by Watson Davis
“You don’t look like my warband leader, Skybear,” one of the Onei, Lirden of the Brightfoxes, said, puffing out his chest. “Until I hear from Mitta, I’m heading into the city and grabbing some plunder while I can.”
“Shut your mouth when Tethan talks,” Brivat said, his fist whipping out and striking the Brightfox Onei in the nose. “He’s the one who captured the king.”
Lirden staggered back, hands over his nose, blood flowing through his fingers.
Peira nocked an arrow, glaring at everyone, then to the man she said, “Lirden. It’s time to earn our plunder.”
The other Onei backed away from Tethan, their eyes darting to each other.
“This isn’t about clans,” Tethan said, holding his hands out, willing everyone to calm down. “We are all Onei, and it’s time for us to fight for our lives and our honor.” To Lirden, Tethan said, “I’ll tell you when the time to line your purse comes, and I will help you. But for now, we keep these docks clear of Shrians.”
# # #
“Shove off!” Kalo shouted, dashing up the stairs to the quarterdeck, ducking as another of those damned fireballs crashed down out of the sky. “Sails down!”
Her sailors rushed to do her bidding, the sails dropping, the ropes securing them to the pier untied.
“Mian-on!” she screamed, grabbing the wheel and turning the rudder. “Dyuh Mon! I need wind! Bear away! Push us off!”
“What in the Nine?” Mian-on rushed up the steps wearing his black sleeping robe, tying his sash as he ran.
“The Shrians,” Kalo said, peering back toward the harbor entrance. “They have come to take back their city, seems like. I need wind and I need it now.”
“I can get us going, at least,” Mian-on said, standing before his cold brazier. He closed his eyes and began his chant, summoning a spirit of Air using only his personal magic, his arms moving, his feet stamping on the deck. The ship crept from its berth, the wind pressing into the sails, pushing the ship out. Sweat beaded up on Mian-on’s forehead and dribbled from his chin.
Kalo turned the rudder, guiding the ship out. “I need more wind!”
Mian-on kept chanting, but Dyuh Mon darted up the side, rushing to Mian-on’s brazier. He fell to his knees and opened the small chest situated between the legs of the brazier, popping the lid open, grabbing pieces of charcoal, a handful of various components, not taking the time to measure the correct and appropriate amounts. He placed them in the brazier and cast a spell, summoning a magical flame that burned a bluish white, linking this realm to the realm of Air and Wind.
Mian-on shifted his casting, linking his spell to the gateway created by Dyuh Mon’s flame, and the ship took off, speeding backwards.
“A little less wind!” Kalo shouted, tugging at the rudder, the ship narrowly missing a huge Shrian Navy transport ship loaded with soldiers and orcs.
“Where are we going?” Dyuh Mon turned to Kalo, grabbing her arm.
“As far away from here as I can get,” Kalo said, and then yelled to her sailors, “Straighten us up! We’ll be running flat out.”
“We must help the Onei,” Dyuh Mon said.
“I’m helping us live, first,” Kalo said. “Get your ass to your brazier and make sure none of these damned fireballs hit us.”
Dyuh Mon stomped his foot on the deck. “But we must help the Onei!”
“You are crazy. This is our chance to be rid of these crazy people.”
He leaned toward her, grinning. “This is our chance to be rid of the Eternal Council.”
# # #
Tethan swung his axes, around and around, constantly moving, darting past one Shrian soldier and another, a bolt of lightning whistling past where his head had been an eyeblink before. He slashed at a Shrian’s exposed stomach, the blade halted by the soldier’s chainmail but the impact knocking the breath from the Shrian’s lungs, leaving him crumpled on the ground, gasping for air.
A ball of fire whistled down out of the sky, crashing into one of the Shrian boats along the dock, splintering the mast, sending it whipping around, partially suspended from the rigging, indiscriminate in its damage as it slammed into Shrian and Onei alike. The fire ate into the broken hull, spilling over the sides onto the ancient gray planks of the wharf, engulfing screaming sailors.
The Shrian civilians, once hiding in the shadows like snowfoxes, poured out from the alleys, from the dark streets to help their army, carrying rusty knives, billhooks, and clubs. Tethan set his teeth, looking past the skinny little civilians and the heavier soldiers to the mages beyond them, the men and women in charge, and he charged in their direction, screaming, “Kill the damned mages!”
Hearing a crackle, the hairs on his arms standing up—the telltale signs of an impending lightning strike—Tethan jumped to the side, bowling over the Shrians surrounding him. He fell on them, their knives and meathooks jabbing into his skin, gouging his flesh, slicing him even as a bolt of mage’s lightning ripped the atmosphere with a thunderous crack, striking the ground where Tethan had been standing. The men who’d taken his place, who’d chased after him, screamed as their muscles spasmed, as their backs arched, their fingers and hands tightening.
Tethan rolled away, lashing out as he rushed forward, hamstringing a man with a club who was attacking Brivat from behind. Tethan lunged forward toward two Shrian mages stomping down the dock toward him, one wearing flowing red robes, ghostly flames flickering around his hands, the other in green with blue-white lightning flashing from her hands, her eyes.
The female mage extended both her arms toward Tethan, a rippling arc of power crossing the distance between them. Tethan spun away, flinging an axe toward her as he shielded his head. The arc of energy blasted through a Shrian soldier behind him, the man having no chance to even scream before exploding, the energy flowing through him into the wall of a warehouse, where the bricks disintegrated and the wall crumpled in.
Tethan’s axe thudded into the woman’s thigh. She cried out, the energy flowing from her dissipating as she fell to her knees, her shaking fingertips touching the axe and retreating.
The mage in red ran toward Tethan, tossing a new ball of fire in the Onei’s direction with each step, each one less powerful than the last. The first ball flew past Tethan’s head, the second glancing off his shoulder, flipping him around. He rolled under the third fireball, coming up a step away from the mage, and the man blasted Tethan with both hands, the fire hitting Tethan full on.
Tethan ignored the pain, the flames engulfing him, raging around him—his ears were crackling, his hair crisping up—and swung his axe in a wide arc where the mage had been, putting all of the weight of his body behind the shot. Tethan fell to the ground, rolled, and stood, moving to the side, expecting the next attack, but the mage in red fell to his knees, his hands at his neck.
The one in green lay back onto the deck, not moving her leg, glaring at him as she twisted her hands, magic swirling through her fingers. Tethan jumped forward, stepping down on the handle of his axe still lodged in her leg, and she put her head back and shrieked in pain, the magic around her dissipating once more. He cut off her head, reached down, and yanked his other axe out of her leg.
The battle in the central area of the docks was over, all the Shrian soldiers on the main wharf dead. Peira jogged to Tethan’s side and reached up, patting his hair. “You’re on fire.”
“Thanks,” Tethan said, turning so she could pat out the flames on his back.
A ship approached pier five, and Shrians still fought there. Tethan pointed with his axe, calling out, “Everyone! We’re not done yet! Follow me!”
# # #
“Turn the ship around, and get us out of the harbor,” General Agidius said, his hands clasped behind his back and now drenched with nervous sweat, an uncomfortable feeling in his gut as he watched The Red Jewel listing to the side, Onei leaping into the harbor’s water to escape like large, dangerous rats.
“Sir?” said his executive officer, who had been watching the battl
e unfold—the damage of the fireballs, the disappointing lack of success by the soldiers and civilians on the dock. “That will disrupt the invisibility shields, and decrease the effectiveness of the fireballs.”
“Better to live to fight another day,” General Agidius said. “Give that order.”
The executive officer bowed, and yelled the order to the ship’s captain.
# # #
The Sissolan guard marched down the main street passing through Varensinth, their blue and silver armor glinting in the sunlight, the skies clear above them. Their commander rode a beautiful buckskin mare with a heavy hand on her reins.
Hanno stood at the bottom of the stairs beside the portico of the temple, other priests beside her and in front of her. She held a silken sash to keep a fidgeting but fully clothed Jyif-ek at her side.
The deacon waited at the top of the stairs in front of the massive main doors of the temple, the higher-ranking clergymen by his side.
The Sissolan commander ordered the column to stop and pulled his horse up to the bottom of the portico. He bowed his head to Deacon Ka-myal, his helmet covering his face. “I, Major Kov Branek, do hereby claim this township in the name of Lord Sissola.”
“Of course.” The deacon bowed, a deep bow showing the proper respect given the current situation. “We will make no—”
“Stinks like orcs,” Jyif-ek said, his voice carrying over the deacon’s voice and surprising Hanno. “I hate orcs.”
All eyes turned to them.
“Shh.” Hanno tugged at the sash. “Be quiet.”
Bowing her head to those surrounding her, she hunched her shoulders, gulped, and licked her lips.
“As I was saying,” Deacon Ka-myal said, “we will make no move to dispute this claim, and will register our new status with Lady Gal-nya’s officials.”
“Thank you. Her soldiers died valiantly,” Major Branek said, chuckling, then whipped his horse around, kicking its flanks, driving it forward. The column of Sissolan soldiers followed him down the street toward the barracks.
Between two squares of pikemen, the survivors of Varensinth’s guard stumbled forward, their hands bound and tied to lines, shorn of their armor and weapons, wearing only their soiled and stained undergarments.
“Where is my son?” Jyif-ek said, his voice carrying over even the stomping of the warriors’ boots and the clinking of their arms.
“Shh,” Hanno said, pulling him closer, the lump in her throat making it hard for her to breathe, her eyes searching the bedraggled prisoners for a hint of her husband’s face, but found no one and nothing.
“Answer me, woman.” Jyif-ek tugged on Hanno’s elbow, wrinkled brow furrowing, anger flashing in his rheumy eyes. “Where is Bat-ek?”
She rose up on the tips of her toes, peering over the heads of the other priests and clergy, cupping her hand over her eyes to cut down the glint of the sun.
Jyif-ek snatched the sash from her hands and elbowed through the priests before him, calling out, “Bat-ek! Bat-ek!”
“Old Father!” Hanno cried out, reaching for him, chasing him.
He ran to the first prisoner, grabbing the man’s shoulders and tossing him aside. “Bat-ek? Where is my son?”
The Sissolan soldiers, a collection of Nayen, orcan, and drow, drew their weapons, converging on Jyif-ek.
“Do not mind him,” Hanno shouted, one hand reaching to grab Jyif-ek, the other toward the soldiers, begging them for mercy. “He is very old.”
“Old?” Jyif-ek whirled around, grabbing Hanno’s forearm and tossing her aside.
Hanno tumbled to the ground, falling to her knees.
“I will be respected!” Jyif-ek shouted. “Where is my son?”
“Hanno!” Deacon Ka-myal yelled. “Get that old beggar under control, or I will have you cleaning out stables for the rest of your miserable life.”
“I’m sorry.” Hanno clasped her hands, rising to her knees.
“Back up, old man,” a Nayen soldier said, jogging forward and reaching out with his halberd toward Jyif-ek, “or I’ll put you in the line with the other prisoners.”
“Old man, am I?” Jyif-ek darted forward, his movements fast and sure, his hand grabbing the haft of the man’s halberd. “Gal-nya called me a hero, boy!”
The Nayen soldier stopped, pulling on his halberd, trying to free it from Jyif-ek’s grip. Jyif-ek released the haft and leapt forward, kicking, planting his foot on the soldier’s chest and knocking the man to the ground.
“No!” Hanno shouted. “Let me handle him.”
Two orcs charged from behind Jyif-ek with blades of onyx, created in the hell they came from, shouting battle cries. Jyif-ek whirled around, ducking down close to the ground, moving faster than Hanno would have imagined possible, kicking out with his feet and catching the orcs at their ankles, the bones popping as they broke.
The orcs stumbled to the ground, falling to their knees. Jyif-ek snatched the halberd from the ground and swung it around, beheading one orc.
Lightning cracked, a bolt flashing from a mage’s hand to strike Jyif-ek, bathing him in energy, the power picking him up in the air as his skin turned black. The halberd dropped from his hands.
The spell stopped.
Jyif-ek’s body crashed to the ground, smoking.
Hanno ran to him, falling to her knees beside him, chanting, calling up her magic, trying to save the bit of life force still in his body.
He looked up at her and grabbed her arm. He whispered, “I was a hero once.”
She nodded, unable to respond, chanting, her magic flowing into him.
“Remember me to Bat-ek,” he said, smiling. “He loves you.”
And Jyif-ek’s soul passed on to its next realm.
The Onei Response
Mitta dropped a dead Shrian to the deck, her longboat in sight. A few of her warriors ranged around her: Angrid on one knee on a stack of crates, aiming her bow, arrows in her hand, and another nocked against her bowstring; Kilil standing over his beloved Nadilla’s motionless body, his boots red with her blood, his two axes whirling about him, his face composed, deadly calm, with Shrian corpses building up around him; Nikot swinging a Shrian spear as he darted in and out, keeping the Shrian scum from Kilil’s back.
A tall ship approached, no longer invisible, imposing like a sea dragon, so much more massive than Onei craft, a huge Shrian type of ship larger than the merchant ships and longboats tied to this wharf. Archers lined the rails. Their arrows rained down on the pier.
Mitta stabbed one Shrian sailor with her dagger and then spun, chopping into the torso of another rushing at her with his sword above his head. She peered around the crates shielding her from the worst of the arrows, her hopes of getting to her longboat and her bow dwindling.
The Shrian ship crashed into the pier, the captain of the damned thing as bad as Gartan. The entire pier shook and rattled, sliding to the side beneath the weight of the ship, the piles canting to one side. The crates Mitta was using for cover tumbled over, crashing onto the deck, splitting open, spilling silver mirrors across the pier, many dropping into the murky water, but worse, the damned, thrice-cursed Shrian ship crushed Mitta’s longboat, sending her Shrian treasures to the bottom of the bay, and her favorite bow with it.
The Shrian archers leaned against the railing, a few flipping over and falling into the bay and onto the pier when the ship hit.
Angrid tumbled from her perch, arching from the box, arms and legs akimbo, splashing into the bay’s murky waters. Kilil roared his anger, struggling to maintain his balance. Nadilla’s body slid away from him, and as he reached out his hand to grab hers, an arrow embedded itself in his throat. He lost his balance but grasped Nadilla’s lifeless hand as he followed her into death. Nikot spun and ran up the dock, his spear flicking out, killing the slower Shrians fleeing before him.
Mitta screamed, “You’ll die for this, you fucking bungholes!”
She sprinted across the undulating deck, an arrow grazing her arm, another puncturi
ng her thigh, and she split open the skull of one of the archers who’d fallen from the ship. She yanked his quiver from his back and snatched up his bow, spinning and limping away from the ship, up the pier toward the quay.
“Brightfoxes to me!” she yelled, diving behind a crate. She secured her axe to her belt and broke off the arrow in her thigh, extracting it with a quick tug. She fit the quiver over her shoulder, pulled out three arrows, and nocked one. She leapt out from behind the crate.
Her quick eyes found a target, a sailor throwing out a gangplank from which the soldiers could debark to run down to the pier, and she sent an arrow toward his face. She found another target, another sailor with a naked sword in his belt helping with getting the gangplanks down. She sent another arrow speeding from the crappy bow in her hand, compensating for its inaccuracy. Her two targets staggered backward, one with an arrow in his arm, the other with an arrow in his chest, neither arrow going where she had aimed. The gangplank fell into the harbor as they clutched their wounds.
An arrow whizzed by her ear and she spun around, sliding behind the crate and popping out on the other side, two more arrows between her fingers, another nocked and ready to fly, scanning the ship for her third target. A huge monster lurked in the shadows, not one but two, not two but many, huge creatures with pig-like faces, tusks jutting up from their lower jaws, shoulders and arms thick with muscles, some with gray skin, some with red.
She fired shots at three of them, ducking behind the crate, peeking around the other side, smiling as one of the monsters died, an arrow puncturing its ear and entering its brain. One of her other targets dropped its weapons, flailing its massive arms, scratching with clawed hands at the arrow protruding from the juncture of its neck with its torso, barreling into its fearsome companions. The third target seemed unhurt, until she noticed the gaping cut on the top of its bald head, the skin peeled back, but the creature, unconcerned with the blood trickling down its face, joined the others leaping from the side of the ship down onto the pier, the structure trembling beneath their weight.