Snake Heart (Chains of Honor Book 2)

by Lindsay Buroker

  Yanko tried to tell himself that Dak was a soldier and that these were pirates, and that killing them made sense to him, but he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. These weren’t random pirates. They were his mother’s people. She shouldn’t mean anything to him—didn’t mean anything to him—and yet killing her people felt like a betrayal on his part. He also worried about what the consequences would be if they were captured.

  “We won’t be,” he told himself firmly and forced himself to pat down the closest pirate to find a weapon for himself. The flintlock pistol had fallen in the water and would likely be useless. He took the cutlass from the man’s scabbard.

  A soft splash came from the other side of the hold.

  “Yanko?” Arayevo asked.

  “Here.” Yanko made his way through the dense fog and to the base of the steps.

  When Arayevo and Lakeo found him, Yanko patted them on the shoulders, did not mention the dead pirates, and led the way up. Dak already waited at the top. The shouts and sounds of commotion were even louder up here, with the hatch standing open. Yanko had no idea about the layout of this ship, but from the way the walls reverberated with each firing of a cannon, he guessed the gun deck was right above them.

  “This way.” Dak headed down a corridor.

  Something struck the ship—something magical. The power made Yanko’s hair stand on end. The vessel tipped to the side, as if they were in rough seas with high waves instead of on the placid leeward side of an island. Yanko grimaced, wondering if the movement would break the clamps that attached the underwater boat to the ship.

  A pirate stormed into their corridor, running through on some errand—or maybe to hide. Dak surged forward, meeting him before he could turn around to sprint in the opposite direction. From behind him, all Yanko could see was his sword arm bursting into movement. Then Dak was stepping over another dead man.

  “Does anyone else feel superfluous?” Arayevo asked.

  “No,” Lakeo said.

  They passed storage rooms, then Dak turned into a room with two empty wrought iron cells in it.

  “Did you mean to come into the brig?” Yanko asked.

  “Maybe he’s checking out the accommodations to see if they’ll do for later,” Lakeo said.

  “We’re not getting captured,” Arayevo said.

  “We’re under the officers’ quarters.” Dak looked at Yanko, then up at the ceiling.

  “Uh?” Yanko asked. Did Dak expect him to cut a hole? He looked down at the cutlass he had acquired.

  “You burrowed through over twenty feet of rock in that prison.”

  “Oh, but rock is part of the earth. I feel a strong affinity for it.” He considered the wooden ceiling, boards nailed parallel to structural beams.

  “Find an affinity for those boards. They were part of the earth once.”

  Before Yanko had decided on a method for dealing with them, Dak grabbed him around the thighs and hoisted him into the air. He soon found himself looking at the whorls in the wood up close.

  “Affinity, right,” he muttered, resting a hand on the wood.

  A fire mage would simply hurl a fireball at the wood, or perhaps burn them from the inside out. Yanko wasn’t sure he could do either. He could make enough flame to light candles, but this was more daunting. Instead, he fell back on the earth sciences, as Dak had suggested. He tinkered with the natural grain, causing the fibers to swell. The boards started warping. A few faint pops sounded as nails flew out. He pushed at the boards, and they shifted aside, leaving a hole between two beams.

  Yanko was about to pull himself through when Dak dropped him back down. “You go second.”

  Dak grabbed two of the beams and pulled himself up, turning sideways in an attempt to fit through. Yanko would have no problem, but he didn’t have Dak’s big Turgonian chest and broad shoulders. He hung there for a few seconds, stuck, before heaving with his arms and pulling himself through.

  “That’ll leave a rash,” Arayevo murmured with a sympathetic wince.

  “He may be missing some chest hair,” Lakeo said, cupping her hands together and offering a boost to whoever went next. “Fortunately, he can probably stand to sacrifice them. Yanko on the other hand—”

  He stepped into her hands and pushed himself off, hoping to escape before his chin hairs—or chest hairs—were mocked again. He squeezed through with less trouble than Dak and rolled to a safe section of floor. They were, indeed, in someone’s cabin, someone who warranted a porthole, but there was a shaving set next to a bowl and pitcher, and the room smelled of pine-scented incense. He doubted the manly odor signified his mother’s tastes.

  Another wave of power crashed into the ship. Arayevo had been climbing up, and she slipped. Yanko lunged and caught her before she fell back to the deck below. He pulled her up as the ship shuddered and righted itself.

  “I smell smoke,” Dak said.

  “Sun Dragon must be giving old Snake Heart a hard time,” Lakeo whispered from below.

  That surprised Yanko. He wouldn’t have thought Sun Dragon would be a match for his mother, not when he had managed to thwart some of Sun Dragon’s attacks. Of course, if that kraken hadn’t come to his aid, he would have been charred to ashes.

  Someone screamed, and Yanko grimaced. The pained cry sounded like it came from right above them. Were they under the main deck now?

  Something crashed through the hull behind Dak, and Yanko jumped back. Wood splinters flew, and he lifted a hand to protect his face. It took Yanko a moment to realize a cannonball had smashed through the cabin. Dak didn’t even react. He headed for the door and peeked into the corridor outside. Yanko made himself ignore the new porthole in the cabin and pulled Lakeo up.

  “Clear,” Dak whispered.

  He stepped into the passageway, having to hunch and duck his head, the same way he had in the underwater boat. Yanko followed him past two doors and to a cabin at the end. Dak tried the latch, but it was locked.

  Yanko touched the stout teak boards. “Do you want me to—”

  Dak rammed his shoulder against the door, and metal snapped as it flew open.

  “—use my magic?” Yanko finished.

  Light flashed. Dak hadn’t stepped inside, but he gasped, caught in the doorway by some invisible force. His back stiffened, and he grasped the jambs, as if to shove himself backward. His entire body went rigid, his head thrown back so that his nose touched the ceiling, but he couldn’t seem to move.

  Some magical protection to keep anyone from going in. Yanko should have guessed such a thing would be there.

  Lakeo grasped Dak from behind, but she cried out and backed away.

  “Ssh,” Arayevo whispered, glancing back down the passageway.

  “Ssh yourself,” Lakeo growled, holding her hand. “That hurts like death.”

  Ignoring them, Yanko tried to sense whatever trap held Dak in place, inflicting pain on him. Something powerful hummed from inside the cabin, on the wall next to the door. A Made object. His mother’s work? Or something she had stolen or bought? He couldn’t tell. It seemed like nothing more than a flat bronze disk, shaped into a hanging piece of artwork.

  Sweat dripped from Dak’s jaw, and his breaths came in short, pained gasps. He was fighting this magic, but this wasn’t a mental attack. Even a mage hunter couldn’t thwart a physical attack against the body. Yanko grew angry with himself for not realizing the trap would be there. Furious, he knocked the object off the wall with a surge of mind power, and it flew across the cabin, striking a cabinet. Dak continued to be held in place, the device inflicting serious pain on him. Yanko channeled his fury into the source of his pain, not thinking about what kind of magic would be effective or what books had told him about how Made objects operated. He simply willed it to be destroyed.

  To his surprise, the flat disk exploded, tiny shards flying in dozens of directions. Yanko grabbed Dak, trying to pull him back so he wouldn’t be struck by the shrapnel. Dak slumped against the doorjamb, his entire body relaxing
in the aftermath of the pain. Yanko wasn’t able to budge his dead weight, and one of the flying shards struck him in the jaw. Dak barely seemed to notice.

  “Sorry,” Yanko whispered. “Are you going to be all right?”

  Dak dragged his sleeve across his face, wiping away sweat and blood. “Yeah.” He managed a faint smile. “That was stupid. I should have known better.”

  “It’s probably hard to sublimate those Turgonian urges to destroy things.”

  Dak looked at the tiny shards of bronze littering the floorboards and raised his eyebrows at Yanko.

  “It’s possible your Turgonian urges are contagious.”

  “Like a virus.” Dak waved toward the cabin. “Check for more traps before we go in, will you? But you better hurry. I’m guessing she felt that.”

  Yanko nodded grimly. Yes, the owner of the cabin would have sensed the trap being destroyed even if she had been too busy with the battle to sense him drawing upon his power.

  His ability to destroy the device surprised him, since he hadn’t rationally known how to do it. Magic was supposed to be an intricate science, requiring analysis and study. Sure, some skills, like hurling fireballs, came easily for someone who had done so a thousand times, but there was still science involved. One wasn’t supposed to merely be able to think destructive thoughts and have things explode.

  Something to ponder another time. Yanko raked his senses across the cabin, then stepped in, feeling he should lead the way in matters of magic.

  “I don’t detect any more traps around the door,” Yanko said, his voice almost drowned out by another round of cannons firing. “I do sense several Made items in that corner.” He pointed, not surprised to find bags and chests from the cave stacked on the deck. They hadn’t yet been secured for sailing, but they looked to have been rifled through.

  “That’s my chest of coins,” Lakeo blurted as soon as she stepped into the cabin.

  She headed in that direction, but Dak grabbed her shoulder and kept her from getting close.

  Lakeo scowled at him. “I wasn’t going to touch anything yet. I don’t have Turgonian urges.”

  “No?” His eyebrow twitched. Maybe he had hunches about her heritage too.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “This is her room, isn’t it?” Arayevo said, her voice almost reverent as she looked around at the furnishings and the walls, barely noticing the treasure.

  Yanko did not care about the neatly made bunk, the sheepskin rug on the floor next to it, or the various weapons and artwork hanging on the walls. All of those items had probably been stolen in raids that had left ships adrift, with the crews stranded—or worse. He scoured the treasure pile, looking for a magical signature that might indicate the lodestone. Most of what he felt seemed to be trinkets, items not dissimilar to the charms Minark carried on his belt. They might be useful and even valuable, but he could tell as soon as he brushed them with his mind that they weren’t what he sought. There was a small wooden chest sitting atop the pile that had a more powerful magic about it. A wintry scene was carved into the top with plump birds perched upon branches.

  Dak pointed at it. “That’s the box she was hand-carrying in her rowboat.”

  “There is some magic about it,” Yanko said. Another trap?

  The ship heaved again as a huge wave thrown by magic crashed into it. Yanko nearly stumbled into the treasure pile. He caught himself by gripping a ceiling beam, but winced, imagining falling on a trap and activating it. Nobody here would be able to help him if he was caught by magic the way Dak had been.

  Voices sounded in the passageway. Arayevo had shut the door as soon as they all entered, but someone must have been sent to investigate the triggering of the trap.

  “Company,” he said.

  “On it.” Dak strode to the door, his short sword in hand.

  Arayevo grabbed a wicked-looking scimitar off the wall, replacing her machete. Yanko almost chided her for touching things in a mage’s room, but he turned his attention to the chest instead. The men charging down the passageway did not burst straight into the cabin. They hesitated, probably afraid of Pey Lu’s door trap. Dak waited in a fighting stance, like a panther poised to spring.

  The magic protecting the chest seemed old, rather than something his mother had recently laid upon it. It reminded him of the power of the soul construct, and he suspected the same mage had placed this trap. Nerves of anticipation danced in Yanko’s belly. This could mean that something valuable lay within, maybe the very artifact he sought. With the magic protecting the chest, he couldn’t see inside with his mind. Mentally, he prodded around the latch and hinges, trying to get a sense for the trap, to find a weakness and a way to remove it. Then he remembered how he had destroyed the door trap. With anger and pure power. Could that work again?

  He imagined the trap being obliterated and tried to hurl a blast of energy at it. Atop the booty pile, the chest shivered and almost fell to the floor. The trap remained in place. Sighing, Yanko tried a more careful analysis. Maybe anger was required for him to destroy things without thought, or maybe the sheer panic of seeing a comrade in pain had helped him. That seemed illogical though, like it would result in nothing but frantic flailing.

  The door slammed open. Yanko glanced back, spotting a boot being retracted just before Dak leaped forward. He disappeared from sight, surging into the passageway, his blade raised. The clash of steel rang through the cabin, adding to the cacophony of noise coming from the deck above. Another cannonball slammed into the hull somewhere close.

  Shouts came from the passageway and also from somewhere above—they did not sound Nurian. Were Sun Dragon’s new allies attempting to board? Or maybe someone else believed Pey Lu had retrieved the lodestone and had come to take it.

  A pistol fired in the passageway. Yanko tried to spot Dak, afraid he had been hit. Nobody had cried out in pain, but Dak rarely did. Lakeo and Arayevo stood at the ready behind him, unable to get past his broad form. Though Yanko wanted to go help, he made himself turn his back, to focus on the trap. Using his mind’s eye, he could see slender invisible threads of power wrapping around it, designed to hurt whoever tried to open the box.

  “So, what happens if I just trigger it?” he wondered.

  Would the trap disappear once he did? Or would it reset itself? Wouldn’t his mother have already peeked inside? Maybe the other ships had arrived before she got a chance. He might be able to trigger it from a distance, from far enough away that he wouldn’t be affected by the magic.

  Yanko backed up a few steps. He created a wall of air across the corner of the cabin, sealing the pile of loot behind it. At the same time, he nudged the latch upward with his meager telekinetic power. It twitched and wobbled, but he struggled to make the lid rise while also maintaining the barrier. Concentrating on two tasks at once was always difficult, and he was tempted to raise the lid, then quickly put the barrier in place, but that might be unwise.

  As sword clashes and weapons fire continued in the passageway outside, he kept fiddling with the latch, trying to stay calm and tamp down frustration. The chest possessed a physical lock in addition to the magical protection. Seconds ticked past, and he sensed more men piling into the passageway outside.

  He switched tactics and melted the latch instead of worrying about the lock. Metal turned molten and dripped down the side of the chest like candle wax. Finally, from four feet away, Yanko lifted the lid.

  A fiery blast sprang from the box. It hammered against the barrier he had created and slammed into the ceiling with enough force to tear through the wood. Boards flew, and splinters rained down around him. Sunlight poured in from above, cutting through the smoke clouding the air around the treasure pile.

  “Yanko,” Arayevo groaned. “What are you doing?”

  “Triggering a trap.” Yanko slapped his forehead, cursing himself for not thinking to mold his barrier to cover the top of the pile. All he had wanted to do was protect himself and his comrades. That he had done, but—<
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  A long-haired pirate peered through the hole in the ceiling. Yanko waved his hand, flinging smoke into the man’s eyes.

  “We need to go,” Yanko called over his shoulder, as if the clangs and gunfire from the passageway hadn’t already told him that. The entire crew probably knew there were thieves in the captain’s cabin now.

  Yanko darted forward, reaching for the chest. He hesitated before touching it, though he was tempted to simply grab it and run. First, he probed the outline with his mind, checking to see if the trap had reset. It hadn’t, but a sick feeling came over him. He no longer felt the presence of magic. The lodestone had to be magic if it could guide people to a missing continent. Had he simply been sensing the power of the trap itself?

  “We have to go,” came Dak’s voice from the passageway.

  He sounded calm, though the clash of swords punctuated his words. Arayevo grabbed a loaded flintlock pistol from the wall over the bed. She leaned around Dak and fired at someone. As Yanko picked up the box, he checked the passageway with his mind. Dead men sprawled all over the deck, three high in spots, but more were crowding into the area, trying to get at Dak. Trying to protect their treasure, Yanko realized grimly. They were so desperate to do so that they would throw their lives away. He never would have expected pirates to fight so fiercely.

  Knowing they were out of time and already regretting how many deaths he was responsible for, Yanko opened the chest to see what they had found. A small book lay inside. He pulled it out, feeling stunned. A book? That was it? He checked again for a hint that it might be magical. It wasn’t. He dropped the chest and flipped through it quickly, enough to see that it was someone’s journal rather than a collection of Kyattese poetry or some such.

  “Trap gone?” Lakeo asked, stepping up to his side.

  “Yes, I—”

  Someone grabbed Yanko’s arm. Arayevo.

  “Dak’s hurt,” she said. “We have to go. Now.”

  With nothing to show but the journal, Yanko nodded his agreement and followed her to the door. The lodestone wasn’t there. He would have felt it if it were. Unless this journal was the Mausoleum Bandit’s diary, this whole trip—all of this death and destruction—had been for nothing.