Wavebreaker (Book II of the Stone War Chronicles): Part 1 - Trickle

by A. J. Norfield

  “No. Linus would not betray us,” King Baltor spat at Corza. “I do not believe it. He is ironblood.”

  “Oh, he loves his king, that’s for sure. But he values his own life, too. Yet it was the princess that sealed the deal for him. All I had to do was promise him he could have her after I was done with her—and he believed me. That man has some serious problems. Don’t worry; I’ll pay him a visit after this and make certain he doesn't lay a hand on her. He won’t have hands for much longer. Or a head, for that matter.”

  The king stared at Corza in shock and horror. His mind jumped around, trying to make sense of it all, until it came across the nearest logical thought it could find.

  “But the smoke—”

  “Not that hard to light a fire, honestly. I just asked a few of our soldiers to be so accommodating,” said Corza, icily calm.

  King Baltor looked behind him to see his wife looking confused, their daughter grasping on to her as the sounds of people dying surrounded them. Finally, it sank in. The awful mistake he had made. The trust he had put in the wrong place.

  It had cost them all their lives.

  “No! I have to make it right!” the King of Iron yelled pitifully.

  “You can’t,” said Corza with a smile. “He’ll have no choice but to execute you.”

  “You bastard! It was you. You planned this all along!”

  King Baltor made a futile attempt to wrap his hands around Corza’s neck, but the high general quickly punched the weakened King of Iron to the ground and kicked him in the stomach and kidneys. Corza dragged the heaving ruler to his knees and held him there.

  “And I’m pleased to see you followed the plan beautifully,” hissed Corza in the weakened king’s ear. “I bet you’re sorry you hit me now. Old fool.”

  “Olivia, I am sorry. I did not know. You must make it right. You must fix my mistake, my love. Do not let them destroy our people!” cried the king hoarsely.

  Corza looked at the Stone King. Lord Rictor’s face was as dark and rigid as a ghol’m's. His small nod was all the high general needed.

  In an instant, he drew his Roc’turr and cut King Baltor’s throat. Behind him, the queen and princess screamed in agony. But the Prince of Iron seemed unaffected, still locked in his own world of horrors.

  The Stone King approached the queen, who had dropped to her knees to comfort her daughter as they lost another man she loved.

  “You are Queen of Iron now,” his flat voice stated. “You have one chance to make this right. May I suggest you choose better than your husband?”

  The queen looked up into the stone-cold face of Lord Rictor. The Stone King extended his right hand to help her to her feet. The queen looked at the stone hand in disgust, but Lord Rictor simply held it in place. In that moment of conflicted emotions, Olivia Baltor’s will to survive and protect their people emerged.

  Iron will bend, but never break.

  The queen pushed her own fear, anger and grief to the side and thought of those who counted on her protection. With a trembling hand, she took hold of the dark, rough stone fingers before carefully rising to her feet.

  The princess remained on the floor, sobbing and calling the names of her father and her betrothed. But the Queen of Iron could not afford to break down—at least, not right now. She forced herself to walk forward, her hand and lip trembling heavily as she neared the body of her late husband. The pool of blood crept slowly across the planks of the scaffold. It seeped between the cracks and dripped toward the plaza stones. She told herself not to look at it. To be strong. She kept her eyes on the rooftops, not daring to look at the massacre below either.

  “People of Tal’Kabur, please listen to what I have to say!” she said.

  Her voice was shaky at first, but grew stronger with every word. The people looked up at her, holding each other close, trying to seek comfort and shelter with one another. Lord Rictor raised his hand. The Doskovian soldiers quietly formed a line around the plaza, spears and swords at the ready. Citizens close to them cried in fear.

  “I know you are all scared, and I know you are all proud. Proud of what we have accomplished. Proud of what we have built. Proud of what we are. But we need to make sure we do not lose sight of what is most precious: the lives of those we love!”

  The queen felt tears gathering at the thought of her own loved one, lying dead mere feet away; killed for what he believed in.

  “Our iron will, forged in the hearts of fire, will never break. About this your king was right. We will survive, even if that means living under an unknown ruler! So I ask you to stop and think. To stop and live, with me, as we accept our new position under the rule of the Stone King.”

  The queen took a deep breath.

  “Lord Leonard Rictor has guaranteed that there will be no more trouble. If we work hard and obey, we can live our lives as normal. It is time to think of our wounded and ensure that those who depend on us are taken care of. From this day on, I, Olivia Baltor, Queen of Iron, pledge my allegiance to the Stone King and vow that the Talkarian people will do everything in their power to provide their army with all they need.”

  The queen felt sick to her stomach. Her head pounded as she tried not to choke on the words.

  “Now, please; please stop this useless bloodshed before we are all slaughtered. Return to your homes and take time to mourn. Mourn those who were too blind to see that life is more important than sacrifice. And tomorrow we will return to what we do best: bend iron to our will and show that Talkarian steel is the best in the world!”

  As the queen fell silent, the Doskovian soldiers started to direct everyone back to their houses. There were no shouts of anger anymore, no calls for justice. Just the silence of defeat and mourning as the people of Tal’Kabur tried to accept their new reality. A new existence, wherein they had sacrificed their iron pride to secure their future.

  Bronson stood motionless on the scaffold. The wounds under his feet stung relentlessly no matter which way he leaned. His head buzzed. For the first time in days, he had slept in a bed again, but early that morning—after far too short a night—soldiers had dragged him out of it to bring him to the plaza. For what, he had not known, until they brought out his father.

  He had tried to move when the high general pulled his dagger to slit his father’s throat, but against his will his muscles’ fear of being cut had immobilized him. In the back of his clouded mind he screamed at the world in front of him that felt as broken as he did himself. Fighting the memory of a kzaktor eating away at his legs, he watched through the windows that were his eyes and saw his mother hold her speech. Her surrender felt as much a betrayal as his inability to save his father’s life, but still his mouth did not move.

  As the plaza was cleared and a grinning High General Setra approached him to take him back to the tower, a single tear ran down his cheek. A sight unseen by all, except for the man who could not care less.

  Chapter 11

  Drink

  The streets were filled with people, even as the moon approached its highest point. The mid-summer feast was in full motion. Raylan had not been interested in the festivities, but Sebastian convinced him to walk through the old city, where he hoped to meet up with Kevhin and Rohan at the Blackwater Tavern. Apparently, one of the city guards had told them Blackwater ale was the finest in Azurna, and both archers had made it their night’s mission to do some extensive sampling to determine if it was true.

  As they entered the tavern, Rohan’s loud laughter rose above the crowd’s noise. Raylan and Sebastian pushed past the people at the bar and found Rohan and Kevhin in a far corner of the inn, talking to some locals. From the looks of it, both archers were well on their way with sampling the famed local drink.

  “Raylan, Seb, come join us. This is T’maz and Gio. They were kind enough to introduce us to the local hospitality,” called Rohan.

  Rohan’s face was flushed from the warmth and ale. His arm hung around Kevhin’s neck as he chatted to their new drinking buddies.
Raylan sat and listened to some of the stories being told as he drank from the tin mug someone had shoved in his hands. Both archers laughed heartily as the life of Azurna’s harbor workers was described for them in colorful detail. The days were long and the work hard, but from the stories told it seemed something exciting happened at the docks almost every day. Especially with Lord Algirio's strange tastes drawing in all kinds of novelties.

  Raylan was surprised to see Rohan so openly affectionate toward Kevhin. While they traveled the Dark Continent, the archer always held his fellow sharpshooter at a respectable distance. Raylan had only noticed small gestures of affection between the two, which made it clear to him that they were more than just friends. Perhaps the safe return from their mission had loosened Rohan up, although Raylan suspected that the ale had also assisted in that. In any case, Kevhin showed no reservations about openly enjoying his partner’s attention in return.

  It was wonderful to see everyone in such a festive mood, but Raylan could not bring himself to be jolly. Sebastian, on the other hand, looked like he had decided it was time for some much-needed relaxation after all the heavy emotional reunions. Still dressed in his fancy outfit, he merrily caught up with the archers’ level of drunkenness. But as his friend got swept up in the atmosphere of the festival, Raylan was stuck pondering recent events.

  Once more, Corza Setra drifted into his mind. As that thin, long face emerged in his thoughts, the air in the tavern became too thick to breathe. His friends’ laughter echoed in his ears as Raylan's vision started to spin. The scar on his right forearm throbbed intensely. The noise of the crowd became muffled, the sounds of his own breathing cutting through it all; quick, shallow breaths, sucked in through his teeth. The air felt like syrup on his skin, and hundreds of sparkles flew in front of his eyes.

  He slowly became aware of a hand pressing on his shoulder.

  “Raylan? Hey, Raylan. You alright?” asked Sebastian. “You don’t look so well.”

  He looked up. The world crawled back into its normal shape. The throbbing of his scar dissipated until only a gentle tingle remained. He looked at the others around the table.

  “I’m fine. Just a bit warm. I think…I’ll have a drink at the bar,” said Raylan, seeing a spot open up. “Less people there. I’ll be back.”

  His head spun as he stood, but he managed to stay on his feet. Arriving at the bar, he positioned himself next to a dark-haired man, who was taking his time enjoying his ale. Leaning both arms on the bar, Raylan ran his hands through his hair to pull himself together. Sweat on his back had soaked his shirt.

  “Ale, please,” said Raylan to the man behind the bar.

  “Rough night?”

  Raylan looked up to see the dark-haired man smile at him.

  “Rough days,” answered Raylan.

  The bartender served him his ale, of which he immediately took a big gulp. The drink was cold enough for him to feel it flow down all the way to his stomach. The dizziness resided. He let out another sigh and regained his composure. It was not long before he found himself in conversation with the dark-haired man.

  “Nice to meet you, Raylan. The name’s Brenton, or Brent for short,” said the man. “Are you local?”

  “No, just passing through. We arrived yesterday, actually.”

  “Ship or land?” asked Brenton.

  “Ship…of sorts,” said Raylan.

  “Same as me, then. I came in yesterday as well, from Tal’Kabur.”

  “Tal’Kabur? It’s been a while since I met anyone from there. Our family line is originally from there,” said Raylan, glad to put his thoughts on something light.

  “Really? What’s your family name? Your old man a caster or a smith?”

  “Stryk’ard.”

  “Smiths, then?” said Brenton.

  Raylan gave a small nod. “My grandfather moved to Shid'el when my father was still young,” he said. “He took over his workshop in the city when his old man passed away.”

  “So you’re here to sell the product you made?” said Brenton.

  “No, no, I’m not involved in the family business. I decided a long time ago that a small, dark, hot smithy was not a place I wanted to be stuck in,” said Raylan.

  Brenton raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s hard, but honest work. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Certainly,” Raylan spoke fast, realizing he might have insulted the man. “And I’m proud to say my father is one of the better smiths in Shid'el. His work stands for quality. But it feels too confined within the workshop. I prefer the open sea…or air.”

  Raylan drank some more of the cool ale to stop the wrong words from flowing out of his mouth.

  “Air?” said Brenton, puzzled.

  “Never mind,” said Raylan with a smile. “My old man sometimes told stories about Tal’Kabur, although he didn’t remember much. I’ve never been there, though.”

  “You should. A man needs to know his roots,” said Brenton, returning the smile.

  Both men returned to their drinks in silence for a moment while the noise from the inn buzzed around them. From one corner came the high squeal of a woman as she was pulled onto a man’s lap. Turning around, the woman slapped the man in the face and quickly walked off—something the man’s friends apparently found utterly hilarious. The slapped man looked bewildered for a moment before he started laughing loudest of all.

  “So, you want to tell me about your troubles?” said Brenton, who noticed Raylan’s face turn gloomy again.

  “I can’t, really.”

  “It doesn’t have to be specifics, you know, but what else is drinking ale with a total stranger for?”

  This prompted a brief smile to break through Raylan’s pondering.

  “Let’s just say I don’t like the orders I’m given all that much,” said Raylan.

  “You are a soldiering man then, I take it?”

  “That I am,” confirmed Raylan solemnly.

  A loud crash drew both men’s attention. One of the serving women was on her knees, picking up the mugs that had clattered on the ground and yelling at the errand boy who had made her drop her tray. The boy quickly disappeared between the guests and out the back door to escape the woman’s wrath.

  “What about you? Are you here for business?” asked Raylan quickly, deciding it was best to steer away from the previous enquiry.

  “Indeed. Two cargo holds filled with the finest Talkarian steel.”

  Raylan let out a whistle.

  “That must be worth a pretty penny. You weren’t bothered by pirates or anything?”

  “No. We can take care of ourselves. Besides, we traveled with two other merchant ships to form a convoy, which made us a less easy target,” said Brenton.

  “Talkarian steel. I wish I could bring some of that back to my father in Shid'el. He would love to have a go at that in his forge, I expect.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you there. The entire cargo has been spoken for. We’ll meet our buyer in the next few days, after which we’ll be heading back. But tell you what; if you ever do end up on Tal’Kabur, come find me in the port of Tal’Ostar. I’ll give you a good deal.”

  Raylan was about to thank him for the offer when he heard heavy shouting behind him.

  “Fucking cocksuckers!” yelled a man loudly.

  “Sir, I apologized for my friend spilling your drink. There’s no need to insult.”

  It was Kevhin’s voice, trying to put the plastered man at ease. It was a bit of a surprise to see him speak up; usually Rohan was the more reserved of the two men. Today, though, it was Kevhin who kept a cool head, clearly wanting to prevent things from escalating and not spoil the evening’s great mood.

  Unfortunately, calming down was not what the large man had in mind. His hairy arms were thick as poles. He reeked of alcohol and sweat; his shirt was stained with food and drink and he wobbled on his feet. He stepped forward, out for blood. Within moments several of the man’s friends gathered behind him, cornering Rohan and Kevhi
n.

  “Yah damn pansies need a lesson!” said the big man.

  “Get your own bar to wiggle your asses at each other!” said another of the group.

  “Better yet, yer own city!”

  “No—kingdom!”

  These last two men laughed and slapped each other on the back. The leader slapped their heads.

  “A kingdom? For them?” he growled.

  As the two goons realized their insult had backfired, the leader turned his attention back to the archers and their new friends. Gesturing his own friends forward, the big man and his troublesome group circled their prey like a pack of jackals. The leader grabbed Rohan by his shirt and readied his other arm to strike.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go and help my friends,” Raylan said hastily to Brenton.

  “By all means.”

  Raylan pushed aside spectators, trying to make his way back to the group in time. But before he reached them, Sebastian stepped forward, still holding his own mug full of ale.

  “You had to ruin the mood, didn’t you?” said Sebastian to the man holding Rohan’s shirt.

  “Yah mind yer own business or yah’ll get the same coming to yah,” said the man, who now snorted like a bull.

  Sebastian did not bother to respond with words. It was clear these men were not going to leave them alone, and if his life in the mines had thought him one thing, it was not to wait for the first punch.

  Sebastian swung his tin mug around. The man’s nose cracked loudly as the mug smashed right into his face. Instantly, the entire inn erupted into total chaos. Two of the men jumped Sebastian while the other went directly for Kevhin and Rohan. Despite Kevhin’s docile and somewhat drunken exterior, the archer had no trouble reacting to the oncoming attacks. He dodged the first punch thrown at him, and quickly jabbed one of his own into his attacker's ribs.

  Rohan had clearly drank a bit more than Kevhin; his face was the first to make its acquaintance with the hostile intentions of their attackers. The archer slammed backward into the wall, but bounced off and went right back into the fray, the adrenaline of the punch quick to sober him up. He threw himself onto his attacker, and both men crashed to the ground.