by Luke Scull
Cole had seen the Core earlier that day. The blue orb of permanent energy had been created by Salazar many years ago at an exorbitant cost of raw magical material. When connected to the platform that floated a hundred yards to port, the Core would cause the gigantic drill underneath the platform to rotate at unimaginable speeds, tearing up the sea bed faster than a hundred men with picks and axes. Of course, the machine still required that divers identify spots for drilling, as well as gather up the loosened material and place it in nets to be hauled to the surface.
‘How long before we move?’ asked Cole. Nightfall was almost upon them.
‘A half-bell,’ replied Three-Finger. ‘They’re going to take Soeman over to the platform now and have him test the drill.’
‘Perfect,’ replied Cole. If Soeman could cause the Core to malfunction and start a blaze on the platform, the soldiers over on both ships would need to cross over to investigate. In the ensuing confusion, the twelve conspirators would make for Red Bounty’s rowing boats and then the undefended carrack nearby. They would overpower the crew, and then cut and run. Red Bounty would never catch them.
A thought occurred to the young Shard. ‘What about Soeman?’ he asked. ‘He’ll be stuck on the platform.’
Three-Finger shrugged. ‘If the man has any sense, he’ll leap off and swim for the Redemption.’
‘Good enough for me,’ said Cole, though he still felt a certain amount of trepidation. What if the engineer’s obvious lack of backbone caused him to falter at the last moment? Not everyone possessed the iron resolve he had been blessed with. ‘And the weapons?’ he asked. This was an important part of the plan.
Three-Finger grinned again. The scabrous convict only ever seemed to smile when the topic involved inflicting misery on someone.
‘You see that barrel over there? The third one in? There’s more than water inside it. Six pickaxes, four hand axes, a hatchet and a crowbar, to be precise. All gear capable of smashing a man’s head in.’
Cole rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. Everything was going exactly as he predicted. If only Garrett had possessed the foresight to acknowledge the brilliance of his young charge, the Shards would probably have liberated Dorminia already.
Three-Finger scratched at his festering cheek. ‘Are you sure about this, kid? I’m seeing some margin for error if things don’t go to plan. We’ll need to be ready for a fight if it comes to it.’
Cole rolled his shoulders and clenched his fists as if a fight was exactly what he was hoping for. In actual fact, he had slipped off into pleasant thoughts of Sasha and her reaction when he told her about his heroics. He could hardly wait to see the adulation in those dark eyes-
‘Kid?’ said Three-Finger again. ‘I asked if you were ready for a fight.’
He tore himself away from his daydream. ‘I was born ready,’ he replied, as grimly as he could manage. ‘And my name’s Davarus Cole. Don’t you forget it.’
Three-Finger narrowed his eyes. ‘If you say so. We’d best get into position. The show’s about to start.’
Ten minutes later the conspirators were crowded near the railing, watching the platform floating out at sea. Soeman was there, along with Armin and two of his assistants. The engineer was bending over a metal frame situated next to the base of the drill. The rest of the huge contraption was submerged in the water below. Soeman fiddled with the frame for a moment, and then took the glass box housing the Core from Armin and motioned at the other engineers to step back. He bent down and placed the glowing blue orb inside the frame.
There was an instant humming noise and the sensation of energy gathering in the air. Cole felt his hair standing on end. The smell of sulphur reached his nostrils.
With a monstrous whine the base of the drill began to turn. It spun faster and faster, until the whole platform vibrated beneath it. The magical core was first a vibrant blue, and then an odd shade of purple, and finally all colour bled from it until it became a white sphere bright enough to make Cole’s eyes water.
There was a blinding flash of light like a small sun exploding. Suddenly the night sky was lit by fire. Tongues of flame lapped greedily across the platform. Armin was on his knees, his two assistants smouldering gently nearby. Soeman had disappeared, apparently vaporized by the energy unleashed from the malfunctioning Core.
Concerned shouts went out all over Red Bounty. A boat was lowered. Cole glanced across at the Redemption and saw the explosion had also caught the attention of the soldiers on the carrack. They began to board their own boat. Everything was going as planned.
‘Now!’ he shouted to the men around him. As one, they ran over to the barrel where they had spent the best part of a day secretly stashing implements for the bloody work to come. Cole reached in and pulled out the crowbar. Damn it.
The boat from Red Bounty reached the wreck of the platform at the same time as the vessel from the Redemption drew level with the big cog. The voice of Falcus hissed at them from the boat. ‘What happened? Someone put those fires out!’
Cole took stock of the situation. Red Bounty’s small crew were standing around gaping at the burning platform, completely oblivious to the mutiny happening on their ship. This was the moment.
‘Make for the boat!’ he yelled. He bounded across the deck, leaping over coils of rope and piles of crates. The cog’s second rowing boat was secured near the mizzenmast. Three-Finger and Jack fell upon it with hatchet and axe, cutting away the lines that held it in place. The twelve men lifted the boat above their heads and lowered it over the side of the ship with a splash. Jack fetched up a coil of rope and tied one end to the railing. Then he hurled the rest over the side, where it unravelled all the way down to the water.
‘Down the rope,’ Cole yelled. Each of the prisoners took hold of the rope and slid down into the waiting boat. It was only designed to carry eight passengers but they piled in regardless, each man grabbing an oar and paddling for dear life towards the Redemption in the distance.
We’re going to do this, thought Cole in elation. After what seemed like an eternity they reached the carrack. There was a grappling hook in the boat, and Jack threw it with masterful aim so that it snagged the prow of the ship above them. One by one they scaled the rope and climbed up onto the deck of the Redemption.
A young sailor stared at the newcomers with confusion. ‘Hey, what are you doing-’ he began, but Three-Finger’s hatchet took him in the middle of the head and split his face in half.
Captain Kramer ran over, flanked by two soldiers who hadn’t boarded the boat sent to investigate the burning platform. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.
Cole stepped forwards. ‘We’re taking this ship, Captain. Turn her around and sail due west immediately.’
Kramer’s jaw clenched and he ground his teeth together as if he was trying to chew rocks. ‘Not a chance! Men, kill these bastards!’
The two Watchmen raised their swords and were met by Three-Finger, Jack and four other captives. It was brief and bloody. The soldiers were better armed, but the escapees were desperate and outnumbered the red-cloaked soldiers three to one.
The man whose teeth had been shattered took a sword through the chest, but the Watchmen were soon stabbed, bludgeoned and stomped to death by the remaining runaways.
The Redemption’s small crew had fetched their weapons in the melee. They now stood facing the escapees uncertainly. Three-Finger had an arm around Kramer’s throat, the edge of his hatchet tickling the captain’s chin. ‘Tell your men to back off and turn this ship around,’ he snarled.
‘Fuck yourself,’ Kramer replied.
Three-Finger’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,’ he said, ‘but whatever it was, it doesn’t come halfway near the truth. I can do things to you that’d make a trained soldier piss his pants. Turn this ship around or I’ll decorate it with your body parts. Beginning with your cock.’ The convict withdrew the hatchet from Kramer’s neck and positioned it just ab
ove his groin.
The disgraced admiral swallowed and eventually his shoulders sagged. ‘All hands to deck,’ he commanded his crew, his voice full of resignation. ‘We sail west.’
The Redemption’s crew responded immediately to the order. Cole watched Red Bounty anxiously, expecting to see boats full of Crimson Watchmen closing on them at any moment, but the soldiers were still busy trying to put out the flames on the floating platform. Soon they were under way. With the wind strong in her sails the Redemption would soon outpace even the most determined team of rowers.
‘Movement portside,’ yelled Jack. ‘A hundred yards distant.’
Cole squinted at the dark shape bobbing slowly in their direction. The last of the light had almost fled and every second put more space between them, but the struggling figure was unmistakable.
Soeman.
He seemed to be slowing down. Every so often the engineer would dip below the waves only to emerge again a moment later.
Three-Finger wandered over to the bow and stood next to Cole. ‘Now that’s rotten timing,’ the convict said. He flashed that evil smile of his. ‘He won’t ever make it. We’re not even at half speed yet and he’s falling behind.’
Cole shifted uncomfortably. ‘We can’t just leave him there. He risked his life for us.’
The convict narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t be foolish, kid. If we heave to, the Bounty will catch us. Soeman’s missed his opportunity.’
Cole stared around him at his crew. They were looking at him. Looking to him, no doubt. There was only one thing to do.
‘No man gets left behind,’ he said loudly. ‘I’m going after him.’
Three-Finger scowled. ‘What’s wrong with you? Soeman’s a dead man walking. You saw his cough. Why be a hero?’
Cole drew himself up to his full height and shot Three-Finger his best steely gaze. ‘It’s the only thing I know how to be.’
The young Shard ignored the flash of irritation on Three-Finger’s face and his muttered ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Tell the helmsman to slow the ship and bring her around to the north,’ he ordered. ‘Give me five minutes. If we’re not back by then, sail as though your lives depend on it.’
Sucking in one final deep breath, he pushed himself up over the railing and dived into the rolling water far below.
Troubling Times
‘And what is your opinion on this matter, Supreme Augmentor?’
The question snapped Barandas out of his pleasant reverie. He glanced across at Grand Magistrate Timerus, who sat with his elbows propped up on the table and his palms pressed together in front of his face, one eyebrow raised expectantly. What had the man been blathering on about?
Ah yes, our prospects in a war with Thelassa.
Barandas cleared his throat. ‘Our navy has been destroyed. However, Thelassa has never possessed much of a fleet — and, if the rumours we have been hearing are true, the White Lady has secured the services of no less than three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia. The men from the Sun Lands have little taste for maritime warfare.’
‘What are you saying, Supreme Augmentor?’ persisted Timerus. ‘That we have nothing to fear from our neighbour in the Trine?’
Barandas sighed. ‘I am saying that trying to rebuild our navy is likely a waste of time. The White Lady will seek to invade over land, not sea.’
‘And when might we expect this invasion?’
‘Sumnian mercenary companies are famously expensive. The Magelord of Thelassa will not want them sitting idle for long.’
Chancellor Ardling raised a hand. He was a grey man, with white hair, thick silvery eyebrows and a sickly complexion. Even his magistrate’s robes were the colour of charcoal, boasting none of the devices displayed on those of the twelve other magistrates seated around the massive darkwood table in the Grand Council Chamber. He might be capable of making a corpse seem vivacious, but Ardling was a shrewd master of coin and managed Dorminia’s coffers with the deftness of a virtuoso. Money was said to be his only passion. His wife had reportedly committed suicide by leaping from the top of their five-storey mansion, and the only noticeable effect it had on her husband was his slight air of frustration at needing to hire additional house staff.
‘Our treasury is near depleted,’ the Chancellor was saying now in his monotone voice. ‘We simply cannot afford to invest more coin in the construction of ships. Last year’s harvest was poor, and a considerable sum of gold has been earmarked to pay for produce imported from the Free Cities. We still owe Emmering in excess of one thousand spires.’
‘Pah,’ spat Marshal Halendorf of the Crimson Watch. ‘Who cares how much we owe? What’s Emmering going to do, demand we hand it over?’ He winced and rubbed at his stomach as he spoke.
Barandas narrowed his eyes at the commander of Dorminia’s army. In his estimation, Halendorf was neither a socially inept genius like Ardling nor a cruel but competent schemer like Timerus. He was a buffoon. How the man had reached his current position was anyone’s guess.
‘We are not the only ones to trade with the Unclaimed Lands,’ Timerus said. ‘If we fail to pay our debts, the Free Cities will simply cease to do business with us. Any attempt on our part to bully them will be met with hostility from the Confederation. We do not need more enemies.’
‘No,’ whispered the Tyrant of Dorminia. ‘We do not.’
The chamber fell silent. All eyes turned to the wizard in the high-backed obsidian throne at the head of the table.
Three days had passed since the destruction of Shadowport, and the Magelord still appeared almost as exhausted as he had then. The colossal energies he had harnessed to flatten the city under the waters of its own bay had left a permanent scar on Salazar. And the damage wasn’t just physical. There was a distracted look in those ancient eyes.
‘The Confederation has made its position clear,’ he said. ‘Their rulers will tolerate no interference in the business of the Free Cities. It seems the brotherhood we once shared is no longer of any value to them.’
Barandas was well aware of the frustration his master felt for the cabal of Magelords who ruled the lands far to the east. The Confederation was hundreds of miles away, but the influence it extended seemed to reach into every pocket of the continent.
Salazar leaned forwards slightly. Barandas found himself inching backwards. He saw other magistrates doing the same.
‘If the White Lady desires war, war is what she will receive,’ snarled the Tyrant of Dorminia. His hands curled into fists. They were so thin and wrinkled that together with his long nails they resembled withered claws.
‘That accursed woman always was unpredictable. She sided with the Congregation when they declared war on magic.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When she finally decided to change sides, it was with a fury that would shame Tyrannus himself.’
Tyrannus. Barandas recognized that name. The god known as the Black Lord was one of the last of the thirteen Primes to perish in the Godswar. A score of mages were said to have died in order to bring him down, strangled with their own entrails or turned into piles of oozing flesh after their skeletons had been torn whole from their bodies. The image made even him queasy, and he had seen some awful things over the years.
Thurbal’s gruesome handiwork back at the abandoned temple wormed his way into his mind. Barandas closed his eyes and tried to think instead of Lena and the morning they had spent together. He still had the scent of jasmine on his fingers.
‘This is the Age of Ruin,’ Salazar intoned. ‘We cannot afford to compromise. Marius made a mistake in opposing me, but he understood the necessity of claiming the Celestial Isles. Year after year crops fail. The waters of the Broken Sea retch up as many dead fish as they do living. Our existing supplies of raw magic are almost exhausted. We cannot leach from the corpses of gods forever. We need those isles.’
Tolvarus cleared his throat suddenly. He was in charge of Dorminia’s judicial system, such as it was — a particularly sick joke given he possessed a
well-known penchant for young boys. ‘My lord, I cannot help but consider the potential in a more considered exploration of the… ah, land across the Endless Ocean. I know the voyage presents many challenges, not least of which is the sheer distance one must cross. However, Admiral Kramer was adamant that with the right preparations-’
‘No.’
The Magelord uttered the word with the finality of a coffin lid slamming shut. Tolvarus blanched and looked at the floor. ‘You will not speak of the Fadelands. None of you. The next man who dares defy me on this will be sentenced to death.’
Barandas swallowed hard. Admiral Kramer had received a similar reaction when he had broached the subject a year ago. Tolvarus was either very brave or extremely forgetful.
The silence was broken by Salazar. ‘Magistrate Ipkith. I would hear your report on Thelassa, including all information pertinent to a possible military confrontation. First, however, I believe you have news to share.’
The red-bearded Master of Information ran a hand over his shaved pate. ‘I received a report earlier this morning. Farrowgate came under attack yesterday afternoon. Another magical abomination. It killed scores of villagers. Men, women and children. I am led to believe that it… ravaged them internally, my lord.’
Salazar nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘The Augmentor Rorshan had been stationed at Farrowgate. I understand he was one of those… recently dispossessed of his magic.’ Ipkith’s voice trailed off into silence.
Barandas winced. Rorshan. A good man. One of the few I have. Had, he corrected himself.
The Magelord pursed his lips. ‘We are in the process of recovering raw magic to create new Augmentors. These things take time. What news do you have of the Rift, Barandas?’
Here it comes. He had been dreading this. ‘Legwynd has not yet returned, my lord,’ he said. ‘However, I believe two of the men who accompanied the insurrectionists were Highlanders. Formidable men, I am led to understand. They apparently killed two of the Watch in broad daylight.’