Wrath of the Risen God: Arcane Renaissance Book Three

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Wrath of the Risen God: Arcane Renaissance Book Three Page 21

by Tim Paulson


  Piotr's eyes drifted away. “Seemed impolite to interrupt.”

  “Build a fire,” she said and walked off, shaking her head.

  Piotr held up his hands. “Yes, yes.”

  The dress dragged in the snow, catching on nearly every stick or rock she passed. It was infuriating. Why would any woman wear such an ungainly thing, certainly when traveling. That was Giselle though, it had always been her way. Form before function. Not that this dress was particularly beautiful, it appeared to have been bought at a low-end shop in Valendam but it had been expertly hemmed and taken in at the waist and chest... for someone of Giselle's greater height and bust size. Not so much for Mia.

  Another crack up ahead. That had sounded like a small tree being snapped in half. Trolls didn't usually do that. Mia had experience with the creatures. Occasionally they came down from the mountains looking for food and goliath knights would be dispatched with their goliaths to herd the creatures back up the way they'd come, if possible, or dispatch them otherwise. Mia had been on many such forays.

  Trolls didn't just muck about smashing things. They were ambush hunters who hid in the brush using their thick gnarled skin as a sort of camouflage, waiting for deer or bears, or woodsmen, to wander by. As such, they had a tendency to move through the forest silently. No, whatever was making this noise was something else.

  Suddenly it came to her... It had to be a goliath.

  Mia could almost feel it. As if the core of the thing were calling to her, like it was a hot heart pumping heat but more slowly with every moment that passed. It was in pain. It was dying.

  She topped a slight rise and saw it. It was on its side, wedged between two trees, the eyes a dim angry red. This was one of the Ganex goliaths.

  Why was it here though? North of Aeyrdfeld, alone, weakened. Was the knight inside? Had they been killed?

  The goliath itself seemed intact. It was a Scarosian design, the Stiletto, one of the small fast class two units used for scouting and harassment. Mia had trained in one much like it years ago. The joints were in working order and the chest had no obvious damage. If it had been knocked down there would at least be some cracks or chips, but the metal-encased stone appeared smooth.

  As she approached the goliath made a halfhearted attempt to grab for her, but she rolled out of the way. Its arms were moving so slowly it had only an hour of veil left, perhaps two.

  “Now now paisan,” she said. “I say we should be friends.”

  The red eyes regarded her, unblinking, yet she felt contempt radiating from it.

  “I know this skirt is too big, and it isn't exactly a knight's attire but I promise you, I know how to use you properly... and... I can feed you,” she said.

  The head tilted.

  “Oh yes,” she added. “If you let me touch your finger. I can show you.”

  The stone hands remained where they were.

  Mia shrugged. “Or you can stay like that and die in this cold forest, all alone. Up to you.”

  It stared at her but did nothing.

  “Fine,” she said and turned away.

  She took only two steps in the snow before there was a thud on the ground behind her.

  Mia turned back to find a two-fingered hand planted into the dirt four feet back.

  “Alright, just a taste. But if we can be friends, there will be much more,” she said and touched her hand to one of the fingers, pushing the heat from her center, feeling it leave her and enter the stone.

  The goliath pulled its hand back as if it had been bitten, rubbing the stone finger she'd touched with its other hand as it sat up.

  “May I?” she asked.

  The stone head with its thin steel mask painted white and red, nodded. A hand indicated the goliath's back as it bent forward. Mia wasted no time. She used the handholds to ascend the goliath's body and enter at the exceptionally small hole in its back.

  What she found inside was grisly.

  The previous knight was still there but impaled by a shard of stone. The shard appeared to have been formed of the goliath itself as if it had suddenly decided to devour its rider. Mia had a feeling she knew what had happened. It was that monster with Buckley, that sorcerer.

  If he was taking part in the campaign it was no wonder the Ganex had been reeling.

  Mia used her parrying dagger's veil blade to cut the Ganex knight free and pushed her inert body out of the entryway. At first, she'd thought it was Greta. The hair was the same, but the woman's face was different and she was older, perhaps forty. Mia hoped Greta was all right. The last she'd seen her was months ago when she'd fought Aaron and the sorcerer. Christine had brought her back to the castle, wiped the girl's mind, and sent her on her way. Had she reconnected with the Ganex? Mia had no idea.

  That was part of being under Christine's sway, you only knew what she told you.

  Just the thought of Aeyrdfeld's former baroness made Mia feel ill. Years lost, decades, doing what that woman wanted. Never had she been able to choose for herself. She didn't even know what she would want to do.

  No, that wasn't true. She knew exactly what she wanted. Adem was out there, somewhere. Mia would find him. Henri would not be forgotten.

  Connecting to the goliath was a wonderful feeling. It had been months since she'd felt the rush as her mind and feelings mixed with the core.

  Questions, worries, then excitement, joy at the rush of power filling it up. This goliath felt young, friendly. It reminded her of Zeus.

  “I'm Mia,” she said aloud. “We will be friends.”

  Wen, her mind said. His name was Wen.

  “That is... I haven't heard a name like that,” she said.

  Wen. My name.

  “Wen it is!” she said, thinking of the body of the former knight, that they should give her a proper burial.

  Wen agreed.

  * * *

  The sleet was pouring down from her left, biting into Thira's face, right through the fur. The masts were groaning and creaking from the strain of sails so full they threatened to roll the ship if the growing swells didn't do it first.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Rosa screamed at Robert, her arms wrapped around the railing.

  Wilhelm stood behind Robert, his right hand shielding his eyes as he scanned the horizon for the pursuing ship.

  “There!” he said.

  “I see it,” Robert replied and spun the wheel to his right more, turning their bow toward the ship in the distance.

  “Why are you turning toward it?” Rosa shrieked. “Are you an idiot?”

  Robert did not respond to her, instead, he turned to Cemu.

  “Take peg leg Pam down below,” he said but he looked to Wilhelm, his eyes questioning.

  “No objection,” Wilhelm replied.

  “What?!” Rosa snapped as Cemu and another deckhand grabbed her arms.

  “Lock her in my cabin,” Robert said. “I don't want her sneaking about again.”

  The claws in Thira's feet were dug deep into the deck, helping her keep what semblance of balance she had.

  “Why are you turning toward them?” she asked, as calmly as she could given the sleet and the dark skies roiling over head.

  “Have you ever heard of a joust?” Robert replied, now turning the wheel back, the bow was aimed directly at the republican ship. It was close enough to see the purple flag flying high above the crow's nest, even in the dimming light of the storm.

  “No,” Thira replied.

  “Her people do something similar,” Wilhelm replied, “Only they do it on foot.”

  “Ah, what's it called?” Robert replied. He sounded remarkably chipper for a man who'd just put his ship directly in the path of an enemy vessel.

  “The Shuann,” Wilhelm said.

  Thira blinked. The shuann? That was one of the many foolish ways male leothans settled disputes. They ran at one another at full speed, each with a thick club called a Unahutu. No shield was allowed and no deviation from the attack. Each had one swing, one chanc
e to knock his enemy unconscious or kill him. If neither hit, a second pass was attempted until one of them fell. Thira knew it well. It was how Wilhelm had killed her husband.

  “You're going to ram that ship?” Thira asked. “Surely these ships are not made for such things!”

  “You're right,” Wilhelm said. “They aren't.”

  “The aim, my dear lion lady, is to scare the hell out of the republican captain,” Robert said.

  “The wind is at our back. We have the advantage,” Wilhelm said.

  “Aye. That we do,” Robert replied as another huge swell rose behind them, speeding their descent down its front as the sleet filled wind filled the sails, driving them forward, directly at the ship ahead.

  “You expect them to turn?” Thira asked.

  “Yep,” Robert said, carefully adjusting his wheel to keep the other ship dead on. A few of the crew began to whoop and scream curses at the other ship.

  Wilhelm laughed. “You have an exuberant crew.”

  “We've been through the shit. This isn't the first time I've been forced to do something... rash,” he winked at Thira.

  Thira glowered at him. “Keep your eyes on the damned wheel, pirate. At least that might assure me you know what you're doing.”

  “Oh I know,” Robert said as the Scarosian Queen barreled ahead. “Thing is... two ships on the high seas are both supposed to turn to starboard if they're on a collision course.”

  They were close enough for Thira to see the sailors scrambling about the deck. The enemy ship had two small forward guns that they could be firing, but no one was manning them. The crew appeared to be creeping backward along the deck as if they expected Robert to smash right into them.

  “That would mean I turn this here wheel to the right, pulling us starboard. Of course... I'm not gonna do that. Worse, I'm slightly off-center,” Robert said.

  Thira had noticed it, the closer they got the more obvious it became, they were actually pointed, not at the other ship's direct center but toward its starboard side.

  “You're going to force their hand,” Wilhelm said. “Make them turn to port.”

  “If you don't kill us,” Thira said. “If they don't turn the way you want, we'll collide.”

  “And we'll all meet at the bottom of the sea for a pint of rum,” Robert said.

  Wilhelm laughed, clapping Robert on the back. “This is excellent!”

  Thira shook her head. “Fools! If my hands weren't full of splinters I'd slap you both.”

  “Now!” Robert yelled with both hands cupped to his mouth.

  Up at the front of the ship, two crewmen used knives to cut two of the smaller sales partially free. The wind, though mostly coming from behind them now, was still wild and strong and it blew the fabric all over, making the ship shudder.

  “That ought to help,” Robert said with a smile as he jerked the wheel to the left, then back to the right, shaking the ship even more.

  Thira felt the deck buck under her and dug her claws in as far as they could possibly go, feeling her stomach twist into a single knot of solid steel.

  Wilhelm laughed again. “Look at them scramble over there!”

  They were close enough to hear the bells clanging on the other ship's deck.

  “Just a few more seconds... I'm sure they must be about ready to...” Robert said, his eyes locked on the enemy captain, a tall man who stood behind the pilot, his hands clasped behind his back. They were close enough for Thira to see the deck lantern lights reflecting from the man's spectacles.

  Then, finally, the other captain raised his right hand and the pilot rolled the wheel to his left as the republican ship turned hard to port.

  “Haha!” Robert shouted, also whipping his wheel to port, only for the Scarosian Queen, with her sails already set for wind from the port side, it would be a very fast turn.

  The two ships passed each-other close enough for Robert's crew to shout insults, which they did, generously. Robert took off his hat and bowed to the other captain, laughing. The other man's face did not so much as move as three men ran past him and leveled muskets.

  “Fuck!” Robert yelled. “Down!”

  Wilhelm and Robert dove to the deck but Thira was stuck, her claws had dug in so deeply to keep her upright that they wouldn't release.

  Flashes of blue light followed by eruptions of white smoke blasted from the muzzle of each musket. She ducked to her left, trying to use the wooden steering wheel itself to shield her body. She'd been shot far too many times in the past year and was interested in cutting that down.

  The first two musket balls passed harmlessly over her head but the third smashed into one of the spokes of the wheel, shattering it and peppering her shoulders with splinters.

  “Ow ow ow!” she shouted. “Is my fate to be a pincushion?”

  Robert and Wilhelm were already on their feet.

  “There's no way they'll be loaded in time to fire another volley,” Wilhelm said.

  “And that... my friends... is how you lose a pursuit ship,” Robert said, grinning.

  “Are you sure?” Thira replied, narrowing her eyes at him while she considered the painful task of using splinter filled fingers to pull splinters from her shoulders. Claws didn't help very much either. They were wonderful for tearing flesh but not so good at plucking.

  “I'm sure,” he replied. “Mark my words kitten. There is no chance they'll catch up to us now. I don't care how fast they are. They've headed the wrong direction with the wrong sails. While we'll be cutting along the front edge of the storm, with the fingers of lady fate pushing us east at full sail, they'll have to head straight through with zero visibility and maintain a perfect course the whole time. Not possible.”

  Thira bared her teeth at him. “If you call me kitten one more time I'll-”

  “What? Flick splinters at me?” Robert quipped, smiling as he spun the wheel a bit more, turning them to line up with the front edge of the storm. “Trim those sails back in!”

  Thira looked to Wilhelm, mentally willing him to toss the pirate overboard.

  “Ha! Don't look at me to intercede. He's just teasing you,” Wilhelm said.

  Robert looked at her again, smiling.

  “Besides, if you still hate him by the time we get to Pyrolia, you can kill him then,” Wilhelm said.

  “I'm sorry... what?”

  “You heard me,” Wilhelm said, folding his arms.

  * * *

  The glass veil container was slotted into place on the jointed wooden contraption that lowered it down. Celia could see nothing inside. There was no smell, no movement, not even the swirling of any particles of dust that might give away some presence. Yet it was there.

  If freed, it would enter her body and consume her, turning her into a horror. But it wasn't free, no, it was contained, likely swirling inside the glass, waiting.

  “This girl has a serious tolerance for pain. A broken leg and she's barely whimpered. How interesting. Let's advance it more quickly. I want to hear her scream,” said the man with the mustache.

  “Yes sir,” replied the technician, a young man with spectacles, not unlike Aaron, though shorter. He bent down and turned a crank by the side of her cage. Slowly clicking as it moved and the glass container began to advance toward her chest.

  At first, she felt nothing. Then her breathing started to quicken on its own. It was as though someone was standing on her chest, pressing down, preventing her from taking in all she needed. This was followed by a growing feeling of heat on the skin of her chest. It felt like she'd leaned in too close to a cooking fire.

  “Please...” she gasped between breaths. “No...”

  “Oh yes! Beg!” the mustache man laughed. “I love that!”

  “Hey!” someone yelled from somewhere nearby.

  It caused the young technician to turn. The look that took over his face was so full of horror that Celia failed to grasp it as such. It seemed to her that he'd just frozen in the middle of a yawn. But it wasn't a yawn, it was a
scream, one that had failed to exit his lungs. His hands shook and he fell backward onto his haunches, scrambling on all fours to get away, but from what Celia had no knowledge.

  Her chest was beyond burning now, it felt like the outer layers of skin were being peeled back with a dull blade. She could bear the pain no more and let out an anguished cry. Her whole life. All the beatings at the orphanage, the stealing, the starving, the lying, even killing, it had all come to this... this horrible end, her leg broken and her blood stolen, so that the people of Valendam could heat their homes and feed their firearms.

  That was when the dead man appeared above, holding in his dried decaying fingers, a length of rusted metal pipe. The pipe was raised and swung.

  The first swing caught the mustached man in the shoulder, ripping a bloody chunk from it that flew over Celia's pit, dribbling blood across her forehead.

  The man shrieked and tried to retreat but it was too late.

  The second swing connected with his face. The crunch of bone was loud enough that Celia nearly felt it herself, or she might have, if not for the horrific pain in her chest, that was now expanding. It was going up her neck, down each arm and leg, as if all her veins had been filled with broken glass.

  She screamed again. A bellowing soulful wail, from the depths of her heart.

  Please... let me die, she thought.

  It's too much.

  Too much for anyone to endure.

  The mustached man grabbed at his ruined face, tripping backward to tumble out of view but she didn't care. All she cared about was the pain. So much pain.

  Please let it stop.

  There was a noise, clicking, and clacking, arms were pulling her. The sweet scent of rotting flesh filled her nostrils. Red glowing eyes. Someone was talking to her.

  “Give me the knife,” said a voice.

  Vex?

  It was. He stood next to her, his tiny doll form, holding a penknife. She watched as he jammed the blade into her forearm. Blood stained with black goo spewed from the cut. It sprayed all over Vex and his companion as well... a man. A dead man.

  Arms, wrapped around her, bearing Celia up again. She was being held.

  Vex was giving orders to someone.

  An item was pulled from her pocket. A small item... a bone.

 

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