by Ted Neill
Levers groaned, gears spun, and the stone flipped right-side again. But the Elawn had built momentum and continued to sink, though more slowly. Gabriella, Mortimer, and Adamantus crashed down into the deck. Gabriella braced herself for an impact with the water, waiting for the waves to rush over the side and swamp them.
None came. The clouds were much higher above them, the sea closer, the islands of the narrows were just off the railing. But they stopped in time.
A wyvern’s cry alerted the Elawn’s crew that they were not yet out of danger. The black wyvern had followed. Like the pelican that had so inspired Gabriella, he had folded his wings and was diving towards the Elawn. Just short of the ship, he spread his wings, pulled up, and brought his yellow talons down over Mortimer, who still held the egg. But the hunter was just regaining his footing. Just before the black wyvern bore his full weight down on Mortimer and snapped his neck, he turned his head to the left.
Then he was gone. A gush of air. A passing roar. A clamor like armored wagons crashing and tumbling. A bolt of copper had stuck the wyvern from above, and he was abruptly erased from their view. Wings, scales, and fire jumbled together and fell.
It was the mother. Their mother dragon.
She had dropped in from above. But now there was no aerial combat, no floating battle—she had simply wrapped her tail and legs about the male, entrapping his wings. But she had also folded her own so that together they fell towards the waiting waves.
Gabriella, Adamantus, and Mortimer rushed to the port rail.
“She will kill herself with him!” Gabriella said.
“She is tired and desperate. She may sacrifice herself to save her egg,” Adamantus said.
Remorse twisted Gabriella’s stomach. They watched in silence as the wyverns continued to fall. The dragons shrank as they dropped. Like the clouds, it was difficult to gauge just how distant they were, but the surface of the ocean waited indifferently. The black wyvern must have sensed the water’s closeness for spurts of fire billowed out from the tangle of limbs, quickly turning to smoke. Oily clouds now tracked their progress towards the sea—one cloud, two clouds, three clouds. There could not be time for many more.
Just before the wyverns seemed sure to crash into the sea, the mother unfolded her wings. They snapped open, full of wind. The mother’s body broke free of the male’s but it was a release the male had not expected. Although he twisted his body and began to unfurl his own crumpled wings, it was too late. He disappeared in a cloud of white spray. The sound of the impact reached them like a distant muffled explosion accompanied by a screech that Gabriella realized was the voice of a creature already dead.
The waves closed, leaving nothing but a film of white foam. Mortimer and Gabriella leaned back, relieved, as if their bets had just come in at a game of dice. A few remaining flames burning about the deck diverted their attention. They beat them using their cloaks. By the time the flames were out, Adamantus, who had not moved from the port rail, announced that the mother wyvern had returned.
She floated off the port bow, her eyes scanning the deck. Gabriella could detect fresh tears in her scales. There was a talon that was split and hanging, ready to break off completely. One wing was torn at the bottom—she flapped harder with the other side to compensate—yet she was oblivious to her injuries. She craned her neck over the rail, looking for one thing. Mortimer held the egg up. There were no dents, no cracks. Miraculously he had protected it from harm.
Wind gushed out from the mother wyvern’s nostrils: a dragon’s sigh. She was too tired to fight now. Gabriella could read it in her face. The mother banked slowly, moving closer to examine the egg. Mortimer turned it in his hands to show all the sides were whole. As if satisfied, the wyvern withdrew her head. She exhaled again then floated off to port.
“She is prepared to follow,” Adamantus said.
Mortimer handed the egg to Gabriella. It was warm in her hands. She carried it below. The galley was a disaster, cabinets hanging open, their contents spilled across the floor. In the next room, she found Dameon huddled beneath one of the bunks moaning, counting by sixes to calm himself. She would have to deal with him later. In the meantime she was simply happy he was still alive—that they all were.
She secured the egg on a mattress, tucking sheets all around it and then surrounding it with pillows. Satisfied, she returned through the galley, tripping over pots and broken jars, then climbed the companion ladder back to the mid-deck. All the damage to the ship would have to be inspected, but in the meantime she hoisted the sails again and set a new course: due east.
Chapter 7
The Servior
The years that followed were good for Sade and Vondales. Training. Learning. Growing in power. Raven, as their rescuer called himself, became Sade’s mentor, his order of sorcerers—the Servior—their family. At times Sade was astonished at his own backwardness, his limited ambitions: once he would have been content to remain on Illicaine with his mother and brother for life. When that dream failed, he would have found satisfaction in being head of the Guild, and after that, Jerrold’s apprentice and partner. How provincial those dreams appeared now in contrast to the life they led.
During those first days recuperating in the Sevior ship, the Anvil, Raven explained most humans had not the power of magic, but some were born with the gift. Among those with the gift, most would only ever work a weather spell with the simplest of elements, wind and water. These were the men and women Sade had already met like Jerrold and his lot.
But among those with power, a few had potential to learn and work the greater spells of all four elements, including earth and fire—spells of power, of healing, maiming, even life and death. These sorcerers could endow objects with power, they could walk the pathways of the spirit, and could even speak with the dead. These were the sorcerers that the Servior sought out to join their ranks. And this was the sort of sorcerer that Sade had the potential to be.
“You do not even understand your gift right now,” Raven said to Sade. “You were lucky not to be consumed by your own release of power on the Judgement. It was raw, unbridled, and undisciplined. One we Servior perceived with our mind’s eye. We knew it could only have been accomplished by a powerful enemy or someone untrained.”
“And am I your enemy?” Sade asked.
Raven smiled, his long legs lifted up to the table, his polished boots and their buckles shining. His hazel eyes squinted and he turned his narrow head towards Sade and his brother. “That remains to be determined,” he answered. “But think hard on your decision. This is an opportunity you will only be offered once.”
Sade and Vondales took it, and were glad they had, for when they first glimpsed Slitstone, the rocky isle atop which was anchored the Servior fortress and school, Sade knew they both had finally come home. There was a niche for each of them. The Servior trained boys of power to be sorcerers, but even sorcerers needed brawn. A small army of warriors also lived on the isle and trained to be killers in order to protect their masters. Vondales was their best pupil.
Sade imagined that as powerful as they were, the Servior would answer to no one, but he was wrong. The Servior were themselves servants, but to whom Raven was vague. “We serve the eight, but that is all you need to know for now. Later you will learn more of our secrets.”
Sade spent the first three years learning magic, studying long hours in the libraries, standing upon hilltops practicing his craft alongside other novices. Some failed out. Only the strongest and hardest of heart could advance. When a boy showed too much weakness, compassion, or any lack of loyalty to the order, he was sent away on a boat, home—if he had one—exiled from the Servior forever.
The order was careful in how it chose novices. Elders picked boys with backgrounds similar to Sade and Vondales: orphans, tramps, and refugees. All had learned how to survive in the world by their wits, or fists, and all recognized that the rules were arbitrary, morals an unnecessary compromise, and only power mattered. So when a younger novice w
as caught stealing from Sade’s fishing gear—he had taken one of Sade’s feathered lures—the elders gave Sade permission to decide his punishment.
“Can I kill him?” Sade asked with sincerity.
“If that is the punishment you choose,” Raven told him.
But in the end Sade chose to spare him. Not because of mercy, but rather power. He thought it was better to have the boy indebted to him. His life would belong to Sade.
Not a bad trade for a fishing lure.
The fourth year was one of travel. Not yet a full sorcerer, Sade did not wear the black cloak of the Servior but an indigo one that stopped short of his knees and allowed him to climb and clamber about the deck of their ship, the North Wind. It was a small schooner, with a crew of just twelve other young Servior, but Sade was given command and he did not hesitate to make Vondales his first mate.
Their mission was trade—to barter for goods and bring valuables back to Slitstone, for the isle itself had little to offer but protection and isolation; there was no place to grow crops of any sort. They did not announce themselves as Servior, but they did not have to. With his warriors, his servants, and his own aura of power, Sade did not need to announce his authority with the black cloak or the broken ring that the Servior elders all wore about their necks. Their own experiences had given him and his brother a sense of worldliness, and their own betrayals a suspicion of everyone. They were both hard task masters and cunning leaders.
So it was at such a pinnacle of confidence that they sailed back into Greatport. Their subordinates traded and bartered. After a year at sea, Sade had made sure all of them could negotiate a good price without using magic or charms to confuse the minds of their counterparts. He wanted them to be men of the world as well as mages, and that meant learning to rely on their wits as much as their power.
Sade spent a whole day exploring the libraries and book markets, searching for spell books. He found a few, bought three, only one of which was useful to him; the other two he decided to distribute to the novices on the North Wind.
It was evening when Sade returned to their camp on the beach. He was finishing a meal of boiled mussels and potatoes when Vondales returned from his own errand. He approached on horseback with six figures in tow, each stumbling through the sand, their hands bound and their faces obscured by hoods. The other lads around the fire stirred, wondering what Vondales was bringing into their midst. They had traded for goods, some legal, some not, but they had never traded in slaves.
Sade set down the bowl of mussels and potatoes. Vondales was pleased with himself, a look of satisfaction splayed across his face. He grabbed the tallest of the figures, threw him down on the ground next to the fire while Sade pulled a branding iron from their gear and nestled it in with the coals. He conjured the flames higher with a flick of his wrist. The figure struggled to get up but Vonlades let loose such a kick in his stomach that he wet his britches. Sade made a tsk-tsk noise with his tongue as he bent down and removed the hood.
“Hello, Jerrold.”
Their old master looked up, blinking against the light, gasping for breath as Vondales’ kick had knocked the wind out of him. It took him a few moments to compose himself, take in his surroundings, and finally recognize Sade. Beneath his cloak Sade was dressed in boiled leather armor, with polished buckles, his fingers a glitter with rings, his hair a proper length and cut. He had been transformed from the helpless waif Jerrold had known. Sade could not help a smile as he considered the dramatic change he had undergone. Even his brother was a larger man now, adorned in ring mail, a belt of daggers, short swords, and a hatchet. One clear difference, however, were the scars on Vondales’ face from the beating he had taken on the Judgement. And for that, Sade had never forgiven Jerrold.
“Look at my face, Jerrold. Listen to my voice. You know me.”
The drunk’s hands were shaking, whether from lack of drink or fear Sade could not tell. He looked much the same—perhaps his clothes were a bit worse for wear, perhaps they always had been and Sade only noticed now as his own were not. There were deeper lines around Jerrold’s eyes, and a few more purple and pink veins visible on the end of his nose. His hair was thinner, too, but otherwise it was the same face Sade had grown accustomed to, the same man who had taught him so much, a man whom he had trusted, a mentor who had betrayed him.
That familiar face made the hurt feel fresh, as if it had been just the day before that they had been sold to slavers. Jerrold, for his part, kept his head lowered, ready to grovel. Only the sound of Sade’s voice made him look up.
“Sade?”
“And my brother, Vondales. He was the one who abducted you and your family.”
Jerrold’s eyes darted, his mind working, calculating before he began to plead, “Please, please Sade—my Lord Sade, show mercy. I know you felt betrayed by my actions, but I did what I thought best. I could have handed you over to the king’s men, but I didn’t. They would have killed you.”
“So you sold us as slaves. We would have met the same fate, Jerrold. Look at my brother’s face and you can see the price we paid.”
“But a price that was not death. You survived.”
“Don’t be mistaken, that fact will not help you, Jerrold,” Sade said, and motioned to Vondales to remove the hoods of the rest of Jerrold’s family. Gillian looked upon them with the same horror that she had worn that day in the stairwell. The girls were all older. Their hair tousled and flattened against their faces, but it was obvious that each one had grown beautiful. Sade could read the hope in their eyes that he would be forgiving, lenient. After all, had he not sat at the same table to break bread with them? Had they not played with him and his brother in the yard? Sade had even taught all three of them their letters and numbers.
But to Sade, the die was already cast by their mendacious father long ago. He looked away from them to the sixth figure, a boy about the same age as Sade when Jerrold first took them in. He looked more terrified and confused than all the others.
“A new apprentice, Jerrold?”
“Y-yes.”
Sade considered the boy. He was gaunt, dressed in rags, and had bags under his eyes. Another waif, unwanted, and off the streets, landing with a drunk of a master.
“Vondales, let him go. He should not pay for the faults of his master,” Sade said.
Vondales loosed the ropes tying his hands, but the boy remained frozen in place.
“You are free to go, or stay, or even join us,” Sade said. “We once served your master but he betrayed us. However, had he not, we would never have met our brothers the Servior and I would have never discovered my power.” Sade waved his hand and conjured the flames of the camp fire even higher. It roared as if oil had been poured upon it. Jerrold cowered from the heat. The light danced on the delicate cheekbones of his daughters.
“Please show my family mercy, as I showed you,” Jerrold said. “Punish me but not them.” Tears were running down his face as he reached out for Sade and took hold of the edge of his cloak. Sade shook his head, aware that all his crew, the younger Servior, and the accompanying warriors were watching this trial unfold. While Sade judged Jerrold, he knew he was also being judged.
“Your fate is decided,” Sade said, lifting the brand, now red hot, from the coals. “It was sealed the moment you sold us away. But I will not seek revenge. Revenge would be to simply kill you. This is justice. Justice insists that you come to the same fate that we did.”
Jerrold’s eyes followed the smoking brand as Sade waved it in the air. Vondales and three others anticipated what was coming next and wrestled Jerrold down to the ground, holding his limbs.
“Turn him over,” Sade said. “I want to see his face.”
A fifth joined them in order to hold Jerrold’s head still. Sade jammed the brand down on his former master’s forehead. The skin hissed. The tendons in Jerrold’s neck corded as he screamed, his mouth opening so wide that Sade could see where he was missing molars. He was older, a drunk who had wrecked his body
with alcohol, but with his knowledge of weather working he would earn a fair price as a slave. With a brand on his forehead, he would be one for life.
Jerrold’s family cried out as if they were being branded themselves. Gillian pleaded, the girls wept. They were too attractive to brand, their looks would be all the worth they would have, for Sade already knew their fates. The apprentice had disappeared. Sade saw him kicking up sand as he fled down the beach. Jerrold was gasping, reaching his hands up but stopping short of touching his scorched forehead.
Sade took in the faces of his crew, noting expressions of respect, amusement, even pride. But most importantly he could see that they all feared him. Although he knew he had shown strength, determination, and will, Sade was now disgusted with the whole affair. He was eager to be done with Jerrold and have him out of his sight.
“Vondales, take them to the quay and sell them. Make sure they do not end up on the same ship together. I want them scattered.” He turned to Jerrold. “Perhaps a few years of hard labor will be good for you.”
Chapter 8
Thirst
The Elawn negotiated the rest of the narrows in a matter of hours. A few curious wyverns flew close to them, but the mother frightened those away. Gabriella realized they had been fortunate to have picked a dragon of considerable size. She dwarfed most of the other wyverns they encountered that day.
Daemon was mesmerized by the mother wyvern. He crouched before the windows and craned his neck to see her. When Gabriella allowed him to sit next to her in the wheel well, he kept his face turned towards the dragon like a compass needle pointing north. He did not move for hours and would have neglected eating and drinking had Gabriella not reminded him.