Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Oh no. We couldn’t—”

  “Of course you can! You let me sleep under your wagon, and you watch my things when I’m at work. You even let me eat with you.”

  “But three! That’s your whole pay, Ella. You won’t have anything left.”

  “I’ll get by. They feed me at the palace sometimes, and my needs are pretty simple.”

  “But you’ll want a new set of clothes, and you’ll need shoes come winter.”

  “So will your children, and you won’t be able to afford them without an extra three coppers a week.”

  “No, no—we can’t. It’s very nice of you, but—”

  “Ma! Ma! Come quick! It’s Wery!” Finis, the Barkers’ eldest son, raced down the street, shouting as he came. He looked frightened, his eyes filled with tears.

  Lynnette lifted her skirt and ran, Arista chasing after her. They rushed to Coswall Avenue, where a crowd formed outside the bakery. Pushing past the crowd, they saw a boy lying unconscious on the cobblestone.

  “Oh sweet Maribor!” Lynnette cried, falling to her knees beside her son.

  Brice knelt on the stone, holding Wery in his arms. Blood soaked his hands and tunic. The boy’s eyes were closed, his matted hair slick as if dipped in red ink.

  “He fell from the baker’s loft.” Finis answered their unasked question, his voice quavering. “He was pulling one of them heavy flour bags down ’cause the baker said he’d sell us two cups for the price of one if he did. Pa and I told him to wait fer us, but he ran up, like he’s always doing. He was pulling real hard. As hard as he could, and then his hands slipped. He stumbled backward and …” Finis was talking fast, his voice rising as he did until it cracked and he stopped.

  “Hit his head on the cobblestones,” declared a stranger who wore a white apron and held a lantern. Arista thought he might be the baker. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t think the boy would hurt himself like this.”

  Lynnette ignored the man and pried her child from her husband, pulling Wery to her breast. She rocked him as if he were a newborn. “Wake up, honey,” she whispered softly. Tears fell on Wery’s blood-soaked cheeks. “Please, baby, oh for the love of Maribor, please wake up! Please, oh please …”

  “Lynn, honey …” Brice started.

  “No!” she shouted at him, and tightened her grip on the boy.

  Arista stared at the scene. Her throat was tight, and her eyes were filling so quickly that she could not see clearly. Wery was a wonderful boy, playful, friendly. He reminded her of Fanen Pickering, which only made matters worse. But Fanen had died with a sword in his hand, and Wery was only eight and likely had never touched a weapon in his short life. She could not understand why such things happened to good people. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she watched the small figure of the boy dying in his mother’s arms.

  Arista closed her eyes, wiping the tears. When she opened them again, she noticed several people in the crowd backing away.

  Her robe was glowing.

  Giving off a pale light, the shimmering material illuminated those around her with an eerie white radiance. Lynnette saw the glow, and hope flooded her face. She looked up at Arista, her eyes pleading. “Ella, can …can you save him?” she asked with trembling lips and desperate eyes. Arista began to form the word no, but Lynnette quickly spoke again. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can! I’ve always known there was something different about you. The way you talk, the way you act. The way you forget your own name, and that—that robe! You can save him. I know you can. Oh please, Ella.” She paused and swallowed, shaking so hard it made Wery’s head rock. “Oh, Ella, I know—I know it’s so much more than three coppers, but he’s my baby! You’ll help him, won’t you? Please, oh please, Ella.”

  Arista could not breathe. She felt her heart pounding in her ears and her body trembled. Everyone silently watched her. Even Lynnette stopped her pleading. Arista found herself saying through quivering lips, “Lay him down.”

  Lynnette gently lowered Wery’s body, his limbs lifeless, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. Blood continued to seep from the boy’s wound.

  Arista knelt beside him and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. He was still breathing, but it was so shallow, so weak. Closing her eyes, she began to hum. She heard the concerned mutterings of those in the crowd, and one by one, she tuned them out. Arista could sense the heartbeats of the men and women surrounding her, and she forced them out as well. She focused on the sound of the wind. Soft and gentle it blew, swirling between the buildings, across the street, skipping over stones. Above her she felt the twinkle of the stars and the smile of the moon. Her hand was on the body of the boy, but her fingers felt the strings of the instrument she longed to play.

  The gentle wind grew stronger. The swirl became an eddy; the eddy, a whirlwind; and the whirlwind, a vortex. Her hair whipped madly, but she hardly noticed. Before her lay a void, and beyond that was a distant light. She could see him in the darkness, a dull silhouette before the brilliance, growing smaller as he traveled away. She shouted to him. He paused. She strummed the chords and the silhouette turned. Then, with all her strength, she clapped her hands together and the sound was thunder.

  When she opened her eyes, the light from the robe had faded and the crowd was cheering.

  CHAPTER 10

  FALLEN STAR

  Sail ho!” the lookout shouted from the masthead.

  The Emerald Storm was now two weeks out of Aquesta, slipping across the placid waters of the Ghazel Sea. The wind remained blowing from the southwest. Since rounding the Horn of Delgos, they made slow progress. The ship was close hauled, struggling to gain headway into the wind. Mr. Temple kept the top crews busy tacking the ship round, wearing windward, and keeping their course by crossing back and forth, but Hadrian guessed that a quickly walking man could make faster progress.

  It was midmorning, and seamen who were not in the rigging or otherwise engaged in the ship’s navigation were busy scrubbing the deck with sandstone blocks or flogging it dry. All the midshipmen were on the quarterdeck taking instruction in navigation from Lieutenant Bishop. Hadrian heard the lookout’s call as he returned to the galley after delivering the previous evening’s pork grease. Making his way to the port side, he spotted a small white square on the horizon. Bishop immediately suspended class and took an eyeglass to see for himself, then sent a midshipman to the captain’s cabin. The captain emerged so quickly that he was still adjusting his hat as he appeared on the quarterdeck. He paused for a moment, tugged on his uniform, and sniffed the air with a wrinkle of his nose.

  “Lookout report!” he called to the masthead.

  “Two ships, off the port bow, sir!”

  Hadrian looked again, and just as the lookout had reported, he spotted a second sail now visible above the line of the water.

  “The foremost is showing two squares—appears to be a lugger. The farther ship … I’m seeing two red lateen sails, single-decked, possibly a tartane. They’re running with the wind and closing fast, sir.”

  “What flag are they flying?”

  “Can’t say, sir, the wind has them blowing straight at us.”

  Hadrian watched the ships approach, amazed at their speed. Already he could see them clearly.

  “This could be trouble,” Poe said.

  Hadrian had been so intent on the ships that he had failed to notice his assistant appear beside him. The thin rail of a boy was busy tying the black ribbon in his ponytail as he stared out at the vessels.

  “How’s that?”

  “Those red sails.”

  Hadrian looked back out across the water. “And why’s that a problem?”

  “Only the Dacca use them, and they’re worse than any pirates you’ll run across.”

  “Beat to quarters, Mr. Bishop,” the captain ordered.

  “All hands on station!” the lieutenant shouted. “Beat to quarters!”

  Hadrian heard a drumroll as the boatswain and his mates cleared the deck. The midshipmen, dispersed t
o their stations, shouted orders to their crews.

  “Come on!” Poe told him.

  There was a pile of briquettes at the protected center of the forecastle. Hadrian ignited them with hot coals from the galley stove as soon as the surrounding deck had been soaked with seawater. Around it, archers prepped their arrows with oil. Seamen brought dozens of buckets of seawater, along with buckets of sand, and positioned them around the ship. It took only minutes to secure for battle, and then they waited.

  The ships were closer and larger now, but still the flags they flew were invisible. The Storm remained deathly silent, the only sounds coming from the wind, the waves, and the creaking hull. A random gust fluttered the lugger’s flag.

  “They’re flying the Gribbon of Calis, sir!” the lookout shouted.

  “Mr. Wesley,” the captain addressed the midshipman stationed on the quarterdeck. “You’ve studied signals?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Take a glass and get aloft. Mr. Temple, run up our name and request theirs.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Still no one else moved or spoke. All eyes were on the approaching vessels.

  “Lead vessel is the Bright Star. Aft vessel is …” Wesley hesitated. “Aft vessel isn’t responding, sir.”

  “Two points aport!” the captain shouted abruptly, and Wyatt spun the wheel, weathering the ship as close to the wind as possible, heading them directly toward the lugger. The top-men went into action like a hundred spiders, crawling along the shrouds, working to grab every bit of wind possible.

  “New signal from the Bright Star,” Wesley shouted. “Hostile ship astern!”

  Small streaks of smoke flew through the otherwise clear sky. The tartane was firing arrows at the Bright Star, but the shots fell short, dropping into the sea a good two hundred yards astern.

  “Ready the forward ballista!” the captain ordered. A squad of men on the forecastle began to crank a small capstan, which ratcheted the massive bowstring into firing position. They lighted another brazier in advance of the stanchion as an incendiary bolt was loaded. Then they waited, once more watching the ships sail closer.

  Everything about the Dacca ship was exotic. Made of dark wood, the vessel glittered with gold swirls artfully painted along the hull. It bore long decorative pendants of garish colors. A stylized image of a black dragon in flight adorned the scarlet mainsail, and on the bowsprit was the head of a ghoulish beast with bright emerald eyes. The sailors appeared as foreign as the ship. They were dark-skinned, powerful brutes wearing only bits of red cloth wrapped around their waists.

  Poorly handled, the Bright Star lost the wind and its momentum. Behind it, the tartane descended. Another volley of arrows from the Dacca smoked through the air. This time several struck the Bright Star in the stern, but one lucky shot made it to the mainsail, setting it aflame.

  Although victorious over the lugger, the tartane chose to flee before the approaching Emerald Storm. It came about and Hadrian watched Captain Seward ticking off the distance as the Storm inched toward it. Even after the time lost during the turn, the Dacca ship was still out of ballista range.

  “Helm alee. Bring her over!” the captain shouted. “Tacks and sheets!”

  The Emerald Storm swung round to the same tack as the tartane, but the Storm did not have the momentum under it, nor the nimbleness of the smaller ship. The tartane was the faster vessel, and all the crew of the Emerald Storm could do was watch as the Dacca sailed out of reach.

  Seeing the opportunity lost, Captain Seward ordered the Storm heaved to and the longboats launched. The Bright Star’s mainsail and mast burned like a giant torch. Stays and braces snapped and the screams of men announced the fall of the flaming canvas to the deck. Still, the ship’s momentum carried it astern of the Storm. As it passed, they could see the terrified sailors struggling hopelessly to put out the flames that enveloped the deck. Before the longboats were in the water, the Bright Star was an inferno, and most of the crew were already in the sea.

  The boats returned laden with frantic men. Nearly all were tawny-skinned, dark-eyed sailors dressed in whites and grays. They lay across the deck coughing, spitting water, and thanking Maribor, as well as any nearby crew member.

  The Bright Star was an independent Wesbaden trader from Dagastan heading home to western Calis with a load of coffee, cane, and indigo. Despite the Storm’s timely intervention, more than a third of the small crew perished. Some passed out in the smoke while fighting the flames, and others remained trapped below deck. The captain of the Bright Star perished, struck by one of the fiery arrows the Dacca had rained on his vessel. This left only twelve men, five of whom lay in Dr. Levy’s care with burns.

  Mr. Temple sized up the able-bodied survivors and added them to the ship’s complement. Royce was back at work aloft as Hadrian finished serving dinner to the crew. Hadrian’s easygoing attitude and generosity with the galley grease had won him several friends. There had been no more attempts on Royce’s life, but they still did not know why Royce had been targeted, or by whom. For the moment, it was enough that Bernie, Derning, and Staul remained at a safe distance.

  “Aye, this is Calis, not Avryn,” Hadrian heard one of the new seamen say in a harsh, gravelly voice, as he brought down the last messkid. “The light of civilization grows weak like a candle in a high easterly wind. The farther east you go, the stronger the wind blows, till out she goes, and in the darkness ye stand!”

  A large number of the off-watch clustered around an aft table, where three of the new sailors sat.

  “Then there you are in the world of the savage,” the Calian sailor went on. “A strange place, me lads, a strange place indeed. Harsh, violent seas and jagged inlets of black-toothed rock, gripped tight by dense jungle. The netherworld of the Ba Ran Ghazel, the heart of darkness is a place of misery and despair, the prison where Novron drove the beasties to their eternal punishment. They can’t help but try to get out. They look at the coasts of Calis with hungry eyes and they find footholds. Like lichen, they slip in and grow everywhere. The Calians try to push them back, but it be like trying to swat a sky of flies or hold water in yer hands.” He cupped his palms, pretending to lose something between his fingers.

  “Goblin and man living so close together ain’t natural,” another said.

  The first sailor nodded gravely. “But nothing in them jungles be natural. They have been linked for too long. The sons of Maribor and the spawn of Uberlin be warring one moment, then trading the next. Just to survive, the Calian warlords took to the ways of the goblins and spread the cursed practices of the Ba Ran to their own kin. Some of them are more goblin now than men. They even worship the dark god, burning tulan leaves and making sacrifices. They live like beasts. At night, the moon makes them wild, and in the darkness their eyes glow red!”

  Several of the men made sounds of disbelief.

  “It’s the truth, me lads! Centuries ago, when the Old Empire fell, the eastern lords were abandoned to their fate. Left alone in the deep dark of the Calian jungles, they lost their humanity. Now the great stone fortresses along the Goblin Sea that once guarded the land from invasion be the home of Tenkin warlords—half-human, half-goblin monsters. They’ve turned their backs on the face of Maribor and embraced the ways of the Ghazel. Aye, me fellows, the state of Calis is a fearful one. So thankful we be for your daring act of kindness, for we’d be at the mercy of fate if ya hadn’t pulled us from the sea. If it wasn’t for your bravery, we’d surely be dead now … or worse.”

  “Wasn’t much bravery needed,” Daniels said. “The Storm could have whipped those buggers in a dead calm with half the crew drunk and the other half sick with the fever.”

  “Is that what you think?” Wyatt asked. Hadrian had not noticed him sitting silently in the gloom beyond the circle of the candle’s light. “Is that what you all think?” His tone was oddly harsh—challenging. Wyatt sighed and, with an exasperated shake of his head, got up and climbed the ladder to the deck.

  Ha
ving finished with the messkids, Hadrian followed. He found the helmsman on the forecastle. His hands gripped the rail as he stared at the shimmer of the new moon rolling on the back of the black sea.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “We’re in trouble and—” He paused, angrily motioning at the quarterdeck. Catching himself, he clenched his teeth, as if by doing so he could trap the words inside his mouth.

  “What kind of trouble?” Hadrian glanced at the quarterdeck.

  “The captain doesn’t want me to say anything. He’s a damn fool who won’t listen to reason. I should disobey him and alter the ship’s course right now. I could relieve Bliden on the wheel early and take us off course. No one would know until the reckoning is taken tomorrow at noon.”

  “Wesley would know.” Hadrian pointed to the young man climbing to the quarterdeck on his nightly round as officer of the first watch. “He’d have you hauled to Mr. Bishop before you could blink.”

  “I could deal with Wesley if I had to. The deck is slippery, you know?”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like Royce. What’s going on?”

  “I suppose if I’m contemplating killing a midshipman, it hardly matters if I break captain’s orders to keep quiet.” Wyatt looked once again at the sea. “They’re coming back.”

  “Who?”

  “The Dacca. They didn’t run. They’re regrouping.” He looked at Hadrian. “They dye their sails with the blood of their enemies. Did you know that? Hundreds of small ruddy boats line the coves and ports of their island. They know we’re hugging the coast and sailing against the wind. Like wolves, they’ll chase us down. Ten, twenty lateen-rigged tartanes will catch the wind that we can’t. The Storm won’t stand a chance.”

  “What makes you so sure? You could be wrong. The captain must have a good reason to stay on course.”

  “I’m not wrong.”