by Tim Paulson
“You still haven't said what it is,” Thira said.
“If I knew, I would tell you,” Robert said. “Words do it no justice.”
Rosa's arms were folded. “My family does not have money.”
“That... is untrue,” Wilhelm said. “Your grandfather wasn't just better than me at polo, he was a very shrewd man. He was quite rich thirty years ago, I can only imagine your family's wealth now.”
Rosa's eyes widened. “Why would you tell them that?! These are pirates! They'll ransom me.”
Robert pointed at her. “As much as I love money, in order to ransom you, I would need to suffer further time listening to your constant whining about everything. Not to mention the clopping of that leg. Clop clop clop, as you pace back and forth along the deck. I've almost ordered you thrown over the side... three times. That's thrice!”
Rosa was sputtering with rage. “Why... You... Idiota!”
Wilhelm raised his hand. “I think what we're asking here is... can you pay the fee?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked. “He is... as undeserving of money...”
“Because you'll never have to see him again,” Wilhelm said. “I promise.”
Rosa grumbled. “I'd better.”
Thira looked at Wilhelm, frowning. Why would he promise such a thing? Did he plan to stay in Pyrolia? He looked back at her, calm as always. Sometimes the man was infuriating.
The Scarosian Queen cruised in at one-quarter sail and laid anchor in the harbor. Thira then watched from the port railing as Robert and Rosa bickered the entire time they climbed down the side into the waiting small boat.
After a few moments, Wilhelm joined her. In fact, she smelled him approaching far before he actually arrived at her side. He'd dressed smartly, he'd even shaved and used some of Robert's cologne.
“What is going on?” she asked.
Wilhelm shrugged. “Robert is about to be taken into custody. As is everyone on this ship.”
“What? Why?”
“Because Rosa is a Pyrolian agent and she's about to tell that to the garrison. Robert will be arrested, as shall we, and whatever he's stolen from the Veil Company and hopes to sell here, will be confiscated.”
“But how do you know?” she asked.
He held up a hand. “Thira... you've been with me a long time. If you want to leave now... you can.”
“I cannot!” she said. “I am your assat. This is sacred. I cannot leave you until another man defeats you in combat... Besides that... I don't want to leave you. You're a great man, a king of men.”
Wilhelm sighed. “I'm not, Thira. I'm not. I'm just a man. I was aggressive and bold, but above all I was lucky. I wasn't trying to kill your husband. I was trying to stay alive. My club just happened to hit him in the temple. It was blind stupid luck. Not skill, not bravery. Luck. I was as stunned as all the people of your village.”
Thira snarled. “No! That's a lie!”
“It's not. You should leave. If you dive off the ship now you can escape. You can swim much farther than I can.”
“No! Stop saying this Wilhelm,” she said, reaching for him but he stepped away.
In the distance, she heard yelling. A quick glance toward the docks showed Pyrolian soldiers with muskets, swords, and cudgels. Robert was being subdued. Rosa was pointing at their ship, talking to the lead man. Wilhelm was right. She'd sold them out. She must have been planning it the entire voyage!
“There are many leothans in Pyrolia, almost as many as Arden. Thira, many leothan males have come here to make their fortunes in the colonies, to try to earn a mate. You could find one. You could be happy.”
“Stop it... stop it!” she cried.
“You deserve a life of your own,” he said. “Stop serving a has-been king. I'm just a man now, a weak, and foolish one. Go... Or I'll throw you over the side myself.”
“Please...” she whispered.
“Now!” he yelled at her. “You are mine no longer.”
Crying, she turned, glancing one last time at him, at her husband, and dove from the side of the ship.
The waters were cold. Not as cold as Valendam, but still cold enough to bite her, numb her. It felt good actually, the numbing. It helped with the pain, the hole in her heart. For so long she'd served him faithfully, she'd saved him, cared for him, spent all her days with her ears, eyes, and nose, hunting every second for the tiniest hint of danger. She'd killed assassins, fought nobles, even thrown out overly amorous human females.
He'd cast her aside. Now she was no one's. Now she was nothing.
Why?
What could she do?
A dark shadow fell over her as Thira passed under one of the massive Pyrolian galleons. On the opposite side, she was finally forced by the pain in her center to come to the surface for a breath. The feeling of water soaked in all the way to her skin was beyond repellent. She hated it. She hated water and swimming and ships.
“Que es esto?” a voice called from above from the railing of the galleon.
“Es una Leonita,” replied another voice.
“¡Hola! Leonita,” yelled a third, a gruff male voice. “¡Enséñanos tus tetas!”
Thira snarled at them and dived back under the water, heading for the shore. It took a good deal of swimming through murky harbor water but she emerged, covered in the thin green strings the Pyrolians called pelo del mar. She found as she stalked along the merchant docks, that she was still seething.
After all this time, why now?
Had Wilhelm been planning this for the entire voyage? Had he been waiting for them to reach Pyrolia just so he could finally be done with her? Had he felt this way for a long time? Was she an inconvenience to him, a burden? Why not mention it before, back when she was saving his life over and over while he fawned over human women who hated and betrayed him?
The man was an idiot.
Her fists clenched so tightly the points of her retracted claws pierced her palms but she didn't care. The pain was gratifying somehow. If felt... real. Even when she did not.
“Hey? Do you need a job?” A man called to her. He wore the sharply tailored doublet, breeches, and short coat of a well to do Arden merchant.
Thira glared at him.
Another man approached, this one looked to be Calacian. At least, the four feathers in his hat and the way his doublet was cut low to show as much thick black chest hair as possible, made it highly likely.
“Don't listen to him, my dear. He works for an Arden pincher of coin. You'll be lucky to get a single day's wage out of him if you work an entire year. You should sign up with me, I have coin right here,” he said and spun his hand in a circle, revealing three golden Pyrolian doubloons.
Thira pushed past him.
“Fuck off,” she snapped. “I'm not in the mood for jests.”
“Who's jesting? The Calacian replied, following her. He spun his hand once more, revealing a fourth doubloon. “I don't recognize you. It's rare to see a leothan female alone. Are you... perhaps... unattached?”
Thira growled, stopping to snatch the man by his collar. She lifted him up so that his tiny brown eyes looked directly into her own.
“I said: Fuck. Off.”
The man swallowed but unlike her expectation, his enthusiasm did not dim in the slightest. In fact, it appeared to heighten.
“My captain would like to speak with you,” he said.
“No!” The smartly dressed Arden man said, running up on her left. “My captain would like to speak with you.”
“Back off Johnathan, She's already talking with me,” the Calacian snapped at his competitor.
“I saw her first Franco! Can't you see she has no interest in Calacian scum?”
Thira was so frustrated, she wanted to throw them both in the water. “Would you two shut up and leave me be?!” she roared, baring her teeth.
“What the devil's going on here?” a great voice boomed above them all.
Instinctively, Thira's ears went back and down. She knew that s
ound, only too well.
It was a leothan male, resplendent in Arden dress with a long showy cape, his thick blond mane braided and perfumed into the perfect outward expression of his power.
Behind him four leothan females stood, each in her place. Their heads were bowed in respect to their lord and master but their eyes were sharp and hot like knives drawn from the coals, and they were all on Thira.
“What's this all about?” said another booming voice from farther down the docks.
Thira's eyes widened. No... no, it couldn't be...
But it was.
Another leothan male was approaching, this one with a shining black mane formed into curls that cascaded down his massive shoulders. He was dressed in the characteristic short cape of the Calacians with shining green tights that strained to contain his meaty calves. He too had females trailing him, but only three.
Thira sighed. Her eyes drifted to the other females of her species. All of them were staring daggers at her and why? Because she might be the next wife in the pride, his next favorite? They had nothing of their own, no freedom, no choice, except whether to be jealous or not.
Several of them bore claw wounds on their faces. Perhaps there had been disagreement among the females. Perhaps not. Yet here they were, trying to scare her off from their perfect male.
In all their years together Thira had never actually been treated like a leothan assat. She'd been a partner, a compatriot. Her counsel had been sought and freely given. She couldn't go back.
No. She would not give up on Wilhelm so easily.
“Tell me...” she asked the blond leothan male. “Would you have a carriage?”
Chapter 19
"No, no, she didn't mean a literal cat, boy! The cat o' nine tails' out of the bag! How aren't you the one getting flogged?"
-Coxswain Casey Murdoch of the HMS Pursuer, 1614
“Is he still there?” Buckley asked.
“Yes,” his assistant replied, nodding so hard her spectacles nearly fell from her face.
“And still...”
She nodded again, her face white.
Buckley sighed. “How do I look?”
“Very good!” she replied, straightening the thick coiled lace collar that overlaid his intricate doublet.
Aaron didn't know why. He'd be donning a heavy fur coat for the front, which was currently draped across Aaron's arms. Whatever was underneath didn't matter.
“Alright,” Buckley's eyes flashed to Aaron. “Let's go.”
“Good luck sir,” his assistant said.
He turned back, stared at her for a moment as if searching his memory. “Thank you... dear. If I don't return... you've been an excellent help, truly.” He patted her hair awkwardly.
Aaron almost felt bad for him. Almost.
Once again, they tromped up to the headquarters roof.
Narael was there, waiting. His new form was hanging in the air, suspended about thirty feet above the surface, staring off toward the sea. The white cloak, filigreed with golden lines and symbols, fluttered in the wind, like his long hair.
Aaron wondered why the sorcerer always preferred the roof. Did he have some dislike of being indoors? Or was there something, in particular, he was concerned about, something that could approach via the sky? Maybe he just wanted to be there when his pyramids returned.
The pyramid.
Aaron wished very much to tell Narael about that. But Buckley had ordered him silent and if there was one thing this body was a stickler for, it was the letter of the law. What a horrible world these sorcerers must have lived in, one where everyone was constantly trying to use tiny details of rules and instructions to outmaneuver one another.
That was something he'd discussed with Marcus years ago. The idea that laws themselves could become a problem. Aaron had argued against it. He'd been very young then, a boy really. Having just come from the Institute where following rules and instructions to the letter had allowed him to graduate early and among the top of all who'd ever attended. Of course, he would espouse such an idea. Marcus had patiently explained how rules upon rules became a morass, designed to entangle the unsuspecting, the unwary. They gave power to rules makers and arguers and no one else.
Aaron missed Marcus. It was a shame what Liam had done. Though given all that he knew now about this power Narael and Christine used, perhaps it was best if he didn't come back. God knows what he might be like if he did.
“We're here,” Buckley said, tapping his shiny black boot on the roof.
“I know this,” Narael replied quietly from his place above them.
“Well? Are we going?” Buckley asked, straightening his doublet. A sharp wind blew across the headquarters roof then, causing Buckley to shiver. “Golem, hand me my coat.”
Aaron did so.
“Be silent salave,” Narael replied. “There is something irksome about this part of the world. I shall correct it. Behold.”
At this, still floating in midair, Narael drew symbols of red, gold and white. Aaron could see the power pumping into them from the sorcerer's body, masses of it, many times the amount he'd ever seen used before. Whatever was being done was going to be massive.
Finally, after almost a minute where Aaron watched Buckley nearly tap his toe again, twice, but stopped himself, there was a bright white flash. Then nothing.
Buckley shrugged. “I don't mean to be rude but... well?”
Narael flicked his left wrist, pointing a single finger at Buckley, whose left arm snapped like a twig. It stayed there, bent at a perfect right angle. Buckley's face went beet red and he cried out in pain.
“SILENCE!” Narael said. “Or every limb will be like that one.”
Buckley's mouth snapped closed, though spittle dribbled from his clenched teeth.
The pain was more than the man was used to. Surprising himself, Aaron found he enjoyed watching Buckley suffer. He'd been learning to embrace his feelings, which was part of the plan.
From the distance there was a low rumbling. It appeared that something was happening to the west of the city, in the sea. One of the barrier islands that formed Valendam's natural harbor was changing. It looked to be growing, like the stalk of a newly sprouted bulb, only a hundred thousand times bigger. It didn't take long for Aaron to recognize the shape and the rainbow iridescence of the white spire. It was the same as that central tower from the hidden city. He'd seen it in the distance while he was being carried by that odd tree-like creature. It was too similar to be a coincidence. What was it?
“There,” Narael said, floating down in front of them, smiling slightly. “That will make things much more comfortable.” He looked to Buckley. “Are you ready to return to your little war?”
Buckley had fallen to his knees, grasping at his arm. He whimpered.
Narael looked disgusted. “Get up,” he said and waved his finger again.
Buckley's arm snapped back into the proper shape with a loud crack. He yelped at the pain but also stood, as quickly as he could. From the look on his face, it appeared his arm had been healed and the pain reduced, or removed.
“In the future. When I tell you to be silent. Do so," Narael said to Buckley. Then he looked back at his tower, a slight smile curling his lips. "This will be enjoyable. Now that everything is handled, I can finally relax and have some fun.”
The sorcerer waved his hand, drawing a small symbol in the air. This was followed by a flash, and the roof was gone.
Now they stood in an open field, surrounded by hundreds of goliaths arrayed in a loose semi-circle before them. The gigantic stone golems had bent down on their knees with their foreheads to the snowy ground as if bowing before a lord.
“Why would you choose to live in a land with so much snow?” Narael asked, sounding suddenly thoughtful.
“Most of us live where we were born,” Buckley replied.
The sorcerer nodded. “Typical of all lower beings: Accept what you're given, fear asking for more.”
“I have never done this,” B
uckley said. He sounded almost defiant.
Narael held up a single finger. “Which is why I have allowed you to live. You think. You plan. It will make you a very good servant.”
“But... what about our deal. I saved your life. You promised me power,” Buckley said.
“And you shall have it. First among slaves... That is your word for it right? I believe it is.” His lips formed a smile but his golden eyes remained still, empty.
The sorcerer then raised his arms.
“My children! Arise.”
Aaron watched as more torrents of power rushed from Narael's fingertips to the center of each one of the goliaths. In unison the stone heads raised, revealing golden eyes. They all stood, picking up their golden swords.
“You said this Magenberg, it is the largest capital on this continent?”
“It is. The walls are considered impregnable,” Buckley said.
It was more than that.
Aaron had learned about the city in one of his courses. The walls had been built by one hundred and seventy goliaths working over ten years. They were so thick, each had a goliath size double gate for entry and exit. There were pointed extensions at every corner that bristled with scores of the largest cannons ever created by humankind, sixty pound monsters. It had been estimated by his professor, Miss Mallory Garin, that a full-on assault would require more than ten thousand goliaths, a number more than twice as large as the top four continental armies combined.
“Good... We will smash them and kill all those inside.”
Buckley's eyes widened. “But... why?”
“As a message. The time of your kind has ended,” Narael said, patting him on the shoulder. Then he turned to his assembled legions.
“My children. Go to the city of Magenberg! Smash the walls. Kill everyone inside.”
“Cacama!” All the goliaths chanted at once and then turned on their heels. One remained behind. It lowered himself to one knee before Narael, extending a hand.
“What? They speak?” Buckley asked.
“Of course they do,” Narael replied as he stepped onto the hand of the goliath before him. “These are far better than the useless refuse your people have cobbled together by studying our leavings. All of which must be destroyed. The powder weapons that fire circles of lead as well. Those are ingenious, I admit, but too crude for civilized people. It is forbidden for salaven to use such things.”