The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  I pulled on my ship boots and belted on my cutlass, before turning to a small mirror, leaning on a rickety chair. My long, black hair was matted and sticking up at strange angles. I’d missed a hole as I laced up my tunic, and the leather was twisted, though not enough to make me re-tie it. I shuffled around a bit, smoothing out the worst wriggles in my appearance, tying back my hair, and donning my red cloak.

  I left Young Green Eyes with a lingering kiss, and strode from the first-floor room. As I closed the door I caught a whiff of my armpit. A deep, musty, and thoroughly unpleasant smell slammed into my nostrils, making me wince. It was so bad that the hint of rotten beer actually took the edge off the smell. As I made my way down the narrow staircase, I grunted and flapped my arm, trying to get some air circulating through my tunic, but it wasn’t until I exited the building and felt fresh air that the smell faded into the background.

  Swordfish Bay had changed so much that it seemed like a different place. The rabbit’s warren of dwellings and fishing yards was gone, to be replaced by a muddy field on the coast, with only a handful of wooden buildings, none of which was older than a month. The chaos spawn that attacked the Severed Hand had eaten almost every wooden structure in the hold. Closer to the Wolf House, around one in three buildings still stood. But poorer areas had been swept clean.

  As I huddled under my cloak and strode away through the mud, I felt ghosts all around me, walking the barren expanse in silence, and lamenting everything they’d lost. The break in the glass had changed the air of the Severed Hand, allowing spirits easy access to the realm of form. Anything hostile had been scared off, but lesser spirits of pain and loss still danced through the empty streets, appearing as wisps of dull light, or spectres of the dead, with silent screams plastered on their faces. The Eastron, in their stone dwellings, didn’t have to endure such torments, but the native people had almost all chosen to leave, rather than constantly look at the faces of their dead friends and family.

  Where the mud ended, the dusty stone began, with more intact buildings and recognizable streets. The Wolf House still dominated the skyline, but ground level was almost entirely empty, with all life sucked out of the hold. I entered what used to be the Pup Yards – a large, cobbled courtyard, shrouded in morning mist. I came to a stop, standing alone in the centre of the empty space, and spun around in a slow circle.

  Since I’d killed Ulric, everything could have been a dream. If I’d been allowing myself peace, I could think of worse dreams than drinking and fucking for eight hours. But the peace was slowly disappearing, to be replaced by something more real, as if my dream were turning into something else. My view was blocked by overlooking buildings and low-hanging fog, but I could make out a faint, blue light, darting across my field of vision. I narrowed my eyes as the moving light slowed. This was no spirit of loss or spectre of a dead Pure One, it was something more… Sea Wolf.

  From the encircling mist, two figures coalesced. One walked forwards like a man, the other was low to the ground, and scampered on four legs. They crackled with light-blue wyrd and appeared to come from far away. The two spirits came to a stop in front of me, and the man smiled in recognition. I wanted to smile as well, but the expression quickly became gasped tears, as I dropped to my knees. I’d not seen him for over a month and had thought I’d never see him again.

  “I miss you, Addie,” said the spirit of Jaxon Ice, called the Wisp. “I miss being your friend.” He looked the same as I remembered, with a simple and open expression of happiness on his face. He’d died in pain, but his spirit reflected wisdom and contentment.

  The spectral wolf pup ran at me on uncoordinated legs, and pawed up at my chest. It had shining blue eyes and a gleefully panting mouth. My tear-streaked face couldn’t help but smile, as the fluffy little spirit made my wyrd tingle. It was the Old Bitch of the Sea, newly reformed in the depths of the void.

  “She wanted to meet the Alpha Wolf,” said Jaxon. “And the break in the glass lets us manifest in the realm of form.”

  I wrapped my arm around the wolf pup and scratched behind her ear, receiving an adorable growl for my efforts. The spirit was barely a week old, with virtually no power, but I could feel its near-unlimited potential.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I said, making sure both the spirit and the man took the sentiment. “I’ve got so much to do, and I don’t know if I can do any of it.” I bowed my head, staring at the wolf pup and fighting back more tears. “And you’re both gone. You’re a spirit now. Arthur is dead, Ulric is dead, the Severed Hand is dead. But I’m still alive.”

  The wolf yapped, putting all its limited strength into the sound, and conveying too many emotions for me to understand.

  “You need peace, Addie,” said the Wisp. “Your mind works better when it’s at peace. You will have allies against the Sunken God. When the Alpha Wolf growls, hidden wolves will listen.”

  I moved off my knees and sat down, cradling the yapping puppy, and soothing it into a sprawled repose in my lap. “The fearsome Adeline Brand, brought low by a cute puppy.” I stopped crying and used my stump to wipe the tears from my face. Looking up at Jaxon, I managed a simple smile. “Can you stay a while?” I asked my old friend.

  He shook his head. “I have to take the spirit back to her den-realm and guard her. She’ll be vulnerable until she’s stronger. We hope to return before the end. The Old Bitch of the Sea is part of you, Addie. You and her are one. She rests within you while she regains her strength. Your wyrd flows stronger than any Sea Wolf, perhaps stronger than any Eastron. As time passes, and the wolf grows, you will become more and more spirit… and less and less human. Be wary of this, for you may change without meaning to.”

  5

  The Bloody Halls were different without Lord Ulric Blood. The carpets didn’t seem as red, the black, stone-etched faces didn’t scream quite so loud, and there was no hulking man sitting at the head of the high table. As I sat alone in his place, facing the cavernous room, I felt as if I was dreaming of a time when the fight for the Kingdom of the Fours Claws had already been fought and I was already dead.

  “Adeline,” said Jonas Grief, the barrel-chested master-at-arms. “You should probably say something.”

  I realized I was sitting with the elders of the hold, with two hundred Eastron standing in the hall and waiting for my words. Red cloaks, leather armour, cutlasses, falchions and pensive faces. If Young Green Eyes, Jaxon and the wolf pup had indeed been dreams, I’d just started to wake up. These men and women represented the many thousands of Sea Wolves who had survived the chaos spawn and the battle of Duncan’s Fall, and chosen to remain in the hold. Each one lived under a wide tear in the glass, and were loyal enough to stay at the Severed Hand and follow the Alpha Wolf.

  To my left, Tomas Red Fang scratched at his wrinkled cheek and tried to smile at me. To my right was the master-at-arms, and Wilhelm Greenfire, the High Captain of Moon Rock. Senior duellists and ship captains filled the other seats at the high table, and several Kneeling Wolves stood off to the right. I recognized everyone, but struggled to find a friendly face. I’d tried not to think beyond fighting the First Fang, and the reality of the situation would take a moment to sink in.

  “My lady Alpha Wolf,” said Ingrid Raider, a senior duellist.

  “Give me a moment,” I replied.

  The High Captain coughed politely, and raised an eyebrow. “No one is going to speak for you, First Fang.”

  I shot him a narrow glare. “I asked for a moment, not a sarcastic cunt. I’ll speak when I’m fucking ready.” I spoke with deliberate coarseness, trying to rile him.

  Wilhelm gritted his teeth and struggled to contain his anger at being insulted. It was just the slap to the face that I needed. He’d never attack me, but his aggression woke me up. I gave him a shallow nod of apology, which softened his face, before I stood to address the Bloody Halls.

  “We know each other,” I said plainly, placing my hand on the high table and projecting my voice with a slender caress of w
yrd. “You know who I am and what I’ve done. By all our laws and traditions I can claim the title of First Fang of all Sea Wolves.” I was gratified that I saw more approving faces than disapproving. “But I will not take this title. Our last First Fang was Lord Ulric Blood.” Many bowed their heads, trying to remember the noble warrior they’d once have given their lives for. “His strength and his deeds were great, but his mind couldn’t survive the loss of his son, and I believe that I killed him out of mercy. For his time has passed and we are now a people at war.”

  I bowed my head and looked at the old spirit-master, Tomas Red Fang. He was the wisest man I knew and his reaction was important to me. What I saw was a man who knew the truth, but wrestled with it. Everyone in the Bloody Halls showed a watered-down version of his pinched eyes and stoic demeanour, as if optimism had left the Severed Hand, to be replaced by a coiled spring of resolve.

  “Our time is short,” I stated, letting my voice rise to be heard in every corner of the Wolf House. “I will claim no title, other than the Alpha Wolf, but I will lead us into war. Our fleet grows by the day and it will grow further. When we abandon the Severed Hand, we will sail to Last Port. We will not flee to the void, as many will do. We will stay and defend the realm of form from the Sunken God and the rising sea.” I paused, making sure no one was surprised by this news. “But first, we have a battle closer to home. The varn who sent their chaos spawn to our hold dwell in the Bay of Bliss, and they must be destroyed first. A bastion of the enemy, so close at hand, must be challenged.”

  I nodded at Jonas Grief, indicating it was his time to speak. The master-at-arms stood quickly. “Return to your homes and to your ships. Prepare well, for we sail within the week. Non-combatants will remain here and prepare for our move to Last Port. Everything must be either moved or burned. Once more for the Severed Hand.”

  The sentiment echoed throughout the room, as the assembled Sea Wolves slowly melted out of the Bloody Halls, leaving only the elders and a handful of Kneeling Wolves. Those few hundred who’d heard our words would carry them to all the remaining citizens of the hold, and the evacuation would begin in earnest. Large transport ships were already being loaded with provisions for a long sea voyage, and other smaller ships would contain the worldly possessions of each and every Sea Wolf with us.

  Jonas and I sat back down, with twenty Sea Wolf elders sitting around us. The remaining Kneeling Wolves came to stand before the circular table, forming a ring of stern, concentrated faces. The only exception was Tasha Strong, a young Kneeling Wolf cook and one of my few remaining friends, who smiled warmly at me. She’d been making me breakfast every day for the past week, insisting that I eat properly before my duel with Lord Ulric. Tasha, and another Kneeling Wolf called Lucas Vane, had rescued me from the Bay of Bliss, killing the Sunken Man in the process.

  “You did well, Mistress Brand,” said Tasha, happily, ignoring the grim Sea Wolf faces pointed at her.

  “She did, didn’t she?” agreed Tomas Red Fang. “Clear, concise, a bit morbid, but not too long.”

  Wilhelm Greenfire, the High Captain, and likely the second-most senior Eastron around the table, cleared his throat. He was a short man, like all Greenfires, but had a stern authority in his demeanour. “We have much to plan, my friends. There are ten warships at Laughing Rock, with another six waiting at the Gates of the Moon. Enough for the Bay of Bliss, but we’ll need more to ferry everyone south.”

  One of the other Kneeling Wolves, a moon-faced man, wearing a leather coat, raised his hand. “If I may,” offered Oswald Leaf, eliciting a sneer from the High Captain. “We have twenty ships at Four Claws Folly, being provisioned as we speak.” He gestured to a short, grubby man standing next to him. “This is Charlie Vane, captain of the Lucretia, he’s volunteered to go with you to the Bay of Bliss, while we prepare our fleet. He has two hundred killers, ready for your words.”

  The captain grinned at me. “They call me the War Rat, milady, and I kneel to you.”

  “As do my father and all Kneeling Wolves,” added Oswald Leaf.

  He was the son of Isaiah Leaf, called the Friend, elder of Four Claws Folly, and our closest ally. Their people were often dismissed, but they had proven themselves to me a dozen times over. Tasha had rescued me from the Bay of Bliss, Ozzie had risked his life fighting for the Severed Hand, and Charlie Vane had been on Nowhere when Duncan, the High Captain’s son, had died, detonating his wyrd and killing hundreds. For these reasons and more I allowed them to stand at the high table and address us as equals, though not all Sea Wolves thought this to be wise.

  “We will need you,” I replied, nodding in gratitude. “Our numbers are slight… Perhaps not enough for our task.”

  I assessed the others around the table – a mixture of senior duellists and ship captains, with two of Tomas’s spirit-masters. Ingrid Raider and Vincent Heartfire had been in charge of keeping order in the hold; Captain Jacob Hearth and Siggy Blackeye had been aboard the Black Wave, patrolling the Red Straits, looking for any signs of the enemy and keeping an eye on Nowhere; and Tomas and his spirit-masters had been tirelessly fighting to stop cruel void serpents from flooding into the hold through the break in the glass.

  “How long will the Bay of Bliss take?” asked the elderly spirit-master. “Only you and Mistress Strong have been there, so planning will be difficult, and we can’t stay in this necropolis forever.”

  “Frogs,” said Tasha, smiling awkwardly. “You call them Sunken Men.”

  “Before we get to that,” I said, “let us be clear. We are not assaulting the entire Bay of Bliss. There must be a hundred villages there, peaceful places that have done us no wrong. We are bound for a particular village at the eastern point of the bay. It’s called the Place Where We Hear The Sea, and few natives will go near it.”

  “We’ve seen it from afar,” said Siggy Blackeye, the scowling mistress of the Black Wave. “Looks like a deserted shanty town. Just mud and rotten fishing gear. Until low tide, when you see what’s in the bay. We didn’t get a clear look, but it’s huge and stone, and spread out like a spider’s web.”

  “There were creatures,” added Captain Hearth, in the gruff, suspicious tones of a seasoned captain. “We thought they were big fish at first, but they started crawling over the stone when the tide got low enough. Spiteful looking things.”

  “They must have seen us,” said Siggy. “The Black Wave is a big warship, but they didn’t appear to give a shit. And, by the Bright Lands, I’m glad they didn’t.”

  There was a time when such an admission of fear would have been distasteful. But the Sea Wolves’ eyes had been opened, and we’d been forced to redefine what fear could mean. Tasha and I had both seen the Sunken Men up close, and our descriptions of slimy frog-men had spread quickly. Not just their grotesque appearance, but the disquieting effect they had on the mind. Everyone around the table had heard our accounts.

  “Frogs,” repeated Tasha. “But, don’t worry, you can kill them.” She nodded excitedly, though I could tell she was nervous amongst so many powerful Eastron. A handful of Sea Wolves, led by Ingrid Raider and Wilhelm Greenfire, had begun to murmur their disapproval at the presence of a lowly Kneeling Wolf cook.

  “Fire,” I stated, cutting through the murmurs. “Tasha and Lucas Vane killed one with fire. I was helpless with no wyrd, and two Kneeling Wolves saved my life.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Tomas Red Fang. “This should be emphasized. There’s a varn there who can sap wyrd.”

  “He’s called the Nether One,” I said, remembering the cackling Pure One. “I hope he’s the only one who can do it. He flayed Jaxon’s skin and fed it to his chaos spirits, giving them a taste for Sea Wolf flesh.”

  I’d described what I’d seen in the Temple of Dagon to a few people, and never kept it a secret, but stating it so plainly removed the slightest murmur from the high table. These men and women knew what was at stake, but the last remnant of Sea Wolf arrogance was hard to shake.

  “We burn everything,” offer
ed the High Captain, sitting as upright as his small stature would allow. “Catapults break stone, ballistae deliver fire.” Several captains nodded, and Ingrid Raider thrust out her chin. “But we will need to go ashore, and a force attacking from land would be ideal.”

  “We can help you with that, milord,” grunted Charlie Vane, winking at Wilhelm Greenfire. “My boys and girls are good at burning shit. And they won’t hear us until we want them to.”

  “It needs to be done,” I exclaimed, cutting off any response. “Ten ships sail to the Gates of the Moon within the week. When we return, the Severed Hand should be ready for the voyage to the Sea of Stars. We should have heard from Rys and Lagertha by then.” I looked across the faces around the high table, smiling at Tasha, and conveying absolute conviction to everyone else. “Once more for the Severed Hand.”

  *

  The harbour at Laughing Rock had rarely been so full. The remaining citizens of the Severed Hand believed that any change was good, or at least worth watching. On this occasion, the spectacle they’d gathered to see was the return of Halfdan’s Revenge, one of my father’s fleet from Last Port. The Battle Brand had a precise schedule of when he should send word home, so an unexpected ship was seen as an omen of bad news. I’d sent spirits south, keeping my father informed, but had specifically told him not to weaken his fleet.

  The ten warships at anchor had signalled the approach of the Revenge, and now saluted its slow crawl to the dock. Its hull was of black wood, with flashes of red on the ballistae ports, and dark blue sails. It wasn’t the largest ship in view, but it had a sleek and menacing appearance, with a low draft and a wicked-looking battering ram of jagged metal. The weapon could be lowered by a winch, but when sticking upwards, it resembled a bizarre figurehead.

  “Whose ship is that?” asked Tasha Strong, peering over my shoulder.

  Few ships were actually docked, as the huge wooden platforms had been consumed by chaos spawn. We stood before the only stone jetty in the harbour, a mooring reserved for the largest and most prestigious warships.