The Silver Star (Kat Drummond Book 11)

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Ironfoot stood with a blood-stained blade, panting. Tears fell from his cheeks. No time to grieve, however, as gunshots rang out from the other side of the ship. Ironfoot helped me up, shoving the creature’s corpse aside. We bolted to the front, catching glimpses of more of the creatures scaling the sides of the ship.

  At the front, we stopped. Brett fired at some of the creatures. They reacted to bullets the same way they reacted to being stabbed. Impassively. Kyong was too busy holding up a wall of force to keep them back, as Candace muttered an incantation, her words guttural. Trudie’s paleness and nervous golden eyes suggested she didn’t like what Candace was incanting, but she was willing to let it happen under the circumstances.

  A mer leapt in front of us as we approached the crew. Ironfoot immediately clutched at its arms and tossed it overboard. I held my knife ready as we joined the crew. The mer here were not as aggressive as the ones at the back. They were content to just surround us, charging every so often to test our defences. A few lay dead. Trudie and Senegal’s handiwork, if the bite and claw marks were anything to suggest.

  Candace stopped her incantation and I could see by the exhaustion and darkness in her eyes that she had been using dark magic.

  “I tried to dominate them,” she said, shaking her head. “But they aren’t undead.”

  Just plain old normal monsters, then. But there was something off about them. Their jagged movements. The hollowness about their eyes. They seemed so apathetic. Too apathetic to be truly alive.

  “The weyline is drained,” Pranish croaked, his throat hoarse.

  A mer leapt too close and, with a deep roar, Trudie lashed out at it, crushing its windpipe with a clawed hand. More mer took its place.

  Brett fired another shot, and then was rewarded by some clicks. He reached for a mag that wasn’t there.

  “Got a spare blade, Kats?” he asked, nervous sweat mingling with the salt water on his forehead.

  “I don’t even have Ithalen…” I eyed the door to the cabins. Mer were guarding it. Pressing in.

  “Have any gotten inside?” Ironfoot asked one of his crewmates.

  “No, Cap’n.”

  Ironfoot breathed a sigh of relief. “Then Gidget can keep the engine running. We just need to hold them off until we get to shore.”

  “But, Cap’n…we ain’t moving…”

  Ironfoot froze as he realised that the ship was still, slowly bobbing.

  “Men, we have to make a break for it. If something has happened to the engines or Gidget, we need to get it fixed.”

  “But…”

  “No buts!” Ironfoot yelled, gripping his sword. He levelled it at the mer, looming closer. “These bastards took my wife! I’ll kill them. All of them. You just get below deck.”

  The crewmates didn’t respond.

  “Did ye hear me?!” Ironfoot bellowed.

  “Aye, Cap’n!”

  Ironfoot turned to me. “Ye ready to earn your place among me crew, lass?”

  I gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Ironfoot grinned, a maddened, traumatised expression. Almost insane with grief. Insanity sometimes made things easier. He charged.

  Kyong let the shield fall as he fell into a combat stance. Two mer charged him; he responded with two swift punches. They exploded. Trudie and Senegal stayed around the exhausted mages, biting and clawing at the mer, who chose this moment to charge in unison.

  Brett tackled one to the ground, allowing me to sink my knife deep into it. But it was slippery, and slid right out from Brett’s arms, clawing at me and giving me some new scars across my arm.

  A press of bodies surrounded us, and I lashed out wildly, hitting slimy flesh but not killing anything. Like a cornered rat, I kept attacking, Ironfoot’s pained and wrathful bellows still audible over the fighting.

  Brett cried out as I heard the crunch of bone. Almost disbelieving, I turned to him. A mer had sunk its teeth deep into his leg, as its fellows pulled him down. I lost my breath. Trudie and Senegal, full wolf, were barely holding the horde back from the mages. Candace still whispered an incantation, despite the lack of weyline. Kyong’s movements were strained. Fatigued. No more finesse. More flailing towards the inevitable. Like a boxer on his last legs, trying to wait out the clock.

  And Brett was bleeding onto the floor.

  I needed my sword.

  A brilliant light shone before me, and as the mer recoiled, I knew it wasn’t just my imagination. Treth stood in the middle of the light, clutching my sword. It was ethereal. Like him. Disbelieving, I reached out towards it, and felt it’s all too familiar handle. I gripped it and it became physical. The shining weapon of war that had saved me so often in the past.

  “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t know this would work.”

  I smiled at Treth by way of thanks, as he drew his own sword. Ghost and hunter, we fell into the horde. I beheaded the mer biting down on Brett, and spitted a few more, letting their blood fly. As the horde thinned at my every blow, the werewolves got more room, and started feasting on the bodies, using their jaws to throw the creatures into one another.

  Ironfist stood before the door to the cabins, covered in blood and wounds. I passed Brett my seax, confirmed there were no more mer threatening him, and charged to relieve the captain.

  A mer feinted, causing the exhausted dwarf to slash at air, as it sunk its claws deep into his thigh. It couldn’t follow through, as I sunk my sword right through its skull and out the other side. It fell limp.

  I spun, expecting more enemies. But the mer that survived were slinking off, back into the sea.

  Somehow…we had won. But the corpse of Silvertide and some of the crew made the victory awfully hollow.

  I didn’t sheathe my blade as I rushed to Brett. He was already applying a tourniquet to his own wound. I helped him.

  Ironfoot stayed standing, covered in red. His eyes blazed with grief, rage and insanity. With a metal screech, the door behind him opened. He bellowed as he lifted his blade to strike but stopped just short as Gidget revealed himself. The gnome flinched but Ironfoot stopped. He rubbed his temple, and then looked at the gnome, questioningly.

  “I’m sorry, Cap’n. The…the engine was damaged. We…we aren’t going anywhere.”

  Ironfoot didn’t show horror or disapproval. His eyes were hollow.

  “That…that might not be a problem,” Brett croaked, drawing attention away from the grieving dwarf. We turned towards him, as he looked out towards the sea. In the direction he was looking, a ship approached, its shining metal hull glinting in the setting sun.

  Relief washed over me as I went closer to get a better look. Ironfoot and some of the others joined me. Despite all that had happened, some of us had survived. And we may yet survive for longer.

  But, as the ship drew nearer, and we could clearly see its ensign, our relief melted away.

  A four-pointed silver star on white.

  The Silver Star of New Sintar.

  Chapter 19.

  Captured

  The words “Battle stations!” were just on my lips, as I turned to the surviving crew. Brett was pale, blood still seeping through his tourniquet and bandages. The mages were slumped next to each other by the collapsed mast. And the werewolves were panting like they’d run multiple marathons. That wasn’t to mention Ironfoot, who had been painted a single hue of red. The mers’ blood and his own.

  Only Treth looked ready for battle. Blood couldn’t stain his ghostly plate-mail. But elves weren’t dark spirits or undead. He’d not be useful in this fight.

  The ship loomed closer, allowing us to take a closer look. It was not a human design. While it was crafted of metal, it was sleek. As if the metal had been organically bent to form the perfect ship. Even if the engine had been running, we couldn’t outpace this thing. It was thin. Like a Viking long ship. But, unlike the low long ships, this elvish vessel was on eye-level with the Honour of the Unforgotten. My eyes had initially been drawn to the shining
, almost silver hull. It bore patterns. Like Damascus steel. But, as the sailors on board revealed themselves, the ship became less intriguing. Angry, cautious eyes stared at us from across the water. Complete with pointed ears.

  I helped Brett up and, with Kyong’s help, carried him to a bench on deck that had not been completely shattered by the storm. Ironfoot and the others formed around us, creating a protective circle. For all the good that would accomplish.

  Hooks shot out from the elf ship, connecting with the railing of our vessel with heavy, teeth-chattering thunks. No one spoke. The faint footfalls of boots on metal were all we could hear from the other ship, as it drifted closer, pulled in by the hooks.

  I glanced at Brett. He was clenching his teeth. Holding on. But, for how long? He needed healing. But the weyline was drained. And I didn’t know if these elves would give even give us a chance to get to a fresh weyline.

  The elf vessel navigated until it was parallel with the Honour of the Unforgotten, before dropping a bridge between the two ships. I held my breath as Sintari soldiers crossed the gap.

  They wore masks. Almost like ninjas, covering their mouths but revealing their eyes and pointed ears. Their uniforms were almost all an undeviating blue camo, with red markings on shoulders and glistening metal chest plates. Under almost medieval style conical helmets and head covering, I could see wisps of blonde and red hair. Not auburn or ginger. Blood red.

  The elves crossed the bridge decisively, fanning out as they landed on our deck. Many bore rifles. Carbines and a few AKs. They looked like real soldiers. Human soldiers. The elves may have come from a medieval world, but they had embraced modernity. At least, its more brutal parts. They may excel at magic, but they had soon realised that a trigger could be pulled faster than an incantation spoken.

  No one spoke. But I could see the glow from Trudie and Senegal’s eyes, even as they returned to human form.

  The elf gunners formed a semi-circle, guns trained on us, as a final elf crossed the bridge. He wore no helmet or mask, revealing a sharp, smooth face, surrounded by long, sleek blonde hair. Under any other circumstances, I may have admired his beauty. Perhaps, a bit too feminine, but there was an agelessness that had to be appreciated.

  This elf did not wear the comparatively modern equipment of the other elves, rather wearing a forest green tabard over blue metal armour. The symbol of a red sword stood prominently upon his tabard, topped by the Silver Star. Sheathed by his side was a sword. Elvish design. Sleek, long. It lacked a handguard, which was troublesome, but its long hilt allowed for versatility and…

  I caught myself. This wasn’t the time to be admiring the enemy’s weapon. Especially as they were probably going to be using it on us.

  I didn’t try to count the elves. There were definitely too many of them. A fight was out of the question. Hopefully, the elves would allow us to have an option.

  The elves jostled as the helmetless man passed them, breaking through the semi-circle. Despite his impeccable complexion and hair, he creased his brow with the unmistakable hint of distaste. He drew his sword. It was silver. Very silver. Quicksilver. Like Ithalen. And not mercury, as what we used to call it. This was a metal from beyond the In Between. Rustless, unrelenting, and blessedly magical.

  “Drop your weapons!” the elf bellowed, a deep voice that didn’t match his sharp features. “You have entered the waters of the sovereign nation of New Sintar. Resistance shall be met with steel and fury!”

  Silence. None of my comrades made a move, even as I lowered to drop Ithalen. The air grew tense. And I heard a faint growl start to emanate from the werewolves’ throats.

  I looked to Ironfoot. He didn’t move.

  We couldn’t fight these elves. Doubtless, many of these riflemen also had spark. Even Trudie couldn’t handle being roasted alive by sorcerous fire. I didn’t like it, but we didn’t have an option. We had to surrender.

  With an audible clank of metal, I dropped Ithalen to the floor. Ironfoot glanced at me, and recognition flickered in his dead eyes. He dropped his sword. Gidget dropped his spanner. The others remained still. They were already unarmed.

  The elf nodded, satisfied. “Who is in charge of this ship? You? Blood-stained little human? You need a bath. Or a dip in the blue.”

  Some of the elves laughed. Ironfoot clenched his fists. I bit my lip.

  Please, I tried to reach out to the dwarf. Don’t do anything stupid.

  “Me wife died today, elf,” Ironfoot answered, his voice grating, caught between rage and exhaustion. “I’m not in the mood. I am in charge of this ship. What’s left of it.”

  The elf, silent, surveyed the deck, examining the dead mer and evidence of the storm. The deck remained still, as he paced up and down, examining every corpse in detail, touching wounds. He glanced towards us and his eyes fell on Ithalen at my feet. Surprise turned to distaste. He stood.

  “What are you doing here, master dwarf?” he asked, his voice softer now. Perhaps, he held a hint of pity for the captain.

  Ironfoot didn’t look up. Didn’t reply. The silence stretched on, until the elf repeated the question.

  Ironfoot lifted his head, and his eyes held a determined fire. He wouldn’t answer. No matter the cost.

  But I would.

  I jostled forward, causing the elf to turn to me and all the riflemen to suddenly train their guns on my position. I held my hands up, disarmingly.

  “He is transporting us. We’re headed to New Zealand.”

  The elf raised his eyebrow. “For what reason? War is brewing, human. Your accent isn’t from around here. You shouldn’t be here. Unless…”

  Suspicion grew in his voice and eyes.

  What could I tell him? I needed him to spare us. To let us get back to our mission. But, would he really release us to go on our way to his enemy?

  No. So, I told the truth.

  “I was told that my aunt is being held by the elves of New Sintar. I have come to get her back.”

  Some of my comrades looked at me, shocked at my honesty.

  The elf looked taken aback. I continued.

  “Please…I’m just here for my last living family member. Do you know anything about her?”

  I hoped my voice was sufficiently pleading. I didn’t usually beg. I was usually threatening.

  The elf contemplated my words, before his eyes grew angry.

  “I know of no humans in New Sintar. This land is ours. All I know is that you are an armed group, heading in the direction of my home. New Sintar stands on the brink. War is coming. It is inevitable. And, if my people are to survive, I must defend them from threats. Even if they are piteous.”

  He stepped out of the way of the semi-circle and raised his hand. The elves took aim and my breath caught in my throat. Could this really be it? No trial. No chance of escape. Perhaps, Senegal and Trudie could survive and take a few elves with them. But the rest of us…

  “Tren Lianthorn!” an elf with a feminine, soft but determined voice called out, muffled by her mask. The elf, whose name must’ve been Lianthorn, with the title Tren, stopped and looked at an elf rifleman breaking ranks. Her uniform was similar to the others, except for a pad on her left shoulder, bearing red insignia.

  She lowered her mask and took off her helmet, revealing a head of that unnaturally red hair, kept short on the back and long on front, as one of her bangs covered her eye.

  “Ari!” Lianthorn scolded, then proceeded to speak in rapid-fire elvish. I noted Candace and Pranish’s ears prick up as they recognised a few words, but their expressions were mainly just as non-plussed as mine.

  Lianthorn and the elf, Ari, entered in a deep argument, as Ari indicated the dead mer and us. Lianthorn argued back. I could guess he was making an impassioned speech about the safety of his country being paramount – whatever the cost. But, what Ari was arguing for…I didn’t know.

  Finally, Lianthorn’s expression looked exasperated. He stared at the corpse of a mer at his feet, and then looked at us. He held up a hand
, silencing the still talkative Ari.

  “I am convinced, sergeant. Get back in line.”

  Ari smiled. Satisfied, but also relieved. I wasn’t sure I should like that smile, but there was something innocent about it. It held no malice.

  “My sergeant has made a case for you humans…and dwarf. In recognition of destroying this corrupted mer, I have a job for you. It is bloody, risky work. And, I more than expect it to result in your deaths. Sparing me your execution. She-human, is that blade so eerily similar to my people’s a prop or a tool?”

  “A tool,” I answered, my pleading expression from earlier gone. My voice had gone cold. “We’re monster hunters.”

  Lianthorn nodded, slowly.

  “That may work in your favour. These mer were once allies of my people. But they have since become monstrous. Corrupted by a sea witch. She is the one who called forth this dark storm. While the storm keeps the Anzac at bay, the mer raid our coast for elf lives.”

  “You want us to kill more mer?” I asked.

  Lianthorn frowned but nodded. “Yes, but the goal is to free them. Slay the sea witch who corrupted them. Free the mer from her torment. Then, you will have won your freedom.”

  Chapter 20.

  Island of Sorrow

  They called it the Island of Sorrow. It was a small island. Just off the coast of New Zealand. It wasn’t on any old maps. Some suspected it came from beyond the In Between. From afar, it didn’t look special. Just a hunk of rock topped by green. From photos of New Zealand, I’d seen, it fit right in. But it held a harrowing tale.

  “It once held a community of my kin,” Lianthorn explained, as we drifted closer to shore. It was approaching morning, and the sun had risen just enough to illuminate the island among the fog. We had been allowed to rest through the night.

  “During the…troubles…Anzac attacked them. Slaughtered every single one. They set up a fortress in its stead. To watch us. But that was long abandoned…as the mer took over.”