Reaver's Wail (The Legion of the Wind, Book One)

by Corey Pemberton

  “Cowards.”

  Gerold, a few steps in front of the man impaled on the sword, glanced back. He screamed when he realized he was alone. He shuffled forward, too drunk and desperate to keep a straight line, banging into cells.

  Brenn pulled the sword out of Pip's back and ran after him. Argus watched, breathless. Even after all these years, seeing the Nalavacian go to battle was like seeing it for the first time. The savagery in that face, corded muscles rippling, the look of sheer ecstasy as if he were dancing for the gods themselves.

  Brenn dispensed with the sword this time, tackling the fleeing jailer and snapping his neck effortlessly.

  He came back with Gerold's keys and tried them on Argus's cell one by one until it opened. His chest was bloody, and his eyes had the haze of a man just waking from a long slumber. “Come on,” he said, “Let's get out of this hole.”

  They clasped forearms and Argus grinned. He followed Brenn down the corridor until they reached the man whose neck he'd snapped. Argus picked up the stray sword and they started to climb the dungeon steps.

  “Hey, Brenn,” Argus said. “Don't you want to let any of these show ponies out of the stable?” The prisoners pressed against the bars. Their raucous applause had changed into pleas for help.

  The Nalavacian took a step upstairs instead. “Nah. Let 'em rot for all I care. I can't stand those bastards.”

  * * *

  After what felt like forever, they reached the top of the winding stairs.

  Argus and Brenn kept their swords drawn. But the only thing waiting for them was an empty threshold. They stared down the hallway, strangely quiet for its location in the heart of the palace.

  “Where are the Olive Cloaks?” Brenn asked. “My sword is thirsty.”

  Argus pulled his mercenary brother into an open doorway. It was only then that he realized this was the limit of the Nalavacian's escape plan. They'd have to improvise the rest.

  Brenn glared at him. “Why are we stopping? We shouldn't rest until we're on a fast ship far away from this place.”

  “We can't just fight our way down to the docks.”

  “I don't see why not…”

  “We can't afford to draw any undue attention to ourselves. And you aren't exactly forgettable with your bare chest covered in blood.”

  The Nalavacian lowered his head. “No… I suppose not.”

  “Better to be stealthy on this one. Trust me, Brenn.”

  “I do. Otherwise you'd still be down there rotting with the rest of that lot.”

  Argus grabbed his arm. “Come on. Let's have a look around. See what lady fate has to offer us.”

  Brenn lowered his sword, unable to mask his disappointment.

  They found themselves in a store room. Surrounded by oak barrels and wheels of cheese and even a few bottles of wine. Argus shuffled into the corner while Brenn used an old linen sheet to scrub off the blood.

  “Those'll do,” said Argus, who spotted a row of hanging Olive Cloaks. He grabbed two of them, shook off the dust, and handed the larger one to Brenn. “Here. Put this on.”

  Brenn scowled. “The uniform is different. They haven't worn these in years.”

  He was right. Where the current cloaks had the Syrio family crest—a trio of ravens—stitched into them with fine black thread, these were blank.

  “This is made for a little person,” Brenn said, swearing when it refused to reach all the way across his chest. “And what am I supposed to do without an undershirt?”

  Argus draped the cloak over the tunic they'd allowed him in the dungeon. “Just pull it as tightly as you can. Out the first door we see, and straight to the docks. We don't fight unless we have to.”

  Brenn nodded. “I'll keep my sword close.”

  They hustled out of the storeroom. Save for a servant girl dusting the tapestries, the hallway was just as empty as before. The fugitives walked down the endless stone slabs, doing their best impression of an official patrol.

  The girl, clad in the red debtor's robe, glanced up at them. Her eyes widened. She looked at Brenn's chest, blushed, and quickly diverted her attention back to dusting.

  Argus and Brenn pressed on until they found another set of stairs, then started to climb. They squeezed past a slew of merchants and various bespectacled bureaucrats who helped run House Syrio's financial empire.

  No one paid them much attention. Not even Brenn. If anything, they looked annoyed they were forced to share the stairs with such a massive obstacle.

  They climbed until they reached a landing and shielded their eyes.

  “Sunlight!” said Argus.

  “I know. It scalds like fire.”

  Blinded, Argus reached for Brenn's arm and pulled them off the stairs. “That means we're above ground. Getting close.”

  They stumbled ahead until their eyes adjusted to the light. The decor was richer up here, paintings and carpets and chandeliers of forged bronze. Probably a residential level for low-ranking bureaucrats.

  Then the corridor curved, and Argus spotted the sea and sky.

  The fugitives hurried for the door, which was being held open by a single Olive Cloak. Although the main entrance to the palace was elaborate, this one was simple. It stood only a few feet taller than the debtors, who streamed in and out like bees from a hive.

  “Don't stop,” Argus said. “Not for anything.”

  Brenn nodded.

  They jostled their way through the debtors, who seemed more concerned with the safety of Syrio's goods than their own bodies. At the threshold, the baby-faced Olive Cloak nodded at him.

  His face changed as they passed. A glint of suspicion in his eyes. He called out after them, but Argus and Brenn were long gone, surrounded by a sea of bodies at the palace's western entrance.

  The soldier kept calling, though his voice grew distant. Soon enough they couldn't hear him at all.

  “He spotted us,” Brenn said. “I should go back there and take out his tongue.”

  Argus shook his head. “Come on, Brenn. There will be plenty of time to cut out as many tongues as you like later on.”

  “I could do it quiet, you know.”

  Argus led them through the heart of the crowd. A queue of oxcarts stretched down to Urbek Way and disappeared at the edge of the horizon. They carried lumber and bricks, horseshoes and grain. Everything one could ever need to fend off an invasion.

  Brenn inhaled deeply. “Smell that? War's coming, my friend. And soon.”

  Argus nodded. As they fought traffic and made for Urbek Way, his gaze wandered to the public squares. They had been filled with minstrels and ribbons before Syrio's feast, but now there were only soldiers. Steel clashed as Olive Cloaks trained alongside artisans and debtors alike.

  Finally they stepped onto Urbek Way, where the queue of carts and people curved downhill toward the docks. Screaming and curses surrounded them, many in languages Argus had never heard. As they walked down, the traffic thinned and finally evaporated.

  “They know Syrio will pay more come wartime,” Brenn said. “That explains why everyone's scurrying up there to get a piece of the action.”

  “Fine by me,” said Argus. They stepped onto an empty dock and surveyed the ships around them. “Which one do you like?”

  Brenn pointed out a sailboat with fresh white sails. “That one. She's a beauty.”

  They went over to it and started to untie the hemp knots. When they shoved off there was no one else around but a pair of boys fishing.

  “Look!” the taller one said. “That's Brenndall the Bold.”

  “No it isn't,” said the other. “He's supposed to be bigger than that.”

  Argus smiled, and Brenn waved to the kids without confirming—or denying—that he was in fact the infamous Nalavacian of whom they spoke.

  Once they set sail and charted a course for Davos, he stared into the endless waves and said, “This pony has left the stable.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The hour was early, but Emperor Eamon was a
nything but weary.

  He'd spent all night pacing the deck of his ship, battling unfavorable headwinds and bathing in chilly sea foam.

  Well, he supposed they weren't so unfavorable. Those winds had given him a chance to think. During the night he'd devised a plan to turn what had happened in Azmar—a disaster, by all accounts—into an advantage.

  “Tybold?” he said.

  “Yes, my lord?” The lanky man who served as his steward shuffled forward.

  “Go fetch Sister Martha. Bring her to my quarters.”

  “Of course, my lord.” With a bow, Tybold scurried below decks. The emperor followed, but at a leisurely place. He returned the salute given by the men guarding his quarters, then passed through the door they opened.

  Once inside, he lit a few candles and sprawled on the bed. The Sculptor demanded a life of moderation. But Rivannan silk was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself for voyages such as these.

  Eamon took off his boots and stretched his weary limbs. The strong winds had eased, leaving them with the perfect rocking motion for sleep. He propped his hands behind his head and waited.

  A few moments later, there came a gentle knock on his cabin door.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sister Martha is here to see you.”

  “Send her in.”

  The door swung inward and in walked Martha. She found him on the bed and looked away, her cheeks flushed. “My lord? I… I apologize. I didn't know you were resting…”

  Eamon sat up on his pillows and waved her in. “Please. I haven't slept soundly since the disaster in Azmar. Sit.”

  Martha looked around the cabin for somewhere to do just that. Finding none, she crossed her legs gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps it's an omen, my lord. I've been praying since dawn. And if the Sculptor wants war—”

  “We will give it to him.”

  “It is our duty to chisel the future he commands.”

  “Right you are, Martha. Right you are.” Eamon allowed himself a good look at her body. He couldn't see much under the loose roughspun robe, but he knew what she was hiding under there. He knew it well. That just made what he had to do all the more difficult…

  “Martha?”

  “Yes, my lord? How can I serve you?” She eyed the candles and fiddled with the hammer and chisel medallion hanging around her thin neck.

  The emperor sat up. He found himself scooting across the bed toward her, unable to resist her green eyes and dark hair. He grabbed her hand. “I've received a message, you see. From the Sculptor himself.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “He showed me that, instead of despairing about what happened in Azmar, there's another path. We will go to war, the Sculptor demands it. But the future doesn't bode well for us if we surround ourselves with heretics.”

  Martha squeezed his hand. “Who, my lord? Who among us lacks faith?”

  “General Ward.”

  “Him, my lord? But I've seen him praying many times, and he sculpts diligently as well.”

  Eamon nodded. “Sometimes our eyes tell false tales. The Sculptor delivered this to me in a disturbing vision. I believe a test of his faith is in order.”

  “W-what kind of test, my lord?”

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear.

  Martha tensed, took a deep breath, then nodded. “If that's truly what the Sculptor commands…”

  “It is.” Eamon found her waist through the roughspun, and felt her melting into him. “Now come to bed.”

  * * *

  On the next morning the winds had changed, and General Ward stood on the bow of the galley.

  “Please, my lord.” He shuddered in the breeze, his hands bound with strong chains. “I… don't know what came over me. I was weak!”

  “Yes,” said the emperor. “And so are we all. Yet lying with a woman outside the marital bed—not just any woman, but as devoted a believer as Martha—is a grave misstep.”

  Tears streamed down the man's face, and for a moment made Eamon forget the general's reputation on the battlefield. Merek Ward was well-liked by the men who served him. A ruthless tactician. But he'd bungled the single most important job Eamon had given him, and that was all that mattered.

  “Please!” he screamed, falling to his knees. “I'll serve penance or bear lashings or take the roughspun. Please, my lord. Mercy.”

  Eamon turned to the rest of the crew, who'd gathered on deck to watch. “I know how well you regard General Ward. This isn't a decision I take lightly. But if we let this slide—if we sit back and allow a man to seduce a devout woman out of some weakness of the flesh—the Sculptor's wrath will know no bounds.”

  The crew were silent. A few of them nodded, but most looked as if they'd spotted a sea monster on the horizon. Finally, one of them said, “If the Sculptor wills it, my lord.”

  “He does.”

  The emperor motioned for the guards to pull Ward to his feet. He went limp, weeping as they edged him closer to the edge of the deck. Eamon went over to him and laid a hand on the side of his face.

  “Please, my lord! Please!”

  “He crumbled in this life, but may the Sculptor look kindly upon his face…”

  He kicked the general square in the chest. He hurtled overboard headfirst. In half a second he was gone, though his wail echoed long after. Eamon took one glance over the edge and found the man sinking into the sea froth.

  “Let us use General Ward's misdeeds as a lesson,” he said to the crew, who groaned openly and shook their heads. “May the justice you've witnessed today inspire you to always remain devout. Remember: the smallest cracks can become larger ones, and ruin your foundation. By hammer and chisel.”

  “By hammer and chisel,” said his men, though they'd left their enthusiasm overboard with their drowned friend. They stood in silence save for the squawking gulls and waves until the skipper clapped his hands. “All right, lads. Back to work.” Reluctantly, they returned to their morning tasks.

  Once the crowd on deck had thinned, Martha came over to him. “My lord.”

  He nodded. “Sister Martha.” He couldn't bring himself to look at her without flying into an unquenchable rage. He'd meant to surprise them in Ward's cabin sooner. Instead, he'd found them already naked with that bastard's sweaty body on top of her.

  “He failed,” she said, her eyes wandering out to sea. “His faith was weak.”

  “Yes. Justice was done.”

  She tried to lay a hand on his but he wrenched away quickly. “Not here.”

  “I—yes, my lord. Forgive me.”

  Eamon waved her off. “Forget it.”

  “I… I'm worried about the men.”

  He forced himself to look at her, couldn't shake the image of their coupling.

  “Merek was a heretic, but they adored him. I don't want their faith to suffer. Nor their loyalty to you as the Sculptor's divine messenger.”

  “Don't worry about that, Martha. They'll come around. Good day.” He strode off to the bow, thinking. The general had complicated things, but perhaps his plans for war were still salvageable.

  The fool had one job, he thought. He swore to me that he'd hired the right assassin for the job. But what happens? The imbecile kills the wrong person!

  That knife had been meant for Jesper, a merchant from Rivanna—and one of the most outspoken ones against his ascent to power. Not some two-bit pacifist king from Leith. It was supposed to happen during dancing as well, so the assassin would have a better chance of escape.

  He shook his head. None of that had come to pass. After they boarded the ships back for Calladon, General Ward had sworn to him that wasn't the assassin he'd hired. Promised him he hadn't the slightest idea who stabbed the King of Leith. That's impossible, he'd told him. I hired a woman from Mael. A seasoned killer.

  The general had sounded sincere enough. He pointed out that the woman he'd hired simply didn't have a chance to act—that the other assassin had caused a premature ha
lt to the feast.

  It doesn't matter, Eamon thought. All that matters is the drama that the knife-wielding stranger left us with. That and the horrible message from the Eldwhisper had shaken his alliance with the Comet Tail Isles to its very core. He'd devised his entire plan—the only reason he'd agreed to attend the stupid feast at all—to light a few sparks in the powder keg.

  It wasn't all a waste of time, though. Getting rid of General Ward was inevitable. He was too ambitious and well-liked by the common soldier. His failure to execute the assassination gave Eamon the perfect excuse. And now, even better that he'd found a way to do it so the men believed him…

  The men. What am I to do about them?

  The emperor smiled. They were in desperate need of a little fun. Coop up a bunch of soldiers on a ship too long, and it was only understandable that their faith might be shaken.

  He had the perfect idea to let them release their pent-up frustration. To whip them up into a religious frenzy and give them the blood they craved. Best of all: it would be the last grain of sand that tipped the scales to war.

  He found the captain busy at the wheel.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Change our course due south by southwest. We set sail for Davos!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The first thing Argus saw was smoke.

  That was ordinary enough; what got his attention was just how much of it filled the evening air.

  “Look,” he told Brenn, pointing to the billowing black clouds.

  The Nalavacian, who'd been resting on deck, opened his eyes. He glanced at Argus, got up, and sniffed the air. “Looks like the entire island is burning.”

  They watched the flames in silence. As they rounded the north edge of the island, heading for the cove where the outlaw city of Davos sprawled, he remembered a story an old Comet Tail mercenary had told him about his homeland. Long ago, he'd said, in time before time, the earth spewed liquid fire from the sea.

  The man, who'd lost an eye and a lot of his sense in a battle, went on to claim that at the center of the Comet Tail Isles one of these places existed. Supposedly it still burned. Sometimes it coughed up smoke when it was angry. The artificers called it the Bellows, and worshiped it as the only god they knew.