Spirit of the Sea

by Keith Walter

  So pleased was he with his victory that he didn’t notice the shadow behind him. He only realized something was there when he saw the tip of a blade shoot out the front of his stomach. He stumbled, fell, and slid a dozen or so feet before ending up on his back. It still amazed him how fast things could change. It was a lesson he felt life had been trying to teach him for some time now. Looking up at the morning sky, time began to slow for Charles. The slightest trickles of light could be seen piercing the clouds above.

  Breathing in, he tried to grasp all the smells that made fall his favorite season. He thought of the people that would be getting in their cars to go to work, kicking through mounds of wind-blown leaves. His inner magic went to work trying to close the wound, but there was no way he’d heal fast enough to keep moving. His eyes began to blur, and his mind began to darken. After years of running from people he’d once called friends, this seemed such a pathetic way to die. And yet, there was a tiny voice that wondered if it meant he could finally rest.

  The next stretch of time was a blur as he flashed in and out of consciousness. When he finally came-to long enough to try to make sense of things, all he knew was that he was being moved in some sort of vehicle. Chains rattled with every bump, and he found his hands and feet were restrained in shackles. His body was in agony, flashes of pain causing him to lose consciousness for minutes at a time. He had thought that the Union meant to kill him on the spot, but now realized he hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in death, he was dangerous. They had been smart enough to keep him alive, at least until they could get him somewhere safe. They wouldn’t kill him until they could be sure he wouldn’t blow up in their faces.

  A part of him whispered that death was what he deserved, but he pushed down the thought. It took an hour before he was able to open his eyes for longer than a few seconds. He didn’t recognize the cage, but he understood the carvings on every surface. The inside was littered with protection runes and restraining symbols glowing bright in the otherwise pitch-black space. Chains hung from the ceiling and walls, leading to his shackles. The wards were affecting his healing, and Charles was struck with the morbid realization that he didn’t have the strength to even attempt an escape.

  Bump after bump, he tried to visualize the path he was traveling. But without knowing where he started or how long he had been unconscious, the entire endeavor was pointless. When the vehicle finally came to a stop, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on everything the cell didn’t block out completely. He heard the footsteps of the driver walking away and starting a conversation with another person.

  “You made good time,” the first soldier said.

  “Better than expected,” the second chimed in. “The brass were scared we might not find suitable offerings. I hear they had to collect a little more than they planned.”

  Charles could hear the indecision in the first voice as he asked, “What’s that mean?”

  “Runaways—a whole lot of them,” the second voice added matter-of-factly. Charles just barely made out the rest, the second voice clearly lowered and trying to soothe. “Seems the collectors had an eye on them for a little while, even got a couple of fey that helped them escape.”

  “Yeah,” the first voice replied shakily. “I’ve got a cousin in collections, and sometimes his stories…” The voice trailed off, leaving a moment of silence before adding with forced conviction, “I’m sure the boys around here do a clean job.”

  “Definitely,” the second voice agreed. Too quickly, and clearly trying to avoid the topic further. “By the way, you got any idea what’s inside? I mean, we’ve been on high alert since the call came in yesterday, but even the higher ups don’t seem to know exactly what’s going on. The orders must have come directly from the general.”

  “Whatever it is, it was already in the box when we came to pick it up,” the first voice replied. “Looked like it put up a hell of fight, too. There were a bunch of guys all banged up at the depot. Even the commanding officer was patched up, and that guy is supposed to have the power of lord.”

  “You remember those old pictures from school? During the Cleansing, when they routed out the loyalists, didn’t they have boxes like this?” the second man asked.

  “Ho-ly shit!” the first voice exclaimed. “That’s exactly what this looks like. I thought it felt familiar.” As if noticing his own outburst, the first voice lowered again to almost a whisper. “Can you imagine? If they caught another loyalist, we could get a medal out of this.”

  “I thought we were done with this though,” the second voice matched the whisper. “The old country has to be reinforcing their ranks, and here we are…” The voice trailed off.

  Charles sighed, blocking out the rest of the conversation as the two men wondered if they might get bonuses or accolades. Criminal—he could live with that. Traitor he was almost proud of. But loyalist? The very thought made his blood boil. It represented everything he had fought against, everything wrong with the fey even now. It was the end result of thousands of years of castes that did nothing but prop up the strong and denigrate the weak.

  Given what he knew, Charles found it hard to remember why the war had really been started, his revelations afterward muddled with the propaganda of the time.

  Some decades before the war, a new race had been discovered. Humans had somehow contracted a mutant form of a fey virus. The withering sickness in the fey would cause a fever and burn through their magic. Once almost depleted, they would typically recover in a day or two. In humans, however, the reality of the virus was far worse. The virus remained dormant most of the time, but it transformed humans into lighting rods for natural magic. Under the light of the moon, the virus absorbed huge amounts of magic and overtook the human host, changing them into a vicious beast. They were forcefully converted to fey and thus called converts. Discovery of the converts sent shockwaves through fey society. Some were welcoming, seeing the new species as obvious kin—a link between human and fey. Others saw things differently, and this discrepancy would change the course of history.

  The Ancients, the first of all magical beings and considered gods by the fey, saw these converts as an abomination. At first, they sought only separation, focused on keeping the fey lineage pure and untainted. But when it was discovered that the converts could pass their disease on to other humans during the peak of the seasons, a more final solution was demanded. Those loyal to the Ancients complied with bloody efficiency. But those who saw the actions as criminal, disobeyed.

  War was inevitable as clans were forced to choose sides. Those who remained loyal to the teaching of the Ancients faced off against a union of clans who refused to support the bloodshed. At least, that’s how Charles thought the war started. Like every story in the fey world, its details were determined by those in the background pulling the strings.

  Charles remembered the day the Union proved their will, their cause, was greater than even the Ancients. He remembered the celebration, the promise of a new era of peace—a peace Charles had fought tooth and claw to bring about. And then, he remembered the day that peace shattered. He remembered the moment he realized that those who would run the Union were no better than the Ancients before them. He watched for years as uncaring gods were replaced by uncaring nobles. He watched the converts exploited and the caste system become even more rigid than before.

  He didn’t agree with the Union anymore, and that made him a criminal under their dogmatic laws. He opposed them as best he could, making him a traitor to their evils. But he’d never be loyal to the gods of the past, the beings that forced his people to become the evil they were. He’d kill himself before he became—he swallowed a sudden urge to vomit— a loyalist.

  Charles hadn’t realized his power had spiked, but someone outside certainly did. A sudden presence tickled the edge of Charles’s senses. He realized the voices had gone silent, but he could feel a sense of awe and fear coming from them. To his left, something tickled again. He tried to push his senses farther outsid
e his prison, but whoever was there was working hard to hide their power. Still, it seemed to shimmer and grow, enough that he could tell it was familiar and pleased.

  He felt the air around him grow heavy, and pressure began to press in from all around. The new presence had revealed itself, and Charles didn’t have the strength to fight back as it smothered his mind. He wanted to scream, yell out in anger, but he found he couldn’t breathe. The presence outside vibrated like a chuckle, and Charles narrowed his eyes. He knew now just whose clutches he was in. His own magic surged, for a moment threatening to break through his years of carefully layered restraint. But the presence outside was prepared, squeezing harder until Charles’s mind fell into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  History Repeats

  Rain splattered the ground and dark clouds made the midafternoon sky look like dusk. Barclay always liked the lakeshore during a storm. There seemed to be a stillness amidst the falling droplets, and for a moment he could pretend nothing else existed. He chuckled to himself, realizing how childish that made him sound. He’d only spent a short while tending this big lake, but it’d given him more free time than he really wanted. It was nothing like the chaotic excitement of sailing the ocean. But after giving his life to the Union in the revolution, Barclay had decided he was done with the ocean. Maybe it was the memories, maybe it was just the desire for a new adventure, but the ocean wasn’t something he really wanted to think about.

  Standing on the front steps of the small office overlooking the Ulsimore Shipping Port, he found himself impatiently waiting for nothing in particular. The lake connected to four other Great Lakes that circled the state of Michigan, creating significant business. The port was small by most standards, only a few dozen warehouses and a single crane. Still, he had found a purpose here and was mostly content. The lakes were the closest thing to the ocean he could hope for, and if he tried his best, he would almost be fooled. Almost. It was lucky, then, that Ulsimore of the Vanraiths had taken a keen interest in Barclay, reaching out specifically to offer him a job.

  Barclay had repaid that interest, using his centuries of experience on the water to help build one of the most efficient and profitable ports on the Great Lakes. Within a year of signing on, he had moved from longshoreman to manager of the entire port. He was the first to broach the idea of a dual-business model, serving human and fey alike to make up for slow seasons. It wasn’t a terribly novel idea, half the ports in these parts served humans, but it skirted close to the laws declaring mandatory separation between the species. But being normal had it own benefits, not least of which was how little the authorities scrutinized.

  Not that it would matter anymore. This place made a lot of money now. So much so that there was plenty to bribe those who needed to be bribed. The port made enough for Ulsimore to spend his days traveling, seeking out new places to expand the business. Now, ten years in, Barclay was the de facto head of all operations, with Ulsimore showing up twice a year to renew the spells on his crest.

  All of this was going through Barclay’s mind when he saw the black trucks marked in wards rumble down the empty road toward the office. The wards were invisible to humans, but to every other species they shimmered red and gave the vehicles a ghostly look amidst the rain. Barclay turned toward the office and, as casually as possible, walked back in. Sitting back in his ragged leather chair, he discreetly pushed a dime-sized button on the bottom of the desk and waited.

  Minutes later, Barclay heard the engines turn off and then the rumble of a few larger trucks in the distance. Boot steps thudded against the pavement, stomping toward his office. The door swung open and four extremely large gentlemen in black suits filled the room. They did a quick scan, taking little account of the man behind the desk. He could feel one of them try to probe his mind, but it was a few hundred years too late for such a simple trick.

  Barclay was already envisioning a picture of himself fishing on a lakeshore from his childhood when the men burst in. It was a pleasant memory that he wasn’t overly attached to. He had remembered and reimagined the scene a thousand times, enough to build it into a wall against intruders.. By cutting off his deeper emotions to the scene, he made it such that his true feelings couldn’t spring to the surface.

  Behind the men came a noticeably smaller fellow, and Barclay stood to meet him. The man was casual, his eyes were light and his steps fluid. He practically bounced with each step, giving the impression he was both particularly happy and completely assured of his control over the situation. He paused in the doorway to take off his hat, purposely drawing out the moment. Barclay briefly locked eyes with him, and a shiver of terror ran up his back. The man hung his traveling hat on a rack next to the doorway and spun around with an exaggerated flourish. Barclay caught the man’s pleasant smile, but it suddenly felt like the smile of a shark.

  Bending at the waist, Barclay bowed low and held his right arm tight to his chest. “I am Barclay Serpensis. How may I be of assistance, sir?” Whatever this man wanted, Barclay knew well enough to get it done as quickly as possible.

  At Barclay’s introduction, the sharklike grin on the man’s face disappeared. He closed his eyes in annoyance, and Barclay tried to bow even lower. The man took a calming breath, then held his finger in front of his lips as if to suppress a comment. Finally, he opened his eyes, but refused to look directly at Barclay. “You can do nothing for me. Your master can kindly present himself immediately or face my impatience.”

  Every instinct in Barclay’s body was screaming at him to run, but he quashed it under iron self-control. This wasn’t his first rodeo. Besides, running wouldn’t just be pointless, it would also mean grave consequences for the dockworkers. “The Noble Ulsimore of the Vanraiths is away working on the expansion of his business. He has charged me with overseeing operations in his absence. I assure you the full resources of this establishment are at your—”

  The man raised his hand, cutting off Barclay. “Present your identification and authority.”

  Opening up the top drawer, Barclay pulled out a stone box about the size of his fist. He grabbed a letter opener from the top of the desk and pulled it across his palm. As the blood dripped down onto the box, it opened to reveal Ulsimore’s family crest gilded in silver and gold. The disappointment on the man’s face was palpable, and Barclay was certain he was a noble.

  Beings of incredible power and armies unto themselves, the nobles were a caste of fey beyond the rest. After the fall of the Ancients, they seized power, installing themselves at the top with a might-makes-right mentality. It was said that if you followed any industry or chain of command to the top, you’d eventually find a noble running the show. It was rare for such a figure to interact with lesser fey like Barclay, and rarer still for nothing to go wrong. Outside of Ulsimore, who was easily a black sheep amongst his noble kin, most considered commoners not much more than pets.

  The noble pinched the skin between his eyes and muttered, “Perspective,” under his breath. Calmed, he turned and grabbed his traveling hat off the rack. He spoke sidelong to his underlings as he strode away. “Make the arrangements.”

  Barclay’s nerves eased a little, but he remained still. He couldn’t tell which of the four actually spoke at first, as all of their faces remained blank while a single voice boomed, “Twenty-four hours from now, a ship will be docking for supplies.”

  Another of the four men pounded a piece of paper on the desk, adding, “You will have everything on this list prepared and ready to be loaded at dockside in that time.”

  There was a brief moment of silence, and Barclay wasn’t sure if they wanted a response. He was just about to say something when another of the four boomed, “You will provide a private building for our use until the deadline is reached. Absolutely no one will be permitted within one hundred yards of this building.”

  Again, an awkward silence ensued until the fourth chimed in. “All fey working here will present themselves in front of this office within fifteen minutes. Their
credentials will be checked and loyalty ensured or else they are forfeit.”

  The last word reminded Barclay why these men were still dangerous, even without their monstrous leader. The Union was ultimately a military government, ruled with the implied threat of that military. To be working directly under a noble meant these men were dug deep into the Union—true believers. They were connected, highly influential, and had the sweeping authority to do just about anything they wanted. And with the way military ranks had changed, they were likely extremely powerful in their own right. Barclay found himself extra relieved he had pressed the evacuation alarm earlier.

  Trying to be as compliant as possible, Barclay replied, “I can assure you that everything on your list will be provided. Warehouse thirteen is our finest, and will accommodate as many men as you may need.” He took a short breath, looking into the eyes of each man in the room in turn. “Due to the time and season, I am the only fey on duty right now. And I assure you, my credentials are impeccable.” He was a veteran, a damned war hero. His credentials would pass any check they wanted. And with Ulsimore’s family crest backing him, they would have no recourse but to accept his word.

  The four men looked at each other as if silently conversing, and the first spoke again, “Prepare the supplies, and under no circumstances will you approach the staff or captives. The Entregon will be here shortly.” Barclay had no time to take in the gravity of the last statement as the four men turned and disappeared into the cool afternoon rain.

  He got to his feet, hands trembling from the experience. Tentatively, he moved forward just enough to see the warded trucks outside the front window. As one rumbled past, a gust of wind raised the fabric side panel. He could see a mass of huddled forms inside. There was no mistaking their fate, not with that name building like a storm over his thoughts.