Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  “There’s not much we can do to stop it from here,” she pointed out.

  “Yes,” Rhona agreed. “I think this too. It is good then that Cotora does not think me traitor.”

  There was a curious quality to her voice that drew Elias’ gaze back to her. He frowned slightly, struggling to decipher the emotions written on the elf’s face.

  “I take it you have an idea?” he asked.

  Rhona fidgeted, her fingers kneading the edges of her cloak. It took a while before she spoke again, but when she did, Elias recognized the determination in her voice for what it truly was.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  ***

  As far as plans went, Elias had never heard one he liked less. It wasn’t just the odds of success—which, by his estimation, were unfathomably low—it was the risks involved. Rhona’s proposal was no mere jailbreak. If they failed at any point, the consequences of Cotora’s ire would be catastrophic.

  He said as much, for all the good it did.

  “There is no choice,” Rhona said, still fingering her cloak. “Cotora gives this ship a quarter of her crew. She is faster, yes, but will not go far. Your small boat—cutter?—cannot reach shore in time. We must have this ship and pray Cotora does not see us flee. For this, we must do at night.”

  “And if she spots us anyway?” he asked.

  Rhona did not even hesitate. “We die,” she said. “I die too. Cotora does not spare even a Gwydas if I betray her.”

  “The crew is angry,” Kyra pointed out in a whisper. “We can protect you, of course. But if we retake the ship, most—perhaps all—of your people here may die.”

  This time, Rhona did pause. Abandoning her cloak, she clasped her hands in her lap and stared at them for a long time before sighing softly.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I think this. But more die if there is war.”

  “What about the elves like you?” Elias asked. He wanted to wait in recognition of the seriousness of Rhona’s admission, but there was no telling how long they had before the other elves came searching for her. “The ones you talked about, who sing for spells? Won’t Cotora have one here? Or at least watching us?”

  “No.” Shaking her head, Rhona swallowed hard. “Spell-singers are rare. Very valuable. Cotora does not send them away. And to see far is a rare of rare blessing. Many sing to sink ships, few sing to look at them.”

  Elias stared thoughtfully at her, searching in vain for some other objection he might raise. Truthfully, he liked the whole idea no better now than when he’d first heard it. But, at the very least, it was obvious that Rhona had thought the plan through. If she thought the odds reasonable and the prize worth the risk, well, who was he to disagree?

  “All right,” he said. “What are we waiting for?”

  Rhona grinned wildly, unnervingly so under the circumstances, and climbed shakily to her feet. Adjusting her cloak to expose her shoulders, she tugged incrementally at her semi-transparent robe until it hung so loosely that it could hardly be considered clothing at all. The display was so abrupt and unexpected that Elias couldn’t help but stare, even when Kyra nudged him hard with her knee.

  From the gleam in her eye, visible even in the dim, fading light below decks, Elias could tell that Rhona was all too aware of the effect she had on him. She didn’t comment on it, however. Instead, she merely smirked.

  “Bait,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  Despite the day’s frightful events and the persistent anxiety of what lay ahead, Elias could hardly stifle his yawns by the time Rhona put her plan into action. He leaned against the beam to which his hands were loosely bound, occasionally using the chafing of the ropes to stave off sleep. Kyra had not been so determined. Her head lolled against his shoulder as she dozed, though she did wake with a gasp every few minutes.

  He shrugged, rousing her, at the first sound of furtive, creaking footsteps. To his relief, she did not speak. Instead, she inhaled deeply, shifted her legs into a readier position, and narrowed her eyes to a sleep-feigning squint.

  It was Rhona’s giggle that confirmed she was not alone. To Elias, it sounded unnervingly forced, but the soft, insistent murmuring of her chosen partner made it clear he was alone in the knowledge. Though he couldn’t understand the elven male’s playful cajoling, he recognized the tone and cadence of the words. They were the same sort he’d heard through tavern and brothel doors any time he passed one.

  “Eret,” Rhona whispered, startlingly close. Stepping past Elias’ outstretched leg, she slipped into a shadowed corner and flashed an inviting smile over his head. “Vevan, Lucio?”

  It was difficult for Elias to keep his breathing slow and even as the elf stepped into view. Eyes all but closed, he watched through his lashes as the elf gazed skeptically down at him.

  “Ijal vevan?” the elf muttered, frowning.

  Rhona snorted softly, rolling her eyes and replying in a half-teasing, half-mocking tone. Seizing the elf’s wrist, she pulled him into the corner and guided his hand to her breast.

  Whatever doubts the elf had harbored vanished in an instant. With a soft, amorous growl, he buried his face against Rhona’s neck. His fingers tugged at her robe, gently at first, then with more and more desperation until, chuckling, she obliged him by shrugging out of it.

  Rhona moaned softly, the sound eerie and uncomfortable enough to send a chill down Elias’ spine. Then, as she hooked an ankle around the elf’s knee, he climbed silently to his feet. Kyra rose with him, gathering up the generous length of rope and clutching it tightly to keep from alerting their quarry.

  The elf must have heard something, since he paused and started to turn a split-second before Elias’ fist struck him. He staggered, gasping, and managed to catch himself with an arm just as the second blow caught him in the temple. Elias did not hesitate. In the dark, it was impossible to tell whether the elf had been knocked unconscious or merely dazed. Dragging the elf into range, he looped the rope from his bonds round his neck, planted his knee against his foe’s neck, and pulled.

  Terrified by the prospect of a noisy struggle, he was so fixated on the unmoving elf that he did not even see Rhona as she stooped to claim his blade. He continued to pull, endlessly, his back and shoulders quivering and threatening to give out. He did not even realize their bonds had been cut until Kyra’s hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Elias,” Kyra whispered. “That’s enough.”

  He glanced down then immediately turned away. One look at the gaunt, purpling face of the now dead elf was enough to turn his stomach. Struggling to his feet, he staggered drunkenly as Rhona carefully sawed the ropes from his wrists. It was not until she was nearly done that he realized she had yet to readjust her robe. The sight of her bare, painted breasts startled him and he lurched.

  “Easy,” Kyra whispered, steadying him. “Are you okay?”

  Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, as the last of his restraints fell away, he nodded.

  “Yeah,” he lied. “I’m fine. Let’s go free the crew.”

  With several pairs of hands, it took them only a few minutes to slice or unknot the bonds that held the rest of Avans’ men. They found the man himself securely tied in a small, adjacent storeroom, furiously gnawing at the rope gag the elves had bound him with. No sooner had they removed it than the man spat, cursed, and surged purposefully to his feet.

  “About damn time,” he growled. Glancing at the sword Rhona carried and the silent, growing crowd of sailors, he nodded approvingly. “I assume you lot have a plan for after we kill the pointy-eared bastards on deck?”

  Elias nodded and Avans grinned.

  “Good,” he said. “Then keep quiet and follow me. I’m sure they’ve searched the ship by now, but I reckon there are a few weapons they missed.”

  As it turned out, there were in fact a few weapons to be found. Not as many as Elias had hoped for, of course, but between a handful of ru
sted blades and makeshift clubs, they managed to arm more than half of the crew in a matter of minutes. The real challenge, however, would not be finding weapons, but using them. Without any clear notion of where Cotora’s ship might be in relation to the Dark Dawn, every clash of steel or wounded cry might prove the one that gave them away.

  But, foolhardy or not, they would accomplish nothing cowering in below decks. And so, clutching one of the salvaged blades, Elias followed Avans up the stairs.

  It was Raltson who spotted the first elf. With a mute snarl, the man leapt into action. Vaulting over a row of lashed water barrels, he thrust his sword through the sentry’s heart. The elf died with nothing more than a startled croak. He did, however, succeed in knocking an unlit lantern from its hook. Raltson grabbed for it but missed and it shattered with a deafening explosion of glass.

  “Fuck,” Avans growled. Whirling, he stared furiously at his men. “So much for that. Go get them, lads. Quiet if you can, but make sure you get every last one of the bastards!”

  It was all Elias could do not to be caught up in the sudden tidal wave of sailors. The men poured up the stairs, blades, clubs, and fists at the ready. For a few seconds, all was silent. Then, one after another, loud cries of alarm erupted from the deck.

  Sighing, Elias joined the fray.

  Whatever they might have lacked in training or preparation, Avans’ crew more than made up for with sheer determination and ferocity. The main deck teemed with dozens of elves, with several more aloft. Most were cut down in seconds as the crew assailed them in twos and threes. Elias paused for only an instant, but witnessed several men fall in quick succession also. Gritting his teeth, he raced for the quarterdeck.

  He was intercepted as he neared the stairs. But, thankfully, the elf who blocked his path was none other than the one he’d sought. The richly ornamented officer, the same one he’d seen arguing with Rhona when the Dark Dawn was first taken, stared at him in a mixture of outrage and condescension. Then, leveling his sword, the elf sneered.

  Elias didn’t hesitate. Stalking forward, he feigned a thrust and launched into a ferocious onslaught of blows. The elf parried them with moderate ease. But, as Elias countered his own strikes with equal, if somewhat clumsier precision, the elf’s sneer faded to an angry grimace.

  Elias almost laughed, both at the swift return of half-forgotten instincts and the effect they had on his foe. It had been years since his lessons. And although the blade he wielded now was both shorter and heavier than the sabers to which he was accustomed, it was plain to see that his enemy was equally rusty. If the elf was accustomed to combat at all, it was evidently with poorly trained sailors.

  He was not one of those—a fact that he drove home when the officer overextended a desperate slash at Elias’ neck. Redirecting the attack upward, Elias ducked and thrust. His aim was off. Rather than running the elf through, he caught him in the side. Even so, the elf fell.

  “Eret!” the elf yelped. Crying out in pain, he clutched his side and glanced down in dismay at the blood that leaked between his fingers. Tossing his sword at Elias’ feet, he raised a beseeching hand. “Jan, eret! Bial no eh’ka!”

  Elias kicked the elf’s discarded sword aside, leveled his own blade at his foe’s chest, and then paused. The heat of his racing blood, his feverish thoughts, and every last bit of logic he possessed screamed at him to thrust forward. Only one thing stood opposed: the memory of the pained, contorted face of the elf that now lay dead in his makeshift cell.

  Hissing in frustration, he stole a hurried glance over his shoulder. The deck had fallen silent, apart from a few pained groans from Avans’ wounded. Unless there were some fifty-odd elves hidden somewhere below deck, the battle was over.

  The elves were dead—all save Rhona and the male at his feet.

  “Eh’ka,” the elf pleaded. His teeth were clenched and his brow slick with sweat. Blood stained his shirt from the ribs to his waist. “Jan, eh’ka.”

  Pounding footsteps neared and Elias spun, sword at the ready, but it was only Rhona. She froze at the sight of Elias’ opponent. Kyra followed her a few steps behind and reacted so identically that it would have been comical under any other circumstance.

  “Well?” he asked, studying Rhona’s face. “Should I kill him?”

  Even before he said it, he knew it was nothing but an attempt to escape responsibility. It was unfair of him to put such a burden on her shoulders. And yet, Rhona did not even acknowledge him. Inching forward, she crouched and stared darkly at the wounded elf.

  “Tievan no Cotora?” she growled.

  The elf stared at her in shock. For a second, his pain looked to be all but forgotten. Then, eyes narrowing, he groaned and shook his head.

  “At’kinch, kuie,” he snapped. Wiping his lips with bloodied fingers, he spat at her. “Bial wei’no poruk’linain.”

  Rhona straightened then stood. The elf’s spittle had missed her face but Elias could see the anger burning in her eyes as she wiped her shoulder with part of her robe. Turning, she touched him lightly on the arm.

  “He is no help,” she said. “Kill him.”

  This time, Elias did not hesitate. He stepped forward and drove his sword through the elf’s chest before either of them had time to consider what he was doing.

  ***

  The moon was a thin sliver overhead and in its meager light, it took them close to an hour to spot Cotora’s ship. It was one of the men aloft in the rigging who first noticed her. Rather than shout his observation, however, the man scurried down the ropes and had nearly reached the deck before hissing the announcement.

  Elias didn’t hear the man’s exact words but his tone and furious gesturing communicated everything necessary. Racing to the portside edge of the quarterdeck, he peered out over the dark, glittering waves until he found what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the sight brought him no comfort.

  True, Cotora’s ship was distant—so distant it was frankly miraculous she’d been sighted at all. She was, however, no longer sailing due north. Instead, she had changed tack and was now gliding eastward in what could almost have been described as an intercept course.

  Elias spun to where Avans stood only a few feet away.

  “Does she know?” he demanded.

  The captain shook his head. “I can’t imagine how she would,” he said. “We haven’t so much as trimmed our sails and she’s far enough away she can’t have heard any noise. Might be she’s drilling her crew.”

  “At night?”

  “They’re elves,” Avans grumbled, a hint of well-concealed tension creeping into his voice. “How should I know when they sleep?”

  Elias grunted and turned back to stare at the far-off ship. “And if they aren’t drilling?”

  “Then it’s been a real pleasure, Eli.”

  He had a retort ready, but the words were swallowed up by the sudden, audible yawn that overtook him. Avans must have noticed for he chuckled and took a half-step in Elias’ direction.

  “Why don’t you go get some rest?” he suggested. “If you can. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to wake you if we’re all about to die.”

  Elias was about to decline—he didn’t plan to sleep away what might well be the last few hours of his life—but the words lost out to yet another yawn. Grimacing, he nodded curtly and offered Avans his hand. The man grasped it firmly and silently.

  Unsurprisingly, both Kyra and Rhona had retired to the cabin by the time he’d arrived. They lay on the pallet and bed respectively and though they were not talking, Elias could tell from the way they tensed that neither had yet fallen asleep. He briefly considered keeping silent as well, if only so they might have a chance at undisturbed sleep, but quickly set the notion aside.

  “We spotted Cotora,” he said, dropping wearily to his half-pallet.

  Kyra sat up abruptly. Rhona, on the other hand, merely inhaled sharply.

  “She’s a ways off,” he quickly continued. “Avans doesn’t think
she could have heard or seen anything. He’ll come and wake us if anything changes.”

  Rhona acknowledged his words with a nod. Kyra, however, merely sank back down to her pallet and reached out with a hand. Elias took it unthinkingly and was rewarded with a reassuring squeeze.

  “It’ll be fine,” she whispered.

  Elias wasn’t so sure but knew better than to disagree. He continued holding Kyra’s hand long after her breathing had slowed and she had apparently drifted off in an uneasy sleep. Then, ever so carefully, he slid his fingers free of her and folded her arm softly across her chest. She did not even stir.

  His own exhaustion was like a yoke across his shoulders but he resisted it as long as he could. Some part of him envied Kyra and her ability to rest in the face of such circumstances. The most he could manage was leaning back against the wall of the crowded cabin and shutting his eyes. Occasionally, sleep found him and he managed to drift off for a few minutes. Without fail, however, dreamlike impressions of leering elven faces flashed beneath his weighted lids and he lurched awake, panting and sweating. Sometimes it was Cotora’s face—merciless and calculating. Other times it was the face of the unnamed officer he’d slain or the elf—Lucio?—that he’d strangled below deck.

  He hadn’t ventured back to the makeshift prison since they’d retaken the ship. For all he knew, the elf’s body was still there, purpled and ruined.

  The door swung open suddenly and Elias surged to his feet—only to wake and realize he had not stirred. To his surprise, his folded legs had gone numb and his arms were sluggish with castoff sleep.

  Someone knocked softly on the door—again? Was that the sound that had woken him?—and he swallowed to clear his throat.

  “Yes?” he called, softly enough to avoid waking Kyra and Rhona.

  The door opened slowly with nary a creak and Raltson’s face appeared in the gap. The man didn’t enter fully, but he hardly needed to for Elias to spot the tension in his grim expression.