by T B Phillips
A shadow let him know that a figure had emerged. Looking up he could see Adamas Creech with two pistols drawn, both pointed at his heart. He managed to cough out a single word before the pirate pulled both triggers. “Why?”
Blackness was the response.
Two more shots could be heard as Eusari and Devil Jacque scrambled up the cargo netting to board Malfeasance. Behind them, chaos ensued as the white robed figures in Skander’s army wailed in agony. A glance over her shoulder revealed that the northern raiders were charging Braen’s smaller force, ignoring those dropping to coordinated gunfire. Sippen and Krill stood among the defenders, desperately trying to hold the firing line and resist the advancing horde.
When she topped the rail, she laid eyes on a gruesome sight. Both Skander and Braen lay on the deck with a pool of blood forming around them. Hester’s white furs were crimson as she lay across the older brother’s chest, shaking his lifeless form and begging him to arise. Adamas Creech stood behind her reloading one pistol with another pointed at her head. A flash of steel flew through the air as one of Eusari’s knives hit home, piercing his throat. She quickly followed with two more, each taking him in the chest and dropping him to his knees. Both pistols fell with thuds on the wooden decking.
A shot rang out from behind, narrowly missing her. She whirled, drew her pistol, and fired, striking a deckhand in the chest. He dropped the rifle that had downed Braen. “Grab him and get him over the side, Jacque! Drag him to She Wolf!” Her own ship wasn’t far, and she had no hope to sail Malfeasance with only a two-man crew and a spoiled northern queen. She grabbed Hester by the armpits and pulled her from Braen. “Get over the side and follow us to my ship.” The blonde woman nodded and followed Jacque and Eusari as they lowered the bearded captain with ropes.
Sippen saw them struggling to move Braen’s heavy body and rushed over. The sight of his longtime friend stopped him in his tracks and tears welled up, choking off any further questions. He asked, “Who?”
“Creech,” was the reply. Eusari surveyed the scene. The Dreamers held a shield around the defenders, but were losing the fight. The white robed zealots were coming to their senses one by one after the death of Skander and were testing the shield for weaknesses. “We’re outnumbered and don’t have much time. We’ve got to get him aboard She Wolf!”
Krill ambled over quickly, despite his wooden leg. “Gods above, I’ll kill whoever did this.” His jovial demeanor gone, he clenched his teeth and grimaced to hold back tears.
“I already took care of it, Krill. Help get him aboard She Wolf, while I hold them back.” She pointed at the frontline, quickly crumbling against the flooding horde of axes and shields. Heaps of dead crewmen piled on the sand as Krill led the survivors in a panicked retreat toward the black ship.
She knelt then, dress flowing around her in the sand of the beach. One by one she pulled her silken gloves from her hands, staring down at the multitude of scars. Each cut represented a transgression against her innocence and a loss of childhood. She focused on these, marveling at the power contained within.
When they had stormed Pirate’s Cove in the Fall, she had channeled her pain to aid the battle. Then, she had allowed confidence to flow through her scars as she regained control over her destiny, something she had long believed impossible. On that day she grieved the loss of her father Franque and her mother Anne, both tragically ripped from her world. She also grieved Sa’Mond, her truest friend before meeting Braen. Fighting back tears, she pressed her hand to the beach and felt the gritty cool sand against her skin.
She poured love into her cuts, love for her family and friends, but most of all for Braen. He had taught her not to bottle her feelings and that it was acceptable to express them. Anger and love were normal emotions, as were laughter and yearning. He taught her to strike a balance within her heart, and to express them all without fear. Fear of forgetting the hurt.
She had spent far too many years clinging to a multitude of pains. If she grieved, then she would move on and forget her parents. If she forgave those who harmed her, then she would grant them victory over her body and mind. If she loved, then she would open herself up to new hurts. But Braen did not give her pain, he granted her life.
Forgiveness and love poured through her hands and into the sand, swirling the beach under the feet of the invaders and causing them to sink. Down they slid into the ground as the zealots behind them broke into a panic. When they finally realized the source of the power, it was too late, and the army had slipped beneath the surface.
A powerful blast of air sent Eusari toppling backward, just as a black wolf raced before her eyes. She sensed from Gelert a command to run toward their ship and she did, as quickly as she could. She left in such a hurry that she left behind two silken gloves discarded on the beach. He drew the attention off of her just long enough to escape, then paced alongside as they made their way to freedom.
Once aboard, she gave the order to get underway. “Shove off!” Turning to the children she shouted, “Sebastian! Caroline! Give us the wind!” She collapsed on the deck next to the lifeless body of Braen.
“Which heading, Captain?” Peter Longshanks knelt beside her. “Do we return to The Cove or Estowen’s Landing?”
“Our strength accompanies Robert Esterling to Eskera. Take us there right away.”
Despite the many people standing around, she allowed herself to shed tears over Braen. Hester did the same nearby, and the two women shared a moment of solidarity for the man they both loved. Eusari leaned in close and touched one scarred hand to his forehead. She placed the other on his chest, feeling the wounds.
Although he was dead, she wondered if it would be possible to bring him back. Are you in there, Braen? She thought, reaching out with her mind and seeking a glimmer of life in his. And if you did return, would you be the same? Deep in his brain she felt a shimmer of electricity, barely a lifeforce but enough that she believed she could draw him back. She focused harder and began to pour her own into him.
But as the light grew, she realized the truth. If he returned, he would do so with too much of her lifeforce and not enough of his. He would walk among them, not as Braen but as an extension of her. He would no longer be the man she loved. That man had died. Instead she would control both his mind and body, and no one deserved a life of slavery. That would be no kind of relationship, she cautioned her heart.
Speaking with her mind to the spark within she said, I love you, Braen. I will raise our child to learn compassion and forgiveness. She pulled away and allowed what was left of Braen Braston to slip away into darkness. When she finally stood, she placed her beautifully scarred hands on her belly and felt the child move. At least I’m no longer alone.
After the sounds of battle had finally subsided, Lord Stefan Nevra emerged from hiding. He calmly left Adamas Creech’s stateroom and made his way topside, mulling over mixed feelings regarding the outcome. Both Braston brothers were killed, and for that he was pleased. But Eusari had dragged away the stronger of the two, interfering greatly with his plans. He blinked his eyes against the glimmering fires throughout the city, soaking in their warmth and forming a new strategy.
When he found the three bodies, he knelt first beside Creech and ripped open his shirt. The new wounds were extensive, with one in the neck and two in the chest. A circular scar rested directly over the heart. Stefan had inflicted that wound in the jail. It had been perfectly placed. He silently chastised Eusari’s sloppiness. He placed his hand on Adamas and poured lifeforce until his eyes opened and mouth gasped for air. Nevra leaned in closely and whispered, “Next time stay alive.”
He moved to the deckhand behind the crates, leaning in and inspecting the bullet wound in the heart. Much cleaner work, he thought, then went to work on him as well. “Go dig up the others,” he told the man as he rose, gesturing toward the beach.
“Aye, My Lord.” The man turned slightly and Nevra cau
ght a glimpse of the scar on his neck. Frowning at his earlier work, he reminded himself that he had limited options at the time. It was the best he could muster using the sharpened spoon found in his prison mattress.
Stefan then turned his attention to Skander Braston. One eye was missing, replaced by a large bullet wound. He reached his fingers into the gap and felt around for the piece of lead, retrieved it, and tossed it aside on the deck. Pleased that enough of the brain was still intact, he placed one hand over the eye socket and the other against his cheek.
He leaned in close and placed his mouth against the lips of the fallen northern king, kissing him deeply. He then poured more of himself than he had given to any of the others, ensuring control over this powerful emotant. You will be special, My Darling. You will serve me well.
The single eye of the Kraken instantly shot open, and a wicked smile curled on his face. “The voices are gone, Father. I can finally think clearly.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chancellor Jakata leaned intently toward his computer, poring over dispatches. Several more explosions had rocked the capital, and protesters now openly marched in the streets. Food distributions had been interrupted by one of the blasts, and angry residents of the Industrial Sector threatened to riot. In all his twenty-years over Astia, he had never suspected that he would have to turn out troops against his own subjects.
Guarin cleared his throat in the doorway, but the chancellor was too frustrated to give him a glance. “Your Excellency. Fatwana Nakala has completely disappeared, and we have no idea where she’s gone. We think she’s defected to The Society.”
“What did you find by searching her logs?”
“She has indeed been hiding prophecies, and we think she delivered one directly to the terrorists.”
Jakata closed his eyes, the soft sound of an orchestra no longer soothing his mood. “Music stop.” When he finally opened them, he asked calmly, “Did you question the initiates and reconstruct the missing verses?”
“We did,” came the reply from his assistant, “and it isn’t good.” Gaurin stepped forward and handed the aged politician a simple slip of paper, the message written in the shaky hand of a trembling oracle.
The chancellor read the words carefully, fear consuming his body as he realized the missing part of the puzzle. “Tell Campton that his time is up.”
“Your Excellency?”
“Dispatch our special forces to Andalon. We’ve no choice but to reset the experiment and start anew. Now leave me in peace!”
“Right away, Your Excellency.”
A few moments later, Jakata heard a throat clear in the doorway. “Damn it, Guarin, I want to be left in peace.”
“Too busy for me, Father? Even after all these years?”
The chancellor snapped his eyes to the door, finding a tall man with fiery red hair. He was regal in stature, bearing himself more like a king than a total shit of a son. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes,” the newcomer replied, “it’s me.” He strolled casually into the room, admiring the Andalonian artifacts on display. He paused at the wine collection, drawing the cork from a partially empty bottle and sniffing long. “This vintage is nearly gone, you know.”
“Quite the shame, I fancy that one.”
“Most people do, Father.”
“What are you doing in Astia? Why did you abandon your post? Can’t you see that the continent is falling apart? Yet here you are, pouring the last of my fine wine.”
The redheaded man lifted the cup to his nose, sniffing and taking in the bouquet before taking a long sip. With piercing green eyes he stared into his father’s soul and asked, “Have you ordered the kill switch?”
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
“Then Campton failed?”
“Not yet, but that ending appears inevitable. I’m pulling the plug before he gets himself killed over there.”
“Was he always your favorite, Father?”
“No, Artema.” The Chancellor handed over his own glass. No sense letting him drink it all, he thought. “You were until you abandoned the mission and started playing pirate.”
Artema Horn returned to the bottle and tipped the contents into the glass, swirling it to allow air into the aroma. “I wasn’t just playing, you know. I learned a lot about politics and scheming while I was away.” He handed the wine to his father.
Jakata laughed, “I bet you did.” He tossed back the glass, not wanting to savor anything at the moment. “Why did you choose now to return?”
“Because you are weak, Father. The Council has lost faith in you and the Society is sowing chaos.”
“What are you implying?”
“That as soon as you are dead, I will petition the Council for succession. With Campton away there will be no opposition.”
“Well you’ll have to wait a long time, because I’m not going anywhere.”
Artema sat down in his father’s overstuffed chair with a plop. “Once I’m cozy and comfy in your seat, I can unravel everything our family has worked for. I’ll dissolve the Council and restructure everything the way I desire.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Jakata took two steps and stopped, holding his head against a sudden dizzy spell. “This world is our legacy! Our ancestor laid the foundation for our family and I’m sworn to protect it!”
“To the death, Father?”
Jakata did not answer the question. He fell to the floor, body wracked with convulsions as he tried to focus eyes on his son.
“The potency of the beads is stronger in someone lacking the ability to use their benefit. It can even act as a poison.” Artema leaned close to his father’s ear, whispering softly, “You just swallowed the equivalent of all four types of beads at once, Father. The Council will believe that you swallowed them in a vain attempt to further spy upon your little world.”
He gestured at the artifacts that cluttered the room. “It’s common knowledge that you’re obsessed with Andalon. It will make sense that this was a desperate attempt to play god.” He rose and placed four beads in a bowl next to the wine; one black, one white, one red, and one blue. Then the Dragon quietly strolled from his father’s quarters, ready to begin the next phase of his revolution.
Marcus Esterling paced in his rooms, a virtual prison cell now that he was no more than a puppet played by Lord Shol. He stared out the window for a while, then chose a book and took a seat. He turned it over in his hands. It was hefty, no doubt full of dry ramblings of old men long dead. He read the words on the spine, Common Law and Trial. It did not sound appealing. He opened the pages, read two paragraphs, then hurled the tome into the gardens below.
He paused to take in the fragrance of some roses one of the domestics had placed on the hearth. His mother would have found them beautiful in their glass vase. There was just a hint of water in the vessel, and someone had filled it with vibrant glass in the form of polished beads. They were beautiful and every color of the rainbow. He grabbed the flowers by the stem, drew them out, and tossed them on the floor. Then he reached in and pulled out several handfuls of the baubles, placing them into his pocket with a smile.
The king by name only walked to the door, opened it a crack, took a deep breath, then stepped out into the hall. Two of those disgusting Falconers stood waiting, as if they had foreseen his desire for a stroll. What am I thinking? Of course they knew that I would. They always know my next move. The young man decided to lead them on an adventure.
He turned left, walked down the main corridor, then made three rights and a left. Every time that he rounded a turn he sped up until they appeared behind. Then he would casually act as if he had been taking his time. They matched his speed each time. When he approached the stairs leading to the watch tower he sprinted, pumping his arms and pushing himself to exhaustion. Let them foresee this, he plotted.
As he had hoped, the feathered me
n sprinted after, running with less effort of body, but definitely hampered by their flowing robes. His plan, as he had hoped in his mind, hinged on their ability to see. Marcus had a theory that their keen vision and gift of foresight was tied directly to their birds. This staircase had no windows and barely even the occasional arrow slit.
As he neared the top, he reached his hand into his pocket and grabbed a handful of beads. Three more steps and he let go, letting them bounce all at once down the narrow staircase. He did this several times until his pocket was flat. Then he spun around, rested on his haunches, and waited.
The specters slipped and slid as their feet met the marbles, stumbling forward and tangling in their gowns. The first Falconer completely lost his footing and the other toppled over him, his bodyweight causing both to slip down the steep staircase. Down they fell, several flights while Marcus laughed hysterically at their demise. After a while, he no longer heard the thudding of their bodies on stone, and so he carefully made his way down.
About halfway down, he noticed something odd. So far, the marbles had reflected the light of the murder holes, glistening and giving away their treachery. But as he rounded a bend, he found three dull stones laying among the shimmering glass. They were black and unassuming, perfectly round and smooth. He snatched them up quickly and slid them into his pocket as he continued his descent. On the way he found several more, scooping them up as well. His only interest in the objects was that they obviously had been dropped by the Falconers.
Marcus passed the two specters three fourths of the way down, laying in a heap, but very much alive. They gingerly tried to right themselves, hampered by broken bones but determined. Both had lost their hoods in the tumble and stared at him with steely eyes that seemed to bulge from their bald heads. He twiddled his fingers at them as he passed, laughing and taunting. Done with his fun for the night, he returned to his rooms.
The light outside had dimmed considerably, but he was nowhere near ready for bed. He took the time to hide the beads in his mattress, all but one, which he passed over each knuckle like magician would roll a coin. For a while he simply stared at the object, marveling at the perfectly smooth texture. And then a thought took over and he decided to test another theory. Could this be the source of their power? He popped it into his mouth and swallowed it down with a glass of really shitty wine, the best in the palace.