Wavebreaker

by A. J. Norfield

  It was a delicate power balance. Yet somehow these women had wiggled their way into the structure and earned the respect of the Stone King’s most dangerous and ruthless killers. In Lord Rictor’s absence, they gave the Darkened their assignments, which were followed without question. Both women were loyal to a fault and extremely protective of ‘their’ Lord Rictor. If the twins ever found out that Corza was plotting against the Stone King himself, he would certainly find himself waking up with two pair of cold eyes staring at him—if he woke up at all.

  “How are preparations going?” asked the Stone King.

  “All in order, my lord. The troops dispersed toward the forest and mountain settlements should have arrived by now. The royal degree King Baltor signed is expected to provide access to both strongholds and grant moderate cooperation to start with. Once the people see their armed forces being disbanded, it’s expected the working population will pose little resistance. There should be an update on our progress before the morning.”

  “Very well. I am certain Baltor’s announcement will quell any remaining will to fight back. Afterward, we can focus fully on the Talkarian steel production.”

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that the first dedicated batch of swords has been produced and is being loaded on our ships this very evening, milord.”

  “I understand armor is also proceeding nicely, albeit a bit slower than expected?” said the Stone King.

  Corza hesitated for a moment.

  “I’ll order them to go faster.”

  “Do not bother. As I am sure you are aware, High General, we’re in this for the long haul. If we push too hard now, we will have exhausted our resources by the time we need them most. Besides, I will soon be giving the command for the production of swords and armor to stop. I will send over new schematics that are to be followed from that moment on.”

  Annoyed that Lord Rictor had apparently set him up to fail with his remark, Corza bit his tongue before speaking again.

  “If not swords and armor, what will we be making here, milord?” asked Corza, puzzled.

  “That is of no concern to you. I would rather have you focus on securing a new, constant supply of ore from the mines. The ovens in the city rely on it, and it has obviously not arrived for some days.”

  “Is there anything else, my lord?”

  “There is the small matter of retrieving my weapon. That which you lost many moons ago.”

  Corza swallowed. A drop of sweat tickled the side of his head. Lord Rictor had a disturbing way of asking very innocent-sounding questions while expecting very important answers. In the past, Corza had quickly learned to recognize the tone that cost many other men their lives for answering too casually.

  “Colonel Mercar said they lost sight of the stolen windship and thought it best to return to the main force, my lord. He instructed the other ships in his group to continue and travel to Azurna as per my order, which would be the enemy’s most logical destination. Meanwhile, my spies—”

  A quick glance from Lord Rictor made Corza reconsider his words.

  “—our spies have indeed confirmed that the Aeterran squad has landed in Azurna, unharmed.”

  It had taken Corza years to set up a reliable network of bird messengers throughout the continents. Some doubled as official messenger servants, while others had hidden cots within the cities where the best breeds of pigeon provided a swift relay of information for the Stone King’s plans.

  “The group is currently camped outside the city, awaiting orders. The ships I sent will be able to catch up with them if they stay just a few more days. They should have no trouble taking over the city.”

  “And the dragon is with them?”

  It was the first time Lord Rictor had mentioned the word ‘dragon’ instead of ‘weapon’. It was an odd moment to drop the word, clearly intended to unnerve him. Corza wondered what else the Stone King knew about the animal.

  “Not only is it with them, but our informants say it’s communicating…with people.”

  Corza watched carefully for a reaction, but saw none.

  “It seems to have a particularly strong connection with the young soldier it saved from the cliff during the harbor escape,” added Corza.

  “That would be most unfortunate,” said Lord Rictor. “What else?”

  “We know little about the soldier other than that his name is Raylan. It seems he befriended the creature and speaks with him often. He has even been seen on the dragon’s back while it took to the air,” said Corza, bitter.

  The Stone King was silent for a moment. Corza saw his expression jerk slightly, as if the man was running different probabilities in his head that did not agree with each other, making his muscles twitch.

  “I know, I know!” exclaimed the Stone King suddenly. “But it does not matter. They cannot stop us, even if they knew what we were doing.”

  “Know what, my lord?”

  Lord Rictor turned around and looked Corza straight in the eye.

  “I do grow tired of these mistakes, Setra. Perhaps I should have chosen High General Wayler to begin with,” said Lord Rictor. “Alas, I am short on good men at the moment, so you will just have to do.”

  Corza scoffed internally.

  “However, I believe a reminder is in order. You understand, do you not? See it as an incentive…”

  The Stone King gestured to the two Darkened nearby. Before Corza knew it, they were flanking him on both sides. His reflexes jumped to high alert. He could have drawn his favorite dagger, but the odds did not look in his favor. The two Darkened stood silently, staring at him.

  “Remind me again: which side is your sword arm?” said the Stone King.

  Corza swallowed and straightened up.

  “Right, my lord.”

  “Good, good,” said the Stone King slowly, as if he had not yet decided what to do. “Then take out your Roc’turr and remove your left hand’s little finger. That should not cause too much trouble, should it?”

  Corza stared at Lord Rictor. The Stone King did not move a muscle; a content smile showed on his face. Anger roared inside Corza. It took all his discipline not to show it. He had no choice here. Failing to obey would mean instant death, and he had not worked and schemed for all these years to let it all be taken away from him now. Slowly, he pulled out his sacrificial dagger. The Darkened simultaneously drew their swords.

  Corza knelt and put his hand flat on the ship’s deck. He lined up the Roc’turr; pressed the blade against his skin. In silence, he looked up at Lord Rictor, who returned his look coolly. The silence filled with expectation.

  Corza swallowed, looked at his hand—and pushed. The blade cut deep, quickly biting into bone. Pain sent shocks through his body. A scream was building deep within and Corza clenched his teeth to prevent it from escaping. Blood flowed onto the Behemoth’s deck. Corza leaned forward and drove the Roc’turr down through the bone.

  He sat back up and lifted his chin stubbornly, meeting the Stone King’s condemning stare. Corza's own skin was probably just as white now as that of Lord Rictor, but he had not given his pale tormentor the satisfaction of screaming.

  Lord Rictor observed the severed finger.

  “It is a clean cut, but a bit on the small side, is it not? Barely half a finger,” spoke the Stone King without emotion. “Perhaps I should not complain. After all, I never specified how much of your finger it should be. Very well. It should make the next part easier for you. I want you to pick it up, and swallow it.”

  Behind Corza, one of the Darkened grunted in amusement. Humiliation hit him like a hammer, but Corza had experienced worse. He forced himself to lower his eyes and kept his lips tightly shut. He reached out and picked up the chopped-off piece of finger, keeping his bleeding hand close to his chest to stop the flow as it throbbed in agony.

  Corza looked at the piece of flesh between his fingers. A tiny part of the bone was visible, and in a moment of mental alienation, he noticed how incredible dirty the small finger’s nail w
as.

  “Go ahead, Setra.”

  Reluctantly, Corza brought the severed part of his body to his mouth and put it on his tongue. In hindsight, he should have thrown it to the back of his throat and swallowed it without breathing. The finger now rolled across his tongue and he had to adjust it twice to prevent it from getting stuck in his throat before he finally swallowed. The entire experience was nauseating—which came as a bit of a surprise; he never had any trouble when he worked on any of his toys, cutting them, poking them with holes. But it was not the wound that upset him, but rather the complete humiliation of being forced to swallow his own flesh. He would never have even entertained such an idea for his prisoners—there was too much chance of infection.

  Corza got back to his feet, sheathed his dagger and firmly gripped his bleeding finger to staunch the flow of blood—gritting his teeth against the jolts of pain.

  “Excellent. Now that you have a constant reminder of your failure, it is time to get back to business. Keep in mind that I expect you to really make an effort, or before you know it you will run out of fingers on your left hand.”

  Corza had to swallow again, fighting the feeling that his finger was stuck halfway down his esophagus.

  “Once things are arranged here, you will head further west around the continent. Our masked friends there have made contact to let us know they are ready to deal. Since it was your idea to begin with, I am certain you would like to see it through successfully, am I right?”

  The Stone King did not wait for an answer.

  “High General Cale will continue the invasion of the southern trade cities and set up a supply line. Once we are done here, High General Nodak will be diverted to the north, to Azurna. Your force can hand over the city when they arrive.”

  Corza’s mind raced. That meant there was not much time for those who were loyal to him and currently traveling north. Once they secured that pesky dragon, they would have to move it immediately—perhaps take it out to sea by ship, going the long way around to avoid High General Nodak’s fleet.

  “If any of our forces run into the dragon, they are expected to do everything in their power to capture and retrieve it. But if it becomes clear that the creature cannot be used for our cause, I want it gone. This has gone on long enough. Either capture it, or kill it and bring me its head. No excuses,” said the Stone King.

  The last words had just left Lord Rictor’s lips when he bent forward and grabbed the side of his head.

  “Are you alright, my lordship?” asked Corza.

  “No. I mean, yes. I do not care,” Lord Rictor growled through gritted teeth. “Our plans are what matters. We shall not be stopped.”

  Another grunt. Lord Rictor’s stone hand gripped the railing, crushing the wood.

  “Please remain calm, my lord. I am certain we can properly motivate the beast with the right incentives,” said Corza, afraid that his intended prized possession would be snatched from under him by the greedy claws of death’s reaper.

  “Alright, alright!” said the Stone King, forcefully. “Alive, preferably alive.”

  Lord Rictor panted heavily, his pain seeming to subside. Corza watched the man straighten up, then methodically readjust his clothes. Once decent, Lord Rictor turned his gaze on Corza once more.

  “What are you still doing here?” snarled the Stone King.

  Corza looked down at his bleeding stump, swallowing an angry response.

  “You can count on me, milord. I’ve got multiple plans in motion. You’ll see; before you know it, I’ll have returned to you with that dragon by my side.”

  And it will be the last damn thing you’ll ever see.

  Lord Rictor cleared his throat and turned back to stare at the lights of the city again.

  “We will see. Now, take the rowboat back to the city and find a healer for that finger of yours. I do not want any more of your bloodstains spread out all over my ship.”

  Chapter 9

  Resistance

  “Everything is ready, my king.”

  The voice whispered near the edge of silence. King Baltor had to strain his ears to catch the words.

  A small smile formed on the king’s face. He lay on a bed of straw on the floor, his back to the doorway where a Doskovian soldier kept an eye on him and the small servant who was allowed to bring Bogoris his food. The king knew the servant well; a thin, bony man, whose back was bent from walking the low dungeon tunnels for many years.

  At first, the King of Iron had been comfortable in one of the larger guest rooms in the castle, but after a failed attempt to free him, the Stone King deemed it necessary to relocate him to the dungeons. The underground complex was harder to reach and, in all, not a very pleasant place to stay. The prison was constructed from old mining tunnels, on which the Castle of Tal’Kabur was built. It was cold and damp, with little light or fresh air, not to mention unsafe; the tremors that plagued the island had caused collapses in more than one of the tunnels over the past year. It was clear that Lord Rictor hoped to discourage further rescue attempts from the soldiers of Tal’Kabur.

  “How many?” whispered King Baltor as softly as possible.

  “Plenty. Sire.” The man added the last word quickly, uncertain if he should keep up with formalities. The old servant crawled closer, pretending to clear out yesterday’s wooden plate. “I’m told more forces will be waiting in the forest, just outside the city. White smoke will signal them to begin their attack. We’ll be ready for your signal.”

  The King of Iron sat up and turned around, pretending to look at the food the man had brought.

  “Thank you, Linus. This is much appreciated,” said the imprisoned king in a normal voice. “Are they treating you well?”

  “That’s enough,” bellowed the soldier.

  Hastily, the man retreated from the cell. The Doskovian soldier slammed the door shut behind him.

  King Baltor reached out to grab a piece of bread, but stopped when he saw his own dirty hand. Though it had only been a week, the filth of the dungeon had made quick work of King Baltor’s clean clothes—or at least the clothes he had been allowed to keep, which basically amounted to a nightshirt. The thin fabric gave no comfort against the stale dungeon air or the cold, stone floor from which his straw bed provided little protection. The cold numbed his body, making it impossible to rest without waking up stiff and aching all over. The little food he received was barely enough to keep his strength up, let alone warm his body. If not for the knowledge of the resistance forming, the King of Iron would have felt utterly lost.

  Those who remained with the resistance first made contact with a small, written note, hidden in his food, a few days after the king's transfer to the dungeons. Being cut off from the outside world, he welcomed any news about the status of his family and people. Linus had not been able to tell him much, but at least Bogoris knew his wife and daughter were doing well. Of Bronson there was no news, which made the king fear the worst. He suspected his son had been at the forefront of the first rescue attempt, which meant the Doskovians probably held him responsible.

  The King of Iron looked at the bowl of gruel and piece of stale bread in front of him. Sometimes an apple or piece of cheese made its way to him, hidden in one of the many pockets Linus seemed to have in his clothes, but not today.

  A pair of beady eyes twinkled in the darkest corner of the cell. It amazed King Baltor how some corners still looked much darker than others with the little light there was. While his thoughts wandered, there came the sound of little nails clicking across the stone floor. A rat carefully approached the plate of bread, sticking its nose in the air to check its surroundings. Satisfied, the rat sprang forward, quickly covering the last stretch to its intended meal.

  The king’s dirty hands shot through the air and snatched the bread from the wooden plate. Four tiny feet scurried back into the darkest corner and disappeared into a crack in the wall.

  “Not today, my little friend. I will need my strength for the upcoming fight.”
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  Bogoris Baltor ripped off a chunk and started vigorously chewing on it. It would take a while before the bread was moist enough to swallow, but he had an obligation to his people. He needed to stay strong. Soon. Soon, they would look to him to give the signal to start their fight for liberation.

  Linus limped through the low tunnels. Torch in hand, he passed door after door until he reached the small stairway back up to the guardhouse. He glanced behind as he heard one of the prisoners scream. The stairs had a nostalgic feel to them. His eyes did not work as they used to, but his feet knew the way well. Every crack, every bump in the stone was an old friend—and sometimes an old nemesis.

  The royal family had always been kind to him. Even now, when his malformed bones started to ache more every day. The princess had even thanked him for coming to her rescue with a broken mirror. She was such a gentle soul. He had seen her grow up and blossom in a wonderful young human being, full of life. Just like the other children of the king and queen. They were a proud family, keen to lift others up instead of bringing them down. Linus felt appreciated, which was a nice gift for him in his old age.

  The princess, he thought fondly. It always brightened his day when she required his help.

  He had many tasks in the castle, many more than people usually thought. That was no surprise; often, his tasks were done far from the everyday comings and goings of the castle. Someone had to make sure the lower levels kept their charm. Doors needed to be oiled, but not so much that they lost their characteristic squeak. Rats needed to be caught so that the castle was not overrun by them, but one or two certainly gave the lower levels a bit of…ambiance.