The War Enders Apprentice (Chronicles of the Martlet Book 1)

by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  

  Copyright © 2017 by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher, except brief excerpts for reviews and noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email the publisher, with the subject line “Permissions” to Elizabeth@zbpublications.com

  Edited by Joe Dacy

  Cover and Interior Illustrations by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (Also weird. I mean really this book is about a group of elves.)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9995598-0-2

  EBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9995598-1-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017916822

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  For Nikki

  Chapter 1

  An unnamed beach at the edge of Daouail

  A dark splotch blemished the clear blue sky over the deep ocean. In seconds, wind and waves rose from the previously calm water. With an ear-piercing snap, the atmosphere tore open, exposing a vortex absent of light, pulling water towards it.

  Shimmering plates of honeycombed glass held with golden hinges encased the Interrealm vessel’s massive wooden hull and decking as it glided into the sea. The vortex closed, leaving only clear sky and calm sea.

  Aboard, the crew scurried to unfold the enclosures to allow in the sweetness of fresh air and adjust the sails for Daouail’s gentle wind and currents. They settled in a north by northeast direction.

  Leagues away, obscured among tangled driftwood, Lady Alana Martlet of House Eyreid peered through her eyeglass. She focused on the movements of the crew. Taxonomic differences aside, they all looked too gaunt for health. Their movements were practiced, but slow as they led a small party of chained slaves to the uppermost deck and threw buckets of seawater on them. Shivering in the wind, several of the elfkin slaves bore the tri-pointed ears of her people. She smiled. Now I have an excuse ...

  Munitions covered the ship bow to stern, but this far from port, security was lax. Towards the bow, a Daosith overseer stood guard, whip in hand. Two more humans and a Daosith clustered around the wheel of the aftmost deck. From her dossier, she identified the human captain and the Daosith purser. Once the course was set, a human, a telchine, and two Daosith cooked greasy pottage of unidentified ingredients in huge kettles near the center of the weather deck where five smaller boats were tethered. Those might be useful.

  Alana pocketed her eyeglass. “I count eight. We can handle them easily enough.”

  Roark’s young delicate profile stiffened as if it was a piece carved ivory. Though her nephew and apprentice didn’t lower his eyeglass, his high brow knotted in a scowl. “Aren’t you worried about a complaint?”

  She snapped open a boiled leather pouch on her belt and removed an etched bone compact with three dials: for the Realm, for the number of moons, and for their phases. Once the compact flipped open, a barometer measured atmospheric pressure, and tiny copper flags indicated wind direction, speed, and the Realm’s major natural light sources to calculate the placement of the deepest shadows. She pointed at their map. “We should head in through the east. Clouds should roll in about a half-hour.”

  “I have to swim around the whole boat? Are you sure you don’t just want to kill the captain and purser as contracted?”

  “Number of people I kill doesn’t change the distance you must swim.”

  “All eight isn’t the job.”

  She pointed towards the limestone cliffs where the seabirds nested among the grasses and spruce. “We should set back to the next beach over. Those hills have an easier incline.”

  “Freeing slaves isn’t the job,” Roark said.

  “Move fast and quiet.”

  “I know the plan, but it’s not the job,” he repeated. “Corwin…”

  “I’ll deal with him. Become a shadow.”

  Roark turned away and removed his overtunic.

  Alana dressed in the weave. The black fabric was created for ease of movement and silence once it hugged the skin. She tightened her scabbards and applied greasepaint around her eyes. Her final touch was to tie two tarred sacks on her belt. The larger was needed for the job, and the other held a day’s ration of hardtack and enough coin to make it to the nearest Guild house — just in case the job went bad.

  Afterwards, she inspected Roark for any flash of color, pale skin or loose weaponry within the black. She thought and let her pride wash over him: Your attention to detail is improving.

  Roark smiled at the compliment and rechecked her gear both for instruction and good sense. “Nothing’s out of place, except your mind.”

  “When I was your age, apprentices respected their masters,” Alana lied.

  *

  Clouds rolled in, casting the Realm in deep shadows. The last sun dipped into the ocean. They pushed away from the shore on an unlit boat painted black as pitch. The sea was calm enough for Alana to steer the rudder and Roark to row without hindrance until they drifted into the current behind the larger ship.

  At twenty-five paces, they dove into the water with a length of rope. As instructed, Roark carefully tethered the rowboat to the stern. Alana edged along the wooden hull. Wearing spiked gloves, she climbed to the upper deck.

  Goddess, it stinks. A horrid mix of feces, bodily odors, vomit, blood and greasy pottage filled her nostrils. Over the hatchway stood the overseer holding a scourge of nine twisted thongs. His ill-fitted, ragged clothes looked as if they might rip any moment. His white hair was cropped short, but unwashed and ashy patches of skin flaked off his knees and elbows. She might have felt pity. However, a slave’s moan sang out into the air; the overseer hit his whip upon the grating. His eyes expressed eagerness to apply it upon the flesh of his victims.

  Alana’s deceased aunt reminded her conscience, “We don’t kill for vengeance, Alana Mira Eyreid.” But her mentor was dead; she was the Guild Master now.

  Alana slid to the deck, removed her metal spikes, hid them in a lifeboat and waited for Roark’s signal. He slipped aft to find the purser. Alana crawled into the captain’s night compartment — a dank, private room one deck below.

  In the dim twilight, Alana observed an emaciated Fairsinge woman loosely chained to the wall. Her neck was restrained by a tight iron collar. Her once smooth white cheek branded and ebony hair cropped to her scalp. Upon closer inspection, her body did not look as fully formed as a woman’s, but Alana did not know if that was malnutrition or age. Her eyes were crusted with dried tears, and her reddened nose had left a trail of snot to her mouth.

  Knowing the sheer stupidity of such an action, Alana knelt before her and pulled off her face mask
and exposed her three-pointed ear.

  A hint of life came back into the girl’s eyes.

  “You must be quiet and hide.”

  The girl mumbled and nodded in agreement.

  Alana picked the lock. Once freed, the girl scampered to the far corner and pressed her branded face into her hands.

  Replacing her mask, Alana glanced in the dirty mirror to ensure her auburn and silver hair was still covered.

  As her dossier said was his habit, at eight bells, the captain entered alone. He undressed. Ribs and knobby joints were stretched across his mottled flesh.

  He pulled at the girl’s chain. Holding the other end, Alana leapt from the shadows.

  His last words were: “What in the devil?”

  She tackled him and clamped his ankle in the iron, then shoved a dirty sock in his mouth. Alana could have killed him quickly. Instead, she pierced one lung and let him gasp.

  Alana knelt on his chest and whispered, “You should not brag you don’t pay your debts, Captain. The Guild does not allow malingerers to engage in Interrealm travel. It’s bad for business.”

  Alana grabbed his wrist and, using her saber, chopped off his hand which she placed in a tarred sack on her belt. Bleeding and gasping, the captain clutched his stump closer to his chest as she stood.

  She opened his desk and found a small box of coin, though not nearly the amount needed for the debt. She opened the ledger. Damn me to the lowest Realm!

  Her dossier had suggested the northernmost port in Daouail would be the ship’s first stop for the arena trade. Unfortunately, the ship landed in Dynion’s Port Denwort where several children, aged ten to thirteen, had been sold as house slaves. She pressed her hand to the ledger. Unsure if she would ever be able to right the wrong, she ripped out the page and shoved it in her emergency sack.

  She unlocked the captain’s sea chest and dug for money and other valuables. She found a vial of perfume from the Fairhdel province of the same name, but little else.

  “No wonder they made an early stop. The ne’er do well probably holds a debt in every Realm.” May he be resurrected as a toad.

  Alana threw the branded girl a linen shirt from the chest and a wool blanket off the captain’s berth. The girl didn’t respond, even as the fabric landed on her.

  Pressing her finger to the girl’s lips, Alana tried to prod her out of the corner. The girl was frozen. Alana put the linen shirt over her head and covered her in the woolen blanket. She still didn’t budge.

  Alana stomped on the captain’s torso. She punctured his other lung and scabbarded her blade. With the hope his gasping was gratifying to the girl, Alana hoisted her up in her arms. In seconds, the dead weight aggrieved her aging shoulders, but she crept up the ladder and sternwards to the first of the four lifeboats without fail.

  “Hide here until we free the others.”

  Shivering, the girl lay at the bottom of the boat, covered in the woolen blanket.

  Moving silently, Alana redrew her saber and slid behind the overseer. Seeking a faster death than the one she gave the captain, she stabbed him in the jugular. Blood sprayed onto the decking. Below the wretched creatures — elfkin, human, and dwarves — shouted, clapped their hands, and shook on the metal grating as he collapsed.

  Approaching footsteps. Four sailors raced towards her with clubs and ropes, ready to beat back any slave uprising. They did not expect a Guild War Ender. Alana’s saber twirled towards her first opponent, the telchine sailor. She cut towards hir chest, seeking the earthen heart. She found her mark. The telchine crumbled back to the clay from which sie was formed. Alana always found the sort of clean, yet ostentatious death throe of the telchine, gnomes, giants, and dwarves particularly satisfying.

  A rope slashed across her forearm, ripping the weave away. Ignoring the pain, she drew her offhand dagger and rotated towards the next sailor, a human. Her first cut was smooth as it sliced the flesh of his arm, the second hit an artery, spraying more blood on the deck and his earthen colleagues.

  Roark appeared from the shadows, the head of the purser held high. He threw it to the surviving sailors who stepped back from the sight.

  Alana did not pity them. Her two blades struck their flesh; the sailors fell quickly. Blood and earth spread across the decks.

  Grabbing the keys off the overseer, she unlatched the first hold.

  A young man pushed on the grating from below as she undid the chains. His face was hidden by a long, tangled mane of black hair, but he wore no beard, not even fuzz. He was at the edge of adulthood, his shoulders still slender, but with the promise of muscularity. Though he spent months in chains, he was not faded, his posture was still erect. No doubt bound for the arena.

  The slaves made a wild scramble to the weather deck. They reached towards the sky, embracing their freedom as if it were a physical entity. Alana noticed the young man again, searching the crowd. “Ma! Kian!” he called.

  She threw the young man the keys to the lower holds. “There are more below!”

  He raced down the ladder.

  Alana signaled Roark to prepare lifeboats and went below to where weaker slaves were kept. While those bound for the games were kept healthy, less valuable slaves were so emaciated they could barely stand.

  Many hung their heads in hopeless dejection; mothers lay unmoving, cradling babes covered in filth. A closer look revealed these children were already dead or dying.

  The young man she had given the keys wept over a middle-aged woman’s corpse.

  “We must move quickly.”

  “My mother ...” He stared at the corpse with red-rimmed eyes.

  Alana took the keys and unlocked the chains. “I’m sorry for your loss, but get those who still hold life. Once safe, we mourn the dead.”

  Withered women struggled to rise and climb to the upper deck still clutching dead offspring.

  The young man didn’t move. “I can’t leave her here. I can’t leave my brother.”

  “What’s your name?” Alana asked.

  “Eohan, Son of Aedell.”

  “Eohan, would Aedell want you to die with her corpse when I abandon this ship to the depths?”

  The youth sniffed. “No.”

  “It would bring your mother honor to know her son saved these other mothers. Get them to the lifeboats.”

  “Lifeboats.” As if the young man came out of a daze, Eohan leapt to his feet and unchained the nearest woman who clasped her dead baby. The woman moaned as he cradled her in his arms and tore out of the hold.

  Alana grabbed another woman unable to walk and carried her to Roark who organized the five lifeboats and lowered them one by one into the sea.

  She was proud her nephew had the good sense to organize each boat with a mix of healthy survivors and weakened ones. Some slaves dove into the sea and grasped the sides of the boats and other survivors, unwilling to be separated from their families again, clasped each other. Just as well, there wasn’t enough room on the lifeboats anyway.

  Four more trips to the bowels of the ship, before she and Eohan were able to save all of the survivors. Every bunk, every corner, every chain, Eohan shouted, “Kian, Kian!”

  Once the last survivor was out, Alana grabbed his arm before he went below again.

  “My brother…”

  “We have to go!”

  “My brother … He’s a kid!”

  “Children were sold in the last port, if you ever want to see him again we must go!”

  He glanced toward the hatch.

  Alana grabbed an oil lantern off its hook and smashed it across the deck.

  “Come on!”

  The boy didn’t move, but screamed, “Kian!”

  Alana almost left Eohan to the flames, but heard Alana Mira! Somewhere deep in her mind, through the smoke, she witnessed an adult version of Eohan tossing a squealing auburn-haired child into the air and catching her.

  Damn it. The boy was destined to become a man. A man with a child.

  The vision of the child tur
ned to face her. The resemblance to Roark was unmistakable, but she saw something else deep within the blue eyes. Something wild and violent. She was unsure if her vision was literal or figurative representations, but somehow Eohan was bound to the future of House Eyreid. Damn me to the lowest Realm!

  “Ki--!” Eohan choked as smoke filled his lungs.

  Flames rolled closer to them, eating the decking.

  Alana rammed her left index and middle finger into a pressure point deep within the boy’s shoulder and gripped his ear with her right hand. “Move.”

  Forcing him forward, she raced to the last lifeboat. He coughed as she pushed him aboard. He collapsed onto a woman cradling a dead child.

  Alana leapt in and lowered the final lifeboat into the water as flames danced above them. Sparks and burning debris splashed down. A spark landed on her arm, but the weave was fire resistant; the bare arms of the survivors weren’t as fortunate. She threw out a guide rope to the healthy survivors treading water. Gathering each remaining person, she called, “Help each other.”

  Aching oldness skulked around her shoulders.

  A large wave splashed over the side of the small craft. Beside her, Eohan wept in his hands. The women with babes in arms were too weak to row. The branded girl was trembling under the blanket, now in complete shock.

  “Eohan, row,” she ordered.

  The boy choked on his weeping.

  “Row! Or we all die.” She shoved the oars into his hands.

  Tears streaming down his face, the boy grasped the oars.

  “When the ship sinks, it might pull us under. These people are too weak to fight the current. Row.”

  Though deep in grief and shock, Eohan rowed. Alana was glad to have his strength although his rhythm was off. The boat fell back each time a large wave washed over them. One of the men, a dwarf by his long beard, sank below in the black water. “Get him!”

  No one dared let go of the side of the boat or the guide rope.

  Without thinking, Alana dove into the icy salt water. She could barely see in the dim, but her strong strokes caught up to the dwarf quickly. She grabbed on his beard, then his arm. When she surfaced, she pushed him half into the lifeboat. What in the lowest Realm am I doing? He wasn’t even a Fairsinge.