Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

“Hey!” Gretla screeched, lifting her grief-marred face from Ary’s neck and glaring at their brother. “My cooking is delicious!” She gnashed her teeth and squirmed in his arms. “I’m gonna bite you for that!”

  “Oh, no!” Jhevon forced out a laugh. He backed up the path.

  Ary set his little sister down and she tore off after Jhevon. Despite the grief, a smile touched his lips. His ma was gone, but his siblings still lived. They still played and fought, resilient despite the calamity that befell them. As he watched Gretla chase Jhevon, Chaylene’s arm slipped around his waist. Like him, her smile grew broad.

  “Do you think our children will be like that?” she asked.

  Ary put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Maybe.”

  After Gretla became bored trying to bite Jhevon, which didn’t take too long, she bounced around Ary and Chaylene as they headed towards the family’s ashery. Ary’s ancestors had cut into the backside of the hill. Jhevon, holding an oil lamp he’d fetched from the farmhouse, opened the wooden door, unveiling the earthen tunnel.

  The loamy scent of dirt filled the cool air as they ventured into the narrow tunnel. Roots brushed Ary’s face, sprouting from the ceiling. The passageway sloped downward, barely wide enough for a single person to tread. Ary turned sideways to fit his broad shoulders. It opened onto the ashery, an almost circular room cut into the bedrock; the ceiling braced with ancient timbers. Clay urns, resting in nooks, lined the walls in rows. It was already three-quarters full with generations of Jaynes.

  A new urn rested beside their pa’s green jar.

  Ary stepped before their ma’s urn, painted sky-blue with her name, Ionie, written in a flourishing, black script that could only belong to Gretla. He stroked the smooth glaze; a tingle raced down his finger. All that remained of her life distilled to ash.

  He stood in silence for a while, trying to speak. Memories flashed through him, not ones of her broken by his pa’s death, but before. A kind touch of her hand brushing back his hair, the way she hummed while dicing vegetables, seeing her standing on the porch with her hands on her hips ready to scold him for his latest foolishness.

  “I wish I could have told you in person, Ma,” he finally croaked. “But I do forgive you. I hope you and Pa are happy up there on Riasruo’s sun.”

  “The fire cleanses us all,” Chaylene whispered.

  Ary blinked then shivered, the cold of the ashery seeping through his coat. Only his wife remained. He hadn’t noticed when his siblings had slipped out. He nodded. The flames had purified his ma. He stroked her urn one final time before lowering his arm.

  “One day, we’re gonna be in here,” his wife said, staring at the empty nooks.

  “I guess so,” Ary said. “It’s not so bad. There’s plenty of family down here.”

  On the row below his parents’ urns rested one painted purple. “Srias” was written in a rougher script. Ary caressed his little sister’s resting place. Srias’s coughing, choking cries as she died echoed through his mind.

  “You’re all together,” he whispered. “I’m sure I’ll see you one day.”

  Unless being touched by Theisseg . . .

  “You will,” Chaylene said. “But not for a long time.”

  *

  Vel clutched at the pouch in his pocket, the powder shifting through the felt. His stomach twisted as he studied the two youths fishing on the skyland’s edge. Onfell Oatlon and the mayor’s eldest grandchild, Chelem Thay, held poles fresh hewn from chestnut saplings growing in the grassy fields around Vesche’s perimeter.

  Vel remembered the supple pole twisting in his own hand, the green wood flexing and contorting as the Storm bass flapped its fins, struggling to escape the hook set in its mouth. Gray scales flashed in the afternoon sun, Ary’s rich laughter echoing in Vel’s thoughts.

  “Come on, reel him in,” Chelem urged as Onfell fought against the struggling catch. “That’s a big one.”

  “That’s a big one, Vel!” Ary cried out in Vel’s memory, such earnest joy resounding in his quavering voice as he helped Vel pull in the line. The Storm bass’s thick tail flicking from side to side as it fought to escape.

  “Bigger than the one you caught!” Vel cried, triumph surging through him.

  “Way bigger!” Ary agreed, not a hint of jealousy in his voice.

  Vel shook his head. He had to kill such thoughts. He had to murder the youth inside of him. But it was so hard. The two boys fishing on the skyland’s edge shouted with the same mirth. Chelem gained his feet, bouncing with excitement, wearing brown denim overalls and no shirt beneath. The summer had tanned his shoulders to a rich brown. His hands seized the line and he hauled it in.

  “That is the biggest fish ever caught on Vesche!”

  “And I landed him!” Onfell exclaimed. “My ma’ll flip her skirt when she sees it! Gonna feed my family for a week.”

  “Yeah!”

  Vel’s hand squeezed the bag, powder shifting inside. Where had he diverged from Ary? Was it only Chaylene who split their paths? If she’d never danced into their lives, would Vel still care about Ary? Would he still think of him as a brother? Vel wrenched his gaze from the youths, hating the echoes of his childhood rattling through his skull. He sucked in deep breaths, his body trembling.

  Isfe poisoned Vel. Everything brought on memories dripping with guilty vitriol. The drops seared his soul. How he wished he was only a boy again. His gaze swept over the grassy fields, past Aldeyn Watch and the Dauntless moored beside the Fearless. He landed on the stump of the old watchtower, a broken crown of rocks barely clearing the hill’s ripened grass.

  He and Ary had clashed over and over there playing Pirates and Marines. They’d dueled each other on the stairs as they’d fought for Chaylene. She was always the prize; the damsel kidnapped by the pirate and trapped at the top of the tower.

  Those were memories he needed to focus on: his heart thudding as Ary barreled up the stairs to rescue Chaylene, his face twisted in bestial fury. Even as a youth, Ary’s broad shoulders had given him strength. The stick had always shivered in Vel’s hand when their weapons cracked together. His grip had grown clammy with sweat, excitement rushing through his ears, drowning out almost everything as he’d fought to defend Chaylene. To keep the brute from reaching her. He’d battled Ary again and again.

  Failed every time.

  He couldn’t defeat Ary in a fair fight. Sword against sword . . . nothing had changed. In a fight, he’d lose. He needed to be cunning. He had to wait for the perfect moment. He had his weapon. He clutched hard at the bag. He needed to be that pirate again. He needed to guard his prize and protect Chaylene from the marine.

  Those other memories retreated before his purpose. Chaylene. She was all that mattered. Possessing her, protecting her, loving her.

  *

  It felt strange to Ary to sit at the table in the familiar farmhouse. The large table had always been the center of their life when his pa and Srias still lived. The smells of the hearth and kitchen always mixed here: wood smoke, herbs, freshly baked barley bread, the sizzle of juicy ostrich drumsticks.

  When his ma descended into her madness, he’d stopped eating at the table. He resorted to filching food from the kitchen after she’d set the plates for Jhevon, Gretla, and herself. She’d ignore him rushing in with an earthenware plate in hand, ladling up thick stew, carving off a haunch of roasted ostrich, or snagging a freshly caught trout she’d baked drizzled in lemon juices. She’d always cooked for him—she did that much of her duty as his ma—but she never served him. Never made him feel a part of the family.

  Now Ary sat at the head of the battered and mended table from where their pa had once ruled. His throat tightened. He yearned for his ma’s presence even if it meant enduring her poisoned words raining upon him. He craved to see her blonde hair slipping out of her tight bun and falling in wild locks about the sides of her face a final time. To hear her voice . . .

  To tell her to her face that he loved her . . .


  “Smells good, Gretla,” Ary said, speaking words to buttress himself against the rising ache in the back of his throat.

  She tottered up to the table, her face screwed tight as she held the platter of the thick ostrich drumsticks, the outside roasted nice and crisp, the herbs baked into it. The tang of lemon seasoned the air.

  Lemons . . . how he’d missed the citrus fruit. The navy bought oranges and barley, but they ignored the third crop grown on Vesche. His stomach let out a noisy rumble that brought a grin to his little sister’s chubby face as she set the platter down on the center of the table.

  “It looks like they’ve been feeding you in the Navy,” she said. “But I wouldn’t think that the way your stomach growled.”

  “They give us plenty to eat,” Chaylene said. “But it’s all the same food: fish stew.”

  “Only fish stew?” Gretla asked, taking the seat to Ary’s left.

  “It’s hearty,” Ary said as he grabbed the hogbone carving knife resting beside the drumstick.

  “Even to break your fast with?” Jhevon asked. He sat on Ary’s right with Chaylene just beyond him.

  “Yes,” Chaylene groused, her face twisting. “Fish stew. Every meal.”

  “It cooks day and night,” Ary added. He worked the sharp knife though the flesh. The rich aroma of the dark ostrich meat brushed his nose. They were lucky that Jhevon had only slaughtered an ostrich two days ago. Most of its meat would be dried. With just Jhevon and Gretla, one ostrich could feed them for weeks, but without preservation would spoil before they could devour it. “They just keep adding water and flour and vegetables and fish to it.”

  “It’s all a mush,” Chaylene said. “Bland, inedible mush.”

  “You don’t get any mashed peas?” Gretla asked as she spooned up the thick, green slurry onto her plate. “Or mashed turnips?”

  “Just stew.” Chaylene took the spoon from Gretla and dished up her own plate. She leaned over the mashed peas, inhaled the aroma, and let out a pleased groan Ary knew so well.

  “Here you are, my little shark,” Ary said, putting the first slice of ostrich meat on his sister’s plate. “I know sharks are always ravenous.”

  “We are,” she said, grabbing the large slap of dark meat in her hands and lifting it to her mouth.

  “Utensils,” Chaylene said. “You’re not really a shark.”

  Gretla pouted.

  “She’s been eating like that since Ma passed,” Jhevon said.

  Ary’s knife paused as he started the second cut. He swallowed, feeling the emptiness at the table. Gretla’s face fell. Jhevon worked his mouth as he stared down at his bare plate. Ary took a deep breath and kept carving. His heart labored in his chest, taking more effort to pump his blood.

  Ary cleared his throat. “Chaylene’s right. You and Jhevon have to run the farm. You can’t be a child forever.”

  “I know,” Gretla said, her voice small. “I do help out. I do.”

  “She does,” Jhevon conceded. “And Myrian stops by most afternoons.”

  Ary swallowed, his fist tightening on the wooden handle of the knife. He cut harder, the dark winds swirling in him. He should be here. His brother and sister needed an adult. Jhevon was nearly a man, but he wasn’t one yet.

  I was younger than he was when I started running the farm, a voice whispered in Ary’s mind. He swatted that aside as his teeth ground together. He sawed through the piece of meat and then thrust it onto Jhevon’s plate.

  Ary attacked the drumstick.

  “Ary,” Chaylene said, her voice light. “You don’t need to savage the ostrich. It’s already dead.”

  He let out a snort and looked at the haunch. His third stroke went badly. He cut too deep on one end, too shallow on the other. The force of his sawing had torn the meat more than sliced it.

  “Sorry. I’ve never done this before.” His ma had always done it. She’d never let him touch one of her kitchen knives if she could help it. The dark winds swirled faster, but he took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scents of Gretla’s cooking.

  “You’re doing fine,” Gretla insisted as she picked up her wooden fork and bone knife. She cut into her piece with all the dainty care of a princess. She popped it into her mouth and grinned at him.

  He didn’t want to go back to the Dauntless. He didn’t want to leave his family behind. But the ship sailed to fight pirates. Estan, Guts, Zeirie, Jhech, Corporal Huson, Vay, and Messiench depended on him. He was their commander, and their brother. Already, they’d fought and bled together, a new family birthed in pain and blood. He couldn’t let them face the chaos of battle without his presence.

  He slid the uneven slice onto Chaylene’s plate. She gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.”

  “So, what’s being a marine actually like?” Jhevon asked. He shoveled a fork full of mashed peas into his mouth, waiting for the answer.

  “Lots of drilling,” Ary answered.

  “Wluuk wiff sworjjs?” Jhevon asked, bits of mashed peas spilling out of his mouth.

  “With swords?” Ary frowned, struggling to understand the muffled words.

  Jhevon gave him an eager nod.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Chaylene said, shaking her head.

  Jhevon swallowed then took a large gulp of sow’s milk. “Sorry, Chaylene. Just excited. You’re a marine, Ary. You get to fight with a sword.”

  “Yes, yes, do you practice with that sword?” Gretla asked, glancing to the wall where he had set his sidearm. His coat hung from a hook above it, the bright red contrasting with Chaylene’s light-blue dangling beside it.

  “Not with that sword,” Ary answered. “It’s too sharp. Too dangerous. We use blunted blades during practice.”

  “Can I see it?” Jhevon asked.

  Ary took his first bite of the ostrich as Chaylene said, “We’re eating supper.”

  Jhevon scooped up another mouthful of mashed peas and, before even swallowing, followed it with a big bite of ostrich meat. He worked his mouth, chewing fast while Gretla giggled across the table. A smile crossed Ary’s lips as he enjoyed the juicy meat. The spices and lemon juices complimented the flavor. He groaned, leaning back in the chair, eager for more. He spooned up the mashed peas and took a big bite. He loved the texture in his mouth and the sharp flavor of their mother’s recipe. He imagined that small farmhouse he planned on renting from Master Oatlon and eating a meal Chaylene had cooked while he worked in the field. He’d listen to their children chatting away, eyes bright as they laughed and joked.

  A simple dream. Peaceful.

  Metal clanged in the back of his mind. Swords slashed. Men and women screamed in agony. Soft, amber eyes stared up in awe of the sky before widening black into death. Arrows hissed through the air. A bloody flower blossomed from the Sergeant-Major’s throat. Ahneil’s gasp of shock as silver slashed into her. Ary focused on his siblings, on what he protected when he served in the Navy, fighting against the intruding images.

  Stormwall . . . Ary thought. I protected youths like Gretla and Jhevon back on Les. I kept them from suffering like our family had. No civilians died. No families lost their fathers. Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, are sitting around their tables and enjoying this because of us.

  “So, can I see it?” Jhevon asked, snapping Ary out of his thoughts.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Your sword!” Though only two years separated the brothers, Ary had never felt the distance in their age so much as now. It yawned between them, a rift separating Ary from the boyhood in which Jhevon still dwelled. Three months had aged Ary decades. He felt the weight of it aching in his bones.

  “Sure,” he said without much thought.

  Jhevon pushed back from the table and darted to it. In five steps, he reached the weapon. He snatched up the scabbard. “It’s heavier than I thought and . . .” He fingered the leather rap hilt and the basket-like guard. “Ary . . . is this . . . metal?”

  Ary’s blood chilled. “Yeah.”

  G
retla’s jaw dropped as Jhevon drew the blade with a snickering whisk. Oranges and reds danced across the weapon’s polished surface, reflected light spilling in a narrow, curving arc across Jhevon’s features. He prodded it with a finger of his left hand, trailing his digit along the surface.

  “It’s so . . . so smooth,” he said, awe strangling his voice. “And cold. How did you get this, Ary . . .? Unless . . .”

  “Did you fight a Cyclone, Ary?” Gretla asked, her voice tight and quiet. Her small hand clutched his wrist. “Did you?”

  “He must have,” Jhevon said. “It’s a Stormrider’s blade.” The boy, who stood a fingerwidth taller than Ary, slashed it through the air. The swipe was clumsy, something Ary would have made before he’d learned swordsmanship.

  Chaylene stirred her mashed peas widdershins as she stared down at her plate.

  “How many Stormriders did you kill?” Jhevon asked. “Did you kill them all?” A fierceness entered his tone. A dark expression transformed his younger brother’s face, a hatred Ary had never witnessed in Jhevon. “Did you kill all those Storming bastards?”

  “I killed my share,” Ary said, his insides twisting around the memory of Stormrider eyes staring up at the blue sky.

  “What was it like?” Gretla asked, her hand squeezing on his wrist. “You must have been so gallant, Ary. Was he, Chaylene? Was he gallant?” She bounced in her seat as she peered across the table. “I bet he protected you. Did he? Like a knight in the stories?”

  Chaylene kept stirring her mashed peas.

  “Of course Ary was gallant!” Jhevon made another slash with the sharp weapon. It whistled through the air.

  “Be careful with that!” Ary growled, his throat tight, clenching hard, aching as blood pounded through his veins. “You could cut someone in half.”

  “Right,” Jhevon said. A vicious-looking smile spread wide on his lips. “Did you cut one in half?”

  “Were you scared?” Gretla asked. “I’d be scared.”

  “Ary wasn’t scared! He’s our brother. He must have chopped them all up. Look, he stole one of their blades.”

  “And Chaylene, you were fighting, too?”