by Watson Davis
# # #
“I hate the cold,” General Agidius said, staring out the window of his carriage at the muddy camp, the thin lace curtains doing nothing to slow the biting wind blowing in from the north. Dark clouds heavy with incipient rain roiled overhead. His weary eyes did not see the lines of tents erected within the earth and timber battlements of Fort Bettican. A detail of magicians lifted the gate of long wooden spikes the height of three men with their magic, chanting and waving their hands to concentrate and direct their magical energies. “Why couldn’t they have held the meetings down here this quarter?”
“Have the king and his ministers this close to actual battle?” Balduin, the First Army’s physicker, snorted, easing back into the black velvet cushions of the general’s carriage, rubbing his hands together so that they began to glow orange. “Now, let’s get to this.”
Agidius closed the window to block the frozen breeze from entering the cab, and leaned back, kicking his boot from his left foot, lifting it into Balduin’s lap. “It’s been worse.”
“Hmmm.” Balduin bent over Agidius’s foot, the light from his hands filling the cramped space, his hands radiating a heat that banished the cold from the air, and he placed his hands on Agidius’s left big toe.
Agidius groaned, striking the wall of the carriage with his right fist, pushing down into the cushions beneath him with his left. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, and he conquered the urge to scream.
Balduin removed his hands, the heat and the light fading. He stared at the coach’s door, a quizzical expression on his face. “Why have we stopped?”
“Count me glad that you did,” Agidius said, panting for breath.
Someone knocked on the door to the coach, a light rapping.
Agidius sat forward. “The coach has stopped?”
Balduin shrugged. “As I said, why have we stopped?”
“Who’s at the door?” Agidius barked in the harsh voice of command.
A woman’s voice said, “Mellisah, sir, with an important message from the capital.”
Agidius unlatched the door, pushing it open, and the cold air rushed in. The arch of his left foot spasmed, the aching in his toe flaring back up. He gasped and struck the side of the coach. A light rain fell, the mist of it gathering on his hand like cold pinpricks.
The magicians controlling the gate stood stock still, their eyes closed, faces pinched in concentration.
A woman stood just outside the coach door in the robes of a mid-ranking mage, clutching a crushed coil of paper in her fists, shivering, chest heaving, struggling to catch her breath. The rain flattened her brown hair onto her freckled skin, and her lower lip quivered, teeth chattering.
“What is it, then?” Agidius asked.
“We received word from Shria, sir, from a special courier.” She blinked, looked away, looked down at the ground.
“Tell them I am on my damned way,” Agidius growled, glaring at the woman. “If they’d leave me alone, I’d be there already.”
“Yes, sir, but…” She swallowed, holding the crumpled pages out to the general. “An army of Onei, thousands of the beasts, have attacked the city, and the king is feared dead.”
“Impossible.” Agidius ripped the pages from her hands. He pulled them apart, struggling to read the words, the ink smeared by the rain. “Is this a joke? A garbled message?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “Three of us have scried the city, and although powerful magic confounds our vision, the same images come to all of us. Shria burns. Onei feast in the throne room.”
Agidius leaned out of the carriage, setting his booted foot on the step outside the door and steadying himself with his hand on the edge of the door. He called up to the driver, “Take me back to my tent. Immediately!”
Preparations
“Here they come.” Tethan rose from the crate where he’d been sitting, on the dock near the pier where their ship was anchored. He motioned for Makal and Nohel to join him, to leave off from directing their Skybear warriors who were storing the supplies in the ship; other Skybear warriors lounged on the perimeter looking as though they were bored, keeping their eyes on the Shrian men loitering in the alleys trying to appear nondescript. Sunlight glinted off the brown waves of the murky harbor water and the wind carried the fresh scent of the fish and shrimp from the morning’s catch laid out in the stalls in the square behind him back out to sea.
Mitta walked toward Tethan with a loose-hipped grace, each stride long and supple, with her captain, Datresh, at her side. Simthil marched along, a dour expression on his face, Silmon and Yanira behind him, talking to each other and laughing. Leedy brought up the rear, head bowed, glaring right and left as though daring someone to speak to him.
“Thank you for coming,” Tethan said, spreading his hands and bowing to each of them in welcome.
Simthil looked around, past Tethan, his jaw jutting out. “Where’s Gartan?”
“He’s going through the king’s storehouses and identifying food—”
“More like he’s going through the king’s treasury and picking out the best of the treasure,” Leedy sneered, eyes narrowed. He walked past Tethan and hopped onto the crate where Tethan had been sitting. “And hiding it from us.”
“No, that’s not—” Tethan began, turning to glare at Leedy, his hand going to the handle of his axe.
“He’s just joking, sugar bum,” Mitta said, slapping Tethan’s butt.
Tethan jumped and wheeled around to look at Mitta, who winked at him with a grin on her face.
Leedy shook his head. “I was not joking.”
“Why are we here?” Yanira asked, her fists on her hips.
“Gartan called us,” Simthil grunted, “and now he’s not here. I’m not so sure Leedy is wrong.”
Tethan gestured toward the stacks of crates and boxes. “Father wanted me to share our plan—”
“And by ‘our’ plan,” Mitta said, half-sitting on the corner of the crate beside Leedy with her arms crossed over her chest, “you mean ‘your’ plan, right?”
Tethan gulped and said, “We discussed this back in Windhaven. We’re going to choose a few of these Shrian ships and load them up with supplies.”
“Where is this storehouse that Gartan is supposed to be visiting?” Simthil asked, his fists on his hips.
“I’ve cordoned off the wharf here into sections based on whose people needs to load them.” Tethan pointed at one stack, then another. “We Skybears will load this lot, Brightfoxes this one, Icefangs—”
“I don’t recall any discussion about my people doing manual labor,” Leedy said, standing.
“If anyone wants to accompany me,” Tethan said, pointing at the boats moored at the piers behind him, “I’m going to walk through and pick out the best boats for our journey.”
Leedy threw up his hands and stormed off. Silmon shook his head and followed.
“I’m going to go find Gartan,” Simthil grumbled, stalking off, Yanira going with him.
“Forget this nonsense,” Mitta said, walking up to Tethan and patting his cheek. “Come with me and I’ll make a man out of you.”
He stepped back, taking a deep breath, saying, “I’ve… uh… got to…”
“Too bad,” she said, winking again and walking away, hips swinging.
Nohel eased up beside Tethan and said, “You might want to take her up on that.”
“Nah,” Makal said, laying his arm across Tethan’s shoulders. “She’s too much of a woman for a boy like Tethan. I think I’m going to have to go look her up.”
“Shut up.” Tethan pushed him away.
# # #
The sun peeked out from behind a heavy veil of dark clouds. Tethan walked along the second of five piers in Shria’s main harbor; the ships rose and fell with the waves, the wood creaking, the ships thumping up against the piers. Seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking, and pelicans sat on pylons stained white from their poop. Sweat dripped down from his hair and dribbled down his neck.
&nb
sp; A wide-bodied, deep-drafted merchant ship tugged at the ropes securing it to the quay, the ship’s sailors lining up along the rail to stare down at Tethan and the Onei strolling along behind him. Tethan stopped before the ship, peering down below the waterline; the hull looked clean enough of barnacles. He rubbed his chin.
A purelander man, skin darkened by the sun and unkempt hair gray, walked halfway down the gangplank, his pants hanging loose, wearing a heavy coat, his hand on the pommel of the cutlass scabbarded on his left hip. “What do you lot want?”
“What do you think about this one?” Tethan asked Makal.
“Yep.” Makal motioned toward the ship, saying, “Secure this one.”
Five Skybear warriors leapt from the dock up to the railing.
The purelander sailors shrank back, huddling together, yanking out sabers and daggers from their belts, scowling. Their captain whipped the ill-kept blade from his belt and bellowed in Shrian, “What do you think you’re doing? Get off my ship!”
Makal pulled his axe free and stepped toward the man, but Tethan put his hand on Makal’s shoulder, stopping him.
Tethan approached the man, holding his empty hands before him. The man backed up the gangplank, peeking up at the Onei on the railing, and back at Tethan.
In Shrian, Tethan said, “We are commandeering your boat.”
“By Maegrith’s nose hairs you are!” The man held his cutlass out toward Tethan with menace.
“I suggest you order your men to grab their belongings and get off the boat quick as they can,” Tethan said.
“What is he saying?” Makal asked.
Tethan held a hand out toward Makal, asking him to be still.
The man said, “You think you can just come onto my boat and take it away from me without a fight?”
“We will take it away from you,” Tethan said, “whether you fight or not. I’m giving you the chance to live.”
The man stared into Tethan’s eyes. He gnawed on his lip, his eyes drifting past Tethan to the other Onei staring at him. He turned on the gangplank. “Everyone, grab your gear.”
“But Captain—”
“Shut up,” the captain responded.
Tethan nodded and looked down the quay for another fat merchant ship with plenty of carrying capacity, his eyes skimming over the smaller ships, the local merchant ships, the yachts and skiffs, the ships that didn’t look big enough to make it over the Flux Sea.
One ship looked like none he’d seen before, the hull a different shade, the masts in different places, a big ship but somehow with elegant, smooth curves. He strode down the quay to inspect it closer. Makal, following behind him, let out a long, slow whistle and said, “Now there’s a beauty.”
Tethan stopped before the ship, glancing at the barnacle-free hull, well-lacquered and gleaming in the sunlight.
“She’s not for sale,” a woman said, her words distinct with an accent Tethan didn’t recognize.
He glanced up. She stood on the rail in a shiny red tunic, her hands clasped behind her back, baggy black pants covering her legs, and wearing boots on her feet. Her black hair hung down, covering the left half of her face, and her skin was a light brownish color, a skin color Tethan had seen only once before.
Tethan jumped from the dock up to the rail, landing on it beside her. Her diminutive stature surprised him, her head no higher than his waist. She gasped and backed away, her hair falling away from her face to reveal a ragged scar running from her forehead to her chin and an eye that was milky white. Her hands closed into fists as she assumed a fighting posture. She averted her face from him, her hair falling once more over the scar.
A mage stood at his brazier on the rear deck with two more on the main deck. The ship’s sailors held swords and halberds, all of them pointing at him, until Makal leapt up from the deck to stand on the other side of the woman.
“You are the captain of this ship?” Tethan asked, peering down at her.
“Her name is the Dancing Kestrel,” the woman said, an anger in her voice. “And I am Kalo Autut, her captain. You will not take my ship without shedding blood on her decks. I promise you that.”
“Kalo-a-utut, I am Tethan Gartanson,” Tethan said, his gaze traveling over the rigging, the way the sails were furled, the sleek lines of the deck. “Call me Tethan. She is a beautiful ship.”
“Thank you,” Kalo said, still staring at him. “Just call me Kalo, not all that mess you said.”
“You are Nayen, then?” Tethan asked, returning his eyes to her: her wide cheeks, dark eye, and square jaw, the curves of her figure not totally hidden by her tunic. “Kalo.”
“Tesoran, actually,” she said. “But close enough.”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Arenghel?” he asked.
One of the mages fell to his knees, shaking his hand, and dropping something onto the deck.
“No,” Kalo said, her attention and gaze drifting to the mage, “I haven’t.”
The mage swept up whatever he’d dropped back into his hand and strode forward, saying something in a language Tethan had never heard before.
Kalo blinked, appearing to be unsure whether to glare at Tethan or at the mage. She shook her head and said, “Arenghel, you said?”
“Yes?”
“My mage, Dyuh Mon, apparently has knowledge of the place,” she said, her voice unsteady and unsure.
“Come with me,” Tethan said, gesturing for her to walk down the gangplank before him. “My father will want to speak with you.”
Kalo deepened her fighting stance, raising her fists, her baleful eye glaring at him. “Is that an order?”
Tethan took her left fist, bent over it, and kissed the back of it. “Please?”
“Oh.” She blinked and lowered her hands, staring at the back of her left hand. “Well, fine then. But I’m bringing two of my mages with me.”
# # #
“Yes,” General Agidius said, standing up from his desk and nodding his head to his mages. “Contact as many of our soldiers still free in the city as you can. Have them prepare themselves and prepare to meet us at the docks.”
“Yes, sir.” The commander of his magicians bowed, and then whispered commands to his subordinates.
Agidius placed his hand at the bottom of a map of the Shrian capital. “We will send in our foot soldiers, especially the Summoned, with magical support, and secure the docks first.” He swept his hand up to the king’s keep and tapped his finger on it. “We will sweep up and secure the keep, and then eradicate the rest of these Onei vermin at our leisure.”
“Should we wait until we can move our ground forces into place to divert their attention?” his first executive officer asked.
“That will take too long,” Agidius said. “We want to hit them before they have a chance to prepare their defense and before they damage any more of my city.”
The commander of magicians raised his hand, and Agidius nodded for him to speak.
“You realize that the orcs we have are from waterless hells. They may not respond well to being on ships.”
Agidius shrugged. “Tell them to tough it out. We sacrificed enough souls to bring them here, they can deal with a short voyage.”
# # #
Kalo followed Tethan down the quay, the captains and sailors of other boats watching them, craning their necks and leaning their bodies over the railing to observe the procession. She grabbed Dyuh Mon’s arm, pulling him up beside her, whispering, “What in the fifth ring of hell have you gotten us into?”
Dyuh Mon clutched his hands to his chest, his breathing fast and thready. He grinned down at her, his grin all the more discomfiting with his pointy teeth, and said, “This is why the goddess directed me here. We are doing Her will. I was so worried I’d misinterpreted Her signs.”
“You could have left me at the ship,” Mian-on said. “I’d have been perfectly happy back at the ship.”
They passed the last of the ships and approached a group of Onei sitting on the dock, conversing
in their barbaric tongue, their pale white skin glistening in the sunlight falling through the clouds.
Kalo shook Dyuh Mon’s arm. “Straighten up, man. Where is this place he asked about? What is it?”
“Arenghel houses the source of the power of the Eternal Council,” Dyuh Mon said. “The greatest treasure on this world.”
Tethan stopped and spoke to an older Onei, tall and lean and wearing light leather armor of a kind Kalo had never seen, his arms and face scarred many times over. The man rose and walked toward Kalo, his eyes studying her and her mages with the attention and focus of a sand tiger approaching a gazelle. His focus unnerved Kalo.
“This place,” the man said in heavily accented Shrian, holding up a scrap of some sort of leather with a crude map burned into it that he dangled before her so she could read it, “you know?”
“Arenghel,” Dyuh Mon said, his voice quivering, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide.
The coastline appeared similar to that along the Ohkrulon Desert, the markings on the map showing the towns of Mumedan, Basaliyasta, and Tuth-Yoo, confirming the general location. Kalo nodded. “Yes, I do.”
The man turned to Tethan, holding up the scrap of leather, shaking it, a wolfish grin on his face. Tethan responded, a concerned look on his face, but he turned to Kalo and asked, “Can you take us to this place?”
Dyuh Mon tugged at Kalo’s arm. “What did he say? What did he ask?”
Kalo glared at Mian-on, saying, “He wants to know if we can take him to Mumedan.”
“Yes,” Dyuh Mon said. He let go of her arm and stepped forward, nodding his head, a smile growing on his face, saying, “Yes. Yes!”
Kalo snatched Dyuh Mon’s arm and dragged him back to her side. She looked at Mian-on and said, “What do you think?”
“Tell them yes,” Dyuh Mon hissed.
Mian-on shrugged. “Do we really have a choice? If we can keep our ship without fighting?”
Kalo pushed on Dyuh Mon’s chest and said, “Remind me never to take you to another negotiation ever again.”