The Halfblood King: Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu

by Julian Benoit

  “What does it look like?” the captain yelled back. He, like his crew, was black of skin, like a Coptian, but straight of hair, like a Castian or Chuan. The Thallasians, as a people, had roots with many different peoples. Outcasts from throughout Aertu found refuge in the piracy of the eastern shores, since time immemorial.

  “Three masts, square rigged, narrow low hull, looks fast sir.”

  “Not the boat you idiot, the flag. I can see the blasted boat without a spyglass, moron.”

  “Right sir, it’s a black star on a red field.”

  “How many points that black star have?” The captain asked, an uneasy feeling coming over him.

  “Looks like eight, Sir.”

  An eight-pointed black star, on a red field, Baruk thought. The Black Sun has not flown in four thousand years. “Ready the fire and signal the other ships to do the same!” he shouted to the crew. It will not fly to the ruin of my people again, if I have any say in the matter. The signal went out and the crews fed more wood to the fires maintained beneath great kettles of naphtha and sulfur. They set torches within the iron maw of each dragon-headed prow. The other two ships would move to flank the alien vessel to catch it at the intersection of three gouts of liquid flame. They drilled this maneuver often, though today’s wind might prove problematic. There would be no plunder today. This was a maneuver to destroy the enemy, not merely disable. The crew did not question Baruk’s orders. Ships of all nations are fair game to Thallasians in their home waters and even if they wondered at his decision to destroy the ship, they knew better than to second-guess their commander.

  The Thallasian corsairs closed fast on the lone Arkan clipper. Zormat waited for them to get closer, to gauge their intent. They were flanking him, but that was no reason to assume hostile intent. I could destroy them out of hand, but I am here for allies, not enemies. He cast his thoughts about, probing for the thoughts of the Thallasian crewmen. For the most part, he found thoughts of anticipation mixed with obedience. More professional and disciplined than I imagined they would be. His first and second officers were beside him now, their minds linked in wordless synchronization. It was an interesting sensation to see the world through six eyes. Suddenly, his senses locked on the one with murder on his mind, who appeared to be the leader. Gouts of yellow fire suddenly erupted from the dragon-headed prow of each corsair. Flames engulfed the Arkan ship and oily black smoke billowed, only to be swept away by the wind. The spouting flame persisted for over fifty heartbeats, before dying to a trickle, dripping from the chin of each iron head. The Thallasians witnessed the flames slide off the sides of the foreign vessel, enveloped by a glowing red nimbus, to be swallowed and extinguished by the choppy sea. Now why did you have to go and do that? He projected to the mind of the captain to his immediate front, as hundreds of pallid white tentacles rose from the sea, surrounding the Thallasian ships. The tentacles closed upon the three corsairs and with a sickening groan, followed by several loud cracks, the Thallasian ships were crushed and pulled under the waves. Men screamed as they were crushed, along with their vessels, or snatched by still more tentacles, if they tried to jump clear. My beast eats well today, Zormat thought, as he watched the hapless Thallasians pulled to their doom. He made the beast save the captain for last, to allow the import of the situation to settle in, before he died. Remarkably efficient creature, he marveled at his father’s creation. Father always had an eye for the efficient. When I rule Aertu, efficiency will be the guiding force of my realm. All will embrace efficiency, or embrace death. After all, what’s more efficient than only one god to worship. Upon witnessing the captain go under, he signaled the crew to proceed. The sea anchor was drawn up and the sails once more unfurled to the wind.

  Baruk kept his wits about him and took a deep breath as soon as he felt the tentacle wrap around his leg. He feared that none of his men were as lucky. The foreign sorcerer was obviously toying with him sadistically, but that gave him enough time to kick off his boots and unbuckle his sword belt. The sword was drawn and in his hand when he went under, his flame bladed dagger in the off hand. He knew of this beast and knew it was out of place in these warm waters. As he was drawn below the waves, the pressure crushed the air in his lungs, just like when he dove for pearl oysters, as a boy. Little light made it to these depths, but he was able to see by the monster’s sickly yellow-green glow. The light allowed him to see the last of his crewmen being fed into the beast’s tripart beak, clouds of dark blood filled the water around the creature. Looks as if I am indeed meant to be the last morsel. Not today, my friend. As he came to the wide-open jaws, he shifted forward and jammed the tip of the sword into the flesh of its lower jaw and wedged the hilt into one of the upper sections, using the dagger for traction against the beast’s rubbery hide. Beside the beak, one large eye opened wide and he stabbed at it with the dagger. Blinded and in pain, the beast flailed him at the end of the tentacle. Baruk nearly lost his grip on the dagger as he was torn away from the beast’s face. Once the flailing slowed, he used the blade to rip through the tentacle holding his left leg and kicked for the surface. Almost out of air, he knew he would black out soon, if he did not make it. Breaking the surface, he managed two deep breaths before the beast grappled him again. This time he was grabbed by multiple tentacles and knew he would likely be torn limb from limb. Just then, a piercing beam of light projected from the distant shore. Baruk felt the warmth from it as it passed over him and the creature loosened its grip. The light panned back to him and was joined by another beam. Apparently, the heat and light were too much for the monster and it released Baruk. He swam for a timber floating in the choppy water and lifted his upper body onto the sodden wood and began kicking for shore. One spotlight remained trained on him as he swam, while the other focused on the incoming ship.

  Zormat turned away from the blinding light and shouted, “Get the men on deck…NOW!” They focus sunlight and it saps our power. I feel weak as a kitten. The Kolixtlani priest and the Adari necromancer hurried above deck.

  “Your Grace,” the Kolixtlani was the first to speak. “What is it that you need of us?

  “What is this weapon they use against us?

  “I know not, Your Grace. I have heard of nothing like this before.”

  “I have,” Nergui, the necromancer, interjected. He was taller than the average Adari and gaunt to the point of disbelief. Beardless and bald, with a long white moustache, his cruel eyes revealed the blackness of his heart. Undoubtedly one of the most skilled torturers on Aertu, there was no trace of fear in those eyes as he addressed the elf. “Those are the lighthouses. They use mirrors to focus the sunlight. At night, they use them with fire, to guide the ships in. In the day, they can use them to roast men in their own skins, like potatoes.”

  “Why did you not warn me of these?” Zormat screamed at the Adari.

  “Didn’t think you were going to sink three of their ships just outside their own harbor, Your Grace,” he replied, saying the last part in a most sarcastic tone. “You should probably consider turning around, as I don’t think they’ll be too keen on a truce now,” he continued. “This is not the hornet’s nest you want to poke.”

  “I will poke where I want,” Zormat railed, “and I will lay their city to waste, if they do not cooperate.”

  “Not if they burn your ship down to the waterline, with us on it,” the Adari retorted, “but if you insist on proceeding, so be it. I have lived long enough.” Tenoch, the priest, remained silent through the whole exchange, looking positively terrified.

  “Have you anything to add, priest,” Zormat asked the Kolixtlani, “any suggestions for our next course of action?”

  “N-no, Your Grace,” he stammered, “whatever you decide will be best.”

  “Spineless twit, I am asking for useful ideas.”

  “Sorry, Your Grace.”

  A second and then a third spotlight found them. The temperature rose noticeably and Zormat knew he and the other sorcerers were next to powerless. Red magic can acc
omplish many things, but it has no power over sunlight. On the contrary, it is strongest in darkness and bright sunlight saps its power tremendously. Zormat came to a decision. “Turn about!” he shouted. “We will return after darkness falls.”

  “It’s working Marshal! They’re turning about!” the excited guard announced. The lighthouse mirrors were an engineering marvel. They could be focused for any range, out to a mile and would hold that focus, four hundred silver plated mirrors moving in unison, as the operator tracked them to the sun, enabling the engagement of moving targets. Within a hundred yards of the tower, they were deadly, setting ships afire and roasting men where they stood.

  “Of course it did,” Marshal Tangir agreed. “Those are red wizards aboard that ship and they don’t like the bright light. Don’t you worry, they’ll be back after dark. We’ll notify the High Admiral,” he continued, “and he will engage the Wizard’s Guild. It will cost him some gold, but we have red and blue wizards of our own. Gartuk!, send out a boat for that poor slob who managed to escape the thrule. Gods only know what it was doing this far south.” If there’s one on board that ship that can command a thrule, the Wizard’s Guild will have a good fight on their hands.

  Baruk continued kicking. The waves carried him steadily toward shore. The spotlight left him and he hoped the thrule was gone for good. The light was a mixed blessing anyway. It drove off the thrule, but at the same time accented his silhouette for any sharks in the vicinity. He looked over his shoulder to see the clipper turning about, with three lights trained upon it. Must not like the heat either. Damn red wizards. I don’t even trust ours. Soon, he saw a small skiff depart the docks. “Ah, my rescue approaches,” he said aloud.

  Chapter 20

  Gurlachday, Day 7, Squash Moon, 8760 Sudean Calendar

  They entered the throne room, Aleron still marveling at the “levitator”, his grandfather had called it, which brought the carriage, horses and all, eight hundred feet to the palace level, on massive steel cables. They stopped in the entrance, while the Lord Chamberlain announced, “Lord Hadaras, Protector of the Realm and his charge, Aleron.”

  “Bid them enter,” a booming voice directed. The Lord Chamberlain stepped aside, gestured for them to proceed and then fell in behind them. The voice belonged to the black bearded dwarf seated upon the iron throne atop the dais to their front. They approached and as he was coached on the way up, Aleron dropped to his right knee, alongside Hadaras. “Twenty years it’s been. What makes you think you can just saunter in here after twenty years and expect a warm welcome from me?”

  “My charm and winning nature, perhaps, Your Grace?” Hadaras offered.

  “Ha, just as cheeky as you ever were,” the king stated, laughing. Faergas Goldhammer rose from his iron throne and stepped down to greet his old friend. “Get up Hadaras. I told you twenty years ago, you kneel for no one in my kingdom and that includes me. You as well, boy, get on up. Ulrick, hold the throne down for a while. We’re retiring to my chambers and I wouldn’t want it floating away on me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, you need not concern yourself; it will not move an inch in your absence,” the red-bearded dwarf letting slip only the slightest of grins, before returning to his usual solemn expression.

  “Good,” the king replied, “now let’s go have some ale and talk. I want to know what this old stoat has been up to for the past two decades. Come, my friend and your boy too, my chambers and my ale barrel await.” He gestured them to follow and headed for an ornate iron door, set directly into the stone of the mountain. Aleron noticed very little actual masonry. Nearly everything seemed to be carved directly from the stone of the mountain. He could see no sign of a doorknob, or any other means to open the door. Faergas pressed a series of raised studs on the door panel and, with a hissing sound, it recessed into the wall and then slid to one side. After they entered, he pushed a single stud on the inside wall and the door slid closed with a hiss and a dull clunk. Aleron could barely make out the seam in the stone that belied the mechanism hidden within the wall. “You don’t have doors like that where you’re from, do you lad?” the king asked Aleron.

  “No, Your Grace, nor lamps like yours either,” Aleron replied.

  “Aye, lad, our engineers have come up with some amazing inventions in the last hundred years. The door runs on compressed air and that’s pumped using the same power as runs the lamps.”

  “What is compressed air, Your Grace, if you don’t mind me asking?” the boy inquired.

  “Air is substance, boy and it takes up space,” Faergas explained, obviously proud of his people’s innovation. “Birds fly on it and you can see how it takes up space if you turn a clear glass cup over and try to push it under the surface of a tub of water. Unlike liquids or solids, you can push more air into a container than naturally fits there, store it for later and make it do work for you. Do you understand now, lad?”

  “I think so, Your Grace, thank you for the explanation.”

  “Think nothing of it, lad. Now I want to know what this one has been up to all these years and why he took so long to pay me a visit. But first, let me get us some refreshment.” He moved to the large keg, snatched three large earthenware tankards off their hooks and filled them from the spigot. He grabbed all three in one hand and walked to a heavy round wooden table in the middle of the room. “Come, have a seat my friends.” He set the tankards down in front of three short sturdy stools.

  “Thank you Faergas, it has indeed been too long, but I have been fairly busy these last fifteen years or so,” Hadaras explained.

  “I see that. I take it the lad here is fifteen, your son?”

  “No, Aleron is my grandson, son of my daughter, Audina,” Hadaras explained as they took their seats. The king sat at the head, Hadaras took the seat to his left and Aleron the next one down.

  “Audina, beautiful lass, how is she? I haven’t seen her in a troll’s age.”

  “Gone I’m afraid,” Hadaras declared, “nigh on thirteen years now.”

  “I’m sorry old friend,” the king offered, “and the boy’s father?”

  “Passed on as well. I’ve raised Aleron since he was two.”

  “That’s sad news indeed,” Faergas said and then to Aleron, “At least you had your grandfather here to take care of you. He’s a fine fellow, as far as elves go. You can let down your disguise, lad, no secrets here.” Hadaras had let the glamour drop as soon as he entered the chamber. Most dwarves, at least those that gave it any thought at all, believed he was a halfblood, to explain his longevity, but still a man.

  “Your Grace, there is no disguise; this is how I look.”

  Faergas looked to Hadaras and asked, “A halfblood, this one is? I thought he seemed big for an elf at that age.”

  “Yes, he’s a halfblood and there are a few other things that he is, that bear discussion.”

  “You have my interest, please, go on.”

  “I did not plan for this to come to light for a few more years. I did not think my grandson was ready yet, but we had an incident in Arundell, that altered the track of my plans.” Faergas, resting his chin on one palm, arched his bushy eyebrows questioningly, as Hadaras continued, “We were in the throne room and Aleron laid his hand upon Andhanimwhid. The sword practically jumped into his hand.” At that revelation, the king sat up straight in his stool and slammed both palms on the tabletop.

  Looking at Aleron, he said, “You mean to tell me that I have the King of Sudea here before me?”

  “Yes,” Hadaras replied, “that is exactly what I mean to tell you. This was meant to be a friendly tour, so Aleron could see some of the world, but it is turning out far different than I had anticipated.”

  Aleron just sat, sipping his ale, as the adults conversed about him. “Who else knows about it?” Faergas inquired.

  “Only the Steward, his daughter and her bodyguards, so far.” Hadaras proceeded to recount the events of that day and the ones to follow, as well as the history that led to the event. It took a wh
ile, as Faergas interjected questions periodically and Aleron refilled the tankards once during the exchange.

  “Got something for young Lady Eilowyn I see,” he said at one point to Aleron. “Can’t say I blame you; she’s a pretty little lass. Copper and emeralds go well together, don’t they lad?”

  “Uh, I guess so, Your Grace,” he agreed, not knowing what else to say and flushing as he said it.

  “Enough with the ‘Your Grace’ thing, boy, you’re the blasted King of Sudea, whether anyone else knows it yet, or not. Call me Faergas.”

  “Yes Your Gr…Sir, I mean Faergas.”

  “You’ll get it straight eventually,” the king said, chuckling. “Go on old friend and fill me in on what happened after Arundell.” As Hadaras recounted the events on the road to Dhargul, Faergas took a keen interest in the encounter with the goblins. He looked at Aleron and said, “New forms of magic, now that’s quite an invention, my boy.” He asked if they had come up with any other combinations and Hadaras went into more detail on the experiments they undertook on the road through the mountains. “Do you still have that nugget, lad?” Aleron nodded in affirmation, drew the silver piece from his pocket and handed it to Faergas. He examined it and said, “Looks like a casting of a piece of gravel, can you turn it back to stone?” He was understandably skeptical and wanted to see for himself, though he was being polite about it.

  “I’ll see if I can,” Aleron replied. “Some magic is scarce this far underground.” He took back the nugget and concentrated. Blue and yellow were plentiful enough, but he had to search to find a few scraps of green and red. In a flash of white, he once again held a granite pebble in his palm and handed it back to Faergas.

  “Well I’ll be a billygoat’s daddy; it’s true,” he exclaimed, not quite believing in the thing he had just witnessed. “I have to agree with your grandpa, lad. You can’t go making gold and silver as cheap as gravel.” He handed the pebble back to Aleron and in another flash, it became silver once again. “What’s interesting to me is that the lad can go from blue to red and back to blue,” he elaborated to Hadaras. “Why is it that no other wizard has ever done the same?”