He caught sight of Alexis, her dark hair bound in a knot at the base of her neck, one leg springing outward to catch an invader in the center of his chest just as he crossed over. The momentum of her boot sent him toppling back over the side, and Stone felt himself smirk at the sight of it. She was glorious with a sword in her hand, even when it was not her own blade, all fierce grace and unbridled power.
Stone knew the exact moment that she saw him coming, as her eyes immediately filled with concern. She sent another opponent sailing into the water below with a well-timed swing at his armored torso and turned to him with a scowl. “What are you doing above deck?” she asked, plainly panicking. “You’ve no armor on.”
Stone began to point out the same of her but noted for the first time that she wore a hastily laced up leather chest piece and gripped a sword in her off hand. As she’d been on deck when the threat appeared, someone must have seen to it that she was properly outfitted.
“I—I brought your sword,” he said, holding it out rather clumsily.
Still appearing displeased, Alexis took it from his grasp, tossing the one she’d been using previously to the side. “Thank you,” she said. “If you’re staying up here, then be careful—“
The words were hardly out before an attacker came at them. Alexis intercepted the swing of his sword with her own, hooked a foot behind his leg, and sent him sprawling to the ground much like she had done earlier in her fight against Ambrus. The deck vibrated behind him; Stone turned just as a spear was thrust his way, barely managing to dodge the stab. He’d only practiced defending against swords and was only just becoming proficient; he knew nothing about the finer points of warding off an attack with a spear. He was lucky. Another fighter—one of the sailors on his own side—bumped shoulders with the spearman by sheer coincidence, making him stumble back, adjusting his grip on the weapon. Stone used the time, the fraction of a second, to search for weakness in his armor just as Alexis had shown him. He thrust his sword forward, beneath the man’s ribs. He felt it pass through the resistance of clothing and into the soft, vital parts beneath. He’d killed a man on the slave ship during the insanity of the storm, but this was far more deliberate.
There was no time to watch him die. There were already new pirates slipping over the railing of the ship, doing their level best to swarm inward until they took it over. He’d read about many battles, but he found that all of his knowledge on the subject did nothing to prepare him for the reality of fighting in one.
Stone had always imagined grand, one-on-one fights between soldiers in the midst of a larger skirmish, contests of skill that stretched onward for minutes. If any such thing occurred, it was not within his sight. He swung his sword when it was opportune to do so and dodged or blocked each bit of glinting metal that came barreling his way. If anyone were to ask him how many men he killed, he could not have spoken a number. He struck or stuck several with the supposed blade of Leonidas, but he rarely had the chance to follow through with a killing blow before his attention was pulled away by the next attacker.
He did not know how much time passed before the leader of their attackers called off the fight, obviously sensing that it was a hopeless endeavor and not worth losing his entire stock of men. A captain alone couldn’t sail a ship. Stone only knew that there were orders being shouted in a voice that skipped across the water and that, slowly but surely, the number of enemies began to wane. When at last they had dwindled enough for him to feel safe in looking up and scanning the horizon, the enemy ship was already pulling away. There were a few enemies remaining, now trapped on the wrong boat with no way out. A few jumped into the sea, perhaps hoping to somehow catch up to their own men. Those who did not jump fought like cornered animals, to the last breath. Stone did not, himself, engage any of those remaining, but he saw the Captain Kyrios hacking at one from a distance, and Alexis taking one apart piece by piece, until Ambrus stepped in to help her end it.
When the last body thudded against the wood of the deck, the sailors were silent for a mere handful of seconds before they erupted in cheers. Alexis cheered with them, never quite meeting his eyes across the crowd that separated them. Stone felt the urge to let his voice join with those rising around him, but any joy was dampened by the sight of the bodies still leaking blood onto the deck of the ship. He allowed himself to smile along but kept his mouth closed.
❖❖❖
It was fully dark by the time the bodies had been removed from the ship. Enemies were tossed in without ceremony, while the men from their own ship were wrapped in white cloth and lowered more gently. The captain said their names, where they were from, and a few other, interchangeable words about them each. All told, Captain Kyrios’s losses were only three men. Stone did not know any of them well enough to notice their absence, but to the others, he imagined it felt strange to see a familiar fixture in one’s life suddenly vanish over the side of the ship and into the unforgiving sea.
Shortly afterward, the celebrations began because a victory must always be celebrated. Even Stone recognized the importance of that. If the crew did not engage in revelry immediately after a successful battle, the men might sink too deeply into grief for their morale to be revived. He was unsurprised when casks of ale were broken out.
When he tracked down Alexis, she appeared to be unhurt but was plainly drunk already. She sat with Ambrus and one other man around a large crate that had been repurposed as a table; her head was lowered almost to the point of hitting the makeshift tabletop, though she seemed to be making a valiant effort to hold it up by resting her cheek against her hand. At the sight of him, the other men smiled and raised their tankards in greeting, but Alexis barely stirred.
“Stone,” Ambrus said. “Drink with us.” The quartermaster passed him a mug of ale. He accepted it with a nod and a strained smile and downed a small sip.
At the sound of his name, Alexis seemed about to stand up but quickly thought better of it, making the sailors with her chuckle. It was an easy sound; if she hadn’t already won them over with her sparring, she had done so now. She had fought as one of them and probably better than most.
“You fought well,” Ambrus said, distracting him quite effectively.
Stone resisted the urge to roll his eyes, quite sure that the other man was having him on. “Thank you for saying so,” he said. “Any advice?”
He appeared pleased to have been asked his opinion. “You leave yourself open on your right side, but I’m sure this one has told you that,” he nodded at Alexis.
“You’re too hesitant,” the other man said. He had a short brown beard and lighter eyes than most. “It makes it obvious that you’re inexperienced.”
“I’ve told him,” Alexis threw in, rather sleepily.
“Yes, yes,” Ambrus said. “I’m sure you have.” The man inclined his head toward Alexis. “Perhaps you should see your wife to bed?” he suggested. His tone was mostly joking, but there was a touch of concern on his face.
Judging from the state of her, it was sound advice. He was already planning to relinquish the cabin to her for the night. It would feel wrong to lie alongside her when she was too drunk for him to heal the hurt he had caused. Stone moved to stand behind her, gripping her by one arm and pulling her up. It was not nearly as easy as it should have been. Her muscles were so slack that he could barely maneuver her, and she helped him not at all. It took both hands beneath her arms to heave her upright, and even then, she leaned against him instead of standing on her own. He did not feel safe letting go of her. More worrying still was the heat that emanated from her body; it was like standing next to a hot stovetop.
“How many tankards did she have before I joined you?” Stone asked.
Ambrus shrugged. “Two perhaps? I wouldn’t have pegged her for a lightweight, but with women it’s hard to tell—even a woman as tough as this one.”
It made no sense, lightweight or not. “Alexis?” he said, more loudly, giving her the slightest of shakes. Her muscles stiffened; her knee
s locked to take her weight. “Stone?” she said. “I feel as though I cannot breathe.”
With this revelation, her limbs went limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut. Had Stone not been ready, he would have dropped her. He said her name once more, but this time there was no answer. He lifted her carefully, and it was only when she was in his arms that he realized how dangerous the heat coming off of her skin truly was. She shook against him, eyes rolling so that only the whites were visible through her fluttering lashes.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. The fear in his voice made it carry much further than he wanted it to. Heads turned toward him. “My wife is ill. She has a fever. Is there anyone on board who acts as a healer?” He nearly said doctor, before realizing how useless the word would be.
Ambrus was already standing. “The cook sews us up when we’re injured. And the Captain and I know a bit. Bring her to the galley.”
Panic ripped through him like shrapnel, leaving him littered with holes. He was a student of culture and history and knew exactly how badly this could turn if it wasn’t treated soon. Given how hot she felt, like a furnace against his skin, raising blisters, whatever had caused it had been festering within her for some time. She must have known she was growing weaker and pushed through it in the way that Alexis pushed through everything.
“Stone,” Ambrus said.
He hadn’t moved. He was still standing on deck in the midst of drunken men, looking down at the slack face of the woman he loved. Stone gathered her closer and did as he was told.
Alexis
There were voices close by. Hands were upon her, searching, stripping away her clothing, and baring her heated skin to the blessedly cool night air. They were Stone’s hands. She could recognize their touch even without opening her eyes to peer at his face above her. There was something hard and stiff below her, as though she was lying on the deck of the ship. Perhaps she’d been injured in battle.
There was a voice, quiet, catching.
“When in the hell did you do this?” Pain lanced through her, but she could not open her mouth to scream through it. “Why didn’t you say something, Alexis?” Cold palm against sweaty forehead, pushing back her hair. There was something covering her then, from her chest to her knees, and the sweet, cool air was gone for good.
“There’s a cut here,” Stone’s voice said, but it was louder now, directed somewhere that was not her ear. “It looks infected.”
There were more hands then, hurting her in their quickness, not as careful as the first pair. There were voices, arguing and overlapping. And always, persistently, there was pain.
Her arm was burning up like a candlewick. The fire was slowly spreading, engulfing each part of her. Soon, there would be nothing left of her but the things she had lost.
❖❖❖
She dreamt of blood on the deck of a ship and a horse beneath her, carrying her up a tall hill lined with olive trees. She opened her eyes, blinked in confusion at an unfamiliar ceiling. The world was dark and constantly shifting. If she listened closely, she could hear the rattling of chains. The pit of despair widened within her, threatening to swallow her whole.
“Hey,” a voice said. Stone said. “You’re safe. You’re going home, remember?”
Stone was leaning over her, and Captain Kyrios was with him. He was a good man, Captain Kyrios; not like other captains.
“You’re going home,” Stone repeated. “But to get there, you’ll have drink this. Ambrus says it might help your fever.”
She had a fever. That explained the flames licking at her skin, the boiling water surrounding her brain. It did not explain the dead men and women sitting in the shadowy corners; their bodies were waterlogged and swollen, skin green and grey with rot. The shackles encircling their wrists shone brightly. One of them was a small, slight girl with hair and eyes similar to her own. It was a lie. It had to be. Her sister was safe, at home with her mother; she needed to believe she’d made it home. Alexis tried to sit up, the muscles of her stomach screeching in protest. Hands pushed her down, back onto the unforgiving, hard surface.
“Lyra?” she said, but the younger girl was gone.
Stone swallowed. His eyes looked wet. The sight terrified her. “You’ll see Lyra. But you have to drink.”
The cook mixed something in a small, wooden bowl and passed it to Stone. There were herbs on strings drying above them, and a sack of vegetables on a nearby shelf. They were trivial details in comparison to the words Stone had just said.
“Will you come?” her lips said. They were divorced from the rest of her, a separate entity. “I want you to meet her.”
There was no answer. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken after all.
Her eyes closed and did not have the strength to open. Someone was attempting to make her drink something terrible. She clamped her mouth shut and tried to turn away, but there were hands on either side of her head, holding her still. A rough hand squeezed her jaw open. Alexis gagged, coughed; some of the awful liquid shot up her nose.
“Alexis.” Her own name sounded strange, like an unknown language in her ears. “Of course I’ll come. Of course, I’ll meet her.” Stone’s strong, careful hands stroked at her hair. “I know it can’t taste good, but it will help. Come on.”
A different voice spoke, rough and commanding. “Drink it, girl. It will give you good dreams.”
She opened her mouth and bitterness rushed inward.
“That’s it,” Stone praised, his voice quavering with relief. She wondered dimly how long this battle had been raging before she’d woken enough to be aware of it. “Just a tiny bit more. There you go. I’ve never met someone so stubborn.”
Part of her wanted to smile, but it was difficult with the medicine scraping down her throat. The sound of rattling chains had faded, and when she opened her eyes, the shadowy corners, for the moment, were empty of ghosts.
❖❖❖
Alexis drifted. She was no longer in the galley, but back in her cabin. That much she knew. Her eyes opened intermittently to a variety of sights. Stone was pacing the short length of the room, five steps back and forth. He’d closed the door, and she could barely see him in the dark. She was shaking so hard that the very darkness she was trapped in seemed to blur. He turned toward her, just as her eyes closed again.
“Keep fighting,” the voice told her.
There was a hand smoothing down her hair, an ice-cold cloth drenched in water being draped across her forehead. The quartermaster loomed over her, the gash in his throat open so wide that she could see the bones of his neck beneath it. She focused on the kindness of the hand in her hair, the gentle touches and soft, murmured words. Alexis focused on the cool hand and breathed, tried to banish the smell of blood from her mind before sleep took hold again.
She fought against it—sleep—but it was too persistent an adversary. To be awake was to be in pain, and though she was only four and twenty, she was very tired of pain already.
Notus was beneath her, Lyra’s arms were around her waist, and a whole pack of slavers were at her back, slavering like dogs that had not been fed in weeks. There was an arrow in her horse’s flank, but he carried her steadfastly, just as he’d once carried her father. The pained sounds he made tore at her ears. Blood frothed from his mouth, but she could not stop riding. If she stopped, they would catch her and Lyra both.
Alexis shot upright, gripping at the sides of the hanging bed, breath shuddering in and out of her lungs. It did not seem to make a real difference and she concluded that they were no longer working.
“Did you dream of wolves?”
She turned her head toward the warm voice, vision blurred with sweat and tears, and could just barely see the figure seated in the corner, a familiar bow gripped in his hands.
“Perhaps,” she said. Speaking was an effort.
“Rest,” her father told her. “They will not make it past us.”
For a moment, she was not sure who he meant, but then the hand around her own twitched, tig
htened, and she saw Stone sleeping in a half crouch in front of the bed, his forehead dipping down to touch the straw mattress.
One final time, Alexis slept. Whatever came for her in the night would meet a terrible end.
❖❖❖
There was a voice lapping against her like the waves against the ship. It was Stone, of course it was. He was hunched over in an uncomfortable looking wooden chair, his hand fused to hers. Alexis watched him for a moment through eyes that were open mere slits. His figure was blurred in this manner, but she could see the redness of his eyes and skin that was at least as pale as her own currently felt. It was his voice, however, that mesmerized her more than anything else.
She’d asked him a hundred times for a story, under the starry desert sky, in the stinking bowels of a ship, in a tent permeated with the sound of drumming and singing from elsewhere in camp. He’d never once obliged her.
“You’re the storyteller,” he’d say. “Me? I’d just end up rambling.”
But he was telling one now, his voice hoarse with overuse, stripped down to a broken whisper. He spoke of a man called Weymar, a famous tracker, who was robbed while on the road of a dagger his father had left him. He tracked the man down, but no one believed him to be a thief when Weymar accused him in public.
“Weymar asked the gods to help him prove the man’s guilt and devised a test. A ladle was put in the campfire, left there until it had grown red-hot. The thief was asked to pluck it from the embers and lick it. If his tongue was scarred or burnt, he was guilty. If he was unscathed, he was innocent and blessed by the gods.”
“What happened?” she asked. The words were barely audible.
The story broke off. Stone squeezed her hand so hard that she felt a sharp barb of pain. Alexis did not remark upon it; it was a reminder that she was alive.
His smile was uncomplicated and warm; turning toward it felt like facing the sun. “Your fever broke a while ago,” he said. “But you were still so weak, I wasn’t sure…” He trailed off and shook his head once, as though the words he’d been about to speak were distasteful. “I wasn’t sure you’d wake up.”
Solomon Stone- Survival Page 9