by J M D Reid
I couldn’t do that, she thought.
He screamed so loud at the end, his body slumped into the mast, shaking as the blood soaked the back of his blue britches. She’d felt so helpless as she watched, hugging herself. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He’d stared at her with such need, his eyes clinging to her.
Ary stirred after she kissed his cheek. He groaned as he woke up.
“Go back to sleep,” she told him. “You’re not needed until tonight.”
He only grunted and closed his eyes.
Chaylene stretched and went in search of breakfast—more fish stew—then mounted the mainmast. She scanned the horizon with a spyglass. The Dauntless sailed for the skyland of Dudgress. They would stay on station out of sight until nightfall. She watched for any raiders who might carry warning back to Offnrieth. Velegrin did the same from the foremast’s crow’s nest.
A dull ache grew across her forehead, strained from scanning the horizon for hours. She was grateful to be relieved by a keen-eyed sailor so she could eat lunch and rest her eyes. She rubbed at her temples, the tickle in her throat hurting when she swallowed.
Great, she thought. I’ve caught a case of bad vapors.
She descended into the hold and sighed, spotting Vel manning the galley. She hated that they were on the same shift. She joined the line of queuing sailors. Their whispers and glances increased her throbbing headache. She was so sick of those rumors.
Chaylene fixed them with a stern glance.
“Warrant Officer,” Charlim, a short sailor, nodded. “How’s your husband?”
“Fine,” Chaylene answered.
“Good. Sharthamen was a sow’s ass.”
Chaylene nodded, a smile crossing her face, her headache dwindling to a minor ache.
“I never believed them rumors,” the sailor added. “Those replacements from the Spirituous are always gustin’ lies.” He glanced at Vel, who was ladling out the stew.
Vel looked up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Chaylene’s. Dark bags sagged onto his cheeks. A smile crossed his face. Chaylene fixed him with a tight glare, folding her arms.
“Yes. They are always gusting lies.” She said it louder than she meant to. Vel flinched and stared down at the stew pot.
Chaylene gave a nod of satisfaction.
After she’d received her stew, Chaylene found herself sitting with Charlim and a few other sailors. An Agerzak woman named Ienchie, who worked the rigging of the mainmast, sat across from Chaylene. She wore her black hair gathered in three braids. Her amber eyes considered Chaylene before asking, “It was all dung what Xoshia claimed ‘bout you, wasn’t it?”
“Yep,” Chaylene answered, stirring her stew. “I think she kindled a fire for Vel. I saw her looking at him all the time when we sailed to Camp Chubris.”
Ienchie made a throaty noise while glancing at Vel. “I bet. That smile is bright.”
Charlim groaned, rolling his eyes. Ienchie giggled.
Chaylene continued, “She was jealous because Vel had kindled a flame for me. So she started all those rumors.”
“Vaarckthians are hussies and Agerzaks are thieves,” Ienchie said, “while them Vionese only piss sunshine and fart rainbows.”
“Xoshia sure thought she did,” Chaylene said between her own peals of laughter. But her mirth died as she remembered Xoshia’s fall to the deck during the Cyclone.
Ienchie groaned. “Yeah, hard to be mad at the dead. They won’t cause us no more problems.”
Chaylene took a bite of her stew, wincing as she swallowed, her throat scraped raw.
“You okay?” Ienchie asked.
“Breathed some bad vapors.” Chaylene grimaced as she took another bite, bracing against the pain. Her rumbling stomach demanded her endurance.
“I bet. The Dauntless’s hold is lousy with bad vapors.” Ienchie paused for a moment. “After all, Charlim sleeps down there.”
Charlim grinned back. “You didn’t mind being down in the hold with me last night.”
Spots of color danced on Ienchie’s cheeks. “And if you go blabbing that to everyone, it’ll be the last time I do that.”
“So . . . where is this cozy spot?” Chaylene asked. Her cheeks burned, but that may have been the bad vapors.
Ienchie’s black eyebrows arched. “Looking for some quality time with that boar you married?”
“Maybe. After last night, he could use some tenderness.” Chaylene said the words, surprised at how easy they came. Four months in the Navy had relaxed her prudishness.
Ienchie let out a wicked giggle. “The engine room. Only the Windwardens and the carpenters go in there, and not during the middle of third-watch. Course, you might find it occupied.”
Charlim gave a hopeful smile.
“I’m still mad at you for your careless tongue,” Ienchie said. “Maybe I’ll go talk to Vel and see how bright that smile can be.”
Charlim grimaced and tried to say in an off-hand manner, “If you want to touch the slimiest guy on the ship. If he lied about Chaylene, imagine what he’d say about you.”
“Fair point.” Ienchie sighed. “Fine. I will forgive you. For a price.”
“What?”
Ienchie gave him a mysterious smile as she stood up and took her empty bowl to the galley. Charlim turned to Chaylene. “You’re a woman. What does that mean?”
Chaylene had no idea, so she gave Charlim a mysterious smile.
Despite her growing headache and sore throat, Chaylene was in a good mood as she and Ienchie climbed the mainmast. Thanks to Xoshia, Chaylene had avoided most of the female crew. She’d isolated herself to Ailsuimnae and Zori. As she scanned the blue skies from the crow’s nest, Chaylene wondered if she’d made a friend, aware of Ienchie working on the spar below.
When night fell, Chaylene climbed down the mainmast. The activity on the Dauntless had shifted, a tension thickening the air. They handed out crossbows to the crew while the marines slung thunderbusses over their shoulder. Ary stood in uniform, back straight like his flogging had never happened. Sailors unlimbered the ballistae while others hauled explosive shots from the bow magazine to the stern weapon.
Ailsuimnae would have manned the starboard ballista if she hadn’t been killed. Her smiling, ebony face flashed through Chaylene’s mind. A shiver ran through her body, a sudden chill running down her spine.
“You okay?” Ary asked. He broke from the marines to join her as she headed below deck.
“Just a touch of the vapors,” she said, her voice rough. “I’ll be fine.”
He walked with her down the stairs. The sour tang of dung filled her nose as they entered the menagerie. Ary leaned against the door as she pulled on her riding gloves and goggles. She changed out of her linen jacket and pulled on a thicker one made of wool.
“You better come back,” Ary told her. “I can’t fly well, and that’ll make it hard to follow.”
Joy fluttered through her. “My Bronith.”
She kissed him. His lips almost seared her. Her headache vanished as she savored the moment, barely even noticing her pressure rifle digging into her side, the wooden stock and clay barrel trapped between them. The dull tension, skin tightening across her skull, returned when he broke the kiss.
“Bronith?” snorted Velegrin. “I didn’t know you were a moon nymph, Chaylene.”
The tale of Bronith and Eyia was Chaylene’s favorite. The moon nymph Eyia once danced down to a forest glade upon moonbeams. The hunter Bronith spotted her and fell in love. He chased after her when she fled. Eyia enjoyed the game, calling to him, urging him on, but her hunter failed to claim her before dawn. So she darted up the moonbeams to return home. Bronith, however, jumped on them to follow. Their constellations now hung in the night sky, Eyia forever pursued by her lover.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about her,” Ary said. “So you take care of my moon-nymph.”
“Yeah, I’d hate to end up like Sharthamen.”
Ary’s face darkened, his shoulders hunch
ing. Then he winced.
“How’s the back?” Chaylene asked.
“Hurts.”
Cables creaked, wood groaned, and wind howled as Velegrin lowered the back of the Dauntless into the dark sky. Blue light painted across the white-yellow decking thrusting out from the ship’s stern. Tonight Jwiaswo, the blue moon, shone nearly full. His brother, Twiuasra, was only a red crescent.
Chaylene opened Whitesocks’s pen and stroked his nuzzling nose. “We’re flying tonight. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Whitesocks neighed, his wings rustling.
“I thought you’d be excited,” she nodded. “We’ll have to be swift and quiet. Can you do that?”
He nickered.
“Of course you can.” She kissed him on the muzzle then led him out of the stall.
She thoroughly examined Whitesocks’s body. She ran her hand over his muscles to detect any hot spots that would indicate a sprain or torn muscle. Then she inspected his wings, seeing no problems in his flight feathers. Ary helped her with the pressure saddle while Velegrin sniggered.
“You need to find a big, strong wife to help you out,” Chaylene laughed while Velegrin threw the heavy saddle over his mount’s back.
Velegrin nodded. “Yes, a big, burly woman to take care of me is what I need. With a fuzzy mustache on her upper lip.”
Chaylene nodded. “She sounds perfect for you. Then you don’t have to worry about breaking your dainty back lifting the saddle.”
“He is pretty scrawny,” Ary noted. “Even Estan’s got more meat on him.”
“I’m underfed.” Velegrin sighed. “Alas, I must risk my dainty health for the glory of the Autonomy.”
Ary rolled his eyes.
Chaylene mounted Whitesocks and adjusted her pressure rifle before she strapped herself in tight. The effort had her heart pounding fast, the pulsing in her temple squeezing down on her skull. She drew in a slow breath, waiting for the pain to retreat.
“Be safe, Lena.” Ary rubbed at her knee as he looked up at her.
She smiled. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Ary,” Velegrin said in a high-pitched voice. “Will you come after me if I get lost?”
“Nope. You’re not nearly beautiful enough to be my Eyia.”
“The curse of my life.” Velegrin heeled Blackfeather, his pressure rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. His pegasus spread black-feathered wings before galloping for the open stern.
A tremble flashed through Chaylene as she realized what she was about to do. If any of the Agerzaks of Offnrieth looked up and spotted her, they might feather Whitesocks with arrows. Then she wouldn’t be coming back to her Bronith.
I’m strong enough to face this. She had her duty.
Ary stepped back. Chaylene heeled Whitesocks. Her pegasus’s hooves pounded on the deck as she channeled her Pressure into the saddle. The cool night air rushed by her, and then Whitesocks leaped off the stern. Her stomach sank as they dropped a few ropes, that nauseating dip followed by exhilaration.
They soared. She smiled.
Below, blue highlighted the Storm’s turbulence. Above, the stars twinkled bright. Isame, the first maid to plant crops, tended to her celestial harvest as her constellation climbed into the sky. Coajyii, the Vermilion Roc, soared overhead on wings of diamonds. To the west, Lanii, the Golden Daughter of Riasruo, drifted towards the horizon. All Chaylene’s old friends shone down and watched over her.
Chaylene spotted Xiadwul, the Rainbow Peacock, and followed his beak to find the Nail Star, the point in the north around which the heavens rotated. She turned Whitesocks in its direction. Velegrin circled around and took station off her right. Chaylene pulled out her compass and hourglass, flipping it over so the sands could flow. She turned Whitesocks until she had a mostly northern bearing towards the skyland of Dudgress.
A tremble raced through her body. One Agerzak . . .
*
Ary stood his watch.
He stared to the northern skies, not witnessing the stars, the constellations that provided his wife such joy, turn across the horizon. He kept his vigilance for her. For his Eyia. Many times he’d witnessed her soar out on her pegasus. From the stern of the Dauntless. From fields outside of Camp Chubris.
She never flew into danger.
On any flight, there lay the chance of mishap. Her pegasus could sustain an injury to cause his wings to falter, or she could get lost navigating out over the Storm at night. But that was the same bad luck any could suffer. She could just as easily catch a plague, or trip and break her neck. They were nebulous worries.
Not tonight.
True dangers lurked.
Offnrieth brimmed with Agerzaks. Not those who bent the knee and assimilated into the Autonomy like the Sergeant-Major, Messiench, or those who dwelt back in Onhur. These were the barbarians who reaved and warred with all, even each other. Wild men who butchered their enemies and pillaged ships. If the Bluefin Raiders were in port, they would have lookouts gazing into the south or their own riders ranging across the open sky on their wingless pegasi.
Ary shifted in his boots. Every beat of his heart tightened his skin as he kept his vigilance. His eyes burned from his hard, near-unblinking gaze. He clasped hands tight behind him, the position straining the wounds carved into his back. They pulsed and throbbed, but felt remote, the edge taken off by his fire and his concentration on all the terrible fates which could befall his wife.
A pirate arrow striking her or Whitesocks. Raiders galloping into the sky with greatswords raised high. Ballista shots fired from the pirate’s warships. In his mind’s eye, he witnessed Chaylene die over and over.
An arrow slamming into her back, leaving her slumped over and bleeding across Whitesocks’s mane.
A pirate’s scything sword carving through her chest.
The detonating boom of ballista shots mangling her body.
He drew in a deep breath against each one. Fear howled through him. He buttressed against the gusting winds of dread, thinking, she’s vigilant. She’ll see their scouts before they see her. She’s an amazing shot. They’ll never get close enough to hurt her. She’s well-trained. She won’t get within ballista range of an enemy ship.
It was a mantra he raised against the scouring winds threatening to rip his soul to shreds.
Staying still, standing resolute against his mounting worry, taxed Ary’s restraint. His hands clasped each other hard behind his back. His charge danced across his skin. That dark part of him, broiling with stormy rage, rumbled to act. To strike. To let the fear out in so many different ways. He could find Vel, force the man to recant his lies . . .
The pain throbbing across Ary’s back stiffened his spine. He stopped ignoring it. He drank it in. Drawing deep breaths of the autumn air expanded his lungs and stretched taut the skin of his back. Agony flared. Hurting Vel, hurting anyone, wouldn’t keep Chaylene safe. He wasn’t a monster. He had a choice.
So he stood still, helpless. No emotion was worst. None of his strength, his skill with a blade, nor his Blessing of Lightning mattered right now. He could do nothing for his wife. He couldn’t protect her right now. He had to believe, to have faith, in her strength. Her skill. Her intelligence. Tonight, Eyia would have to return to her Bronith.
Accepting this reality did little to drive back that sickening dread gusting through him. It did little to make the watch past faster. To make the stars wield faster. Strength, Ary was realizing more and more, wasn’t how hard you hit a person. It wasn’t how much pain you endured. It was submitting your will, your desire, to something else. Another’s rule, another’s wish. To the immutable circumstances the world thrust upon all. Ary could relieve his anxiety through so many different, and easy, avenues. He only had to let out his emotions in a burst of passion. Rage. Destruction. He could surrender to that illusion of control by bashing his fists again and again into Vel’s face.
Or he could be like a pegasus, meekly submitting to the bit and saddle. The pegasus had the might to
resist, and didn’t. The pegasus chose to serve.
Being strong did not make his vigil any easier. Ary felt every beat of his heart, marking the crawling of time as he waited.
Waited.
Waited.
A shadow fluttered in the darkness. His eyebrows narrowed. He couldn’t make out what it was. The lookouts in the crow’s nest hadn’t cried out announcing the scout’s return. He wasn’t even sure he was seeing anything. He blinked his eyes, brow furrowing. It could just be the Storm’s endless boil, a school of fish drifting through the skies, or a manifestation of his hope’s desperation to see his wife again. To witness her safe return . . .
Only . . .
He felt like it was her. That he was staring at her. A certainty grew in his heart. His shoulders relaxed. The sick storm in his stomach died to a rumbling whisper. A smile grew on his lips.
“Scouts returning!” someone shouted from above.
Chapter Twenty
Ary stared down at Chaylene’s rough-drawn map of Offnrieth and its five piers spread out over the captain’s table. She marked the locations of seven taverns along with the layout of the streets leading to the docks.
“I like this choke point here,” Ary said, tapping the map while glancing at Nskuapz, the commander of the Zzuk Auxiliaries. “I’d like you and your men to hold here.”
“Men?” hissed the hulking Gezitziz, his tongue flicking out.
“Er . . .” Ary froze, not sure what to say.
Nskuapz rasped almost like he laughed. “‘Men’ is fine. You Humans act . . . delicately around us. We are not made of fine porcelain. My broodmates and I shall hold this spot.”
Ary traced the map to a pile of crates near the eastern end of the dock where a cliff rose to the bluff sheltering the harbor. “If we need to fall back, this will be the rally spot.”
Nskuapz’s tongue flicked out as he nodded.
“I think the plan I outlined before still works, Captain,” Ary said. “If you hover the ship here, it’ll be the perfect spot for insertion and extraction.”