Quintessential Tales: A Magic of Solendrea Anthology

by Martin Hengst

  In less than twenty minutes, the camp was torn down and stowed in three shore boats. The men filed in after the supplies, and the whole lot of them shoved off and made for the ship. As they came alongside the vessel, davits were swung over the side and ropes thrown down to the returning crew. Lashed at bow and stern, the shore boats were hoisted aboard, unloaded, and racked on deck.

  After climbing down from the shore boat, Faxon stood on the deck, taking in the organized chaos. He did his best to stay out of the way as the dance of frenetic activity went on around him. The incessant buzz inside his head, the reminder that something was fundamentally missing, did nothing to improve his concentration.

  "Well now, what have we here? Has Raff been picking up strays again?"

  Remembering his disguise not a moment too soon, Faxon limped a slow circle to face Tionne. Her flowing black dress stood out against her white skin. Blood red lips were parted in a half smile that Faxon recognized as Tionne at her most deadly. There was no joy or happiness left in her waifish frame. She only smiled when she was considering something truly vile or hateful. Faxon was in danger and he knew it. He'd have to tread lightly.

  "Aye, Miss. Ye first mate took me on as a cook till the next port."

  "Oh, he did, did he? Did Raff not tell you that we already have a cook on board?"

  "Aye, Miss. He did. I convinced him I could do better."

  "I see."

  The look Tionne turned on him made Faxon doubt his disguise for a second time that night. He suppressed the urge to shudder and tried not to worry. Out here, on the water, they were on even footing. The spell cast on land would hold fast, but she couldn't work any new spellcraft and neither could he. He just had to rely on his disguise being good enough to pass her mortal inspection. Nevertheless, he was still too damn jumpy for his peace of mind.

  "Obie!" Tionne shouted, her voice sharp. "Come here!"

  The cook from the pirate camp dropped the line he'd been coiling and trotted across the deck.

  "Aye, Cap'n?"

  "This man says Raff took him on because he can cook better than you. Is that so?"

  "Aye, Cap'n. Made a right good stew, he did." Obie grinned and tossed a nod toward Faxon. "Best I ever had, mate."

  "Best he's ever had," Tionne echoed with a smile. "High praise from a backwater pirate, wouldn't you say?"

  Obie's grin disappeared as if it had been slapped off his face. Tionne's belt dagger appeared in her hand as if summoned there. She shoved the blade into Obie's gut, giving it a savage twist as she pulled it out. The pirate's eyes bulged, and he clutched his abdomen as if somehow he could staunch the flow of blood that was cascading over his fingers and pooling on the deck by his feet.

  "We don't need more than one cook, so I guess you've got the job. What did you say your name was?" She looked expectantly at Faxon while Obie keeled over. A few of the men nearby cast uneasy glances at Tionne as she wiped her dagger clean on the hem of her dress. Their eyes didn't linger long. Faxon wondered how many of the crew had fallen to Tionne's sadistic hand.

  "Varden, Miss."

  "I am the Captain of this ship, Varden."

  "Aye, Cap'n. Beg your pardon."

  "Don't let it happen again, or I promise you'll be begging for more than my pardon."

  Tionne turned on her heel, her dress following behind like a shadow. She skipped up the steps to the poop deck two at a time, shouting orders as she went. The deck lurched underfoot as the ship got underway. Faxon knelt by Obie's side. His eyes were dull and his chest still. There was nothing to be done.

  A handful of men made their way across the gently swaying deck. They carried a piece of sailcloth between them. Raff was with them, and his face was nearly as white as the cloth he helped to carry. Raff and the others rolled Obie's body onto the sheet and wrapped it snugly around him.

  "Poor Obie," Raff said softly. "He didn't deserve to die like this."

  "Why don't you do something about the Captain?" Faxon asked, forgetting his acquired persona. Raff didn't seem to notice, or care.

  "The four of us are in the minority," Raff replied with a scowl. "The rest of the men are either too greedy, too malicious, or too stupid to stand up to her. We wouldn't stand a chance against the rest of the crew. If we'd known what we were getting into..." Raff trailed off, as if he realized he was uttering traitorous thoughts to a complete stranger. Faxon scratched his whiskers, his mind racing. Perhaps he could help these men and himself too.

  "If I could get you honest work, would you take it? Would your men?"

  Raff's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

  "No catch, but it might be dangerous. There's something on this ship I need, and we'd have to make it back to Overwatch once I steal it."

  "That's a catch." Raff looked at Obie's body, wrapped in the sailcloth. Then he looked at the men. One by one, they each gave a single, curt nod. Faxon couldn't help but notice their furtive glances at the deck where Tionne was still barking orders. "I guess we're in. What do you need from us?"

  "Directions to the Captain's quarters, and a diversion. Then a way off the ship."

  "At least you're not asking for much," Raff said with a grunt. "You're not exactly what you seem, are you?"

  "No. Not exactly. Just believe me when I say I can get you honest work if you want it, and if we make it back to Overwatch in one piece."

  "That's a pretty big 'if', Old-timer."

  "Don't I know it? But trust me when I say that there is much more than our lives at stake here. Whatever the Captain has done, it is a mere fraction of what she is capable of doing...of what she will do, if we don't stop her."

  Raff blanched and Faxon wondered what he'd seen. It didn't matter. He'd get these men back to Overwatch and away from Tionne's predatory clutches. They just needed to move, and move quickly.

  The first mate gave him a series of terse directions that would lead Faxon to Tionne's quarters. Faxon promised to watch for the diversion and made his way to the door that led below deck. None of the other men seemed to find this odd, and most were busy with their own tasks. Faxon waited. Raff and his men moved Obie's body aside and went to work.

  A moment later, one of the davits swung inboard, whipping the heavy metal hook around on the end of its line. The hook slammed into a short seaman's face, sending a spray of blood and teeth across the deck. His howling, and the shouting of his mates, drew all the attention on the deck. The men stopped what they were doing to gawk at the spectacle unfolding before them.

  Faxon ducked below. A few lanterns were hung in the companionways, but it was still too dark to see very well. Between the lack of light and the constant buzzing in his head, it made for an unpleasant journey. Wrong turns in two places slowed him down even further, adding to his frustration. After what seemed like hours entombed beneath the surface, he located the Captain's quarters.

  The door was unlocked and Faxon slipped inside. He doubted any of the men would dare cross that threshold, locked or not. Gloom swaddled the room, only a single candle burning to keep the worst of the dark at bay. No wonder the men kept lights burning in their cabins, Faxon thought. The cabin was musty and damp, with a chill that Faxon doubted had anything to do with the climate. Wherever Tionne went, she took a shroud of evil with her. He took in the room for a moment, shaking his head. His heart sank. How had he failed so greatly, that Tionne would abandon a life in the Great Tower and the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences, for this? A life of promise squandered.

  Opposite the Captain's bunk, a great mahogany desk crouched like an ancient toad waiting for prey to happen by. Its surface was a disorganized mess, with bits of candles, scraps of parchment, and broken quills strewn about it. There was little care, and no order. Faxon shuffled through the papers but found nothing worthwhile. These documents, such as they were, predated Tionne's residency. He'd recognize her handwriting on sight and these documents were written by a different hand. Her flamboyant script crept across the page like strangling vines. These documents were crisp
, clear, and very neat.

  Searching the drawers was likewise fruitless. Faxon ground his teeth. A voice in the back of his head wondered if Tionne might not have keep the parcel on her person. He told that little voice to shut its foul mouth. That wasn't an option. If she was keeping the packet of documents that close at hand, there was no way he'd be able to take it back.

  Faxon jammed his fists against his hips and surveyed the room. He didn't have much time. Tionne's housekeeping skills hadn't improved since she'd abandoned her training. Clothes were scattered across every flat surface, including the floor. Plates of old food, some of them giving birth to new life, were in abundance. The thought of searching through all that refuse was daunting, to say the least. His eyes landed on something familiar and he felt a glimmer of hope.

  Tionne's locker, the chest she'd taken from the Apprentice's quarters in the Great Tower, rested at the foot of the bunk, half buried by clothes. Stepping over some molding bowls, Faxon shoved the laundry aside and wrenched open the chest. There, lying atop the dubious treasures within, was the string wrapped bundle of parchment he had come for.

  With unsteady hands, Faxon snatched the papers and tucked them inside his tunic. He took a moment to ensure that the packet wouldn't be any more obvious than it had to be, then dashed from the room. He couldn't get out of the cramped passageways soon enough. It felt as if the walls were closing in, threatening to crush him under their weight and trap him in the murky black forever.

  He burst onto the deck as if fired from a cannon. Deep breaths followed each other in rapid succession. Fresh air had never tasted so sweet. Then he realized that he'd nearly bowled over Tionne, who was glaring at him, and his breath caught.

  "What were you doing below deck?" she demanded. She gripped the dagger so recently stained with Obie's blood. Faxon looked over her shoulder. Raff and his men were clustered around a small skiff on the forward deck. The lifeboat.

  "Taking back something that doesn't belong to you. I should have censured you when I had the chance."

  "Faxon?" Tionne's voice was a low hiss, and her eyes widened.

  "Always too concerned with yourself, Tionne."

  He brought his fist down hard on her wrist, ignoring the link-shock that flashed into his arm and numbed it to the shoulder. He knocked the knife from her grasp and kicked it, sending it skittering across the desk. Faxon kicked her hard in the knee, and she screamed in pain, collapsing onto the deck. Faxon ran. Tionne rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up on one hand. She stabbed a finger at Faxon with the other.

  "Stop him!" she screeched. "Kill him!"

  Soft pops from pistols followed him across the deck. Masts threw off blossoms of splinters where the bullets hit, and Faxon shielded his eyes as he ran for the lifeboat. There were confused shouts from the other seamen as they realized that Raff and his mutineers weren't working to stop Faxon, but to help him. They swung the lifeboat out over the side of the ship and climbed aboard.

  The first mate and his men furiously worked the lines, lowering the skiff below the deck and out of Faxon's sight. He wondered if the men hadn't betrayed him, taking the opportunity to escape on their own with the time Faxon had bought them. An arrow whizzed by his ear, close enough for Faxon to feel the breeze on the back of his neck. That was too damn close! More shots splintered the deck on either side of him. The pistoleers were getting sighted in. Their next shots might not miss.

  Faxon didn't stop running. As his foot touched the thick rail that ran the length of the deck, he had just enough time to hope that Raff was true to his word. He jumped. Nothingness. Then he landed hard in the lifeboat. Raff's men, swords in hand, slashed the lines to the davits. For one glorious moment, they were weightless, floating in the serene spring night. Then they hit the water and it felt as if they'd been thrown into a wall.

  Spray washed over them, and Faxon hunched over to protect the papers he'd risked life and limb for. Raff and his men laid into the oars, driving them away from the ship. Arrows and bullets splashed into the water around them, but the movement and the dark night made it difficult for their attackers to see their target. They made their way up one of the many inlets that fed into the river. They dragged the lifeboat up onto the riverbank, and then collapsed in the dewy grass, exhausted from the daring escape.

  "We should keep moving," Faxon said. "Tionne will likely give chase."

  Raff chuckled. "Not likely. We were busy while you were below deck. We cut the davit ropes and the rudder lines. They're going to be going downriver for a spell, whether they like it or not."

  Faxon laughed. Then he thought about it, and laughed harder. Tionne would not be happy at all. Gunther, however, would find the entire story hysterical. He pushed himself to his feet, allowing the enchantment to fall away. Raff raised an eyebrow.

  "Honest work, eh?"

  "Well,” Faxon said with a shrug, “honesty is what you make of it. Come on."

  With the six of them working the oars, the trip back to the dock in Overwatch was much easier than their escape had been. Even working against the current of the river seemed like a vacation after their escape from Tionne's ship.

  True to his word, Faxon introduced Raff and his men to Gunther, who was recovering under the expert care of a healer that Furia had hired from the Upper City. When Faxon boarded the ship for Dragonfell, the dwarf was boasting of plans to open a second warehouse, or even a shipping company, with the newfound manpower. Faxon just smiled and shook his head. It was nice that some things never changed.

  Faxon kept an eye out for Tionne's ship as they sailed down the river and into the Diamond Sea. He saw no sign of it, but he knew she was out there. Waiting. Biding her time.

  He had no doubt they'd meet again.

  All Souls

  Note from the Author: Please be aware that this story contains spoilers if you haven’t read the Swordmage Trilogy, particularly The Pegasus’s Lament. If you haven’t, I highly recommend that you read the original trilogy before reading All Souls.

  “Mama! Mama, come quick! There’s a monster in the pumpkin patch!”

  Kellni looked up from the washbasin as the door from the front porch banged open. Selma tripped over the threshold, sprawling across the rough plank floor and crashing into the table in the center of the common room. The table, which served as a place to dine, a desk, and a workbench, wobbled on unsteady legs, and for a moment Kellni thought it would crash down on her youngest daughter, taking the lit lantern with it.

  At five, Selma was still young enough to cry when she skinned her palms and knees, so when the girl didn’t react to the fall with the slightest yelp of pain, Kellni knew something was afoot. Instead, the child scrambled to her feet and ran to her mother, burying her face in Kellni’s work dress. She had to pry Selma off her leg just to get a good look at her.

  “Monster in the pumpkin patch indeed!” she scolded, taking a damp rag from her dress pocket and attacking the dirt on the youngster’s face. “Of all the foolishness. Why were you out there after dark anyhow? You know you’re not supposed to be past the south fence after sundown.”

  Selma had the decency to look abashed, but her eyes were wide and bright. Whatever had scared the child hadn’t given her enough of a fright to make her behave any better than usual. The bigger concern in Kellni’s mind was where Demitra was. Her eldest daughter was supposed to have been watching the youngsters while their father was in the field. If she’d gone sneaking off with that boy from the village again…

  “Mama! You have to come quick! Demitra went to chase the monster off. Then she screamed and didn’t come back.”

  What Kellni had been ready to dismiss as childish tomfoolery now took on a much more sinister aspect. She grabbed the lantern from the table and glanced around the room for something to use as a weapon. There was no time to call for a guard or the militia. This was something she’d need to look into herself. Her eyes fell on a long-bladed butcher knife. That would have to do. She snatched it off the counter and was out
the door, Selma two steps behind her.

  They dashed around the house and down the packed earth path that led past the south field and to the pumpkin patch. Though the path wasn’t that long, the urgency of the moment made it seem as if they were traveling from one end of the Imperium to the other. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the split rail fence that surrounded the south pasture. The gate was standing open. Luka, her husband, would never have allowed that.

  Kellni’s hope that this was all some sort of elaborate All Souls Eve prank was growing more distant by the minute. Demi was nowhere to be seen, and Selma’s sisters, the twins, were gone. A cold hand of panic squeezed her stomach. Kellni spun in a slow circle, holding the lantern as high as her arm would allow.

  “Luka!” she called, her voice breaking. “Demi? Are you out there?”

  Beyond the pale butter-yellow circle of soft light the lantern cast, the night was dark and still. Kellni strained her eyes and ears, but found nothing that might indicate where her husband or other daughters might have gone.

  “Stay here,” she whispered to Selma, giving the girl a little shake when it looked as if she might balk at the command. Selma nodded, though she looked with uncertain eyes at the darkness beyond the gate. It was almost as if she could see something that Kellni couldn’t. The thought sent a shiver up her spine.

  Kellni took a step toward the open gate and stopped. Another step. Then another. Her grip on the butcher knife tightened until her knuckles shown pale white in the lantern light. Another step and another. She was nearly to the open gate when she saw something on the ground that flashed and sparkled. She knelt to get a closer look. It was the fine silver chain that usually hung around Demitra’s neck. They’d given it to her for her sixteenth name day. She never took it off.