by Watson Davis
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Gartan's Big Plan
The Shrian Capital
The Fall and News of It
Preparations
The Shrian Counter
The Onei Response
Gal-nya's Dragon
Tethan and the Dragon
Tethan's Speech
Prayers
The Landing
Heroes
Debris
The Plan Proceeds
A Plan from the Ashes
Old Friends and Shattered Illusions
In Chains
The End
Epilogue
About The Author
Copyright © 2017 Watson Davis
All rights reserved.
To my amazing wife, without whom I’d be lost.
Prologue
Tethan staggered out from a narrow alley into the central square of Timyiskil carrying a chest full of gold and jewels. He set it beside the defenders of the town, soldiers and archers and nobles, all of them now on their knees with their hands tied behind their backs, with Onei warriors surrounding them. Gartan, clan leader of the Skybears and Tethan’s father, knelt before one of the nobles, his pale white hand under the man’s chin.
In the Shrian tongue, the trade tongue of the land, the man said, “Please, you filthy barbarian, take it. Take everything we have. Just spare our lives.”
“Bar bar bar; doesn’t anyone here speak Onei?” Gartan shook his head, his lips twisting in bitter disgust. He stood, stepped to the man’s side, whipped his axe around, and cleaved the man’s head neatly from his body. The body collapsed and the head rolled on the ground.
“Dad,” Tethan said, peering at the head between his feet, “I can interpret Shrian.”
A female noble, dressed in ornate plate mail, screamed and sobbed. Gartan pointed. “That one next.”
Makal pushed the blubbering soldiers and nobles aside, clearing a path to the woman, who cringed away, falling to her side. Makal’s brow furrowed and he pursed his lips. In the Onei tongue, he said, “Come on, now. Don’t make this harder than it need be.”
A man rose to his feet, a small man even by purelander standards, his skin almost a yellowish brown, his hair pure black, his hands secured behind his back. He darted toward Gartan, speaking Shrian, saying, “Master, please. In my pocket.”
Tethan leapt forward, putting himself between this small man and his father, raising both of his axes, ready to strike, his fatigue forgotten. In Shrian, Tethan said, “Back, dog, or you will make your death slower and more painful.”
“Please, Master.” The small man slid to his knees, placing his forehead on the ground. “Let me live and I will give you the greatest treasure the world has ever known.”
Gartan sighed and placed his hand on Tethan’s shoulder, asking, “What in the Nine Hells is he saying?”
The small man peered up, the black pools of his eyes meeting Tethan’s gaze, tears streaming from them, leaving streaks on his cheeks. “I have a map in my pocket.”
Without moving his eyes from the man, but turning his head back toward Gartan, Tethan said, “He’s saying he has a map in his pocket to an immense treasure, the greatest treasure the world has ever known. If we spare his life, he’ll give it to us.”
“Makal.” Gartan pointed to the man on the ground before Tethan. “Check his pocket. Let’s see this map of his.”
Makal dropped the noblewoman, tossing her forward to crash into the backs of another couple of prisoners, the woman crying out in pain, the men groaning. Makal stepped over them and crouched by the small man on the ground, his rough hands ripping at the man’s clothes, pulling out a folded square of light brown leather, the edges frayed and blackened.
Makal’s nose wrinkled. “Is this human skin?”
Gartan stepped around Tethan, holding his hand out; taking the square from Makal, he sniffed at it before unfolding it. Tethan relaxed, moving up to Gartan’s side and peering over his shoulder at the scribbles there, trying to make sense of the symbols, of what appeared to be coastlines, or rivers, with stars and possibly a temple.
Gartan knelt by the man, holding the map before him, pointing at it, asking, “Where’s the treasure? Where is this place?”
The man looked at the map and over at Tethan. In Shrian, Tethan repeated Gartan’s questions.
“The temple of Arenghel,” the man said, nodding his head, a smile of hope creeping across his face. “In the Ohkrulon Desert, in the land of the Nayen.”
“Well, elk testicles,” Tethan said, shaking his head.
“What?” Gartan asked, standing and refolding the map in his left hand. “What did he say?”
Tethan attached his axes to his belt, rolling his eyes. “It’s all the way across the ocean in the lands of the Nayen, some temple in a desert.”
“Hmm.” Gartan’s axe swung around and down, splitting the man’s skull.
A blast of red light blinded Tethan; a force like a hurricane’s winds pushed at him, knocking him backward. He averted his eyes, closing them, raising his arms to protect himself.
A woman laughed — a melodic, full-throated laugh.
Tethan opened his eyes. A shadowy wisp of red light disappeared into the stone beneath the dead man’s body.
# # #
Kalo Autut, captain of the Dancing Kestrel, leaned forward, dropping her elbow to the rough table, dropping her chin into her palm, and stared at the man before her, Dri-byuj, feeling sorry for him but even sorrier for herself. She said, “We’ve seen enough.”
“Your pardon, mistress,” he said, bobbing his head. “If you could just give me another chance. I don’t know what’s happening. It usually works.”
Mian-on, sitting beside Kalo, leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, stretching his legs out, shaking his head. “I can’t have an assistant ship’s wind mage who can’t summon the winds.”
“Please,” the man said, pressing his palms together, his eyes wide, “give me another chance or another test. I’m really normally very good. I guess it’s just my nerves getting the better of me, but if you give me another chance, I’m sure I’ll pass.”
“Have you ever been out to sea?” Kalo asked, her voice muffled because of her chin resting in her palm, her other arm resting on the table, her fingers drumming on the tabletop.
“Oh yes, mistress.” The man sat up straighter, his expression shifting to one of happiness. “I’ve been to sea many times.”
“Have you ever crossed it?” she asked.
“Ah…” His smile faded, and he looked down toward his lap, toward his hands. “No. I’ve not actually crossed it.”
“Have you had to fill a sail with wind during a tempest?” Kalo asked.
He gulped. “No. I’ve not done that, but I’m sure I could learn.”
“I don’t need someone who’s learning,” Kalo said, shrugging. She raised her head from her hand and let her arm drop to the tabletop. “I need someone who has already learned, someone who can back Mian-on up if something happens to him. That’s a big responsibility on a ship like mine. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
Mian-on, groaning, sat up and leaned forward, patting the man on his forearm. “Once you’ve got more experience, look us up. You seem like a nice guy, and I’d love to have you on the crew. You’re just not quite ready yet.”
“Thank you for your consideration.” The man stood, bowing once to Mian-on and once to Kalo without looking either of them in the eye.
Kalo nodded, forcing the corners of her mouth to rise in a fake smile.
/> He walked away through the crowd, back toward the bar, and when he was far enough away that she thought he wouldn’t be able to hear, Kalo whispered, “Did you really have to be so damned nice?”
“Aw, come on.” Mian-on picked up his half-full mug of beer, a big smile across his handsome face. “He seemed like a nice guy. Conscientious. Probably make a good crewman.”
“Until he was hanging over the rail, spewing his guts into the ocean at the first bit of chop,” Kalo said. “Now we’re going to have to shoo him away every time we come into this stinking port.”
Mian-on leaned toward Kalo, holding his beer mug up to the side of his face, shielding it, mumbling, “Get a load of that guy, fifteen degrees to your starboard and three tables away.”
Kalo let her gaze drift to her right, well past fifteen degrees, and then back again, her left hand rising to straighten the hair hanging over the left side of her face.
A man sat at a table all alone, a tall flute of a sparkling white wine before him, his shoulders hunched up as though he were afraid of being touched; his thin wrists rested on the edge of the table, and his skin was the light brown of a Nayen noble, his head shaved bald. His eyes darted back and forth as though he were expecting someone to approach him, and the dark blue silk of his jacket sleeves was at odds with the rough brown woolen cape draped over his shoulders.
“I don’t want to know that one’s story,” Kalo said. “Unless he’s willing to pay.”
Mian-on snickered. He sat his beer on the table, squinting his eyes, his smile growing wider.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?” Kalo asked, glancing back at the man.
The man lifted his right hand above the table, dropping several things onto the top, things that bounced.
Kalo forced herself to look in the opposite direction, but she whispered, “What’s he doing now?”
“I think he’s reading oracle bones,” Mian-on said. “And he’s getting up.”
“Don’t look at him.”
Mian-on responded, “And he’s walking this way.”
Kalo turned back around to sit up straight in her chair, taking a deep breath, her hands resting in her lap.
The man had long, skinny legs and arms and a fat, round tummy. Head bobbing, eyes shifting, he navigated his way between the sailors, manual laborers, and wenches crowding the pub, to stand at the table, right behind the chair their last applicant had just vacated.
He nodded to Kalo and Mian-on, the smile on his face revealing that his teeth had been filed to points.
Kalo swallowed and nodded back, unable to smile. “Can we help you?”
“You have a requirement for a ship’s wind mage?” he said, caressing his right fist with the fingers of his left hand.
“Yes, we do.” Kalo gestured toward the seat. “Please sit down and tell us about your experience.”
The man’s gaze slid to the chair, his face devoid of expression. He moved the chair with his foot, pushing it out and around before lowering himself to sit in it without touching it with his hands. His eyes lifted once more to meet Kalo’s. He said, “I am a magician with some skill at winds.”
Kalo blinked and looked at Mian-on, struggling to keep her face expressionless.
“One would hope so, seeing as how you’re looking for work as a wind mage.” Mian-on’s brow furrowed, his eyes squinting. “Where did you study?”
“Of course.” The man nodded toward Mian-on. “I studied at the Royal Academy of Nayengim, the top of… um… near the top of my class.”
“The Royal Academy?” Mian-on asked. “Any classes with Lady Yogui?”
“You know she died.” The man’s eyebrows raised, and his voice softened. “The Eternal Council frown on speaking of her.”
“Yes,” Mian-on whispered in a voice like death. “I know she died. Did you have any classes with her before that?”
The man lowered his head. “Sadly, only the first and second classes of Air magics. I’ve heard her History of Summoning class was quite interesting, but I had Master Bya-aste for that class, and Mistress Botehla for my upper-level Air classes.”
“You would seem to be quite accomplished, then,” Mian-on said, leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps too accomplished for the position we have available.”
“No,” the man said, reaching his hand out toward Mian-on, but closing it and pulling it back quickly, as though burned. “I’m sure the position would be perfect for me, and me for it.”
“Can we see a quick demonstration of your abilities?” Kalo asked.
“Oh?” The man’s brow raised and his lips pursed. “Of course.”
He whispered a couple of words and gestured with his left hand. The front door slammed open, and a strong breeze pushed its way through the pub, blowing a man’s hat off, sending it fluttering up into the air, ruffling everyone’s clothes and pushing at their hair. The wind blew Kalo’s hair back, and she reached up and pulled her long bangs back over her left cheek and eye.
“Hey, now!” the bartender yelled. “No magery in here, gods damn it all.”
“That’s very good,” Kalo said, her hand pressing up against her cheek, her face turned away from the man, turned toward Mian-on. “Unless Mian-on has an objection?”
Mian-on glared at the man for a heartbeat before turning and shrugging toward Kalo with a shake of his shoulders.
Kalo stood, offering her right hand. “Then I believe the Dancing Kestrel has a new second mage. Bring your gear over to pier thirteen, and we’ll get you settled in.”
The man smiled and bowed, shaking her hand. “Thank you, Captain.”
Mian-on stood and offered his hand, saying, “I’m Mian-on Yogui, the First Mage of the Kestrel. What is your name?”
“Oh?” The man blinked, reaching his hand out and taking Mian-on’s. “Yes. Um. I am… Yaj Yath.” He swallowed and laughed. “I wasn’t expecting so many questions.”
Mian-on laughed with him, smiling and nodding. “Well, I’m sure it will be great working with you.”
The man nodded once more before turning and negotiating his way through the pub, somehow without touching anyone.
Kalo plopped into her seat, shaking her head. “At least we can push off now and get out to sea.”
Mian-on eased himself into his chair. “He was lying about his name.”
“Really?” Kalo said. “I am amazed at your superior perception.”
Mian-on glared at her. “I’m serious.”
“You realize most of our crew are lying about their names, right?”
Mian-on blinked. “Really?”
# # #
A soft, gentle wind blew through Gal-nya’s temple in the town of Varensinth, caressing Hanno Yunyoyaj’s face, bringing a smile to her lips. She sat cross-legged before a statue of Gal-nya surrounded by torches burning with infernal flames, her forearms on her knees, her eyes closed, aware of her breathing, of the breathing of the other priests and priestesses around her, all of them praying to the gods, sending strength to Gal-nya.
A door creaked open and slammed shut, and the torches’ flames fluttered. From the entrance of the temple, voices whispered, too far away and too soft for Hanno to make out.
An old man’s voice, cracking and decrepit with age, said, “Ask me a question, and I will tell you truth.”
Hanno’s breath caught in her throat, the muscles in her back tensing, her head rising, her eyes flying open.
The voices grew louder, more strident, and the old man said, “I have seen things that would make your gigglestick fall off your body and run for cover, boy. Don’t touch me. Take your hands off me.”
Hanno gulped and stood, trying not to make a sound, hoping no one would notice, but Deacon Ka-myal stared at her, his lips compressed and his nostrils flaring with each breath.
Hanno bowed and gestured toward the entrance, where three priests were in a whispered conversation with Hanno’s neighbor, gesticulating, trying to direct her out of the temple. The woman held a length of rope in
her hands that ran up to a loop around the waist of an old, naked man, his body withered, his skin scarred from old sword wounds and extensive burns: Jyif-ek Yunyoyaj, Hanno’s father-in-law.
Jyif-ek scratched his crotch, shaking his head, saying, “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m not hearing a word from your stupid mouth. Blah blah blah.”
Hanno, nauseated by Jyif-ek, embarrassed by him, shrugged at her deacon, who nodded, waving his hands at her, telling her to go on. Hanno scurried around the group of priests at their prayers and jogged to the front of the temple, careful to place her feet so they wouldn’t make much noise.
She approached the priests and her neighbor at the door, bobbing her head, her hands clasped together, and whispered, “So sorry. I’ll take him. Back to your stations, please.”
The two priests bowed and backed away, glaring at Jyif-ek. Hanno took the rope from her neighbor, then opened the door and ushered the woman and Jyif-ek out onto the portico, easing the door shut behind them. The sliver of the moon shone down on them through a cloudy sky, but magelights powered by the prayers and magic of the temple lit the town’s streets. “I am so sorry, but where is Bat-ek? He was taking care of him today.”
Out in the street, a woman passed the temple, her back bowed with age. She pulled at the reins of a donkey, a cart yoked to its neck, the cart piled high with hoes and shovels.
“She rode a horse with flaming hooves,” Jyif-ek said, gazing over Hanno’s head, his eyes glazed.
The neighbor shook her head, saying, “I don’t know where Bat-ek went. He rushed off and left your honored father-in-law tied up to the pipal tree. I would have left him there, but he was bothering the children with his nonsense.”
“Of course, and thank you.” Hanno bowed and backed away, tugging on the rope. “This will not happen again.”
Her neighbor bowed and walked away, back toward their hut on the outskirts of town. Hanno walked the other way, pulling at the rope with Jyif-ek stumbling along behind her, down a street with a few closed shops before turning toward the barracks.
Men shouted orders, boots stomped, metal jangling against metal. Hanno rushed forward, dragging Jyif-ek with her, pushing through a crowd of people gathered before the parade ground.