Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  “I did it for the kite sir, for the glory of the gold he will lead us to and the glory of your name.” He answered quickly.

  “You did it for the glory of naught but yourself!” Snapped the captain. “But very well. Let us see shall we, what you have brought to all our doors. I warn you Mr Laanson, you shall be taking responsibility for it.” The abject threat in his voice brought a lump to Jak’s throat as they walked the planks below decks.

  The curse was in full effect as he gasped for breath, lashed to the crossbeam and stripped naked from the waist up. His pale skin awash with the sweat of his anguish. He moaned and choked upon the deck. Around him men worked their duties or rested in hammocks. Some gambled and others simply watched in wild amusement as he struggled weakly against his binds.

  “Drake’s teeth! What have you brought before us boy?” Growled Orochi, his eyes widened in fear. “He is clearly diseased!” The captain prepared a backhand toward the young pirate’s cheeks.

  “No disease” moaned the prisoner. “No disease.” A desperate sense of urgency in his voice. “Please, water” he gasped. Fever broke across his brow and ran down his body and into the creaking boards below.

  “He speaks!” The captain exclaimed kneeling before the imprisoned wretch, interest clear. “Tell me sir, who has committed this grievance upon you?” He enquired, a mummers’ smile painted upon his face and gloved hand placed tentatively upon his shoulder. The priest continued to rasp and gasp, fighting for each breath. “The Order” he spoke weakly, looking deep into the captain’s eyes. Somewhat satisfied he broke away eyeing Jak with suspicion.

  “Tell me good sir, do you know where you are?” Asked Orochi.

  “Pirate ship,” he gasped, “prisoner, please …water.” Jak noted a peculiarity as he pleaded and his dehydration ran toward unconsciousness he would pick up again, energised. Not enough to feel any remote direction toward recovery. Yet enough to suffer and feel the pain inflicted upon him.

  “Bring the man some water” snapped the captain, tiring of conversing in such a manner.

  “That may not be wise captain, he drank in Qesa docks and it only increased his suffering, there’d be little point wasting good ship’s water on such a case.” He tried his upmost to sound as ruthless as the men before him.

  “Takes a cold man to deny the inflicted remedy of their thirst Mr Laanson” commented Orochi. “I'm impressed, yet curiosity has the better of me, bring the water.” Jak plunged the ladle into the waiting barrel, hurrying across the deck he put it to the man’s mouth. He drank eagerly, deeply. Filling his mouth with the liquid cooled by the night air. Almost instantly he wretched, from his mouth spilling heat and salt. A stifled cry escaping his lips along with each. Orochi stared in amazement. “A curse indeed!”

  “Very much so captain.”

  “You say the Order?”

  Jak could only nod. Orochi’s face darkened in troubled thought. “Tell me,” he turned to the man, “by what sorry tale did this curse come upon you, while I am no fan of the Order, allow me to assure you of that, I have always understood them to be fair in their dealings. By what machinations do you find yourself deserving of such ill treatment?” He asked.

  “Thief” answered the priest, exhausted, failing.

  “A killer, heretic, devil and a great deal more than that I'll have you know” spoke the captain, pedantic in his boasting.

  “No…me…thief” he cried, his voice breaking upon the salt rocks of his throat.

  “I see,” mused the captain “And what, pray enlighten us, did you steal?”

  The priest smiled a wicked smile as he pondered the answer. “You know of the Order’s true purpose?” He croaked through choking coughs.

  “I know nothing of any man’s true purpose but if your tale offers me advantage then I'll take what is offered with grace, rest assured I reward those who place me in a position of advantage.” His smile remained fixed in the place between faux and genuine. A half truth and half a lie painted upon his face in one stroke.

  “Sir...” gasped the priest “I have taken and hidden something valuable, something powerful, something currently being evaluated for purpose.”

  “Go on...”

  “So if it please you Captain perhaps we can strike an accord, perhaps mutual advantage is created, perhaps from the underbelly we can reshape this Neta anew”.

  “So what have you brought?”

  “A map…. The map” he lifted his head to stare down Orochi. The sheer confidence from the man galled him, yet part of him liked the confidence exuded by the suffering hustler before him.

  “And tell me, how did you come by this?”

  “I took it upon my exit” he choked.

  “Ah, a betrayer then” concluded the captain.

  “It takes a traitor to bring about the end of a traitor” qualified Mitrick. Tiring further by the second as the curse took increasing control of his body.

  “Hmm, perhaps. We shall see, yes?” Replied the captain turning toward the doorway. “Mr Laanson, ensure our guest is … well taken care of. He has a nasty case of a curse and I'd hate to look back on this day and regret not doing our part in his suffering.” A nasty sneer covered his bearded mouth. “Get the information as to the whereabouts of this stolen map. I sense there is a profit to be found in its procuration.” Upwards the kite sailed, a new and eager breeze filled her illustrious sails.

  ~ Temple of The Three~

  ~ Eleventh of the Smith, Song of Joy~

  Beauty and desperation

  Incarnate as one upon the shoulders of tradition

  Trembling death throes,

  All shall hold true, all shall perish

  - Ancient word canvas

  The temple of the Three possessed the most illustrious library Armatrine had ever laid eyes upon. Rows upon rows of winding passages seemingly built from the books and works it had been designed to hold. An intricate maze of papers, scribing and pages from ancient forgotten texts. A testament to human knowledge, a monument to its ingenuity. Insurmountable in a single life time it was often a story among the newest acolytes that many decades ago a young initiate went searching among the rows and stacks in the grasp of joy and wonderment, to never be heard from again. Their bones still lay upon the ground where they fell, undiscovered by those who remained, so deep into the stacks had they delved that it was an impossibility to make a return journey, madness to attempt it. She remembered the story from her own childhood, spent in an initiate’s robes with a dirty streak across her fair face. She’d always wondered if the tale were true, then as she’d grown she had come to the realisation that perhaps the real tale was more simple and perhaps it was a story designed to scare the youngest among the order from running and playing among the books. It would, after all, be difficult for a priest to study the divinity among reams of playing children. Yet, upon each visit, Armatrine became reminded of the sheer scope the place had to offer, the breadth and depth of understanding and wondered if it was also an analogy, a warning of a different kind. There was more than one way in which one could become lost in a font of wisdom.

  Since the meeting in which she had been taken from Arlandus’ tutelage she had hardly seen him. It was as though the world weary old priest had taken steps to ensure he avoided her at all costs. She also found herself banished from places and sanctums within which she found herself once permitted. It occurred to her that it was at his grace as an apprentice she’d been allowed into the deepest parts of the temple sanctuary and now she faced the showing and found herself removed, her status allowed her to access only certain areas. Any more would be a blessing and a curse in equal measure. That she knew. Knowledge was sacred, knowledge was power and sacred power could be dangerous to an unready mind. Her limited exposure had taught her that much and now she craved it. To serve the Three in her best light.

  She was, however, permitted to common areas and training grounds, free to instruct acolytes and initiates before they became themselves apprenticed. Perhaps in t
ime one of their number would become apprenticed to her. She took the opportunity to gauge their ability, to judge and to help them to improve as best as she could. Noting a few names that, given time, she would be interested in teaching herself. It was a golden notion, one she held dear. Thus she spent her days in a comfortable flux of anxiety between her approaching showing and solitary study, cramming every available piece of knowledge into herself. All would play out as the Three saw fit. Yet, preparation never hurt.

  A knock upon her desk brought her from her musings to the real. It was a young acolyte, his face unknown to her from under his hood, only a black hole remained. His station was made apparent by the robes of deep blue he wore under a leather waistcoat for training, it heightened the lines of his body. Slightly chubby and a little older than most of his station. She frowned as he began to speak. “The high council await you miss.” A tremulous waiver in his voice, as though he were afraid to address her.

  “Very well, thank you.” She spoke shortly, hotly. As though at any moment she might crack and break under the strain of her showing. Standing she gathered her things into her leather satchel and walked through the library. Its winding maze of corridors echoing the click of her boot as she trod along the blackened, polished tiles.

  The council chamber had eyes upon eyes upon her. Watching, witnessing and searching for weakness. Any sign of being unready. Any sign of being unworthy. She felt them upon her now, boring into her. Through her skin and muscle and sinew into her spine. Burrowing into the deepest part of her, the secret part of her heart only she knew. A specter, grasping fingers upon her. She was theirs, they owned her. Fealty and loyalty her currency, weighed, judged and wanting, at all times always. She knelt upon the bronze, its central circle cold, she felt it through the leather against her skin. Unhooded and head bowed she waited. Her heart thundering in her chest. Controlled and booming across the crackling skyline of her being. Queasiness set in, her skin clammy. Focus she heard a voice in her mind that was not her own. Arlandus! Was he here among them?

  Master? She reached out yet heard no more. Sweat upon her brow she clenched her fists and waited with bated breath for her destiny to begin.

  “Young Dupree,” began the high priestess. Candles illuminated the space around her ancient body. Her voice sharp and pleasant, it echoed around the chamber. “It would seem the time has come.” She allowed the words to hang in the air. A spectacle more than true information. “The artefact has been located for retrieval, and it is you who must bring it back to the custody of the Order.”

  Relief flooded over her. A simple retrieval. Something she’d accomplished what felt like a million times before through her years spent apprenticed to Arlandus. Although this time it was alone, she'd have nobody to fall back on should she fail.

  “Beware young Dupree of your own hubris” spoke the priestess. “This may seem simple yet the Three speak of unknown complexities, you must be on your guard always.”

  That should have been it. Yet time and destiny have a strange way, upon intermingling, where strange circumstance leads to stranger outcomes. An anomaly, for the briefest of minutes. A moment of madness among the collection of sensibilities. It was within one of these moments that Armatrine found herself now. Moments from dismissal to the discharge of her duties a third voice, an invader to the sanctity of the chamber spoke up. “Mark our words young Dupree,” he sneered with such vehemence and venom his dislike for her only grew increasingly apparent, “that failure will not result in another chance, the artefact is retrieved or you do not return.” An open threat spoken in a tone unyielding, wielded with such brute force she felt the greatest of pressures upon her. A grand master, higher than Arlandus, higher than his superiors, only seconded to the high priestess herself, his name ancient and unpronounceable in all dialects she understood. A wave of hair framed his perfect square jawline.

  Collecting herself Armatrine refused to bow to his deference nor be goaded by his tone into dishonouring her position. “Oh, I understand it is so, grand master. I work so you may sit pretty upon your high chair at the right hand of the Three, I only pray my anger doesn't make me as vicious and broken as yours seemingly makes you.” Silence hung in the air for a moment.

  “Insolence!” He cried before his peers. There was an uprising of voices as many agreed.

  “Well, if it is the will of the Three” spoke the high priestess silence falling around her from the other council members. “Dupree, Insuggest you set about making your preparations. It is the longest of treks to the capital and I would hate for you to be so burdened by the words of old men that you have insufficient time to prepare.” Her voice a hardened edge as she mediated the cutting words between the two. “If you were ever to make it to the high office of this council, it should be known that better discretion is advised, the words we speak can often be so harmful.”

  “Yes, your Excellence.’’ Armatrine answered, embarrassed by her outburst yet knowing that he too should be more embarrassed by his own.

  “You are dismissed,” smiled the high priestess, “may the Three grace you with their favour.”

  “As to you all” she bowed, the picture of perfect subservience.

  ***

  The wind howled and thunder split the skyline against the mast of the great ship Stormkite. Her emerald sails invisible in the darkness of the thunderstorm. Each flash of lightning a momentary reprieve from darkness, which itself was only a temporary reprieve from the endless light of the Netan sky. Above her twin suns burned yet below they could not be seen, as though a great blanket covered Qesa, casting shadows over all it touched. Rendering the world anew in caliginosity and cimmerian shade. From the clouds below they heard the roar, the drake upon their stern. Its bellowing howl a cry to the darkness. Of dominance, of predatory intent.

  He stood upon the deck, cutlass raised in defiance to the lightning. Orochi. The cutthroat, the darkness, the captain. He who had plundered a thousand vessels. He who would sink a thousand more to the shimmering depths of oblivion below.

  “We await your order Captain!” Spoke the sailor.

  “Aye, do it!” He roared.

  They set about their work. Dragging the man, the cursed one, from the hull to the deck. He went over the side easy. Too exhausted to properly resist, too cursed in his mortality to care. The drake screamed again to the nighttime sky and Mitrick Tenebris was no more.

  ~Qesa, First City~

  ~ Thirteenth of the Smith, Song of Joy~

  Fear and hope rises,

  Hand in hand they circle,

  Alone they are useless

  -Unknown poet, Neta, Third era.

  Some had attempted to justify a full-scale assault on the capital in the name of one piece of stolen cartography. Its power and the promise it held already something of much sway over the crew. Cruel words had been spoken, a fist fight had erupted and a man shot before all had been brought to order. Ultimately the decision had been left to the man who was always going to make it in the first place, Captain Afton Orochi. He'd be hard pushed to let a choice like that pass him by, especially when his dearly beloved crew had so readily discarded their logic at the mere hint of bounty. Gold fever upon them. The poison working its soft molten fingers through their blood.

  Orochi had chosen the course of least difficulty. The path of espionage and subterfuge. Unwilling to launch a full-scale attack using all of the one ship under his command against the Netan naval military. Impressive as the kite was, there would be no way she could take on a nation. Jak thanked whatever gods lived above the clouds he often traversed that at least the captain had not been taken over by the same frenzy or there would be trouble.

  Orochi had chosen the one man who, through the shouting, fighting and shooting, had stood aside. Instead rolling himself a cigarillo. Putting it to his mouth and smoking, exhaling into the clouds, adding to the vapours in the air. It had tasted of vanilla and bitter things he'd no name for. The only man who had stood calm and collected through the chaos, as
if had no care nor stake in the outcome of the situation erupting about him.

  So he now stood at the dock of Qesa’s shipping district. The air around him humid with the heat from twin suns burning ever brightly overhead. The storm had long since passed, blown by currents to the east and gone. No trace remained, pools and puddles drank up by the thirst of the usually burning climate in the capital. The paving its usual dry state, no water about the decking. No mark upon the earth, a terrible memory of what had been. No hangover, only serenity amidst the chaos of a capital city. And an ominous cloud approaching, a few hours to the westerly horizon.

  The half day journey from the Stormkite to the capital he’d spent in reminiscence of the interrogation prior to the killing. The man had choked and blubbered before a finger had been lain upon him, before any threat had found itself forthcoming from the mouth of crew and captain. Whatever had befallen him they shuddered to speculate. He'd seen it first hand and so simply he remained silent at the prospect of what one man’s faith could do to another. It was better to allow speculation than spread lurid detail. Pain had no effect upon him, when a man is broken in agony he learned that more pain is of little use. It simply isn't strong enough. So they had taken a different stroke, offering mercy. Perhaps all they could do, a kindness in the killing. “Promise me” he rasped, before they tipped him over the side like a broken barrel. “Promise you’ll fight the bastards to the last.” He’d been assured as much. Away with him. He'd given what they needed, now they only need live up to their end of the bargain. He did hope he'd told the truth, or it may be he who found himself tumbling from the portside of a flying pirate ship to the angry snapping mouth of a hungry drake. They had landed at the docks and the first thing to do had been to purchase himself a long draught of ale. Avoiding this time the Ship’s Pride, where this had all began. Eager to forget, if only a brief reprieve. Instead he found himself in the Maiden’s Daughter. A name which had amused him much as a boy.