Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Through the dust-filled air and her conjured shield came the horrifying insectoid face of the demon. It had launched itself from its perch and slammed into Neenahwi, knocking her to the floor. On all fours, it arched over her, the head twisting as it observed her on the ground, and she could see herself, scared and alone, reflected a thousand times in the compound eyes.

  “Don’t you want to know why he wants you? Why he had me tear you from your family?”

  Closing her eyes, she saw her mother—her body impaled by the demon’s talons—screaming at the injustice of life. She saw her mother and screamed for the orphaned child she had been. She screamed, and the gem answered, feeding on her pain, and her wail became a torrent of flames smashing into the demon and heaving it into the air and back against the damaged building.

  Neenahwi clambered to her feet, her eyes still closed, though she could sense her foe. The demon struggled to rise from under the pile of rubble, knocking aside debris as it did so. Purple ichor dripped from weeping sores across its torso. “Please, Neenahwi, you can’t know if you kill me!”

  In her mind she saw the assault on her tribe again and again. She saw her father, this demon, cowering before her, holding him aloft by the head. A wicked jerk and his neck snapped before he was thrown away like a chicken carcass.

  She saw her father die again, and she became fire. Neenahwi was a gateway for all the never-ending fire the stone could pour. The demon screamed again, the most exquisite music she’d ever heard. And the stone cried in joy within her heart, shared delight at the suffering of this vile creature. It was ablaze, limbs withering and igniting of their own accord as it tried to crawl toward her, but she didn’t stop her assault. A blackened stump of an arm reached out, and it tried to say something before it fell, unmoving to the ground.

  Neenahwi collapsed. She dropped the gem and rebuilt her internal walls to hold back the torrent of power. She was in control this time, though it had been close.

  But the power’s absence created a void filled with the pain of her wounds and the pain in her soul. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she released the sobs of grief she’d carried with her for more than fifteen years. Minutes passed until the pain eased and her weeping ran itself out. And then she allowed herself to recollect what had happened, and what the demon had tried to say at the end.

  You look so much like her.

  Chapter 40

  Fire

  Creeping across rooftops had never been Mareth’s strong suit, and carrying a metal pail of hot coals wasn’t helping his balance or his attention, either—the heat only just bearable through his gloved hand. Motega, Florian, and Trypp moved like cats, apparently in their element. At least Dolph had the good grace to seem more uncomfortable than he on the pitched roofs. The Salty Hull was too far from the dockside for what they needed to do, and so, they all followed Trypp as he led them along a path above the streets, trying to minimize the number of small, but still terrifying, leaps across alleyways.

  They reached the front row of buildings, and he could see more clearly the groups of fighters patrolling the broad dockside street known as Wetside. Trypp and Motega conferred ahead before moving again—not the right position yet. Motega carried his unstrung longbow in his hand, Trypp having retrieved it for him from the Royal Oak while they got everyone organized. Hopefully, the plan was in motion.

  Trypp brought them to a halt again on a flat roof, evidently the right place, as Motega had already begun to string his bow. Mareth placed the bucket down, relieved for the level footing once again. Once the bow had been readied, Motega’s falcon flew down to land on his outstretched crooked elbow.

  “This is the only flask of Goblin Fire I’ve got,” said Trypp. “Are you sure Per is going to be able to carry this? It’s bigger than the liquid fire we used before.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Motega. “He may look small, but I’ve seen him carry off a wolf cub before.” Motega took the offered glass bottle, about the size of a brandy bottle, and looped a leather tie through the eye-hole handle. He held the leather loop up, and the falcon flapped its wings to rise and grasp it before taking off into the air. Motega beckoned for Mareth and Florian to come closer.

  From the big fighter, he took three strange-looking arrows, the tips modified. There was a typical arrowhead, but it was fixed to a small metal cage, which opened at a hinge. From the pail, Motega used tongs to sort through until he’d found the right size coal and dropped it into the metal cage, securing the door with a tiny latch.

  “I hope you realize how expensive these are to have made. We’ll be sending you a bill if you become lord protector,” said Motega to Mareth. “Did you both see what I did?” Motega asked Mareth and Florian, who both nodded. “Good. I need you to do the same again with the other two arrows when I need them.”

  The bowman turned to look out over the harbor, arrow nocked, but not drawn, Trypp holding his arm tight. Mareth looked out across the port, too, but he couldn’t see the bird in the darkness. And the ships seemed impossibly far away, easily three hundred strides.

  “Are you sure you can hit them?” asked Mareth.

  “Shhh, he’s not with us right now,” said Trypp. Mareth peered around at Motega’s face and saw his eyes rolled into the roof of their sockets. “And he can do this. Just watch.”

  Seconds passed. Mareth held his breath, as did everyone else on the roof, as Motega lifted the bow and drew back the string. “Per dropped the flask. Right on the aft deck,” said Motega. And then he loosed the arrow. It disappeared into the night, too dark to follow its path.

  Whoom!

  Even from a few hundred yards away, Mareth could hear the noise as the fire erupted. He had heard about Goblin Fire before, but never seen it in action. Some people said it was made with the piss of a hundred goblin maidens. He wasn’t sure about that, but it did make him wish they’d more than the one flask of the stuff. The flames on board the ship had quickly moved up the mast, catching fire to the unfurled sails. Pirates who must have been close to the drop of the flask were running around, engulfed in flame. He saw one hurl himself over the edge to get to the water.

  “We need to move. Now!” said Trypp. “They’ll start looking for who’s responsible.”

  Trypp led the way again across the rooftops. This time, they were moving away from the city, toward the harbor entrance where, hopefully, they could find a position facing the rear of the ships. Across one roof, the careful passing of hot coals before he leaped over another alleyway, before dashing across more pitched roofs, until Mareth came to an abrupt stop behind Trypp.

  “This place is no good, Trypp. Keep going.” Motega waved his hand to continue the way they were going.

  “Mot, look in front of us. What do you see?” said Trypp quietly.

  Mareth had been focusing on his footing, and when he looked up, he saw roughly a dozen figures dressed in black, short bows in hand.

  “Oh, fuck.” Motega sighed. “Can’t we get a break?”

  One figure detached itself from the group and took a few steps toward them. The tight-fitting black clothes and athletic body of the leader made it impossible to work out who they were. But she raised her mask to unveil a lithe and mature face, red hair tied behind her head.

  “Hello again, Florian,” she said.

  Trypp and Motega looked at Florian. He shrugged as if to say he didn’t know who she was either.

  “I’d meant to say thank you again for the workout a couple of weeks ago. It was the best sparring I’ve had in years.”

  “Ahh, it’s you,” said Florian. “I don’t really have time this evening. You know, what with the harbor full of pirates and everything.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t either. But hopefully some other time.” Then she turned to face Mareth. “Lord Bollingsmead, isn’t it? Not normal to find your type out on the Sky Road.”

  “Er, I seem to be at a disadvantage. Who are you?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know me, Mareth. After all, you sent me
a letter and a gift in a wheelbarrow, not four days past.” The gears clicked into place. This must be Lady Chalice. Not high on his list of people to meet at the moment. Given the imbalance in numbers, he hoped she didn’t take offense about how he had her assassin returned.

  Mareth decided that bravado was the best course of action. “Excellent. How nice to meet you, Lady Chalice. I assume you’re here to try again? May I suggest you wait in line behind the pirates?”

  “Let me assure you that if I had a contract on you, then you’d be little more than a pin cushion right now,” said the lady assassin. “What are you doing up here? The rest of the nobles are quivering in their beds. Did you have something to do with that out there?” She gestured to the blazing ship.

  They were interrupted by shouts and bellows and the sounds of many people running. They both looked over the edge of the building to see a healthy-sized mob of people waving clubs and boat hooks as they closed in on a patrol of corsairs. That was more of a diversion than they had planned. The good people of the Salty Hull must have gathered some additional friends.

  “Look, Lady Chalice,” said Motega, “we have to be somewhere, and quickly. Are you here to stop us, or do you want to help?”

  She regarded him for a moment. “So, you have more Goblin Fire. Do what you have to do. How can we help?”

  “Diversion,” said Mareth immediately. “And stop any of the corsairs from getting to this end of the docks.”

  She nodded once at him, and then turned and nodded once more to her black-clad team to head the way Mareth and team had come. “Good luck,” she called. And then the assassins ran lightly across the rooftops past them and disappeared. Trypp signaled for their team to follow him again, and they, too, continued where they’d been heading.

  Trypp led them across two blocks of buildings, Mareth switching the pail between hands regularly as the heat continued to sear his skin through the gloves. Eventually, Motega called a halt. “This should do,” said Motega. “Look out for the signal. Should be those two ships there. And get those arrows ready.”

  Mareth worked with Florian to prepare the missiles, opening the miniature steel cages, and selecting coals of the right size.

  “There,” said Trypp pointing out into the harbor.

  Motega notched one of the arrows and drew the string back to his chin. “Per can see them. This one is in position. Just waiting for them to get clear.”

  No one spoke as they all watched Motega hold the drawn bow, muscles in his neck and back straining. And then the arrow flew out into the dark.

  Seconds ticked by. There was no immediate effect this time.

  “It hit,” said Motega. “Where’s the next boat?”

  Concern hit Mareth like a punch in the gut. If he hit the boat that was supposed to be full of kindling, lamp oil and pitch, why had it not burst into flames? Another foolish idea of his that had no chance of succeeding? Just like this whole sorry joke of running to be lord protect—

  Boom!

  A massive eruption of fire against the new ship, flames licking up the side of the galleon, quickly drawing cries of alarm just audible across the water.

  “Where is the other one?” Motega muttered urgently.

  “Crap,” said Florian, pointing to a different ship than the one they were expecting. “It’s over there. I just saw it come alongside that ship.” This ship was further toward the center of the harbor, not one of the original targets. The volunteer must have got turned around in the night. This ship looked to be nearly five hundred strides from where they were.

  Motega moved to climb down the outside of the building they stood on. “When I get to the bottom, drop me the arrow,” he said to Mareth. “And give me some cover.” Motega climbed down the two stories faster than a cat after a mouse. Mareth dropped the arrow, point first, and Motega caught it around the shaft before it struck the ground.

  Motega ran to the dockside, jumped onto a fishing boat and, with one foot resting on the side of the vessel, pulled back his bow. Florian was down in the street already, twin swords drawn, looking for anyone who might interfere. How does an armored man move so fast? Mareth wondered. But it seemed like the patrols were busy with the locals, and the arrows coming from the rooftops, as no one came to intervene.

  And then the arrow was gone, the final fiery missile loosed. Mareth didn’t see how it was possible for Motega to hit a target at such a distance. But this time, just seconds later, there was another explosion, and fiery oil was blown across the rear of the galleon. Mareth mouthed a silent, “Wow,” and scrambled down the building, behind Trypp and Dolph by the time he dropped the last six feet or so. They all stood and watched as the harbor was lit by the sight of the three burning ships.

  Moments passed, and then a horn blew, and then another, and then a final deep note came from the direction of the turtle town. “That’s the call back to ships. We did it,” Mareth said gleefully, grabbing Motega and squeezing him with all his strength. A feeling of intense satisfaction filled his bones. He could see the pirates coming back to the harborside more quickly than before, leaving the city streets.

  But behind the fleeing invaders, fire rose into the air. This time in Kingshold.

  Out of nowhere, there was an ancient cry of anguish, and the Draco-turtle lurched forward. Even from this distance, Mareth could see it trying to clamber ashore, enormous legs as big as mature oaks clawing at the cobblestones for purchase. It opened its mouth, and a huge blast of steam and fire belched out. Bolts of red and blue light came back at the monster as an answer, and it howled in pain. The long neck and draconic head whipped around, streams of flame gushing forth to envelop its attackers.

  “Neenahwi!” shouted Motega, dropping the bow as he sprinted toward the monstrous carnage. Florian ran after him, a few steps behind. As Mareth, unthinkingly, went to join them, he felt a firm grip around his wrist.

  “Can’t let you do that, boss,” said Dolph. “Lady Grey wouldn’t be happy if I let you get barbecued.”

  Chapter 41

  The Draco-Turtle Awakes

  Neenahwi picked herself off the ground once she felt she could stand without falling again, and she walked toward the harbor. She was dazed, not noticing her way was free of corsairs, or the flickering red flames enveloping her from head to foot. In actuality, the two were very much linked. Roaming bands of pirates and others that manned barricades fled at the sight of what they later named in song as the Crimson Banshee. The demon stone clenched firmly in her fist again, she picked her way through abandoned ramshackle fortifications, and past small fires burning unattended, until she eventually stepped out onto the broad harbor side street of Wetside.

  Once again, she saw the galleons anchored in the harbor, looting pirates running back and forth to long boats. Some stopped to look at her standing plainly visible in the street, most going back to their tasks, but some running off in a new direction with a purpose in mind. She heard a whistle and turned to her left.

  She saw the Draco-turtle, wallowing massively in the water, hundreds of strides long with a ramshackle assortment of wooden buildings perched on its back, bigger than many market towns of Edland. The shell of the turtle had only a slight pitch to it, but it still peaked some fifty feet above the water. At the center of the carapace was a tall tower, not unlike the watchtowers of Kingshold, but surely made of wood, like the other buildings clustered around it.

  There was the whistle again and she saw a figure crouching behind a wall of oaken barrels. Her father. She ran over and ducked down next to him.

  “Where did you go?” he asked. “And do you realize you’re on fire? It’s not helping the hiding, you know.”

  She looked down and saw the flames for the briefest moment. As soon as she was aware, they shrank away. “It’s a cold night. I didn’t want to catch a chill.” She forced a smile, not wanting to discuss what had just happened to her. Maybe not ever wanting to discuss it at all. “What are you doing?”

  “I am trying to talk to the turt
le.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Not well,” he said. “I met this one once before, a long time ago. She didn’t have any interest in attacking cities back then. Ships were fine sport, but not armored fortifications. And she sure as shit wouldn’t have let people live on her back. I thought she was dead.” He paused, and then pounded his fist into his palm. “And she might be because I’m knocking on her mind, and she’s not answering the door.”

  “You’re obviously the expert when it comes to Draco-turtles,” she said, “but she doesn’t look very dead to me.”

  “I would concur with that assessment. Sod it. We’re going to have to get into the town and see what’s controlling it—”

  Fwoom!

  Out in the harbor, one of the ships stood out in the darkness like a candle, flames quickly licking up the masts to the furled sails, figures leaping from the burning deck and into the water below. Everything around them froze for a moment, pirates on the wetway stopping suddenly to see the beacon casting flickering light onto the other ships. And then, “Sound the alarm!” and “We’re under attack!” before cries of “Stay in your troops!” and “Ready your bows!” brought some order to the chaos, and many more pirates to the street around them.

  Neenahwi looked at her father. “I bet that was Motega.”

  “Hmph. Well if so, he’s made it a lot more bloody difficult for us now.” Jyuth peeked his head over the barrels. “There are bowmen everywhere now, too bloody many.”