramparts and batteries atop the bridge were too heavy for the weakened foundation. Both teens watched with awe as the structure rained down on the river Logan, crushing boats and burying the Falconers.
“Look at the river, Kali.” Johan pointed at the bank along which they had run. “You rerouted the flow and it’s flooding the fields.”
Exhausted, she watched as the water slowly filled the low areas, creating a wide marsh. “Is that bad?”
“Only for the Imperial Navy,” he responded. “No ship will be able to sail in water that shallow!”
“I don’t care,” she replied, eying the encroaching river as it pushed their path further south and into the Diaph Forest. “As long as those birdmen don’t follow us to Estowen’s Landing.”
Marcus Esterling was perpetually bored. Usually his parties brought him some reprieve, but the extravagance and expense of this ball did little to bring him joy. Beautiful women in expensive gowns twirled while men brayed and boasted about wealth and hunts. In the corner of the ball room puppeteers entertained those too drunk to dance, but not so much that they would collapse. He turned his head from the display with disgust and felt ill. I’m a mere puppet, he thought, no different from them except for my lack of strings.
Matteas Brohn stood over the wine cart, sorting through the bottles and frowning until he found one worthy of his palate. Marcus once looked up to the man who was really his father, but now found the sight of him disgusting. A patsy to a master race of people a continent away, Brohn groveled at their feet like a dog given a bone. A dog who kept the rightful king on a leash. What does that make me then? Am I the bone on which the dog gnaws?
The orchestra played a tune that the crowd found delightful, with a fast tempo and high acoustics that danced above their heads. A low cello bellowed out notes that pumped their hearts with excitement. Everyone was joyous except Marcus. He choked on the melody, and the rhythm nauseated his gut, pushing up bile that tickled the back of his throat. Suddenly in need of air, he rose from his throne. Attendants scrambled to fawn over their king, but he waved them off.
He pushed through the crowd toward a side door. There he found a room that was empty except for a bookshelf, an overstuffed chair, and a window. The chair faced a roaring fire and the window overlooked the harbor. Seeking the breeze he chose the window. Marcus stared out at the numerous warships loaded with stores and munitions bound for The Cove. Their mission was to bring death to Braen Braston, or so he was told. I didn’t order their preparations, he mused, I don’t order shit in my own kingdom.
The massive harbor was a beautiful sight from this vantage. Protected by the high walls of the city, his enemies would never reach the bulk of his fleet. The river flowed slowly eastward, toward Diaph and eventually out to sea where attack was impossible from down river. The steep walls killed the wind for all vessels but those carrying Falconers. On both banks an intricate ferry system dragged the rest upstream since oars were hindered by the narrow channel.
Nearby bells tolled in earnest, suddenly alerting him to the west. A column of grey smoke rose into the air. It can’t be a fire, he thought, it isn’t dark enough. Judging the distance, he estimated that trouble loomed on the western battery. Odd, there’s no threat from that direction. The door opened and Matteas Brohn entered the room. Without taking his eyes from the harbor Marcus asked, “What is it? An attack?”
“We’re not sure. But you need to move to a secure location.”
“Why not move Lord Shol? He’s the real leader.”
“True, but we need everyone in the ballroom to believe that you’re worth more than you are.”
There it is, he thought with a grin, actual honesty from Daddy. Pressing for more, he asked, “Would you rather play this role?”
“Hell no, Boy. I’m in a good position where I stand.”
“As long as I’m alive, you mean.”
“Pretty much. Now hurry your ass and let’s go.”
But the boy king held his ground, staring out the window. “Does that seem strange to you?”
“What? The smoke?” The general shifted his weight impatiently.
“No. Look at the pier. The ships are leaning.”
“Every ship lists.”
“No. That’s not what I mean.” He strained his eyes. The water level seemed to be dropping rapidly. Both men stood in silence, staring with amazement as the ships sunk one by one into the mud. In mere minutes the mightiest fleet in Andalon was grounded, their heavy bellies pressing deep into the muck.
Matteas gave the boy a strong shove then ordered, “Go!”
Chapter Seventeen
Braen Braston made his way slowly down the steps to the prison cells. The air below the surface smelled musty and itched the back of his throat as he breathed, but he didn’t mind. Something about the cold stone and soft humidity reminded him of his home in Fjorik. He had spent much of his boyhood playing in the cellars of the palace, and he smiled at the thought of the many hours spent counting and examining the dusty bottles in his father’s wine collection.
Unfortunately, this visit below surface would create memories of a darker and less enjoyable experience. Stefan Nevra had wintered in confinement, and the new council was no closer to deciding his fate. Although Braen led the temporary league in drafting a constitution and funding city operations from the treasury, a trial of this magnitude must wait for the officially elected triumvirate to decide the man’s fate. Thankfully, elections were scheduled for later that very day.
So far only five c
andidates ran for leadership spots. Braen, Eusari and Amash were among the favorites, and Samani all but assured them that they would win. Adamas Creech vied for a spot, but the ruthless captain often proved unpredictable and was known to employ cunning tactics. The fifth entry was a wild card that no one had expected.
Everyone had been surprised to learn that Nevra still held a small contingency of backers. Some of the merchants felt that he had been wrongly removed from his throne. As a result, he received enough nominations to find his way onto the ballot. Like him or not, Braen and the others had to recognize the legitimacy of his campaign.
The problem that troubled Braston remained the charges leveled against him by Alec Pogue. Stefan originally hailed from the southern continent, and as such, retained contacts in several kingdoms outside of the Eston Empire. These had proven very profitable for the man, and his wealth rivaled that of the Esterlings. According to Pogue, one of his business ventures involved the capture and delivery of slaves to wealthy plantation owners.
The problem lay in proving that he had been behind the crime. He had confessed in front of Alec and Amash but recanted his confession as soon as he had been confined. Events in his ledger coincided with dates of various disappearances but did not directly implicate his involvement. Hopefully the two men would catch up with Captain Dominique in Eskera and bring him in for testimony.
The jailer met him at the gate. “I’ll need you to leave your weapons here, Lord Braston.”
“Not a lord, barely a Braston.” He removed his belt and handed over his cutlass and axe. He had been leaving his broadsword in his apartments more and more these days, opting instead for one of Sippen’s pistols.
“The prisoner asked for better accommodations, so we dragged a mattress in from one of the other cells. Now he’s asking for books.”
Braen nodded. “I think we can provide reading material. I don’t see any harm in that.”
The soldier escorted him down the long walkway between cells. Few of them were occupied since crime had tapered off during the cleanup of the city. According to Amash, that was due to the increase in jobs. Apparently when people have proper employment, their level of honesty increases, and petty crime drops off.
The jailer turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “I’ll be nearby, just holler if you need me, sir.”
Braen nodded and entered the tiny room. The straw mattress lay in the corner and upon it sat the ugliest man he had ever known. His face resembled a rat, and pox scars covered dark skin which hung loose on his bony frame. A greasy smile curved on his lips as his visitor entered. “You finally decided to have that little talk with me, Braston? You know, if we had met when I first summoned you, we may have made a different arrangement, you and I.”
“I’m not here to make business deals, Lord Nevra.”
“Stefan. I’m always urging you to use my given name and yet you refuse. What is it that you don’t like about me, Braen?”
“I don’t even know where to begin on that topic.” Braston forced himself to look into a pair of beady eyes. “I’m not here for small talk. I’m here to collect your final campaign statement so that the council can read it aloud before the elections.”
“How nice of you to retrieve it yourself. A common page could have done that. No, Braen, I think you have other questions.” He handed over a sheet of paper with black scribblings. Not trusted with a quill or sharp objects, the man had written it with a piece of coal. Braen tried hard not to smear the writing.
“I actually do have other business.”
“Ask away, my friend.”
“Not your friend.” Braen wanted to lean against the wall but refrained. The entire room reeked with the man’s repugnance. “You know the southern lords better than anyone in The Cove. How amiable would they be to an alliance?”
Nevra’s brow rose up questioningly. “Against the Empire?”
“Against anyone and no one in particular.”
“They don’t run things on the southern continent like Andalon does. Their system of politics is different. Each lord is independent and has no affiliation with any other. The only allegiance in the south is with their wealth. Besides, most of the people on the continent live in small villages deep in the jungle. The lords don’t have large populations of citizens like the north and there’s no standing army. They are essentially warlords with hired mercenaries. Any help they could offer would be inconsequential.”
Braen nodded. The information matched what Amash had told him. “What do you know about the people down there? Do the Falconers oversee them, as well?”
Stefan let out a cackle that showed his brown teeth. “You really know nothing about anything, do you, Braston? Stop beating around the bush. You want to know if powers exist that can be useful in your fight.”
“Fights. And yes, that’s exactly what I want to know.”
“I can’t give you the answers you seek, but suffice to say they have something far worse than Falconers overseeing their people.”
“Then I must be going. Thank you for the statement and your time, Lord Nevra.” He turned to leave, pounding on the door three times to signal the guard.
“If you seek an alliance with the south, Braston, you’ll need to tarnish your conscience a bit. The only currency we southerners understand is dealing the capital of flesh and bone.” The door was shutting behind Braen, but he heard Nevra call out from behind, “And I don’t think you have the stomach for darker dealings.”
After Braen had left, Stefan released his grip on the object hidden in his hand. The shiv felt good to hold during the conversation, all the while imagining himself stabbing it into the arrogant fool’s neck. If only Braston had known just how closely he stood to death. There was no water nearby for him to draw from, and without his swords he was just a mortal man. But there would be time for that fun later.
He toyed with his weapon, flipping it over in his hands. The first time he had reached his hand into the slit in the mattress, he was shocked to find the piece of metal. Apparently, some prisoner had taken the time to sharpen a spoon into a blade. Although not razor sharp, the tool was usable and would be effective in time of need. The more he held it the more he ached to put it to use.
Talking about his former home had stirred a feeling of nostalgia. He usually suppressed these thoughts, having left the continent to seek fortunes elsewhere for good reason. Growing up he had hated the jungle and the perils within. Perhaps his surroundings and abundant supply of time contributed to his memories, but he allowed his mind to wander back to his former home.
Despite his current status he was not always a lord. He was born into a small village near one of the larger plantations. One summer when he was young, a plague spread among his people, killing a vast majority. Luckily, he and his mother survived, although he still bore the scars from the horrible illness. After they had recovered, she took him away to find work on the plantation.
Plantation life was difficult but offered better comforts than the village. His mother was pretty, and so she worked in the kitchen of the manor. Young Stefan was the same age as the manor lord’s son, and so he was allowed to play with him and be his companion. That was where he learned to read. Every lesson that Charro received was passed along to Stefan. They were the best of friends until Charro’s father learned that they were also lovers.
The enraged manor lord took his anger out on Stefan’s mother, beating and bashing until no bone was left unbroken. The cruel man forced Stefan to watch while soldiers held his eyelids open. No matter how badly he wanted to look away, he could not. Stefan would carry the image of that event for the rest of his life.
A squeaking sound caught his attention. Gently he rose from the mattress and crawled over to the rat gnawing on a piece of discarded bread. At first the creature merely sniffed, but eventually committed to eating the offering. In a flash Stefan scooped the animal into hi
s hands and held it tightly. Beady eyes stared up as the rodent struggled to get loose. “What’s wrong, little rat? Don’t you want to be my friend? I’m lonely in here and you can come visit me. Would you like to talk to me?”
Pain shot through his hand and blood trickled down. The animal had latched on to the meat beside his thumb and Nevra squeezed. The animal squealed from the pressure. “You little shit!” He stood up and ran to his mattress. “I’ll teach you a lesson, you worm.” He held the rat in one clenched hand and grabbed his shiv with the other. “You’re nothing and I’m better than you!” He lifted it above the animal and said with a sneer, “You’re my slave and I can do with you what I want.”
He pressed the tip of the sharpened spoon hard against the animal’s chest, ignoring the squeaks and squirms as it tried to get free. He giggled with glee as the device ripped skin, slowly piercing the heart. After a brief struggle, it fell limp. Nevra, suddenly aware of his deed, dropped the lifeless animal onto his bed and gasped.
Tears flowed down his cheeks as he realized the damage his anger had caused. He poked at the rodent and begged it to wake up, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please wake up!”
His voice fell soft until his begging turned into a chant. His words were nearly inaudible as he spoke to the animal’s lifeforce, willing its tiny soul to return. He sensed activity in the brain, just a flicker but enough to touch. He added his own to what he found. Careful, he thought, not too much. Just enough to restart the organs. He became one with the animal then and felt the torn chambers of the heart mend. His own muscles began to quiver as he felt the animal respond.
Of course, the animal that awoke had changed. The same beady eyes looked upon Stefan, only they no longer feared him. They obeyed. Stefan bent over and kissed its tiny pink nose.
Samani Kernigan took Nevra’s campaign statement from Braen and read it three times. “I have to read this out loud?”