“Don’t let them eat me alive, Chula!” Pala pleaded, his face contorted with pain. “Kill me!”
Chula glanced around for something, anything to help him pull Pala up, but the only thing at hand was his sword. He grasped the hilt and looked down into the man’s eyes. They’d known each other their whole lives, grown up together on Vulture Isle, where raids from the highland tribe of cannibals were common. They’d learned to fight together, and they’d learned the unspoken law among warriors: no one is taken alive by the eaters of man-flesh.
Chula brought his sword down in a powerful blow that clove Pala’s skull, killing him instantly. Then he let his friend’s hand slip from his grasp. Pala’s corpse fell into the writhing mass of creatures, lost from view amid the squirming coils and gaping mouths.
Chula rolled to his feet with a curse, shouting, “Archers! Kill dem all!”
Arrows flew from the cordon of archers around the main hatch, and the water roiled. Like shooting fish in a barrel, Chula thought with a grim smile as they drew for a second volley. But as the arrows flew, a shout, then a scream drew his attention forward. Sailors backed away from the fo’c’sle hatch, their weapons on guard, as pale shapes squirmed up onto the deck. The defenders’ swords flashed, and several of the creatures thrashed, their writhing coils spattering gouts of bloody slime in all directions. More creatures rose from the hatch than had fallen, however, and the sailors retreated, their feet slipping and sliding on the treacherous footing.
“Chula!” another sailor shouted, a young woman with a bleeding wound on her leg. She pointed her sword to the cuddy cabin, where sailors fought to close the hatch.
“Bloody hells,” he muttered. His entire crew had retreated onto the deck, and they were still losing ground. He made a decision. “Sorry, Mistress, but de crew’s worth more dan de ship,” he muttered in apology to Cynthia. Then he shouted out the command no sailor ever hopes to utter.
“Abandon ship! Fall back onto de pier!”
The sailors lost no time in following that order, and fell back in tight formation, dashing across the gangplank onto the stone pier in twos and threes. Chula joined their ranks, defending the injured and ensuring that none were taken alive. Dozens of creatures boiled up from the main hold, some bristling with arrows but seemingly undaunted by their injuries. He hacked and thrust, keeping them at bay as the last of the sailors backed toward the gangplanks. One sailor was dragged screaming into the writhing mass, her sword flailing. Archers fired a volley from the pier that silenced her screams.
A hand clapped Chula on the shoulder; it was his turn to cross. The gangplank angled steeply up to the pier due to the subsidence of the ship, and was coated with slime and blood. One more glance around to confirm that he was the last to cross, and Chula backed up the gangplank, feeling for each foothold. Another step, and he felt his foot begin to slip. He waved his arms to compensate, which opened his guard enough for one of the creatures to lunge forward and grasp his ankle with its mouth tentacles. Pain shot through his leg as the hooks sank into his flesh, and he slashed down to sever the tentacles. The action threw off his balance, his foot shot out from under him, and he was falling.
Chula dropped his sword and twisted, making a desperate grab for the gangplank. His fingers found purchase, and he clung with all his strength. One look over his shoulder reinforced that grip; the water between the ship and the pier seethed with squirming shapes. One of the creatures from the deck undulated up the gangplank, its tentacles reaching for him, but an arrow plunged into it before its hooks could fasten upon his arm. The thing fell away, thrashing.
“Hang on, sir!” someone shouted as a flight of arrows dissuaded any more creatures from advancing.
“Hang on?” Chula muttered disparagingly. “What in de bloody Nine Hells else am I gonna be doin’?” He thought of Paska and little Koybur, and thanked the gods that they were safe on Plume Isle. Silently, he vowed that he would make it back to them, come hell or high water, which, it seemed, was exactly the predicament he was in. He nearly lost his grip when something hard hit his back and raked across his shoulders, and tried not to think of vile tentacles closing onto his head.
“Got him!” he heard, and he craned his neck to see that the sailors on the pier wielded a boat hook, and had managed to snag the thick leather strap of his baldric.
“Okay! We got you! Now just let go and we’ll haul you up.”
Chula stared at them, visions flashing through his mind of all the mishaps that could send him falling into the writhing coils of the serpents below: their grip could slip on the boat hook, the pin holding the bronze hook onto the tip of the hardwood shaft could shear, the strap on his baldric could snap… He gritted his teeth, muttered a silent prayer to Odea, and let go.
Chula swung and hit the quay wall hard, his feet dangling almost to the surface of the water. He reached up and grabbed the haft of the pole as eager hands pulled him up. There was a splash from below, and pain lanced through his leg, sudden weight pulling down hard. A bowman stepped out onto the gangplank, fired an arrow, and the weight vanished. Hands reached down and grasped his baldric, his hands, then under his arms to haul him onto the rough stone pier.
He lay there for a moment, gasping, then looked up at his saviors. More eager hands helped him to his feet.
“Knock down de gangplank!” he ordered. It fell, taking half dozen creatures with it. He cringed at the sight of the deck squirming with the slimy beasts, some dead, some dying, riddled with arrows, but even more seething up through the hatches. Then he focused beyond and saw Orin’s Pride; the schooner was close, close enough to shout. He opened his mouth to yell, then stared as a cask lofted in a short arc to splash between the two ships.
The sea erupted in fire and steam, undoubtedly killing a good number of the creatures that had not yet wormed their way into Peggy’s Dream, but Chula knew that there was no way to save the ship. It was overrun, and fighting these creatures was costly. Even now, his archers were running low on arrows. He made one more fateful decision, filled his lungs and shouted at the top of his voice to the mate of Orin’s Pride.
“Horace!” Chula waved his arms until he saw that he had the man’s attention, then pointed to the deck of Peggy’s Dream and the horde of creatures squirming like maggots on a corpse. “Burn it!
Horace gaped at him, then took a grim look at the seething deck of the larger ship, and gave the order. The catapult on the bow of Orin’s Pride was wound back and loaded. Chula ordered his crew back to a safe distance. The crew on the catapult took aim, gauging angle and distance carefully. Then Chula heard Horace’s deep voice rise in the still air.
“Fire!”
The cask flew in a high arc, and plunged into the open hold of Chula’s ship. As it disappeared into the darkness, the detonating cord snapped taut.
Peggy’s Dream exploded in an incandescent fireball.
Chapter 25
The Burning
Edan’s agonized scream startled Sam so badly that she dropped her knife.
He convulsed in her grasp, his hand quivering like a leaf, his muscles twitching and writhing under his skin. She looked around wildly, and saw a web of luminous crystal threads winding up his legs, growing into his flesh…enveloping him.
“Edan!” she shouted, gripping his wrist with hysterical strength, but he paid her no heed. She clenched his quivering hands, screamed, “Edan! What’s happening?” Still he stared at the arched ceiling of the crystalline chamber, his mouth gaping, his endless scream reverberating though the crystal chamber until she thought her ears would explode.
A prick of pain in her hand drew her attention from his agonized face. The tiny crystal threads had spread down his forearms, growing in his flesh like a living thing, tracing along his veins and spreading like branching ice crystals on a frozen lake. She watched as they advanced up his neck, across his pale cheeks l
ike tiny spider webs. Another stab of pain in her palms, deeper this time, and she looked at the backs of her own hands. Hair-thin crystalline lines spread across her skin, binding her flesh to Edan’s.
A memory flashed in Sam’s mind: her mother, tatting a delicate piece of lace, holding it out for her inspection. She gasped, shook her head. The pain intensified, moved up her arms to the old burn scar. Another memory: dark water lit with fiery motes, motes that hurt her eyes and burned her flesh… She flinched and tried to draw her hands away from Edan’s, to shatter the crystals that bound them together, but the lattice was strong, and her struggles futile. With dwindling hope, she watched the glowing crystals grow across Edan’s face, his lips, his eyes.
His screams faded.
Pain lanced up her arms, taking her breath away. She didn’t look down this time; she knew what she’d see. “Life is pain,” she whispered through her pointed clenched teeth, “and pain is life.”
Absently, she wondered what was happening to them. Were they dying, or were they creating new life? And then she realized that she didn’t care. She was here with Edan, and he was with her. She pressed tight against him, felt the pinpricks of pain in her stomach, her breasts, as she was incorporated into his web of light. She closed her eyes then, kissed him desperately, and felt the pain in her lips. Sam screamed into Edan’s mouth as agony lanced through her and light erupted in her mind.
≈
Cynthia woke to agony and the familiar sensation of being underwater.
Pain speared through her like a bolt of lightning, and her scream came out in a torrent of bubbles. She blinked and reflexively cast the simple spell that allowed her to live under the sea without breathing. She blinked again and started, shocked to see Feldrin’s distressed face only inches from hers, bubbles dribbling from his mouth. At her breast, her baby stared up at her, eyes wide, lips fading from pink to blue.
Urgent memories snapped to mind—Eelback burning, Ghelfan’s blood, a girl and a blade—prompting her to the present. Quickly, she cast her spell twice more, once on Feldrin and again on their son. The baby, having spent most of his short life under the sea, settled down immediately, his skin flushing pink once again.
Feldrin had a harder time, instinctively fighting the unfamiliar sensation. He coughed a burst of bubbles, tried to breathe, his mouth gaping, his struggles more urgent. Cynthia remembered her first time with the spell and touched her hand gently to his face. It seemed to calm him, and he blinked at her, then gripped her hand tightly. She nodded and smiled, then grimaced at the pain.
Cynthia looked down and nearly fainted again at the sight of steel protruding from her. She shifted, and the blade grated between two ribs. She couldn’t tell if it had punctured a lung, but she tasted no blood in her mouth. The pain made her head swim, but the water breathing spell alleviated some of it by circumventing the need to draw breath. The water around them was tainted pink, and she saw a thin trail of crimson issuing from around the blade. She didn’t know how badly she was bleeding, but did know that if she passed out again before they reached an exit, Feldrin and her baby would drown.
Dear Odea, just let me live long enough to get them out of here.
Ghelfan’s body floated nearby, and the pain of that loss washed over her heart in a wave of grief. She didn’t see Edan or the girl, and wondered if they had escaped, or if Edan had drowned just as he had feared. A peculiar light filled the room, and she gingerly turned her head. The Chamber of Life radiated a pearly glow. The crystal doors were closed, a glistening teardrop atop the dais, and she caught a flicker of motion within. Then she felt a wave of pressure on her senses, a wash of heat like she used to feel when Edan was using his fire magic.
Her gut tightened. It can’t be, she thought. Then the crystal chamber flared brighter, and the pressure intensified.
Dear Gods of Light, she thought, he must have hidden inside the chamber! We’ve got to get the hells out of here! Quelling her growing sense of dread, she urged the sea to take them out of the chamber.
Feldrin yelped out a stream of bubbles as water surged around them, carrying them through the door and into the dark corridor. Cynthia didn’t need light to sense her surroundings, of course, but she could feel the tension in Feldrin’s grasp, though he cradled her and the baby carefully. As they came to the hatch to the upper level, Cynthia realized how Sam had followed them; the portal was blocked open with one of the crowbars. She urged the sea to push it open and the crowbar fell out. She held the portal open, brought them up and through, then let it slam closed behind them
Cynthia sensed the bodies of Janley and Rhaf drifting in the corridor, and sorrow heaped upon sorrow. She swept past them, forcing herself to concentrate through the pain. She clutched her child to her breast and thought about her life, Feldrin’s life, their son’s life. They would mourn the dead later, but only if she got them out alive. They came to another hatch, and this one was closed also. Exerting her will, she pulled the sea back from the portal and it sank, air rushing in as it swung down on its hinge. Slowly she moved the water out from under them, waiting until Feldrin had his balance. He bore her weight easily, and as the air touched their faces, the spell dispersed and they could speak.
“Where the hells were Rhaf and Janley?” Feldrin sputtered angrily.
“Dead,” Cynthia said. She took a breath and grimaced. “Sam must have killed them. Oh, Feldrin, I—”
The baby interrupted her with a cough, a sneeze and a cry that pierced her ears and her heart.
“Later, lass, later,” Feldrin murmured as he struggled up the stair. “We’ll have time later. Right now, we need to get the bloody hells out of this place. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when—”
As if in answer, a deep tremor shook the entire city. Tendrils of yellow-white light raced through the walls, floor and ceiling, leaving trails of crimson fire in their wake. The wave of light passed them, and power washed over Cynthia in a palpable wave of heat. A deep rumble sounded from below.
“Edan!” she said, fighting a rising panic. She clutched Feldrin’s arm with hysterical fervor. “Hurry, Feldrin! It’s Akrotia! Edan’s bringing it to life.”
“Bloody hells!” Feldrin rushed as best he could, but his gait was less than easy, and it was anything but a gentle ride. Every time the sword transfixing Cynthia’s torso was jostled, waves of agony shot through her chest. Every breath brought new pain, and blood trickled steadily down the blade to drip off the hilt, leaving a crimson trail in their wake. “Hang on, lass,” he said, struggling up another stair, his face contorting into a mask of strain.
Cynthia prayed that they both could endure until they could reach help.
≈
Mouse shot out of the tiny vent tube into the open sky, anguished tears streaming down his face. Cynthia and Feldrin and the baby and everything he loved were gone, trapped in this stupid floating city. He was alone, his mistress drowned, his world crumbling around him. They’d come here to save Cynthia’s baby, and instead had lost everything.
A streak of fire swept past him, close enough to singe, and it snapped his morbid reverie. Flicker swooped around in an arc and stopped before him, hovering, studying him with her bright yellow-orange eyes. She chirped something, but he had never been able to understand her. He looked into her coppery features and he saw his own anguish mirrored there. She pointed at the city below, and clutched her hands to her breast, and he understood; she was alone, her master gone, her heart broken.
Mouse clutched his own hands over his heart and nodded, tears streaking his face.
Flicker peered at him again, and held up a hand. He longed to take it, but he knew it would burn him. He backed away, his fear of her fire overwhelming his desire for companionship.
Flicker frowned and looked at her own hand, at the incandescent glow of her skin, and recognition dawned in her eyes. She scrunched her face in c
oncentration, and her fire diminished, her hair dwindling to a bare candle flame, her skin dulling to a tawny golden-brown, her wings a bare smolder. She raised her hand again, and smiled.
He’d seen her like this before, when she had sat upon Edan’s shoulder before he became a pyromage. She hadn’t burned him then, so perhaps she wouldn’t burn him now. He held very still, and her hand neared his face. He felt its warmth, then her palm brushed his cheek. It was very warm, even hot, but not burning.
Then she leaned forward, very carefully, and kissed him.
He stared into the embers of her smoldering eyes—so close, so hot—and smiled at her. Maybe they weren’t so alone after all.
A distant roar like crashing surf drew their attention, and he gaped as a pillar of smoke and fire climbed into the sky above the harbor.
“Eep!” he cried, glancing back at her and pointing.
“Eek!” she agreed with a nod.
They parted and flew toward the harbor to investigate, though Mouse had a sinking suspicion that he knew what was burning.
≈
Cynthia felt the power growing, even as her own consciousness faded—Edan’s power, now Akrotia’s power, multiplied a thousand fold. She forced down weakness and nausea, unsure if they were due to the pain, blood loss, or the oppressive, sweltering pressure of fire magic building all around them. The gray stone began to glow dull red, the spider web of arcane patterns within intensifying through the spectrum from orange to yellow to white. A gust of blistering-hot wind tore through the corridor, ruffling their clothes and hair as Feldrin climbed the last stair.
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