by J M D Reid
As she boarded the ship, she glanced east at leaden skies. Dawn approached. She stowed her possessions in a trunk beneath her hammock. The crew of the Dauntless had to work and sleep in three shifts; there wasn’t enough space for them to bunk all at once. As a senior non-commissioned officer, she didn’t have to share hers.
She found herself climbing up into the Dauntless’s crow’s nest. The bustle from below faded at the pinnacle of the ship. The families of the sailors on the docks waved at their loved ones as final sailors boarded. The dependents, and those too wounded like Zori, would sail on a merchant ship in a few days. The last hawser was slipped. The Windwardens summoned a strong breeze. Chaylene’s hair swayed as the sails billowed and snapped below her. Sailors, clinging to the spars the sails hung from, adjusted the rigging as the Dauntless turned out into the Xoar Sky. The sun peeked over the Storm before them.
The captain decided against a direct flight to Tlele and the port of Onhur. She wanted to integrate the new crew members before there was any chance of combat. The Dauntless would sail south, skirting past the Tloan chain on the eastern side and keeping close to the skylands in case there were any problems. After passing Elemy, the southernmost skyland of the chain, the Dauntless would turn east towards Oname and Vesche, putting in at Aldeyn Watch before crossing Arthu Strait.
Chaylene shivered at the prospect of seeing Vesche and Isfe. She hadn’t expected to return until her four-year enlistment ended. She wished to never return, but knew Ary would have to at least visit his siblings, especially after their ma’s recent death. Chaylene had never liked Ionie Jayne. She was one of the many goodwives of Isfe who’d called Chaylene’s dead ma a Vaarckthian hussy, implying she did more than wash clothes at Aldeyn Watch.
As Chaylene considered returning to Vesche, she didn’t find herself flinching from it. Before, she had ached to flee the farming village and all the disgusted looks and whispered innuendos about her chastity. The last three months had changed her. She could walk proud through her village. She had never violated her marriage oaths. She hadn’t let her Vaarckthian blood turn her into a hussy. Nothing about her blood made her different from any other woman.
She controlled herself. Nothing they would say would ever change that now.
She smiled as the Dauntless tacked south for the Tloan chain. Les dwindled in the corvette’s wake. A single albatross soared alongside the ship, letting out a lonely caw. Chaylene studied the bird and its long wingspan. It didn’t flap once as it drifted alongside them, free to go where it willed.
A longing smile crossed her lips.
The Bosun’s whistle sounded below, shrill and piercing, sounding a drill. The albatross gave a startled cry and banked away from the Dauntless. The crew of the Dauntless may have “officially” completed training, but it never really ended.
She sighed as the albatross dwindled into a white speck.
*
Isamoa 19th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
The rap on his cabin door woke Nrein.
“Yes?” he growled, not wanting to open his eyes.
“We’ve spotted the Vaarckthians,” reported Tsossar, his second.
“Finally,” Nrein grunted to himself.
The Vaarckthians were two days late. The endless waiting, holding station just out of sight of the Skyland of Cheimpf in the Northern Esti Sky, galled the pirate. He burned to raid the Autonomy’s whalers instead of rusting like a sword left out in the rain. But he could be patient. Already, the Vaarckthians had made him a wealthy man with the warships they’d sold him. Nrein’s two ships, the Iron Horse and the Hammer, were laden with their prize of whale oil, the payment for a third ship.
He would rival the Autonomy’s Eastern Fleet. Crush them.
He sat up, teeth clenching against his hammock shifting and swaying. He pushed his black, braided hair off his shoulders. He stood, muscles stiff from sleeping on the useless thing. Men didn’t belong on ships floating through the air.
“And Cap’n,” Tsossar added, “they got five ships. Big ‘uns.”
“I know.” Nrein stretched and grabbed a linen shirt. He pulled it over his scarred, muscular frame. “It was all arranged.”
It wasn’t. Five ships were not apart of the agreement. Nrein understood the value in his crew seeing him in control of every situation. His pirates were sharks, hungry and dangerous. His blood could never scent the skies. He grabbed his greatsword leaning against the wall of his cabin. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and buckled the leather straps across his chest, grunting against the solid, familiar weight.
He strode out onto the deck of the Iron Horse into the hot, early autumn sunlight. His men, roughly dressed in mismatched shirts and britches dyed a variety of hues, gave him nods and mutters of “Cap’n” as he passed them while the press-ganged Vionese sailors ducked their heads in fear. Nrein savored the cowed minnows as he strode across the well deck. The Vionese thought they were better than the Agerzaks, more advanced, more civilized. It galled the pirate that his people had lost the Fringe to the cowering guppies scurrying across the ship.
He would reclaim his people’s glory and drive out the bastards from the Fringe.
He mounted the stern deck and joined Tsossar. The man gripped a spyglass as he peered out at the vast emptiness of the Esti Skies, the region west of the Agerzak kingdoms. It formed a buffer between them, the Empire of Vaarck, and the Vionese’s Autonomy.
“Three points to port, Cap’n,” Tsossar muttered, handing over the spyglass.
Nrein examined the five ships sailing towards them. On the flanks flew two Vaarckthian frigates, larger vessels than both of his ships. Leading was a corvette, the smallest class warships, fast and nimble—the perfect pirate vessel. The last two were wallowing merchantmen flying in the center of the Vaarckthian formation.
They wouldn’t have brought the merchant ships if they planned on breaking our agreement and destroying us, he told himself.
If I was them, I’d bring the merchants to lull us into complacency.
An excited thrill beat inside him.
“Have Lroff fire the signal,” Nrein growled, his fingers twitching.
Tsossar shouted. Moments later, green fire erupted in the air over his ship, shot up by Lroff, Nrein’s Firedrinker. He peered through the spyglass, studying the Vaarckthians, searching for any clue of their intentions. At the bow of the leading corvette, a green cloth waved.
Are they giving me the response, or just trying to lull me in closer?
“Captain,” Tsossar warned. “Are you sure of their intentions?”
Nrein didn’t answer. He kept watching as the frigates broke apart and soared wide to encircle his stationary ships while the corvette led the two merchants. The pirate examined the frigates through the spyglass. He didn’t see any Vaarckthian marines in their dark-blue coats manning the gunwales, and their ballistae appeared unmanned, but were limbered, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
Far faster than his Windwardens could call a breeze and set his ships maneuvering clear of the shots.
His eyeglass fell upon the lead Vaarckthian corvette, its hull painted dull gray. He wanted that ship. The last one had been promised him by the Vaarckthian. With three warships, he would terrorize Thugri Sound and plunder more riches than any other Agerzak.
“Cap’n!” snarled Tsossar. Nrein could almost smell the fear bleeding off of him.
“If they were going to attack, Tsossar, they would have already fired their ballistae,” he growled, putting all the confidence he could into his lie. He wanted that third ship too much to act precipitously. He would be the most infamous Agerzak pirate in history, and that meant tossing the bones right here, gambling everything on that oily Vaarckthian. “Did your iron balls rust away?”
Tsossar scowled.
The corvette stopped three hundred ropes off the Iron Horse’s bow. An orange flag waved from the lead ship, the next signal. Promising.
“Lower the stern,” Nrein barked.
His ship was als
o a Vaarckthian corvette, designed to house a wing of rocs for scouting. The rear of the ship could fold outward, lowered by thick cables, allowing the giants birds to soar in and out of the ship. His boat shuddered, wood groaned, and ropes creaked as the stern lowered. He kept watching the warships.
Nrein felt so alive right now. His body trembled in anticipation of battle. The chilling excitement coursed through his body. The air smelled so crisp, tasted so sharp. A metallic tang enveloped his tongue. He almost wished the Vaarckthians would break their agreement. Violence . . He ached for it. Longed for the joy of flesh severing before his swinging blade, for the spurt of red life to season the air with that coppery scent.
Vermilion flashed at the Vaarckthian corvette’s stern. A red-crested roc soared around from the rear of the vessel. Its wings, wider than two men standing atop each other, flapped with languorous power as the large bird soared across the open sky. The bird had the lean look of a raptor, a hawk swelled to immense size. Riding upon it, strapped to its saddle, was a scout and the emissary. Through the looking glass, Nrein recognized the paunchy figure of Qozhnui Uulvigk.
Disappointment soured the pirate’s stomach. They wouldn’t attack and risk one of their precious noblemen.
“Come,” he barked, thrusting the spyglass into Tsossar’s chest. “Let’s meet with the noble emissary of the Vaarckthian Emperor.” He couldn’t stop the sneer from entering his voice.
Tsossar followed as Nrein crossed the deck and climbed down into the hold. To the left of the stairs lay the menagerie. He stepped into the room built to house the ship’s rocs with space for four pens. Now it contained his raiders’ horses, the mounts crammed into tight makeshift stalls. Wind rushed through the open stern. The bird banked into sight as it lined up for its approach, the scout using the False Sun’s foul Blessing to manipulate the air.
Tsossar chuckled. “The fat fool looks like he’s swallowed a minnow.”
Nrein grinned at the sickly fear twisting Qozhnui’s ebony face as the roc rushed at the menagerie. “He might need a fresh pair of britches.”
Tsossar laughed louder as the roc flared its wings. Its speed cut in half as it passed into the menagerie and landed with a few hard flaps of its wings. The raiders’ horses nickered, stamping their hooves.
“Captain Nrein,” the pudgy Vaarckthian noble said, his ebony face drenched in sweat. More matted down his fiery red hair. “I ask leave to board your ship.” His Agerzak was almost flawless, though he spoke in the rapid, clipped cadence of a Sobbenese instead of the slower dialect of a Southern Agerzak.
“You may,” Nrein answered. “Welcome to the Iron Horse.”
“Many thanks, worthy Captain.” Qozhnui mopped at his dark neck with a cream handkerchief while the roc’s rider unstrapped the nobleman’s legs from the saddle. The man’s nervousness faded with every breath, apparently more intimated by flying than Nrein and his pirates. “The Empire is very pleased with our collaboration thus far. We are most impressed with the great work you’ve done and how you’ve made use of our gifts.”
Nrein clenched his teeth against the nobleman’s obsequious manner. He dripped more grease than whale blubber, every ounce foul and rancid. “I have two ships’ worth of oil. As we agreed on.”
“Yes, yes!” Qozhnui said as he dismounted. He marched up to Nrein with a boldness that belied his fleshy form and short stature. “Shall we retire to your cabin and imbibe some much needed refreshments? Flying upon roc always unsettles my nerves.” The nobleman appeared not at all perturbed to be surrounded by armed Agerzaks that towered at least a head, if not more, over him.
Nrein wasn’t sure if it was arrogance, confidence, or stupidity.
After a moment, the emissary arched a rust-red eyebrow. “Well, are you going to lead on, old boy? My thirst cannot quench itself.”
Nrein’s fingers twitched. He need only grab the man by his brocaded doublet, haul his girth a few steps, and hurl him off the stern. He stilled rage’s tremble. He needed the Vaarckthian ships. Fame and glory awaited him, immortalized in the songs like the great pirates of old: Zeibn the Yellow-Eyed, Paanch Hooknose, Seven-Fingered Tseizen, and Thunch Ironclaw.
“Follow,” Nrein growled.
He whirled and strode out of the menagerie. He marched up the stairs to the deck and threw open the door into his cabin which lay over the menagerie. A small table, cleverly gimbaled so it remained level as the ship bobbed and shifted, dominated the room, surrounded by folding chairs made of wood frames and canvas seats. His hammock hung in the corner.
Qozhnui sat down at the table, fanning his face. “I hate these early autumn swelters. Riasruo sometimes shows her love a little too much.”
Nrein grunted.
“Right, right. Quite forgot. You Agerzaks are terrible heathens.” Qozhnui dabbed at his brow, a gesture too dainty for any man to ever make. “Do you, perchance, still have that fine Bzeupthin brandy? I could use a nice snifter to fortify myself for my return flight.”
“No,” Nrein said. He snagged a flagon of a decent Velnoan wine, poured two glasses into wooden cups, and brought them to the table. He fought the urge to slam them down hard. He sat across it, studying the Vaarckthian, the pirate’s face as hard as pig iron.
Qozhnui didn’t appear to notice Nrein’s gaze. Instead, he sipped the wine and let out a long sigh. “Oh, Velnoan . . . Not one of the Empire’s finest vintages. But, I suppose, it is more than serviceable out here in the hinterlands.”
His every breath offered insult. Nrein did not understand how the fat sack of hog’s dung hadn’t been pitched off the side of a skyland like any other offal.
“Did I bring enough oil to pay for the third ship I was promised?” Nrein growled, tired of this farce.
“Straight to the point.” Qozhnui smiled. “Well, I wish to be back in Qopraa; the emperor just can’t make any decisions without me. So why tarry, eh?”
“Then answer me plain.”
“Yes, yes. The Empire is more than happy with our arrangements.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his breast pocket. “Our spies in the Autonomy’s admiralty board had the most curious news that changes our planning.” Qozhnui took another sip and grimaced.
“What?” Nrein demanded.
“I fear this wine doesn’t improve its quality with another . . .” The Vaarckthian let out a laugh. “Oh, yes, you mean this. Here, read for yourself, old boy.”
Qozhnui slid the parchment across the table. Nrein’s jaw tightened as his slanted, amber eyes skewered the ebony-skinned man shuddering at his third taste of the wine.
“You know I can’t read.”
“Right, right. Slipped my mind, old boy.”
“Would you tell me what’s written on your rustin’ scrap of paper?” Before I keelhaul you and squeeze the answers out of your blubberous body.
“A Cyclone struck one of the Autonomy’s training camps. Three ships, destined to relieve the Eastern Fleet, were near the end of their training cycle. They sallied forth, but the casualties were just dreadful.” Qozhnui gave a delicate shudder. “The Autonomy does not have the men to crew all three. The Eastern Fleet will shortly be down a ship.”
Nrein grinned, leaning back in his chair and taking a deep gulp from his cup, letting the fruity liquid roll about his tongue. It didn’t taste bad to him at all. Better than the sour orange swill the Vionese drank.
“Yes, you can see the opportunities,” the emissary continued. “The Admiralty Board met in Brelthi to debate this most unfortunate wind to strike their fleet. Admiral Grelen wanted a ship pulled from one of the other fleets.”
“Did he get it?”
“Alas, no.” The emissary took another sip of his wine, winced, then set down his cup. “The admiralty board felt the Eastern Fleet was less of a priority than others. But their misfortune is your gain. The Empire wishes you successful hunts.”
Nrein nodded his head, thoughts stirring. If the Eastern Fleet was down a ship, it would make it far easier to take the fight to the Vionese. If he
could sink or capture a few more Autonomy warships, he would have a window of free raiding on the Sound. Eventually, the Autonomy would strip ships from their other fleets. That would leave them vulnerable for the Empire’s attack, or so Nrein guessed. The Vaarckthians were using him. It was dangerous. He’d have to survive long enough to take advantage of the Empire’s invasion.
No pirate has ever diced with such stakes. And if the tosses are bad, well, that’s what makes life exciting.
“When will their new ships arrive?” Nrein asked.
“They should have deployed yesterday from Les. I would expect them to be on station in a week to seven days.” Qozhnui answered. “The Dauntless and the Adventurous. A corvette and a frigate.”
“Green recruits,” Nrein dismissed.
“I would not be so cavalier. Besides already being bloodied by a Cyclone, they will be well trained.”
Nrein snorted in disgust. “The Vionese are all cowards. They can shoot from their ships, but they buckle beneath a real charge.” Nrein grinned and, for the first time, Qozhnui shifted nervously. “My men have tasted gristle and bone.”
“Yes, well . . .” The Vaarckthian dabbed at his rubbery neck. “Engage their naval forces or deprecate their whalers. We care not.”
“Just so long as we draw their eye away from whatever you are planning?”
“Er, yes. Well, the Pride of Xiemn is at your disposal, old boy. You do have a Windwarden to control her?”
“I do. A fat, blubbering, Vionese weakling.”
“Good, good. Then shall we meet in six months’ time to receive your spoils?”
“Yes, we shall.” And if you bring the same security arrangement, perhaps I can seize a frigate. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter Ten
Killing Ary was harder than Vel imagined.
It wasn’t that his new-found courage and resolve failed him. He was almost eager to do it. Every day that Ary lived, Vel’s skin grew tighter, itching him to rid the skies, and Chaylene, of the brute. Vel thought being a cook would give him the perfect opportunity to poison Ary’s food.