by Aeryn Rudel
Aiakos raised his harpoon to strike down another mercenary, then staggered backward as his head exploded with something that was not quite pain. An immense alien presence filled his consciousness, and he saw through eyes not his own. The blurry form of an Ordic Buccaneer rose up before him, and he instinctively raised his hands to defend himself. Great black iron claws—his claws—snaked out and slashed into the Buccaneer’s hull, ripping huge gashes in the metal.
“Aiakos!” The voice cut through the vision, and Aiakos again saw what was truly before him—an empty quarterdeck littered with bodies. He still felt the presence in his mind, powerful and strange.
Nyra grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “What is wrong with you?” she shouted into his face.
He shook his head and looked to where the Slayer was standing over the battered wreck of the Buccaneer. The helljack was staring at him, the green luminosity of his eyes oddly compelling.
Come, Aiakos thought and instantly the Slayer surged forward in his direction. Kill, he urged as it reached a trio of Scythe skirmishers battling four Ordic mercenaries. The helljack’s claws slashed forward, cutting a mercenary in half. It lowered its head and skewered another with its horns. Aiakos felt everything it did. He felt its claws sink into flesh, felt its raw hatred and eagerness as it tore the life from the living creatures around it. He was connected to it.
A single mercenary had broken away from where the second Slayer was still battling the remaining Buccaneer. Aiakos watched the man raise a blunderbuss in his direction. There was no time to duck or move aside: he would be shot. He saw the gun buck against the mercenary’s shoulder, the plume of flame and smoke that disgorged form its barrel, and then a massive black shape appeared in front of him and the heavy slug pinged harmlessly off the Slayer’s hull. The great helljack had seemingly been aware of his danger and deliberately intercepted the path of the bullet meant for him.
Nyra stepped away from him, her mouth agape. She knew what had happened, just as he did. The helljack had responded to his thoughts. That knowledge filled him with a heady mixture of fear and excitement. One word was suddenly etched into his mind, and with it he saw power and prestige suddenly within his reach. Warcaster.
Aiakos reached out and touched the mind, the cortex, of the Slayer. He pushed his will into the great machine. It was difficult, like trying to think straight after being well and truly drunk. But he did it, pierced the ephemeral layer of the Slayer’s savage, primitive thoughts and bound it to his will. He sent it across the deck to aid the first Slayer, which was still locked in combat with the mercenaries and the remaining Buccaneer on the main deck.
The raiding parties of the Morbid Angel and the Scythe were galvanized by the Slayer’s actions and fell upon their enemies with renewed vigor. The main deck was soon cleared of Ordic fighters, leaving the ship quiet for the moment.
Aiakos crossed the main deck, urging the Slayer to fall in behind him. It obeyed, and all eyes were upon him as he moved to the wreck of the other Buccaneer, destroyed by the other Slayer, the one Aiakos did not control. Bereft of direct guidance, the helljack attacked the nearest enemies at random and was given a wide berth by the human pirates on the deck. Beneath the smashed Buccaneer was the body of Axiara’s ’jack marshal.
“You’re running that thing, aren’t you?” Nyra said, coming up behind him, skirting around the hulking form of the Slayer.
“Yes,” he said simply.
He saw Viger crossing the deck toward him, a worried look on his face. He, too, understood what had transpired. Aiakos reveled in his rival’s realization. He was a warcaster, and that meant his worth was far greater than anything Viger could aspire to. He knew he could have the Slayer reach out and tear Viger to pieces, and the knowledge was intensely satisfying. He refrained. It would gain him nothing. This battle was already won.
Aiakos noticed the fearful stares of the Cryxian pirates around him, and he soaked in that fear. They knew what he had become. They knew his worth.
“Let’s find the captain,” he said.
All moved to obey.
Aiakos stood on the main deck of the Morbid Angel, Captain Ilvio Torun on his knees before him. They’d found the Ordic captain not in his cabin but in the hold, surrounded by his best fighters. The man had acquitted himself well and had fought valiantly against overwhelming odds. But the Cryxian pirates were too many, and Aiakos’ Slayer only made the battle in the hold shorter, bloodier, and more certain. They’d killed the Ordic crew almost to a man, leaving Captain Torun alive, although the man had been badly beaten trying to fight his captors.
The Ordsman had not begged for his life, had not promised them whatever it was Axiara wanted from him. Aiakos had some inkling of the horrors that awaited the man. In Cryx, torture had been refined into an art. Agony could be extended and heightened with the application of certain dark magic. The fact the man went to his fate so stoically was deserving of some respect. But in the end, he was a means to an end, a way for Aiakos to gain Axiara’s favor.
The Satyxis admiral stood across from Aiakos, flanked by a pair of black ogrun. Around her stood the crew of the Morbid Angel, their eyes fixed on Captain Torun. Besides Aiakos himself, Captain Bloodbrine and Nyra were the only representatives from the Scythe. There were no representatives from the Gutter or the Iron Wave. Both had gone to the bottom of the Meredius along with the Ordic war galley, all hands lost.
Axiara strode forward, reached down, and placed one long-fingered hand beneath the Ordic captain’s chin. She raised his head and stared into the man’s eyes. “We have much to talk about, Captain,” she said and smiled. Aiakos found himself wondering if she wasn’t going to take a bite out of the man. Captain Torun returned her stare but said nothing.
“Take him to Graxus,” Axiara said as she motioned to one of the black ogrun behind her. The brute strode forward, grabbed Captain Torun’s wrists, and unceremoniously dragged him away.
“Now, then.” Axiara turned her gaze on Aiakos. “I hear you are to thank for delivering the captain to me.”
“I am,” he said simply, choosing to be direct and truthful.
Axiara nodded. “I also hear that you have a certain rare gift. Tell me why this talent of yours was not known to me before.”
Again Aiakos chose the truth. “Because I did not know it existed, Admiral,” he said. “It came upon me in the heat of battle.”
“I have heard of such things,” Axiara said evenly. “Then it was you who controlled the Slayer after Yaskas was killed?”
“Yes,” Aiakos said.
“Did you know you had a warcaster among your crew, Captain Bloodbrine?” Axiara asked, turning her attention to the Scythe’s captain.
“No,” Bloodbrine said. “I would have told you.”
She was testing them, Aiakos was sure. Axiara had lost men in the battle aboard the Viper, and if an important resource had been hidden from her, one that would have reduced her losses, someone would pay.
Axiara stared at both of them for a few moments. Her crimson eyes moved across Aiakos and Bloodbrine, searching. Finally, she turned to Aiakos. “You will join my crew. Gather your belongings from the Scythe and report back immediately.”
Aiakos’ heart raced in his chest. To serve aboard the Morbid Angel under the command of a powerful Cryxian admiral elevated his station immensely, and the opportunities it might present were boundless.
Axiara turned to Bloodbrine. “Kalghur will accompany Aiakos and choose men to replace those I lost in the battle.” She pointed to one of the black ogrun behind her.
“Of course,” Bloodbrine said. Aiakos could see the muscles in the captain’s jaw clench. He’d taken losses as well, and now his own fighting force would be cherry picked, leaving it even weaker. Seeing a man such as Bloodbrine humbled and acquiescent, with no other choice but to obey an order he despised, gave Aiakos a sense of longing and boldly underscored what it was he truly wanted. He had no need for loyalty or friends. He didn’t want respect or reverence fr
om those beneath him.
He wanted their fear.
PART III
The Meredius, Spring, 606 AR
The cargo hold of the Morbid Angel was part abattoir and part laboratory. Bodies and pieces of bodies hung from hooks in the ceiling along with bits of machinery, black hoses, and strange rune-scratched plates of metal. A hazy cloud of smoke filled the tight quarters and made breathing difficult, but then the master of this blighted place had no need to breathe.
The necrotech was called Graxus, and he moved through the oppressive gloom of the hold like a fat spider, trundling through the maze of hanging corpses on eight thin metallic legs, black plumes of smoke drifting up from the short stack jutting from his back. His body was huge, corpulent, and covered in necromechanika that presumably sustained his abominable existence.
Aiakos was here only because he’d been ordered by Axiara. She felt his weapons and armor were unfitting a warcaster and had sent him below to speak with Graxus, who would outfit him with more appropriate gear.
“She was right,” Graxus said, his voice a breathy hiss like air leaking from a ruptured hose. The necrotech scuttled closer, and Aiakos curled his hands into his fists and willed himself not to flinch away from the bloated creature. “You are a choice specimen, boy. I’m quite impressed with your limbs, primarily. Strong and supple; they will tolerate much enhancement . . . when the time comes.”
I have no need of your enhancements,” Aiakos said, forcing the words through jaws clenched in disgust. “I need weapons and armor. The admiral said you could provide them.”
Graxus reached up and ran one clammy hand across Aiakos upper arm. “A pity. Such good pieces.”
Aiakos did flinch this time, drawing back. “Weapons and armor,” he repeated.
The necrotech nodded his swollen head, the twin optical lenses in his doughy grey face swiveling up and down. “Very well,” the necrotech said. “I’ll just need to get some measurements.”
Graxus moved close enough to touch Aiakos again. The stench rising off the necrotech was a mixture of rotting meat and the pungent mineral odor of burning necrotite. The necrotech reached out with a collection of spidery metal limbs jutting from his back, each tipped with a blade, clamp, or other apparatus. He ran these appendages over Aiakos’ body, muttering to himself in a language Aiakos could not understand. The feel of those cold metallic limbs on his flesh was indescribably awful, and he wanted to yank his cutlass free and hack Graxus apart. Yet he stood, unmoving, while the necrotech took his measurements. He endured it because it was just another obstacle to overcome. In the end, it was nothing but a few moments of unpleasantness for a possible lifetime of power and prestige.
After a span of minutes that seemed like hours, Graxus pulled away, his metallic legs clacking softly against the bloodstained wood of the cargo hold. “What weapons do you favor, boy?” he asked.
Aiakos drew in a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Harpoon and cutlass,” he said.
The necrotech nodded. “I can accommodate that,” he said. “I’ll need two days. You can go.”
Aiakos turned and moved swiftly to the staircase leading up to the main deck. The salty smell of the Meredius clashed with the stench of Graxus’ laboratory and then overwhelmed it as Aiakos climbed out onto the main deck.
He was shaken, though he knew none of the Morbid Angel’s crew going about their tasks around him could detect it. A creature like Graxus had chosen to become what he was—unliving and eternal. Many in Cryx sought similar “enhancements.” He found the very idea appalling. Certainly the undead had their place, but he had no desire to join their ranks.
Aiakos moved through the sailors around him and climbed to the forecastle. He stood against the railing and watched the Morbid Angel’s bow slash through the Meredius. The salt spray felt good and his skin, and for the moment it washed away the fear he’d felt in Graxus’ laboratory.
The reason the Morbid Angel and the Scythe had attacked the Ordic vessel was still unknown to Aiakos, but he heard Captain Torun’s screams drifting up from Graxus’ abattoir the night after they taken the Ordic ship. Axiara obviously obtained the information she sought, as the Morbid Angel changed course the next morning.
The Scythe was still following behind the Morbid Angel, Captain Bloodbrine’s fate now tied to Axiara’s will, his crew reduced to little more than a skeleton crew to replace the blackship’s losses. One of the crew members moved from the Scythe to the Morbid Angel was Nyra Bloodbrine. Aiakos was glad to have a familiar face on board, and he didn’t see her as a threat to his station. She was a good fighter, but he was a warcaster now; they were on different paths, and there was no reason why she would get in his way. She hadn’t spoken to him since boarding; in fact, she seemed to be avoiding him.
Nyra was reunited with her father three days after the attack on the Ordic ship. He was called to the Morbid Angel for a meeting with Axiara and her senior crew. Aiakos had been summoned to the same meeting, where he was sure Axiara would reveal the information she’d gotten from Captain Torun and how they were going to use it.
Axiara’s cabin was large as such things went but contained few creature comforts. It was dominated by a large round table upon which a map of the coast of western Immoren had been spread. There were no chairs, and with the only possible place to sit being Axiara’s bunk; everyone remained standing. Chests for the admiral’s few belongings were shoved under the bunk, and two racks for weapons and armor were affixed to the wall.
Aiakos noted the others in the cabin: Axiara herself, her first mate Kalghur, Captain Bloodbrine, Nyra Bloodbrine, and the bloated, spider-like necrotech Graxus, much to Aiakos’ displeasure. Thankfully, the necrotech was producing only a trickle of black smoke from his stack and paid him no mind. The Satyxis admiral didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Captain Torun has been very forthcoming,” she said. “He has given me the location of a key Ordic munitions depot with warehouses just south of Berck. Within this depot are eighty royal-weight cannons of the highest quality.” Axiara pointed to the port on the map spread out before them. “They won’t be there for long. We have a limited window of opportunity.”
“Royal-weight,” Bloodbrine said, nodding approvingly. “That’s quite a haul.”
Aiakos, too, was impressed by Axiara’s announcement. Many Cryxian pirate ships and even those within Axiara’s raider fleet were outfitted with plundered weapons. Cryxian foundries were occupied crafting helljacks, not guns. Royal-weight cannons were the heaviest and most accurate ordnance the mainland navies employed, making this a significant prize even for so accomplished a raider as Axiara.
“Yes, Captain. It is,” Axiara said. “I have good reason to refit the Morbid Angel.”
“Going so near Berck is dangerous, Admiral,” Nyra said, stepping close to the table and the map. They all knew it to be the home of the Ordic Royal Navy.
Axiara nodded. “The depot itself is well guarded, with a dedicated garrison of soldiers and warjacks. Being so close to Berck, they believe themselves safe from an attack by sea, shielded by their navy; if we strike quick and hard we can take what we want before they organize their forces.”
Nyra shook her head. “Maybe,” she said. “But there’s a lighthouse here,” she jabbed her finger down on the map. “We always give it a wide berth. It’s garrisoned by the military. They’ll see us coming and sound the alarm. We’ll be facing every soldier and sailor in Berck before we can get those guns back aboard our ships.”
Axiara turned to Kalghur. “Is this lighthouse a problem?” she asked.
Kalghur was massive even by ogrun standards, and he was hunched over to avoid slamming his head into the ceiling. His voice sounded like boulders rolling down a mountain, low and terrible. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends on how quickly anyone reacts to the alarm. We might smash through anything they send.”
“Might,” Axiara said. “That’s not good enough.”
“Then we take out the lighthouse before you a
rrive,” Aiakos said.
Graxus turned to Aiakos, his fleshy face split in wide grin. “Our infant warcaster has an opinion,” he said. “By all means share it.”
Axiara turned to Aiakos. “What do you mean?”
“Give me two helljacks and I’ll disable this lighthouse, kill the men within it, and make sure the Scythe and the Morbid Angel get to the depot unseen.”
“Foolishness,” Axiara said. “You’ve been a warcaster for exactly four days. You overestimate your abilities, boy.”
“Maybe,” Captain Bloodbrine said. “But he’s served on my ship for six months, and I’ve seen him on enough boarding parties to know he’s quiet and quick. I don’t know much about warcasters, but I know a killer when I see one. He might pull it off.”
Aiakos did not feel gratitude for the praise. He felt suspicious. Why would the captain help him? Perhaps Bloodbrine thought his own chances of survival were better if Aiakos did as he suggested.
“Is that so?” Axiara said. “If you fail, the port will be on alert before we arrive. I would be very displeased if that were to happen.”
“Give me what I need, and I won’t fail,” Aiakos said.
Axiara stared at him for a moment, her eyes flat and hard. “Very well, Aiakos,” she said. “I’ll give you the helljacks.” She stepped toward him and one hand shot out, snake fast, and caught Aiakos’ chin. Her grip was exceedingly strong, but Aiakos did not flinch or pull away. She brought her face close to his. “If you do fail, make sure you die in the attempt.”
Aiakos stood on the forecastle of the Morbid Angel. The blackship was drifting, its twin paddles silent, its powerful necrotite-fueled engines shut off. The Meredius was a flat sheet of glassy black stretching to the east. The coastline was visible, but just barely. They were three miles off the depot port. He could see the lighthouse in the distance, its rotating beacon a small sun of bright yellow against the night sky.