Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1)

by Jonathan Michael

  Shiner back peddles as the monster scrambles toward him with jaws open wide.

  Tigershit! The entire crew is immobilized. Maybe dead. All except for Shiner and myself. And the intelligent ones who tore into the cabin. Damn. The door is right there. I can sprint to it while Shiner has it distracted.

  “Save yourself, lad. I got this scallywag roight where I want ‘im.”

  I want to. I want to run away as I always do. But where will running get me? Those that are left alive will blame me for all the deaths. They’ll use me as bait instead of sockeye. The captain is the only one who deserves to die. And even then, I know he’s an honorable man beneath his lousy decision. He’s only trying to protect his own. Just as I am. Goose was right. I always run. I ran from my parents’ deaths. I’m running from the Taoiseach. I ran from Greenport. Goose is on his way to find a solution, and I’m contemplating running from another problem. And I’m tired. I must stop running. I can’t leave Jay to fight the Taoiseach on her own. Just as I can’t leave Shiner to fight this river monster on his own. He’s the only one that has befriended me. If any of them deserve my help, it’s him.

  A guttural bellow erupts from within me and I carelessly leap onto its back. My arms lock around its neck. Unknowing what to do next, I dig my fingernails into its throat, hoping to find a tender spot. Or a miracle.

  I hold on tight while the beast shifts uneasily yet remains focused on the blade in Shiner’s grip. It hasn’t moved to flop on its back yet. Maybe because I’m no threat. A soft spot. Near its throat. I claw harder. My fingertips grow warm as if blood paints them. The monster twitches frantically as my fingernails dig deeper into its thick neck. But how? The monster rolls.

  Like the captain, I refuse to let go. I can’t give up now. My entire body tightens with the weight of the beast on top of me, but it passes quick. My chest screams with pain, but I can’t let it stop me. Not yet. My fingers dig and tear into the wound, opening it wider. Energy rushes from me. I push and pull, thrusting harder until my entire fist bursts into the beast’s throat. It rolls again. This time I hold onto the loose flesh around its open wound. The searing pain crushes me but lapses quick enough for me to maintain my grip. I reach for its gullet. I reach for anything I can. If I tear out its esophagus, it won’t be able to breathe. But I only feel mush. Soft, disgusting tissue like creamed corn. Then, the monster stops rolling with me lying on its back and its wild rage subsided. It lunges toward Shiner once more, and he pierces it through the eye with his extended shank. It goes limp. So do I.

  The odor is putrid. I slip my hand from its throat and find it covered in a dark, messy substance. “Malice, inside and out,” I mutter. I take a deep breath and look up to see Shiner staring in disbelief. “What is it?” I ask quietly.

  Shiner responds in a melancholic tone. “A bloody alligata’. What is tha’?” He points to my hands.

  I slip off the beast with a lazy crash onto the deck. The black goo drips from my fingers. I shrug my shoulders. “I’ll get the mop.”

  “We have to help the otha’s!” he barks. “Your talents! You’re a Heala’. Help the otha’s!”

  “Oh. Right!” I rush to the closest body. Stripe is bleeding out fast while lying against the deck rail, unconscious.

  “Can you help?” Shiner asks in a panic.

  “Go get your salts. They’ll help the smaller bites. I’ll try to heal the rest.”

  Shiner rushes below deck. To the kitchen I presume.

  I tear a sleeve from Stripe’s tunic to use as a tourniquet. The end of his femur is splintered where his leg was torn from his body. My stomach upheaves as I get closer. I let it come out. The chaos, the blood, my enslavement, it’s all too much. I vomit more than I thought I’d eaten today, and it only adds to the stench of the chaos. I’ll have to scrub that later. Except Shiner killed the mop. Not important, Stone. Focus. These men need you.

  The blood pouring from his arteries has slowed, so I brainstorm how I’m going to stop the bleeding completely. I’m not cut out for this healing stuff if I can’t handle a simple amputee. Astor would have had this man all buttoned up and onto the next by now. I peruse the deck as I ponder what to do and I see his leg lying next to the alligator. That’s it! I shuffle over to grab the appendage and line it up with his stub as best I can. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I figure it’s better to have a complete leg than a stump, so I might as well try to reattach the thing.

  “What’re ya doin’?” Shiner cries out. He returns with his salts and help. The rest of the crew follows him on deck.

  “I… I…” is all I can get out before he pushes me to the side and starts working his own remedies. His initial state of panic has obviously worn off.

  “You can’t just reattach a leg that’s been ripped off,” Gentry reprimands. “Even if you do manage to reattach it, the thing will just be an obstacle. It’ll never work the same. It’s a loss he’s going to have to accept. Shiner will get the bleeding to stop. He’ll be okay. Go check on the captain.”

  Gentry starts dishing out orders to everyone as they emerge from below deck. He’s the authority figure now with the captain, first, and second mate all debilitated. Or worse…

  “Chunk! Lump! Go prep the infirmary. We’re going to need three beds and milk of the poppy.”

  “Sir. We don’t have an infirmary,” states Lump politely.

  “I know that, you idiot. You need to set one up. Just make sure we have three cots ready and the proper medications handy along with water. Plenty of water.”

  “Yes, sir.” Both deckhands scurry off.

  “Boomer! Edgerin! Start cleaning up your mess. We don’t want any further injuries caused by something that can be so easily avoided.”

  “Our mess, sir?” Boomer asks, puzzled by his command.

  “All the fishing line, the hooks. The damn gator! Yes, it’s your mess. You’re the fishermen, now clean up your tackle and catch.” The two of them jump to it immediately.

  Gentry stops shouting orders to check on Stave, who appears to be coming to. Gentry props him up against a wall, examining him for any serious injuries. There doesn’t look to be anything except a few minor bumps and bruises.

  “Elder. How’s the captain?” He yells over to me.

  “Uh…um…I don’t think he’s… He’s dead, sir,” I say with a sober voice. This is the man who is enslaving me. I should be thrilled he’s no longer alive. This is my chance to get to the Crimson Capital as intended. To save Jay. But instead of elation, I feel guilty. I feel dread. I feel disgusting. I caused this.

  The captain has no more than a few minor punctures from the alligator’s spine and a couple scratches here and there. The wounds are not prominent enough to be fatal.

  “Let me see.” Gentry motions for a deckhand whose name I don’t know to tend to Stave. The boatswain rushes to the captain’s side. “There’re no more than a few minor punctures and a handful of scratches. There’s not enough blood. He can’t be dead!” Gentry exclaims. “This is Captain Fika Crowbill! He’s battled alligators twice this size and lived to tell the tale. He can’t be dead! There’s no way.” Gentry’s voice trembles with emotion. “You!” He grabs me by my tunic with both fists and gives me a jarring shake. “If it wasn’t for your greenhorn mistake, this never would’ve happened. You did this! You’re responsible for his death. You have to fix it.” He yells at me as if he’s just lost his father—a boy who’s lost his family.

  “I want to help. But how? This is resurrection you’re asking for.”

  “I don’t know. Figure it out or you’ll join him.” He shoves me aggressively, nearly sending me over the rail into the rushing waters.

  He’s not bluffing. His anger is boiling over the top because of the captain’s death, and somehow, he expects me to do something about it. I can see it in his eyes. I can hear it in his voice. I can feel it from his touch. I’ve been there. His pain is real. I must do something about it. But what? I can’t bring people back from the dead. It’s impossible.
I attempted resurrection on those squirrels when I was a boy, but nothing ever came of it. But maybe I can try. And I better start praying. To whom, though? Susy can’t help me with this.

  I rip the captain’s charcoal-grey tunic from his chest. No hidden injuries beneath. Nothing serious. I slide my hand upward across his forehead to open his eyes, and they’re bloodshot, but no life. I prod around looking for what may have caused his death, and then I see it.

  My internal metronome slows to a sloth’s pace. The red liquid beads in the corner of his mouth. It slowly runs down his cheek, staining his grey beard as it meanders through the coarse whiskers. The blood drips from his beard to the deck with a heart-stopping splash. More blood pools in the corner of his mouth and runs its course down his chin. He’s bleeding internally.

  “He’s bleeding from the inside out!” I cry out.

  “What? That’s not a good thing. Why are you… What? Can you…” Gentry sputters out fragments of questions.

  “It means he’s not dead. Not completely. If his heart beats hard enough to pump blood, then there’s still time. Don’t let anyone distract me. I can do this.” I hope.

  Gentry shuffles backward, giving me enough space to focus, and pushes back some of the onlookers gathering around. Assuming the bleeding is originating somewhere in his chest, that’s where I place my hands first.

  I concentrate solely on Captain Crowbill. The rustle of the crew around me fades out. The putrid odor lingering on the deck dissipates. The transfixing sound of the river’s swift current drowns out. The blinding light from the orange sun hovering over the horizon disappears into shadow. There is nothing more than the captain.

  I peel back the layers of pain and anguish, leaving room for only the corporeal elements of the captain’s form. I can no longer feel his skin under my palms, but instead the soft tissue of his inactive lungs. I prod deeper, sensing the vast nest of every nerve intertwining throughout his sinew, every warm vessel that continues to pump life through his failing body, until I zero in on his heart.

  It’s slow. It’s weak. But it continues to beat steadily as if it were hibernating. I cannot sense any damage, but I decide to regenerate it anyways. The instant I begin to manipulate his heart, two hands firmly grip me around my biceps, severing all concentration.

  “You’re not allowed to fish anymore, greenhorn,” a grungy voice says to me.

  I open my eyes to see Captain Crowbill holding onto me with two fully functional hands. No cold bone or dried sinew. Two complete hands covered in flesh with fingernails too.

  They continue to expect truths—the Advocates themselves even. Their disciples will never grow into what they need to become. The truth must be withheld. I must obliterate their history. I am a scientist. I don’t have it in me to destroy such knowledge, so I will leave it concealed, hidden away for only the worthy. It pains me, but knowledge will be replaced with faith and fear.

  25 Jaymes

  W e stand amid a grassy hillside, staring north with the sun peeking over the distant Western Ceruleans. The morning air is brisk as it flows into my nostrils. Fresh. Not humid and heavy like the stagnant air in the Broken Forest. I don’t remember summer mornings ever being this cool.

  The Crimson Capital lies in our view. It’s a vast city, the biggest in all of Azure. The Crimson Harbor consumes both sides of the Scarlet River, and the city stretches to the east for leagues. Buildings tightly stacked create an unnatural, rigid terrain from this distance. I look beyond it to the redwoods and scattered oak. I know somewhere out there, where the evergreens give way to broadleaves, is my hometown of Redoak. And just north of that town is my home. Will I ever see it again?

  From the outskirts of the capital, Ellia points down to the Martelli Manor. “There.” She treks with a limp, walking beside her beast, Persia, who is also trudging along with injury.

  My injuries aren’t nearly as severe. Painful, but only a small slice of my calf went missing. And not too deep. Painful to walk on, but I can walk. The laceration running the length of my body opened up again, but the suspension Astor did to it has restricted the blood flow. It’s not life-threatening, just hideous. And as much as I enjoy the idea of battle scars, I’ve earned more than I anticipated in a few weeks’ time—this nub being the worst of them. I attempt to wiggle the fingers on my left arm, but they’re not there.

  The glamour of the city is more brilliant than I remember. The streets are lined with thunder lanterns hanging from live redwood posts as if they are blooming from the branches. Where there aren’t redwood posts, there are thunder lanterns hanging from market shops or at the entries of the residents’ homes. Healthy, green foliage with flowerings gives a colorful splatter amidst the stone and wooden structures. The roads are encrusted with sparkling quartz and cobblestone bricks. Ironwood workers sit atop a beam high in the sky, erecting a new building. Crimson Guard patrol the streets, looking mighty and authoritative in their cloaked uniforms. A rare smith is hard at work, pounding away with glowing embers lighting up his shop. Pillow girls lounge on their balconies, not working, but seemingly enjoying the morning sun with a smoke. It is impeccable and alive. The city is bustling. Unfortunately, I only catch glimpses as we scurry through the shadows of the alleys. Ellia dodges eyes and leads us away from the main thoroughfares through the poverty-stricken neighborhoods of Tombtrough where the vagabonds sleep in the gutters and use burning barrels for light and warmth. A stench of something like charred sewage touches my nose, and I pinch it off. We walk past motionless bodies and through puddles of what appear to be more than mud and water. On the positive side, there are a few rare meadows sprinkled throughout Tombtrough, which help dilute the death littering the streets.

  “It’s been so long. The Crimson Capital is alive.”

  “It’s a façade. There are shadows everywhere. Never let your guard down. The residence here in Tombtrough know not to look upon what isn’t their own. Knowledge gets them burned.” She continues limping, not slowing her pace.

  Somehow, she makes limping look flawless, as if she intends to have a swagger in her step.

  “I don’t remember him. The Taoiseach. I know I met him on several occasions as a little girl—”

  “You remain a little girl,” Ellia interjects.

  I ignore her spiteful comment and continue. “—but I hardly remember him. What is he like? He’s a dark man, I know. That’s about all I recall. And how my brother always describes him.”

  “That’s one way to describe him, yes.” Her voice is flat. “His physical features are dark, sure, though his ambitions are bright. Brighter than any other. Many men misinterpret his character. But he, like me, has encountered much pain and suffering in his life, which is where his ambitions derive. He is only looking to improve Azure for the better. You, like most, are too immature to understand.”

  Maybe. But I only need to understand just enough to get close to him. To find his weakness. Ellia turns her head over her shoulder and scowls at me. Damn, I nearly forgot she had that thing where she could hear my thoughts. I wonder how she does it. Did she learn it from the Taoiseach?

  “Indeed, I did. And if you get close enough to him…” She continues with a subdued tone. “…perhaps he’ll teach you too. It will take much focus, hard training, and, above all else, discipline. Absolute discipline.”

  Her words are intimidating but don’t have too much effect without context. I don’t even know this man. But I decide not to think on it further and use my tongue to keep her from my thoughts.

  “I’ve never seen the Martelli Manor, I don’t think. My mother always said it could exist in fairy tales. My father would bring Stone and me to the Redwood Chamber while he was in his meetings, but we didn’t venture far from the grand atrium. Other than that, I haven’t seen much of the capital aside from passing through.”

  “You know, sometimes you’re better off keeping your mouth shut. Either you’re giving others more information than they need, or they just don’t care. Wait to be spoken to.
Knowledge is dangerous. You keep yours to yourself and explore it cautiously.”

  “But how do I keep mine when you can reach in and take it at your leisure?”

  Ellia raises a hand. I flinch. She runs it through her hair as she shakes her head, her lips curling down. She doesn’t even bother looking at me. I remain silent for the remainder of the walk, which thankfully isn’t long.

  When the mansion comes into view, I realize why my mother described it as she did. It looks as though the Old Races built it with the environment integrated into its architecture. Petrified redwoods tower several hundred feet into the sky—remnants of the ancient redwood forests, no doubt. Each of the towers—there are too many to count—is conjoined by interlacing roots, some thicker than a bull elephant and others as thin as my wrist. They create a wall taller than most large buildings. The Martelli Manor is as grand as it should be for the elected leader of Vedora. It’s an impenetrable fortification that could defend against an entire army. But what army does he defend himself against?

  “There aren’t any windows,” I notice out loud. I flinch, half expecting a back hand after her telling me I talk too much.

  Ellia looks at me with a berating stare. “It’s a barrier, Jaymes. What good are windows in a wall that is intended to keep others out?”

  “Oh…” My confusion must be apparent for she answers my next question that I’m too fearful to ask.

  “He doesn’t live in the wall.” She shakes her head at me. “The Martelli Manor is on the other side.”

  “Oh!”

  Rather than heading straight to the main entrance via the Redwood Chamber where there are numerous cloaked guards, we approach the southeast tower. I would think at this point, now that we’re on the grounds of the Taoiseach’s home, it wouldn’t matter if his guards spotted us, but she holds tight to the shadows.