Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Hadrian remembered the city the moment it came into view. The heat of the ancient stones, the spice-scented streets, the exotic women—all memories of an impetuous youth that he preferred to forget. He had left the east behind without regret and it was not without reservations that he found himself returning.

  No bells rang in the towers along the harbor as they entered, no alarm signaled as the blood red sails of their Dacca-built tartane entered port. Merely a pilot boat issued out and hailed them at their approach.

  “En dil dual lon duclim?” the pilot called to them.

  “I can’t understand you,” Wesley replied.

  “Vaat ez dee name of your vessel? And dee name of dee captain?” the pilot repeated.

  “Oh, ah—it doesn’t have a name I’m afraid, but my name is Wesley Belstrad.”

  The pilot jotted something on a hand held tablet frowning. “Vere ez you outing from?”

  “We are the remaining crew of the Emerald Storm, Her Imperial Majesty’s vessel out from the capital city of Aquesta.”

  “Vaat ez your bidness ’ere and ’ow long staying vill you be?”

  “We are making a delivery. I am not certain how long it will take.”

  The pilot finished asking questions and indicated they should follow him to a berth. Another official was waiting on the dock and asked Wesley to sign several forms before allowing anyone to set foot on land.

  “According to Seward’s orders we are to contact a Mister Dilladrum. I will go ashore and try to locate him,” Wesley announced. “Mister Deminthal you and Seaman Staul will accompany me. Hadrian you will be in charge here until my return. See to it that the stores are secured and the ship buttoned down.”

  “Aye, sir.” Hadrian saluted and the three disembarked and disappeared into the maze of streets.

  “Wonderful luck we’ve had in picking up survivors, eh?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as he met his partner on the raised aft deck of the ship.

  The others remained at the waist or the bow, staring in fascination at the port around them. There was a lot to take in. Unusual sounds drifted from the urban landscape. The jangle of bells, the ringing of a gong, shouts of merchants in a strange musical language, and above it all the haunting voice of a man singing in the distance.

  Dockworkers moved cargo to and from ships. Most were dressed in robes of vertical stripes, their skin a tawny brown, their faces bearded. Bolts of shimmering silks and sheer cloth waited to be loaded, as did urns of incense and pots of fragrant oil whose scents drifted on the harbor breeze. The stone masonry of the buildings was impressive. Impressive designs of flowers and geometric shapes adorned nearly all the constructions. Domes were the most prolific of the architectural styles, some inlaid in gold, others in silver, or colorful tiles. The larger buildings displayed multiple domes, all featuring a central spire pointing skyward.

  It was the first time in three days they had the opportunity to speak alone. “I thought you showed great restraint and was impressed with your diplomatic solution to our little civil war,” Hadrian told Royce.

  “I’m just watching your back, like Gwen asked.” Royce took a seat on a thick pile of netted ropes.

  “It was a stroke of brilliance appointing Wesley,” Hadrian remarked. “I wish I had thought of it. I like that boy. Did you see the way he picked Staul and Wyatt to go with him? Wyatt knows the docks and Staul knows the language and possibly the city. Perfectly sensible choices, but they’re also the two who would make the most trouble out of his sight. He’s a lot more like his brother than he thinks. It’s a shame they were born in Chadwick. Ballentyne doesn’t deserve them.”

  “It’s not looking good, you know that, right?” Royce asked. “What with the weapons and Merrick’s payment going down with the Storm and everyone in charge now dead, I don’t see where we go from here.”

  Hadrian took a seat on the railing beside Royce. Water lapped against the wooden hull of the tartane and seagulls cried overhead.

  “But we still have Merrick’s orders and that letter. What did it say?”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “Weren’t you the one who called me stupid because—”

  “I never had a chance. Wyatt grabbed the orders first, and then there was this little incident with a burning ship and lots of swimming. Now Wesley has them and he’s hardly slept. I’ve not had an opportunity.”

  “Then we’ll have to stick to that letter until you either get a chance to take a peek or we solve this riddle. I mean, what is the empire doing sending weapons to Calis when they need them to fight the Nationalists?”

  “Maybe bribing Calis to join the fight on their side?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Rhenydd could beat Calis in a war all by itself. There’s no organization down here, no central authority, just a bunch of competing warlords. The whole place is corrupt and they constantly fight each other. There is no way Merrick could convince enough leaders to go fight for the New Empire—most of these warlords have never even heard of Avryn. And what’s with the elves? What were they doing with them?”

  “I have to admit, I’d like to know that myself,” Royce said.

  Hadrian’s glance followed Thranic as he came topside and laid among the excess canvas at the bow, his hood pulled down to block the light, his arms folded across his chest. He almost looked like a corpse in need of a coffin.

  Hadrian gestured toward the sentinel. “So, what’s going on between you and Thranic anyway? He appears to really hate you—even more than most people.”

  Royce did not look in his direction. He sat nonchalantly, pretending to ignore the world as if they were the only two aboard. “Funny thing that. I never met him, never heard of him until this voyage, and yet I know him rather well, and he knows me.”

  “Thank you, Mister Esrahaddon. Can you provide me with perhaps a more cryptic answer?”

  Royce smiled. “I see why he does it now. It’s rather fun. I’m also surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “Our boy Thranic has a nasty little secret. It’s what makes him so unpleasant and at the same time so dangerous. He would have killed Wyatt, might even given you a surprise or two. With Staul added to the mix, and Defoe slinking about, it wasn’t a battle I felt confident in winning, even if I didn’t have Gwen’s voice echoing in my head.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

  “What would be the fun in that? This will give you something to do. You can try to guess, and I can amuse myself by insulting your intelligence. I wouldn’t take too long though. Thranic is going to die soon.”

  ***

  Wesley returned and trotted up the gangway to address them. “I want volunteers to accompany me, Sentinel Thranic, Mister Bulard, Doctor Levy, and Seaman Staul inland. We will be traveling deep into the Calian jungles. The journey will not be without significant risks so I won’t order anyone to follow me who doesn’t want to go. Those who choose to stay behind can remain with the ship and upon my return, we will sail for home where you will receive your pay.”

  “Where in the jungle are you headed, Mister Wesley?” Banner asked.

  “I must deliver a letter to Erandabon Gile, who I am informed is a warlord of some note in these parts. I have met with Mister Dilladrum, who has been awaiting our arrival and has a caravan prepared and ready to escort us. Gile’s fortress, however, is deep in the jungles and contact with the Ba Ran Ghazel is likely. Now, who is with me?”

  Hadrian, who was one of the first to raise his hand, found it strange he was among the majority. Wyatt and Poe didsurprise him but even Jacob and Grady joined in after seeing the others. Only Greig and Banner abstained.

  “I see,” Wesley said with a note of surprise as well. “All right then, Banner, I’ll leave you in charge of the ship.

  “What are we to do while yer gone, sir?” Banner asked.

  “Nothing,” he told them. “Just stay with the ship and out of the city. Don’t cause any trouble.” />
  Banner smiled gleefully at Greig. “So, we can just sleep all day if we want?”

  “I don’t care what you do as long as you protect the ship and don’t embarrass the empire.”

  Both of them could hardly contain their delight. “I’ll bet the rest ’o you are wishing you hadn’t raised your hands now.”

  “You realize there’s only about a week’s worth of rations below, right?” Wyatt mentioned. “You might want to eat sparingly.”

  A worried look crossed Banner’s face. “You’re gonna hurry back, right?”

  ***

  Wesley led them off the ship and into the city, setting a brisk pace and keeping a sharp eye on the line of men. The old man, Antun Bulard, was the only straggler, but this had more to do with his age than his wounds, which had turned out to be only superficial cuts.

  Loud-colored tents and awnings lined the roads of Dagastan from the harbor to the square. Throngs filled the paved pathways as merchants shouted to the crowds, waving banners with unrecognizable symbols. Old men smoked pipes beneath the shelter of striped canopies as scantily dressed women with veiled faces stood provocatively on raised platforms, gyrating slowly to the beat of a dozen drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. There was too much happening to focus on any single thing. Everywhere one looked there was dazzling color, tantalizing movement, intoxicating scents, and exciting music. The city taunted the senses, bewildered the mind, and blurred the eye. Overwhelmed, the little parade of sailors marched in step with Mister Wesley, as he led them to their promised guide. He and his team were waiting along a paved avenue not far from the city’s Grand Bazaar.

  Dilladrum looked like an overweight beggar. His coat and dark britches were faded and poorly patched. Long, dirty hair burst out from under a formless felt hat as if in protest. His beard, equally mismanaged, showed bits of grass nested in its folds. His face was dusky, his teeth yellow, but his eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. He stood on the roadside before a train of curious beasts. They appeared to be shrunken, shaggy horses. The animals were loaded with bundles and linked together by leads from one to the next. Six short, half-naked men helped Dilladrum keep the train under control. They wore only breechcloths of loose linen, and clattering necklaces of colored stones. Like Dilladrum, they grinned brightly at the sailor’s approach.

  “Welcome, welcome, gentlemen,” he warmly addressed them. “I am Dilladrum, your guide. Before we leave our fair city perhaps you would like some time to peruse our fine shops? As per previous arrangements, I and my Vintu friends will be providing you with food, water, and shelter, but we will be many days afield and as such, some comforts as could be obtained in the bazaar could make your trek more pleasant. Consider our fine wines, liquors, or perhaps an attractive slave girl to make the camps more enjoyable.”

  A few eyes turned appraisingly toward the shops where dozens of colorful signboards advertised in a foreign tongue. Music played—strange twanging strings and warbling pipes. Hadrian could smell lamb spiced with curry, a popular dish as he recalled.

  “We will leave immediately,” Wesley replied, louder than was necessary for merely Dilladrum to hear him.

  “Suit yourself, good sir.” The guide shrugged sadly. He made a gesture to his Vintu workers and the little men used long switches and yelping cries to urge the animals of the caravan forward.

  As they did, atterspotted Hadrian and paused in his work. His brows furrowed as he stared intently until a shout from Dilladrum sent him back to herding.

  “What was that all about?” Royce asked. Hadrian shrugged, but Royce looked unconvinced. “You were here for what—five years? Anything happen? Anything you want to share?”

  “Sure,” he replied, with a sarcastic grin. “Right after you fill me in on how you escaped from Manzant Prison and why you never killed Ambrose Moor.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “I was young and stupid,” Hadrian offered. “But I can tell you that Wesley is right about the jungle being dangerous. We will want to watch ourselves around Gile.”

  “You met him?”

  Hadrian nodded. “I’ve met most of the warlords of the Gur Em, but I’m sure everyone’s forgotten me by now.”

  As if overhearing, the train worker glanced over his shoulder at Hadrian once more.

  ***

  “Everywhere landward from Dagastan is uphill,” Dilladrum was saying as the troop walked along the narrow dirt path through farmlands dotted by domed grass huts. “That is the way of the world everywhere, is it not? From the sea, we always need to go up. It makes the leaving that much harder, but the returning that much more welcome.”

  They walked two abreast, with Wesley and Dilladrum, Wyatt and Poe, Royce and Hadrian, in front, while Thranic’s group followed behind the Vintu and the beasts. It was disconcerting to have Thranic and his crew behind them, but it was better than having to walk with them. Dilladrum set a brisk pace for a portly little man, stepping lively and thrusting his bleached walking stick out with practiced skill. He bent the brim down on his otherwise shapeless hat to block the sun making him look comical even while Hadrian wished he had a silly looking hat of his own.

  “Mister Dilladrum, what exactly are your instructions concerning us?” Wesley inquired.

  “I am contracted to safely deliver officers, cargo, and crew of the Emerald Storm to the Palace of the Four Winds in Dur Guron.”

  “Is that the residence of Erandabon Gile?”

  “Ah yes, the fortress of The Panther of Dur Guron.”

  “Panther?” Wyatt asked.

  Dilladrum chuckled. “It is what the Vintu call the warlord. They are a very simple folk, but very hard workers as you can see. The Panther is a legend among them.”

  “A hero?” Wesley offered.

  “A panther is not a hero to anyone. A panther is a great cat that hides himself in the jungle. He is a ghost to those who seek him, deadly to those he hunts, but to those he doesn’t, he is merely a creature deserving of respect. The Panther does not concern himself with the Vintu, but stories of his valor, cruelty and cunning reach them.”

  “You are not Vintu?”

  “No. I am Erbonese. It is a region to the northwest, not far from Mandalin.”

  “And the Tenkin?” Wesley asked. “Is the warlord one of them?”

  Dilladrum’s expression turned dark. “Yes, yes. The Tenkin are everywhere in these jungles.” He pointed to the horizon ahead of them. “Some tribes are friendly, others are not. Not to worry, my Vintu and I know a good route. We will pass through one Tenkin village, but they are friendly and familiar to us, like the one you call Staul, yes? We will make it safely.”

  As they climbed higher, they entered a great plain of tall grass that swayed enchantingly with the breeze. Climbing a large rock, they could see for miles in all directions except ahead where a tall, forested ridge rose up several hundred feet. They made camp just before sundown. Hardly a word passed between Dilladrum and the Vintu, but they immediately set to work setting up decorative tents embroidered with geometric designs and neatly bordered canopies. Cots and small stools were set out for each, along with sheets and pillows.

  Cooked in large pots over an open fire, the evening meal was strong and spicy enough to make Hadrian’s eyes water. It was tasty and satisfying after weeks eating the same tired pork stew. The Vintu took turns entertaining. Some played stringed instruments similar to a lute, others danced, and a few sang lilting ballads. The words Hadrian could not understand, but the melody was beautiful. Animal calls filled the night. Screeches, cries, and growls threatened in the darkness, always too loud and too close.

  ***

  On their third day out, the landscape began to change. The level plains tilted upward and trees appeared more frequently. The forests that had lined the distance were upon them and soon they were trudging under a canopy of tall trees whose massive roots spread out across the forest floor like the fingers of old men. At first it was good to be out of the sun, but then the path became rocky, steep,
and hard to navigate. It did not last long, as they soon crested a ridge and began a sharp descent. On the far side of the ridge, they could see a distinct change in the flora. The undergrowth thickened, turning deeper green. Larger leaves, vines, thickets of creepers, and needle-shaped blades encroached on the track, causing the Vintu to occasionally move ahead to chop a path.

  The next day it began to rain. While at times it poured, at others it would only mist, but it never ceased.

  “They always seem content, don’t they?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as they sat under the canopy of their tent watching the Vintu preparing the evening meal. “It could be blazingly hot or raining like now and they don’t seem to care one way or the other.”

  “Are you now saying we should become Vintu?” Royce asked. “I don’t think you can just apply for membership into their tribe. I think you need to be born into it.”

  “What’s that?” Wyatt asked, coming out of the tent the three shared, wiping his freshly shaved face with a cloth.

  “Just thinking about the Vintu and living a simple existence of quiet pleasures,” Hadrian explained.

  “What makes you think they’re content?” Royce asked. “I’ve found that when people smile all the time they’re hiding something. These Vintu are probably miserable—economically forced into relative slavery, catering to wealthy foreigners. I’m sure they would smile just as much while slitting our throats to save themselves another day of hauling Dilladrum’s packs.”

  “I think you’ve been away from Gwen too long. You’re starting to sound like the old Royce again.”

  Across the camp, they spotted Staul, Thranic, and Defoe. Staul waved in their direction and grinned.

  “See, big grin,” Royce mentioned.

  “Fun group aren’t they,” Hadrian muttered.

  “Yeah, they are a group aren’t they,” Royce considered. “Why would a sentinel, a Tenkin warrior, a physician, a thief, and…whatever the heck Bulard is, go into the jungles of Calis to visit a Tenkin warlord? And what is Bulard’s deal?”