Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Neenahwi risked a glance over the cover, too. “We could take them.”

  “Of course, we could, or probably, anyway. You never know if a lucky arrow has your name on it.” He turned to look her in the eye, hand gripping her forearm. “But we kill them, and more will come, and then we’ll have to kill them, too. Is that what you want? Father and daughter of destruction, feared throughout the world?”

  “They’re invading Kingshold, Father. This is different.”

  “They’re not invading. Use your noggin, girl. They’re raiding.” He looked sympathetically at her. “Look, I know you’ve your gem now, but I’ve had mine a lot longer. They’re different, but they’re the same in many ways. I’ve used my power to kill hundreds in the past, before I knew better, or since then, when I thought I really had to. But it leaves you thin. The best of you wears away and leaves the bad behind. It takes a lot of time to repair those threads.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  “We wait. And be ready only if we absolutely have to.”

  She stared at her father, who held her gaze, while she weighed the options. The gem was nagging at the back of her mind, calling her to use it. She’d felt it when fighting the Gawl-demon, and quite frankly, it scared her. She nodded in agreement and they ducked back into the safety of their hideaway, listening and risking small looks to see what was happening. From toward the dockside area of town, where she’d left her brother and his friends, she heard a new sound. An amalgamation of roars and insults yelled at the top of the lungs. The sound traveled clear down the far distance of the curved Wetside street and out across the water.

  “Soldiers?” asked Jyuth, squinting into the darkness.

  “I don’t think so. Nor city guard. I could have sworn I saw someone swinging a broom—”

  And then the explosions came, first one, and then a minute or two later, the second. Screams after each blast, carrying across the harbor, and battle cries returned as pirates ran to meet those newly arrived defenders of the city.

  A moment passed and then a long, deep horn note sounded from the floating town, and squad captains called, “Fall back!” and “Prepare to withdraw.” Corsairs flooded out onto Wetside from the streets that joined it, but they moved away from where Jyuth and Neenahwi hid, toward the many longboats and the mob trying to arrest their escape. Sensing their moment to act, Neenahwi and Jyuth stepped out from behind the barrels, just as the huge wedge-shaped head of the Draco-turtle, green-scaled and coated in barnacles, swung in front of them on its long neck. The mouth opened, revealing rows of wicked fangs as big as a grown man, before a huge cloud of steam gushed out followed by torrents of burning fire.

  Father and daughter looked at each other.

  “I guess we better go do something, girl.”

  Chapter 42

  Turtle Town

  The clear ground quickly disappeared as Motega ran toward the monster that had set about lighting up the city. He drew his axes as he closed on a ragtag mob of locals, dockhands, and laborers, swinging shovels and long hooks into the faces of pirates who had quickly realized they were outnumbered. He could sense the reassuring presence of Florian a few steps behind him. The brother he’d never had, always there for whatever craziness he got them into.

  And then people were all around as he and Florian pushed through the locals, and then leaped at the corsairs in front. A thick-set woman with dirty-blonde braids and a gap-toothed smile swung a sword overhand. Parrying with one ax, he smashed her in the face with his other fist, not enough room in the melee to reliably swing his other weapon. She went down, and a man, no, closer to a boy, just a few whiskers sprouting from his chin, stabbed forward with a long, serrated dagger. The ax that had parried the previous blow followed through into the side of his head above the ear, face crumpling and blood exploding into Motega’s eyes. He felt a moment of sorrow for the boy. But then life was a bitch. And his sister was fighting a dragon-turtle-pirate-town thing.

  After he took the last shot, he was still using Per’s eyes when the bird had circled back around to the city. There he’d seen Neenahwi and Jyuth standing in the street, and then huge torrents of fire and steam belching from the beast’s massive head. Motega had only just got her back, and now he realized how much he’d missed her. And formidable though she was, he couldn’t see how her metal arrows were going to do much against that thing, and putting it to sleep was surely going to be harder than a few dwarves. No, now was the time to beat a graceful and hasty retreat, and if he had to pick her up to do it, then so be it.

  He broke through the line of pirates, some clear pavement in front of him, though more of the invaders were coming to support their own against the mob. Motega realized once the numbers were evened out, the locals were going to have real concerns, but that needed to be someone else’s problem.

  Florian caught up, bloodied swords in hand, and shouted over to him, “Mot! What’s the plan?”

  “We’ve got to save Neenahwi.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Let’s try to kill a few of these arseholes on the way.” Instead of running around a pair of pirates coming toward them—their focus on the pitched battle Motega and his friend had just left—Florian swerved to meet them at a run. They didn’t stand a chance. Motega had never seen anyone as good with a blade as Florian, and with two, he was twice as wicked. Florian pointed to a group of four for both of them to engage, but as the two friends adjusted the course, their prey suddenly fell to the floor, arrows poking out like spines on a porcupine. Motega and Florian skidded to a halt.

  “Where did they come from?” asked Motega. Running into lightly armored pirates armed with swords was one thing. He’d fancy his chances every day, but running headlong into bowmen tended to fall into the fatal mistake category.

  Florian looked around and pointed up to the roof of the customs house that ran parallel to Wetside. Motega could just make out some shadowy shapes as they moved.

  “Up there,” said Florian. “Looks like our friends from back on the rooftops. Come on.” And he set off again at a run. “You know, I think she likes me.”

  “Who?” asked Motega.

  “The assassin lady.”

  “She’s near twice your age, Flor. She was with Jyuth when he rescued Neenahwi and me from Pyrfew.”

  “She’s a hell of a fighter, and she looks pretty good for an old lady. Hey, did you say we were going to rescue your sister? Looks like she’s handling herself to me.”

  They were closing in on Turtle Town, but he couldn’t make out the details from how far they were away. All he could see was the bright light of the Draco-turtle’s flame, but then he noticed streaks of red and purple light moving toward the beast.

  “I can’t see that far! What’s happening?”

  “Looks like she and Jyuth are fighting back. Holding their own, at least.” Their feet pounded on the street as they ran the more than a mile of Wetside to get to where Turtle Town had taken residence. “Whoa! One of them just flung up water from the harbor and into the fire breath.”

  Motega pumped his arms and legs, gulping down huge lungfuls of air as he increased his speed. As they got closer, he could feel the heat on his face, smell burning wood from the buildings on fire. They slowed to a walk, mouths hanging open at what they saw. Neenahwi was a few hundred strides away, throwing balls of red energy at the reptilian face. Some would explode on contact; others would glance off and ricochet into Turtle Town, creating fires mirroring the conflagration of the harborside. Jyuth was standing closer, back toward them, water flowing unnaturally up from the harbor and toward the raging fires at his command while he, too, fired purple darts in rapid succession that would sink into the long neck, penetrating through the hard scales like hot needles. Jyuth looked over his shoulder and saw them.

  “Get back!” he called, waving them away. “You want to melt like a candle? Actually, stay where you are. I need your help.” And he stepped slowly back toward them. “Something is controlling this Draco-turtle, up ther
e in the town. Find it and stop it.”

  “I came to get Neenahwi,” said Motega, feeling a little foolish as he saw his sister in action.

  “She doesn’t need your help with this. But she’ll need your help tomorrow; she’s going to have one hell of a hangover. But you getting toasted isn’t going to be helpful.”

  Motega didn’t respond, caught in two minds. He knew Jyuth was right, but didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to be taking his orders again.

  “Look,” said the wizard, “this is the chance for you two to be the heroes. Save the city.” Jyuth was nodding at them like they were simpletons. Motega and Florian nodded back. “Well, get fucking moving then!”

  They stood together on the end of a wooden pier. Motega stripped off the few extraneous items he felt he didn’t need. Quiver, boots, and bandolier of knives placed carefully in a pile. He secured his war axes with leather ties and looked across at Florian, who regarded him with mild interest.

  “Are you ready now?” Florian asked.

  “Yes,” said Motega. “You’re swimming in the chainmail?”

  “Yep.”

  “And your boots?”

  “Yep.”

  Motega shook his head. “Mad. Nothing worse than wet boots.”

  “Your stuff might not be here when we come back,” said Florian, looking at the pile of Motega’s belongings. “I’ve heard there are thieves around.”

  “That’s alright. We might not come back.”

  Motega dove into the harbor, pushing through the dark water before he surfaced and made a course for Turtle Town. Glancing back, he saw the strong arms of his friend plowing through the harbor waters as if he wasn’t carrying an unnecessary, extra twenty pounds. Show off. He’d be more tired for it, though.

  As he approached Turtle Town, Motega could see a small wooden jetty protruding from the side of the shell, a long boat moored against it where pirates disembarked. The two swam alongside the wooden structure, which looked like it could be pulled in when not in use, and pulled themselves up. A man approached, wisps of white hair with a face that had seen many days in the cruel sun of the open sea. One eye gave Motega a bead, the other looking off in a different direction, before the stranger reached over and grabbed him by the forearm and helped haul him up. Motega shook off the water like a shaggy dog and helped Glass Eye pull up Florian.

  “You fellah’s missed the boat, eh?” the old man chuckled to himself at his joke.

  “Argh, m—”

  “Yeah,” said Motega, interrupting Florian and shooting him a dirty look. “We got a message for the boss, and we were told not to hang around. You know where he is?”

  “He’ll be up on the hill, I’d wager,” said the pirate. He squinted and gave them some more concentrated one-eye attention. “I don’t know you. Haven’t seen your faces before.”

  “Likewise. But not like we do this every week, eh? Raiding fucking Kingshold. Boss has balls,” bluffed Motega.

  “Heh. He does indeed. Alright then, fuck off and do your job. Once we torch this shithole, we’ll be out of here.”

  Motega winked at him and punched his arm jovially. Florian did the same and almost knocked Glass Eye into the now empty boat.

  They latched onto the rear of the squad walking up the narrow lane toward the tower on top of the hill. The path, no wider than to allow four men walking abreast, was still something of a thoroughfare, dark alleys branching off at angles. The structures were two or three stories high, each construction supporting another as beams linked roofs, or one building would go up, and then over and down on top of its neighbor. Building materials were clearly salvage, but it certainly had the feel of a real town, a shithole of a town, as they passed shops and a tavern with a sign hung from a mermaid figurehead called the Tasty Tit.

  Blending into the crowd, looking as dirty and disheveled as the smelly men and women around them, they passed as other pirates. Once Motega was comfortable they were going unnoticed, he nudged Florian with his elbow and gave him the kind of look he’d been on the receiving end from Neenahwi a hundred times.

  “Argh?”

  “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” asked Florian.

  “From now on, I do all the talking.”

  The ground moved beneath their feet, lifting into the air, and then coming back down with a thud. Motega had to steady himself on the bearded pirate in front of him, who took the turtle quake in stride. The pirate turned, Motega noticing he was wearing a lacey pink nightgown, belted at the middle, with a saber tucked away. “Fuck off!” he spat in Motega’s face, the pirates rank breath making his eyes water. Motega decided to let that one pass.

  Upping the pace and pushing through the crowd to reach the top of the hill, they saw a wide area without the chaotic sprawl of tottering hovels, all except for a tall, wooden tower built in the center of what must be Turtle Town square. On a stage made of wooden packing crates a tall man, well-dressed in clean scarlet trousers and coat, beard trimmed short, addressed groups of scurrying pirates.

  “Torch it, boys! Let Kingshold burn, and then we shall depart!”

  “Aye, aye, King Kolsen,” came answering calls.

  “Karr,” called the pirate king, addressing a lingering skinny lad armed with a crossbow. “Go and find that puffed up toad Tegyr and tell him we have to go. If he’s not done, we’re leaving without him.”

  “Where should I look, Captain? I mean, King,” stammered the lad.

  “Ashore, lad! Just make an effort, pass the word. But don’t get left behind yourself.”

  A ball of red flame lit up the night as it looped up into the air from down below Turtle Town, exploding on to the bare shell of a nearby street, scattering flame some distance.

  “And put out those fires!” shouted the pirate king, pointing. “And don’t forget what we came for. Profit first!”

  “Death last!” came in answer from the corsairs continuing about their business.

  Avoiding the assemblage, Motega led Florian up to the door of the tower and opened it a crack. Inside were at least five men that he could see, lounging in seats and playing cards by lamplight at a table. Around them were stacked, sealed crates, the profit from this or another recent entrepreneurial adventure. Motega closed the door quickly and quietly.

  “There’s a lot in there,” he said.

  “How many?” asked Florian.

  “At least five, but probably more.”

  “Well, we need to get past them.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Motega, rubbing his chin in thought. “I hope this isn’t a terrible idea.”

  “It probably is, but I don’t have anything. So, go ahead.”

  Motega nodded, and then flung back his shoulders and puffed himself up to his full size. He pushed the door open wide with a bang.

  “Oi, you fuckers!” shouted Motega. “What do you think you’re doing? Get off your lazy arses and get those crates over to the king.”

  The swarthy-looking men snapped upright in their seats, pipe dropping from the mouth of one into his lap. The brave or the stupid one opened his mouth to answer, “But we just brought them i—”

  “Did I ask you to speak? Does the king ask you to think? Do you want me to go and tell him this fuckwit is too busy playing cards to do what he’s told?” Motega turned to walk out of the open door.

  The pirates scrambled to their feet and made for the crates.

  “No problem,” said Mouthy hurriedly. “We’re right on it.”

  Motega and Florian watched nine corsairs in total load their arms and thread their way out into the square. Florian closed the door behind them. Looking around the room, they saw wooden steps in the corner leading upwards and in the center of the room a curious length of glass pipe that dropped from the double height ceiling above and disappeared into the turtle shell floor.

  “You know we’re screwed when they figure out what we’ve done and come back,” said Florian.

  Motega shrugged.

  They ran up the st
airs around the inside of the tower until it reached a trap door. Opening it a sliver to take a look, the pair quickly climbed out into the room at the top of the tower. Open windows on all four sides allowed the orange light of fire in the night to cast a sickly glow over the room. Its sole inhabitant was a skinny young man, pale complexion, and wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He stood at a table full of alchemical equipment. Flasks of different-colored ichors, an oil burner, and series of glass beakers and jars arrayed before him.

  “I don’t need anything right now,” the alchemist squeaked without turning. “Leave m— Wait, who are you?”

  Florian sprinted across the room in three long bounds and grabbed Mouse around the chest, bringing the blade of his sword to his throat. “Don’t try to shout,” he said with a growl.

  Motega stalked forward, looking at the equipment on the table and the timid captive with fear in his eyes. “How are you controlling the beast? I want you to stop it. Now.”

  “No way,” stammered Mouse. “Kolsen will kill me.”

  “Don’t worry,” Florian whispered into his ear. “You’ll die before then if you don’t help us.”

  A wet patch appeared on Mouse’s trousers, and he whimpered before nodding emphatically. “It’s the green one.” His eyes flicked to the green flask on the table. “Five drops, down the tube, and it’ll stop the fire.”

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Motega as he picked up the glass container and poured all of it down the glass pipe disappearing into the floor. And with his ax, he smashed the glass tube and the bottles of different-colored liquids that hissed as they came into contact with the table.

  “You fool. What have you done?” said Mouse. “We’ll all die now. I won’t be able to control it.”

  “No way we’re letting you have your toys,” said Motega. “What happens now?”

  All was still for a moment. Turtle Town had stopped moving, and the roar of the draconic fire that had been a dull noise in the background ceased. Bang. The trapdoor was flung open and through it climbed the pirate king and the men they’d sent on a wild goose chase.