Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles)

by May, K. C.

  Pharson nodded once. “It’s out of our hands. He’s conferred with his superiors over how to handle it. My guess is he’ll send a team of assassins to take care of the problem. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Get on up there as soon as you’re finished with supper.”

  Boden stopped by the well pump for another cup of water to drink and one to pour over the top of his sweaty head. When the dinner bell rang, he headed to the mess hall and ran into Rasmus coming out of his tent, as well as Korlan. They lined up to receive their rations.

  “Glad to see you up and about,” Boden said. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Thanks, brother. Hungry. The physician said all I need now is food to replenish the blood I lost.”

  “So you’re fully healed?” Rasmus asked.

  Korlan told them the physician had given him leave to walk around, participate in light drills, and do small errands, though he was forbidden to fight until his wound was fully healed. They got their food and sat together at a table to eat. Korlan’s hunger was wolfish, as was his mood, especially whenever someone stopped by to pat his shoulder and welcome him back to the living, but Boden was confident Korlan would find his old humor.

  “What was it like?” Rasmus asked. “Dying, I mean.”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it, all right?” he said with a scowl. “Quit asking me.”

  “You can see it from our perspective, can’t you?” Rasmus asked. “It’s like the boy who gets to take the prettiest girl in town as his First Wife, and all the other boys want to know what it was like in her wedding bed.”

  “No,” Korlan grumbled.

  “Are you a believer now?” Boden asked Rasmus with a teasing smile.

  Rasmus took another bite of meat. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his mouth full. “Does the godfruit really taste that bad?”

  “No, brother. We were pulling your leg.” Boden winked at Korlan but got no response.

  “It can’t be worse than those yellow beans we had the other night,” Rasmus said.

  Boden barked a laugh. “Isn’t that the truth? Hey, Kor, will you be up to scouting tonight? Pharson wants you to go with me.”

  Korlan paused eating to stare into his bowl for a moment. “Yah. Sitting on a horse beats sleeping.”

  The stable hand already had Fidget dressed by the time Boden got there, and so he stroked the horse’s muscular neck and inquired about how the hay was while he waited for Korlan. The sun had set, but there was still enough daylight to ride without lamps or torches.

  “Sorry,” Korlan said, jogging over. “My tentmates kept me.”

  The stable hand brought Korlan’s horse, and the two men mounted up, Korlan with a bit of a groan. They rode though camp at a walk, then trotted south toward the rocky coast.

  “I don’t think I ever thanked you for trying to save me yesterday.”

  Boden shrugged. “You’d have done the same for me.”

  “Thanks for keeping Rasmus off my ass about the dying bit, too. He can be pretty relentless at times.”

  “He’s curious, that’s all.” Boden was, too, but he knew that sometimes it was easier to wait until a man was ready to talk than to constantly badger him. His own repeated questions to his father about his second enlistment had gotten him nowhere.

  “Boden, promise me you won’t eat the godfruit.”

  “You’re going to have to give me more to go on than a plea. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because it does something to you. I’m not sure what, exactly, but I can feel it. I’m different now.”

  “Maybe that’s because you died. They say near-death experiences change a man. Maybe it’s like that.”

  “It’s more than that,” Korlan said. He fell silent for a moment. “I think I’m still dead.”

  Boden turned to regard his friend. “That’s mad. You’re not dead, Kor.”

  “How do you know?”

  Unnerved by what his friend had said, Boden tried levity. “Because you don’t stink any worse now than you did the day I met you.”

  Korlan didn’t crack a smile. “I’m serious. Don’t you see something different when you look into my eyes?”

  Yes. He had, but it wasn’t something Boden could put into words. He thought Korlan had simply been deeply disturbed by the experience. “You died. That’s bound to change the way you see life.”

  “Never mind,” Korlan said. “You wouldn’t understand. Just... don’t eat it anymore, all right? If you trust me at all, don’t eat it.”

  Boden trusted him. When it came to their common goal of defending the Tree, he trusted all the soldiers in his unit, but he couldn’t deny what he’d seen with his own eyes. A frightening experience was worth a second chance at going home.

  When they reached the cliff’s edge, they both looked down at the rocky beach below. From there, Boden could see the foamy water as the waves slapped the shore below and crashed into the jutting rocks of the Dragon’s Tail. Below and to the left, the cliff jutted out farther than it did directly below him, hiding potential smugglers or assassins. He headed east to see if he could get a better view.

  “Don’t go far,” Korlan said. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you, only to find your smashed body on those rocks down below.”

  “I’m going to get a look over here. I’ll still be in shouting distance.”

  He walked Fidget roughly a hundred paces and reassured himself that no warriors were swarming up the mountain face. A fog was rolling in from the north, obscuring the Tree’s dark form in the distance and the camp down the hill. The moon hung low in the deepening southern sky. He stopped to listen, thinking he’d heard something.

  “Boden!” It was Korlan’s voice, shouting.

  He turned Fidget and heeled the horse to a canter, thinking his friend had seen the suspicious wagon with another load of crates. He should have warned him not to engage them, but he hadn’t wanted to bring it up unless he had to.

  As he neared, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Damn it, Korlan.

  Boden urged his horse to a gallop and soon came upon Korlan fighting someone at the top of the cliff. In the distance, a horse-drawn wagon was speeding away, gradually disappearing into the fog.

  Boden pulled Fidget to a hard stop and slid from the saddle, drawing the moment his feet hit the ground. He ran to his friend’s aid, and between the two of them, they easily dispatched the swordsman.

  Several lumpy sacks were piled beside the steep path that led down to the beach, and one had spilled its contents. Godfruit, as Boden had suspected.

  “There are three more below,” Korlan said. He started down the path.

  “Korlan, wait,” Boden called after him. “We should report them, not engage them.”

  “But they’ll get away.”

  Damn it. Boden followed Korlan down. Below, he spotted three men carrying sacks atop their shoulders. Their steps were sluggish with the extra weight, but the fact that they didn’t drop the bags and flee told Boden the value of their booty was worth risking their lives. Boden half-ran, half-slid down the slope, sword drawn. Ahead of him, Korlan caught up with the slowest one and swung his sword downward at the sack. The cloth ripped open, and godfruit tumbled to the ground. The man kept running.

  The leader bent low, put one hand on a rock, and jumped down, then sprinted down a more gradual slope in the face of the cliff, followed closely by the second. The slow one grunted and stumbled, falling onto his belly. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Korlan was upon him, his blade poking the man’s back. “Move and you’re dead.”

  Boden ran past Korlan and the fallen thief. The other two were getting away. He hopped down the four feet or so off the top rock and followed the path down as quickly as he dared. His feet slipped a time or two, but he managed to regain his footing with his left hand on the rocks. Below, the first man was slowing, his footsteps and breathing more labored. He glanced up at Boden and kept
running, picking up his pace.

  The men headed to a small boat that was canted to one side where it rested on the rocky beach. He dropped his bag of godfruit into the boat, pushed it backward into the water, and jumped in. He worked the oar desperately, trying first to turn the boat about, and then to paddle away.

  The second man called for him to wait. He plunged into the shallow water at a run but was slowed considerably when the water reached his knees. Boden pounded the rocky beach, desperate to keep him from getting away.

  “Take it,” the second man yelled. He tossed his bag of godfruit, but it landed shy of the boat. The first man reached for it, tipped the boat, and fell over the side into the frothy water.

  Boden sheathed his sword and ran as far as he could into the water and then dove forward and swam. All the years he’d spent living on the sea and swimming against the sometimes strong currents paid off. He grabbed the second thief as he swam for the boat. At first, the thief fought him, but Boden drew his dagger, and plunged it into the man’s side. The struggles weakened. Warmth mixed with cold over Boden’s hand as he stabbed the man again and again. The body went limp, and he let it go as he looked over the choppy water for the boat.

  Boden swam to it, still gripping his dagger. The last thief was trying to climb over the side. The boat tipped, filling with water, and the thief clawed desperately at the opposite edge, kicking at Boden as he did.

  One foot slammed into Boden’s face hard enough to make him see stars, but he didn’t let go of the man’s arm. He clawed his way up the man’s body, grabbing him by the shirt. The boat began to sink, and the thief let go and started pummeling Boden with his free hand. Boden took a deep breath and dragged the man underwater with him. After a good half-minute of wrestling and then frantic slapping and clawing with bubbles tickling Boden’s face from below, the thief went still.

  Boden pushed him away and swam to the surface, gasping for a breath as soon as he broke. He took a few more breaths before going down again for his foe. He grabbed the limp man by the shirt collar and hauled him up to the surface, then swam back to shore.

  Heavy from the weight of his wet clothes and tired from the battle, he sat for a moment on the rocky beach to catch his breath, the drowned thief at his feet. He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly, relieved to find Korlan.

  “You got both of them?”

  “I did,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  Korlan pushed the drowned thief over with his booted foot. “Can’t be Arynd-ban; he’s got no tattoos. Got to be Mangendan.”

  “Other one’s dead?” Boden asked.

  “Yah. Kind of hard to breathe with holes in your lungs.”

  Boden looked his friend over. “You’re not supposed to be fighting. How do you feel?”

  “Sore, but I’ll heal. You hurt?”

  Boden touched his cheekbone where the thief had kicked him. He’d probably have a bruise tomorrow. “I’m all right.”

  “Can you believe they were stealing godfruit? With all the pickers loading wagons, and all the wagons coming and going to and from the Tree, it’s no wonder no one failed to notice an extra.”

  “Yah. Smugglers. Can you keep a secret?”

  Korlan looked at Boden flatly. “Do I look like Rasmus?”

  Boden smiled at the jest. “A couple of weeks ago, when I was out here with Pharson, I spotted four men hauling crates like these. He wouldn’t go after them, wouldn’t let me go after them. He told me he’d report it to Turounce and ordered me to keep it to myself. I have to wonder whether he reported it at all.”

  “Whoa,” Korlan said. “Are these the same men?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at them. I sure hope they are. Otherwise, the problem is bigger than a few thieves trying to make money.”

  Boden pulled his journal from the bottom of his knapsack and hid it under his shirt. He took his lead pen and a knife and headed to the privy, about a minute’s walk from the rest of the camp. Instead of going into the outbuilding, he checked behind him to see if anyone was watching, then ducked behind it.

  The smell was rank, and he occasionally had to listen to someone grunting inside, but it was the most private place he’d found on an island with only one tree, except for the shore. Finding a plausible explanation for going there alone was problematic.

  He sat on the dry, packed dirt and leaned his back against the side of the building, unwound the string from around the tip of the graphite stick, and whittled the tip to give it an edge. With his journal open across his knees, he began to write.

  On patrol duty last night, to the south, Korlan discovered four men stealing sacks of godfruit. They were headed to a small boat beached on the rocky shore below, each one carrying a full sack of godfruit. Despite the physician’s orders not to fight, Korlan engaged one. Together, we cut him down fairly easily. The others fled, and Korlan went after them.

  When he caught up with the slowest of them, he first spilled his sack of stolen godfruit and then spilled his guts. The second and third nearly got away. One was already in the boat, paddling for his life, and the second was behind him.

  I went after him, swimming as hard as I ever had, and managed to kill him with my dagger. I don’t remember everything in the proper order, but somehow the boat started filling with water, and I took a couple of blows to the face that gave me a black eye. I got hold of the thief who’d fallen out of the boat and held him underwater until he drowned, nearly drowning myself in the process. I got my breath and dragged his corpse to shore, but there was no saving the godfruit.

  I wanted to hide the corpses, but Korlan thought we should carry them up top to show the commander. We argued about it for a good half hour, each of us convinced we were right. I had to confess that I’d seen smugglers before, and when I reported the incident to Corporal Pharson, I was told in no uncertain terms to forget what I thought I saw and mention it to no one. In the end, I convinced him that, until we knew what was going on, it was best to hide the bodies and act like we knew nothing of their demise.

  It worries me that our leadership knows about the smuggling and does nothing about it. If godfruit is being given or sold to our enemies, the Serocian soldiers no longer have the advantage in battle. The godfruit enables us to survive a deadly blow, essentially doubling our number of fighters, but if the Mangendans, Baraders, and Arynders also have it, then it could be decades before either force starts to run out of men to fight the war.

  I’ve been in the Legion only a few weeks, and yet I’ve seen at least four smugglers. How many have I not seen? How many other soldiers have seen them, reported them, and were told to pretend it never happened?

  If someone is selling the godfruit, they’re profiting from this war. Does Turounce’s captain know? Does his major or chief? Could they be trading men’s lives for gold coins and prolonging a war instead of negotiating its end? The thought of it turns my stomach, but what am I to do?

  Boden stopped writing to squeeze his eyes shut, pinch his lips tightly together, and wish none of it was true. “God’s Challenger,” he whispered. “What am I to do?”

  He heard footsteps in the grass and froze. Voices grew louder, more distinct.

  “Who found them?” someone asked.

  The privy door opened with a squeak of its rusty hinges and then banged shut.

  “Mercer and Potts,” said the unmistakably deep voice of Staff Sergeant Krogh. “Potts said he saw one of them washed ashore, stabbed to death. The others they found on the beach, hidden under some rocks and seaweed.”

  Damn, Boden thought, his eyes widening. That was quick.

  “Who was on patrol last night?” the first man said.

  “Sayeg and Rastorfer.”

  The sound of liquid streaming into a pit of wet waste followed.

  “Ask Adept Orfeo to witness them while they were on patrol. If Sayeg was involved in this, so help me...”

  “Yes, sir,” said Krogh. The only man the staff sergeant would call sir was
Turounce himself.

  Boden’s heart raced. He was about to be observed killing those two smugglers. In retrospect, maybe it would’ve been better if they’d come forward instead of trying to hide the bodies. Those men had been thieves, and Boden was only doing his duty. How could they find fault with that?

  “Pharson’s looking for you,” said Voster as he passed.

  Boden nodded his thanks and ducked into his tent to quickly replace his journal in the bottom of his knapsack before going out to find the corporal.

  “There you are, Sayeg,” Pharson said. “Turounce wants to see you.”

  Boden followed Corporal Pharson through camp, past the dozens of curious eyes of the men who’d somehow gotten wind of the summons. Judging from the wariness in their eyes and in their long faces, they knew as well as he did that this wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting. How much did they know, he wondered as he searched among the faces for his friends, the ones he knew would stand behind him, the ones who knew him well enough to know he, of all people, was dedicated and beholden to his duty? Would they have done differently in his position?

  At last, he and Pharson reached the door to the command center. The corporal held it open. Boden tapped his boots on the step to knock off the dirt clinging to his soles and stepped inside.

  To the right was the command board, manned by a one-armed soldier, a man who’d chosen to stay and serve in this capacity rather than forfeit his pension to return home before his ten years were up. A decision Boden could respect and admire. To the left, Sergeant Keskinen waited with legs apart and hands clasped behind him.

  “Sayeg,” he said. “Come with me.” He led the way down a narrow corridor and into a room on the left. March Commander Turounce was seated at a table, holding a few papers in his hand. When Boden walked in and saluted, Turounce removed his spectacles and set them on the table.

  “Do you know what this is, Sayeg?” Turounce asked.

  “No, sir.” He’d walked in two seconds earlier. How could he know what the March Commander had been reading? Of course, he wouldn’t ask such a question aloud. It would’ve come off as disrespectful and insubordinate.