Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  He’d won the day. He’d claimed his prize.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isamoa 28th, 399 VR (1960 SR)

  Wriavia soared over the city of Onhur on the northeast coast of the skyland of Tlele. It lay at the entrance to Thugri Sound. To the east, beyond Grion Rift, the Great Empty stretched, the vast sky where mighty Swuopii had once floated before the first Cyclone. Now, whalers plied those forlorn heavens, hunting the great beasts. Sailors from as far as the Ethinsk Union and the Principality of Wlensk quested for the valuable blubber. Onhur made the perfect staging site for the Navy to protect Autonomy whalers using the Sound to return home.

  Wriavia studied the ramshackle buildings that abutted against the newer port. Orderly piers thrust over the side of the skyland into Onhur’s harbor, many filled with merchantman ships and whalers. The town swelled thanks to its prominence at the mouth of Thugri Sound, the last outpost for the Autonomy to the west. The growth spread from the walled enclave anchoring the southern end of the harbor: the Rheyion Naval Port, the home base of the Autonomy’s Eastern Fleet. The Vionese had transformed what had once been an Agerzak slum, a festering pit spawning pirates and reavers, into a bustling port.

  The Dauntless maneuvered through the harbor, sailing in from the south as night fell. The assassin observed it as it slipped into one of the seven piers at the navel port. It had surprised Wriavia when he’d arrived yesterday to learn that Briaris Jayne’s corvette had yet to arrive.

  Under dark’s cover, Wriavia risked this reconnaissance flight without his shader. He missed the marvelous invention, an engine using his Moderate Mist to make his body appear insubstantial. Without it, a keen-eyed man might spot him drifting above even at night.

  Briaris and Chaylene knew the dangers of the sky. They may not have reported his attack, but they would be vigilant.

  The Dauntless’s crew threw out their hawsers and ran out the gangplank. Weary sailors trooped onto the dock. A cacophony of sounds assaulted Wriavia’s ears. He picked out the large Briaris in his red coat. The marine sauntered off the ship, a rucksack slung over his shoulder. Chaylene followed. On the deck, they met a scribe who led them and two other sailors away.

  Chaylene glanced up at the sky. The assassin felt her gaze ripple past him. He didn’t flap his wings as he drifted through the darkness. His gizzard worked its stone in circles, spinning it around as he waited. His talons clenched. Skin puckered around his every feather.

  Would she spot him?

  Briaris said something. She turned to her mate.

  Wriavia’s claws relaxed.

  The scribe led the foursome past the barracks where the rest of the Dauntless crew, including Vel, would sleep. The group approached a row of small houses, homes for the married crew members. The scribe assigned the sailors a pair of small cabins while Briaris and his wife received a slightly larger structure. The keen-eyed assassin noted the new stitching on both their epaulets: Briaris and Chaylene had been promoted. They disappeared into their new residence.

  I could burn it down, Wriavia mused. Though that didn’t work last time.

  It didn’t surprise Wriavia that Vel had failed to infect Briaris with the choking plague, only disappointed him. Theisseg has touched you, hasn’t She? mused the assassin as he studied the house. Being Stormtouched explained Briaris’s ability to slip out of Wriavia’s traps. The Goddess of Storms twisted fate for Her own amusement.

  Or Her own benefit.

  The assassin needed a new plan to kill Briaris. The Human had to die no matter the consequences. Wriavia examined the other buildings of the Rheyion Naval Port, his gaze flitting from roof to roof. He considered the warehouse.

  I could poison the food . . .

  He discarded that plan. Wriavia did not have enough poison to contaminate an entire ship’s worth of stores so he couldn’t ensure Briaris would consume it. Besides, the Human had survived the purple kiss, recovering after three days. He possessed the constitution of a wyvern.

  The assassin turned his attention to a lone building surrounded by a fenced off yard on the outskirts of the enclave. Four stacks of clay balls were piled around the yard forming pyramids. The pottery . . . The assassin drifted over the manufactury for the explosive ballista shots. The dangerous ordinance was kept a hundred ropes away from the rest of camp. Aboard the ship, sailors packed the shots in hay in the ship’s magazine.

  Could I tamper with one?

  If a shot detonated in the Dauntless’s magazine, the resulting explosion would rip the ship in half. The Dauntless and all her surviving crew would plunge into the Storm Below. No trace would ever be found, hiding all evidence of sabotage.

  The assassin cast his mind back to his lessons at the aerie as a youth, recalling exactly how ballista shots worked. A pair of clay hemispheres were packed with black powder and gravel with a pair of glass vials buried in the center. Each vial contained a separate chemical. When the vials broke and the chemicals mixed, the reaction would set off the black powder charge. Some shots were made with a delayed fuse using thin vials so delicate they broke when fired from a ballista. The chemicals would be diluted, delaying the reaction for between three to ten heartbeats depending on the mixture. Stronger dilutions in sturdier vials were used for impact fuses. The moment the shot struck an object, they would shatter and instantly trigger the explosion.

  Could I open up the shot and add an acid to slowly eat through the vials? Wriavia pondered. If the acid was weak enough, it could take days to devour the glass. The Dauntless will load fresh shot before sailing and in a few days . . . they would vanish out in the skies.

  A tingle raced through his wings; his idea held promise. He needed to learn more, to ferret out information from a worker in the pottery and conduct experiments. Wriavia winged back to Onhur. He’d find a worker relaxing in a pub.

  Humans love their beer.

  His claws flexed in delight. He had a solid plan.

  *

  “How’s the Shark Maw?” Nrein asked as he lounged in a chair, a pretty Agerzak harlot perched on his knee. The thick, stone walls of the keep muted the roar of Grion Rift. He was lucky to have discovered this large skylet. It floated ropes above the Storm, earning her the name Low Skyland, and far too close to the rift for any but the most adventurous ships to discover. He had no idea, nor cared, who’d built the outpost.

  “Gonna need a few weeks to patch her up,” Konch Sevenfingers answered. The Bravado’s ballistae had hammered the Shark Maw. She’d barely limped into the skylet’s port. “But we got the lumber. We’ll get her patched up and back to reavin’.”

  Nrein nodded, glancing out a small window, the only one not boarded up. It gazed upon his fleet docked at the pier. Press-ganged whalers repaired and repainted the Bravado’s hull to the Bluefin’s colors.

  “I’m crewin’ the Bravado with raiders from the Maw and the Hammer,” Nrein declared.

  Banch, captain of the Hammer, grunted, not hiding his disgust but not objecting. He spat instead to the stone floor.

  “And I’m givin’ you command of the Bravado, Banch,” Nrein grinned. Always keep them off-balance. When they’re reacting to you, they’re not acting against you. “Konch, you can take the Hammer. Try not to get her banged up this time.”

  Konch spat. “Not much I could’ve done ‘bout that, Cap’n.”

  Nrein fixed his amber eyes on Konch. “What did you say?”

  The whore went still on Nrein’s lap. The sound of Grion Rift grew more muted as a stillness crept through the room. Konch kept his gaze level at Nrein, unflinching. The pirate chose bloodthirsty sharks to captain his fleet. He wanted fearless men. Men not afraid to attack.

  Nrein just had to remind them that he was a bigger shark. If he cared to, he could swallow them up in a single bite. He held Konch’s eyes while fondling the hussy’s breasts through her half-undone blouse, unconcerned about Konch’s defiance. It was beneath him.

  Konch licked his lips before his gaze fell. He leaned back in his chair. “Nothin�
�, Cap’n. I won’t get the Hammer beat up.”

  “Run her up to Offnrieth and pick up enough raiders to crew the Shark’s Maw and the Hammer, then sail back down here,” he ordered. “I’m leaving Keddalr as captain to the Shark’s Maw. When she’s repaired, the Hammer and the Shark’s Maw will start reaving. Sail night and day! I want you back piratin’.”

  “Night and day,” Konch nodded.

  Nrein leaned forward. “I want to make the Autonomy bleed. I want to capture the Adventurous, the Gallant, and the Dauntless. I want to plunder the Fringe, burn their ports, and put to death their colonists.” He slammed his fist down. “The Sons of Agerz claimed these skylands by sword and blood, and we’ll reclaim them!”

  “You mean to make yourself king?” Keddalr asked.

  Nrein grinned, his blood hot. The harlot—he couldn’t remember her name, just one of the many women he’d brought to the island to keep his men happy—was soft and plump against his hardness. “If there’s nothin’ else, we sail at dawn.”

  Banch nodded, stroking his white beard. “The Bravado’s their name. That ship deserves a true one, not some weak piss passin’ as beer.”

  Nrein arched thick eyebrows.

  “Black Fear.” Banch’s rotten teeth flashed. “She’ll earn that name.”

  Nrein laughed.

  *

  Chaylene fell back on her new bed, her boots off, feet free. She wiggled sock-clad toes. She had her blouse untucked and unbuttoned down to the waist. “Ooooh, that’s nice. A bed, Ary. A real bed.”

  Ary only grunted and sat on a sturdy chair in the bedroom’s corner. He stared down at his hands, washing them together, his face distant. She let out a sigh, shaking her head. Almost dropping Isthia, and maybe more skylands, into the Storm Below had shook him.

  She fixed him a hard look. “You’re not still thinking that nonsense about getting far away from me, are you?”

  “No,” he said. “Even if I should.”

  You’re not going to hurt me, Ary, she thought. “Stop thinking you’re cursed and come join me on the bed. I’ve missed sleeping with you.”

  “We shared a bed four nights ago at the farmhouse,” he said.

  “And that’s all we did,” Chaylene purred, a heat swelling through her. She played with her open blouse, exposing more of her curves swelling her thin chemise. “We can do more than just share a bed. We don’t have your sister trying to spy on us.”

  Ary grunted.

  “Briaris Jayne!” Exasperated, she sat up and fixed him a stern look. “You were not tainted by Theisseg. You are not cursed. You are not going to bring down the skylands.”

  “I almost did.”

  “Almost isn’t the same. There’s no Dawnspire by Onhur. They’re not that common. The nearest one is back on Isthia, and neither of us will ever have any business there.”

  Ary didn’t answer her.

  Chaylene stood up, her blouse slipping off her shoulders and falling onto the floor. She crossed the room and draped herself across his lap. “Come on, Ary. Just because Theisseg chose you doesn’t mean you have to save Her.”

  Why are Theisseg’s chains tied to what holds up the Skylands? she wondered for the hundredth time since Isthia. What betrayal did Iiwroa do to Theisseg? How could Iiwroa even betray Her? Kaltein summoned the Storm. He must have chained Theisseg. And that was before the skylands were raised by Riasruo. So why are they linked?

  “Theisseg can just rot in the Storm,” Chaylene declared, her thoughts throbbing as she circled the mystery once again. She was tired of worrying on it.

  “I made Her a promise.”

  “One you can’t keep.”

  “I know.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But She’s down there suffering so we can live up in the skies.” His eyes, looking almost scarlet in the dim light, caught hers. “You have no idea the agony She’s experiencing. I touched one of those chains for a heartbeat, and it almost destroyed me, Lena.”

  “I know it’s not fair.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I would love for you to save Her. But you can’t. Not if the cost is all those lives. Nothing is worth that cost, ary. You just have to forget it. Move on.”

  “I still have the dreams. What about them?”

  While Ary hadn’t had the nightmares every night since the Cyclone, he’d had one on the voyage here. Why had they slowed? Was Theisseg trying to warn Ary about the Cyclone? “They’re just dreams, Ary. They can’t hurt you.”

  “And if the assassin followed us here? He’s not a dream.”

  A darkness, born out of the screams and cries haunting her since the Cyclone, surged through her. “We’ll kill him!” she hissed. “He’s not harming you, Ary!”

  *

  Vel needed a drink. He had no intentions of rotting away in the barracks listening to the same old jokes, playing dice with the same dumb people talking about the same stupid gossip. All the men talked about were women. Which had the largest fruit, the sleekest legs, the prettiest smiles, the curviest backsides. Each bloviated on which they’d bedded, or claimed to. A group were laughing nearby, listening to a pair boasting about enjoying Chaylene during the voyage to Onhur.

  “It was in the middle of the night,” Sharthamen was saying as Vel passed them gathered around their bunks. The sailor rubbed at his bulbous nose as he sat on his bed, bathing in the attention of the other young men. “It’s mighty cozy back by the jakes, and she was real friendly with us. Ain’t that right?”

  Sharthamen nudged Voasin, a greasy-haired sailor, sitting beside him. Voasin said, “Real friendly. Those Vaarckthian gals can keep a man warm.”

  The other sailors laughed and clapped, grinning like foolish boys. Vel knew the truth; Chaylene would never touch those men. She loves me! She would never betray me. His eyes closed, remembering the shape of her dark breasts, imagining them filling his hands.

  Vel definitely needed a drink and some friendly companionship. Rheyion Naval Port wasn’t like Camp Chubris. Sailors could leave and go as they pleased so long as they were back for morning revelry or any other duty assigned to them. He exited the barracks and strolled towards the gates.

  A pair of blue-scaled Gezitziz—stationed at the port, part of a detachment of thirty Auxiliaries to aid the Governor of Tlele in keeping peace among the Agerzaks—guarded the entrance to the naval port. Their tongues flicked out as they fixed dead-looking black eyes on Vel. They said not a word as he passed between them.

  Vel entered the town, the evening streets bustling with mostly Agerzaks in the rough clothing of dockworkers or fishermen. He braced himself for the simmering hatred and contempt of a conquered people. Instead, men and women nodded and smiled at him. Their friendly expressions shocked him. The Agerzaks didn’t glower or spit, but appeared welcoming to the Vionese sailor. The sight of pale-faced women straightened his back. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face that made almost every maid or goodwife’s heart patter back home. The Agerzak women stood almost as tall as him. They wore their thick, black hair in unusual styles, forming fuzzy masses or tamed into a multitude of braids that could sprout across their entire heads or form tight rows across their scalps. Bright coral beads were woven into their hair. Their slanted eyes gave them an exotic air, but their pale skin was so dull compared to the ebony of Chaylene’s.

  Music and cheers drifted through the night from a bustling pub. A sign proclaimed it the Last Port Tavern. Vel pushed through the rickety door. Sailors crowded the bar, some from the Dauntless, others from the Gallant, the other Corvette serving in the Eastern Fleet. With the Spirituous crewless, there were only four ships serving in the Eastern Fleet: two corvettes, the Dauntless and the Gallant, and two frigates, the Adventurous and the Bravado.

  Vel scanned for a table when a buxom, Agerzak lass passed, her black hair clinking with a multitude of small beaded braids that brushed her neck. Her slanted amber eyes paused on Vel. He recognized the look.

  “I’m looking for companionship,” Vel grinned, seizing her by the waist.

&nb
sp; “Are you?” she said with a direct look.

  “Esty,” a boisterous voice called from a table of ensigns and lieutenants.

  She winked at Vel and slipped from his arms. As she sauntered away, she purred over her shoulder, “Afraid you’ll have to keep looking.”

  Vel groaned as Lieutenant Xoaren, one of the Dauntless’s Windwardens, pulled the Agerzak whore onto his lap. She let out a squeal as he buried his face into her cleavage. A tightness swelled Vel’s britches, anger bubbling through him.

  Everyone steals from me! He ground his teeth. I should just poison them all.

  “Why, that is you, Vel?” a familiar voice chirped from behind him.

  Vel whirled and gaped at the Luastria sitting with a group of rough Agerzak workmen at a table. There was something familiar about the Luastria; he looked almost like Wriavia, but the hue of his feathers appeared too bright and colorful.

  “No hello to a friend?” the Luastria chirped as he scooped up his sapphire and ruby coins with his brown-feathered wing, dropping them into a purse. He strode to Vel with the head-bobbing gait of his feathered race.

  “Wriavia?” Vel frowned.

  “You haven’t forgotten me already?” Wriavia asked, putting a wing around Vel’s shoulder. “I’m hurt.”

  “No . . . You just look . . . different.”

  “Oh, yes. Vanity.” Wriavia let out a trilling chirp that almost sounded like laughter. As he guided Vel to an empty table, he clucked, “I found this dye in the marketplace. My plumage hasn’t looked this vibrant since I was a young drake strutting the streets.”

  Vel frowned at Wriavia. “I never thought to see you again. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, with the training over at Camp Chubris, there’s no reason to stay in Shon. Not enough customers. It was time to move on to new markets.”

  “And that’s Tlele?” Vel didn’t bother to hide his skepticism, his forehead tight.

  “Not for selling, but buying.”

  Vel’s brow furrowed. “Buying what?”

  “What do I sell?”