by Will Wight
Which didn’t seem fair to Urzaia, but he had expected as much. Elders did not fight fair.
He slammed one hatchet into the tree holding the creature, caving it in two, but his enemy had already leapt away.
He was trying to corral it back toward the beach where the others were, but it was hard to pin down an Elderspawn that could jump from one branch to another with ease.
Fortunately, Urzaia had more tools at his disposal than just his hatchets.
When the frog behemoth jumped to a new tree, he called on the power of his Soulbound Vessel.
The predatory fury of the Sandborn Hydra filled him, and he could feel himself growing heavier. The Hydra’s power wasn’t as simple as merely changing his weight; he couldn’t explain exactly what the difference was, but he knew he grew tougher even as he grew heavier.
His bones didn’t snap under his own weight, for one thing, and his skin shrugged off musket-balls when he was drawing on his power.
Once, when he had pushed his Vessel to the limit, he had managed to catch a cannonball.
That had been a good day.
But more relevant to his current situation: with great concentration, he could affect the weight of other things.
He focused his power into the tree. Not giving it weight but taking weight away.
Then, before the Elder creature could reorient and jump to a new perch, Urzaia tore the tree from the ground.
It gave easily, its roots snapping off as he heaved the massive trunk upward in both arms. The amphibian elder squawked and clung to the bark with its three remaining muscular limbs.
Urzaia returned the tree to its original weight…and slammed it into the ground.
As satisfying as it would be to splatter the Elder like a blood-filled mosquito, he was still concerned with Andel’s safety. So he twisted the trunk to one side, crushing the lower half of the behemoth into a blue pulp.
Its scream was a deep croak that felt almost as good as hearing its flesh break.
At the sound of their leader’s cry, the Slithers crawled from nearby bushes, threatening him with their stingers.
Urzaia was still filled with the power of the Sandborn Hydra, so he doubted such small creatures could break his skin. Even if they did, his Champion augmentation meant that most poisons did less to him than a mug of beer.
If their venom could get through his skin and his bloodstream both, then the Slithers had earned their kill.
He allowed the small creatures to slide all over him, trying to find purchase with their teeth and stingers. As they did, he advanced on their leader, which scrambled with its one remaining limb to escape.
The tree rolled off, but by that time, Urzaia stood over its froglike head.
The creature gave a pathetic croak and its mouth opened, disgorging Andel and the safe.
Andel was covered in blood and fluid as though he’d just been born. His hat and gun were gone, and he emerged with an explosive cough, gasping in air like it was the first breath he’d ever drawn.
He blinked at the gunk covering his eyes, trying to see, but fainted instead.
Urzaia’s relief hit him all at once, and he staggered to a seat on the collapsed tree. He had allowed himself to hope for Andel’s survival, but deep down, he had given up on his friend’s life.
This was a new ray of hope, and it brought back his smile. A Slither crawled closer to Andel, but with a single flip of his toe, Urzaia punted it deep into the forest.
The huge frog-headed monster gave him a deep, pathetic croak, gesturing to the chest with the crown inside. Urzaia didn’t need to be a Reader to understand its intentions; it was trying to bargain for its life.
Urzaia leaned closer to the Elder, and its yellow eyes went wide with fear. Even with most of its body a mangled mess, it tried to crawl away on its one remaining hand.
The Champion chuckled and rubbed its slimy head. He would have ruffled its hair, if it had any.
He didn’t like Elders, but bargaining for its life was a very human thing to do. He could let this one go. After all, it hadn’t really killed his friend.
He stood up, brushing Slithers from his skin, then slung Andel over one shoulder and tucked the box under the other.
Now he could bring good news to the Captain.
“I’m going to see if I’ve got this straight,” Foster said, once they were all aboard The Testament. “They got caught by this island somehow, you don’t know how, the Elders caught up with them and killed them off, their Captain blew himself up, the other one got poisoned, this one’s a gibbering mess…and you’re all fine?”
Calder looked around. He was soaked in blue gore, which had mixed with plenty of his own blood. Every one of them was scratched, bruised, beaten, and exhausted…every one of them except Urzaia, who was merely wet. And happy as a cat that had just brought its owner a dead rat.
Andel was below, with Petal tending to him. She thought he was only exhausted and missing a little too much blood, but with Elders it was always hard to tell. She was going to test to see if he had been poisoned or infected somehow.
Thoughts of the quartermaster brought a mix of stomach-churning guilt and muscle-loosening relief. He had abandoned Andel for Jerri. But it had all worked out, thanks to Urzaia. But he had abandoned Andel. But…
His thoughts ran in circles, and he forcibly put a stop to it.
“Fine is an understatement,” Calder said, focusing on their one unmitigated victory.
With a flourish, he shoved the crown’s locked chest out for them all to admire.
Foster looked at it skeptically, Jerri with awe, Urzaia with pride, and Goss with something that looked like hate. He hadn’t said a word since Lakiri’s death, and they had all wondered if the Elders had done something to his mind, but hate might be a completely rational reaction. Calder could understand how he might blame this object for the death of his entire crew.
“Mister Woodsman, we need this chest open,” Calder announced.
Jerri and the others sent up a cheer.
He wished Andel and Petal could be here for this, but he wasn’t about to wait any longer. The Lyathatan, as per its agreement, had cleared the waters around the ship, but Calder still wanted to put as many miles between them and this island as they could. And they needed to confirm the presence of the crown before they could leave.
Urzaia made quick work of the chains around the box, but it took even his hatchets a moment to force open the box itself.
Calder had Read it already, trying to divine the crown’s presence, but the box had been made by the Magister’s Guild with the assistance of Regent Loreli herself. It was all but invisible to his senses, a deep void of Intent that he could scarcely believe existed even with his hands on it.
Finally, Urzaia pried open the box to reveal the Emperor’s crown.
It looked just like the paintings.
The gold circlet rested on a velvet lining, and Calder could easily picture it sitting on the Emperor’s head. It was simple and unassuming. Just an object. In a word, it was disappointing.
Until Calder touched it.
The moment his fingers made contact, he was overwhelmed by the force of the Emperor’s will.
He had dealt with Imperial relics even as a child, so he had thought he was prepared, but the weight of Intent and significance in this object outweighed everything else he’d ever sensed a hundredfold.
It held ten thousand memories, a hundred thousand, all bent to a singular purpose: to lead. To be a symbol of something great.
To inspire others to obey.
The Emperor only wore his crown to address crowds, and it was his authority, Calder could feel it in the metal. He didn’t wear this when he was drafting laws or personally bettering the lives of individuals. The Emperor had worn this when he needed to be the Emperor, the founder of human civilization, the icon of a single unified Empire.
The sheer impact of that Intent overwhelmed Calder.
When he came back to himself, he was lyi
ng back on the deck, staring up at the sky. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized it was coming from his nose. His head pounded in the beginnings of Reader burn. From one Reading.
Jerri cradled his head in her lap, staring down at him from above, looking terrified. The rest of the crew—Urzaia, Foster, Petal, even Goss—looked down at him with their own expressions of concern.
Calder pushed himself up to a sitting position, wiping blood away from his nose.
“It’s the real thing, all right,” he said. “This was his.”
In a flutter of leathery wings, Shuffles came to rest on his shoulder, its tendrils squirming on his face to peel away a taste of his blood.
Shuffles boomed into his ear: “HIS!”
That night, as the waves lapped at The Testament in a familiar, calming lullaby, Jerri sat at Andel’s side.
She was as exhausted as anyone else, and her wounds ached—she had been forced to allow the Slithers close to her in order to keep her cover as a Soulbound, and the mindless spawn of Othaghor couldn’t tell the difference between friend and foe.
Jerri needed sleep, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Andel.
When she had called for Calder’s help, she had only meant to show her vulnerability to him, to establish once again that she couldn’t possibly be a Soulbound. No Soulbound would have allowed herself in that position.
She hadn’t intended to distract him from Andel, but when the Elder had swallowed the quartermaster whole, her first thought hadn’t been concern for his well-being.
She had felt relieved that the one person who might stand in her way was gone.
Then, when Urzaia brought him back, her heart had been mixed. On the one hand, she had traveled with him for years, shared hundreds of meals with the man. He kept to his own, but he was loyal and kind and wise.
On the other hand, if he’d died, her life’s purpose would be so much easier. Only one voice was whispering into Calder’s ear besides Jerri’s, and it was Andel’s.
That realization sickened her. The rest of the world thought of the Sleepless as evil, and she accepted that view because she understood it. But she knew they weren’t evil. They simply fought for progress.
“It will be worth it,” she whispered, patting Andel’s hand.
It would be. When Calder was Emperor, with the infinite knowledge of Kelarac and Ach’magut at his disposal, the entire world would change. They would enter a golden age the likes of which the former Emperor had never imagined.
Jerri was alerted to another person’s presence by shuffling footsteps and a wet cough.
Mister Goss loomed in the doorway, his skeletally thin frame covered in bandages. Some burns or fresh wounds peaked out from the edges of the cloth wrappings, but they were nothing compared to the wounds in his soul. His eyes looked ravaged and haunted, and they smoldered with barely contained rage.
“I saw your signal,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, she didn’t hear any of the nerves she’d heard there before. “I know who you are.”
She feigned concern. “You’re not well, Mister Goss.”
“You spoke to Tommison last night, didn’t you?”
Carefully. She had to play this carefully, or he’d scream for the rest of the crew and draw too much attention. It was already a blessing from Ach’magut that he’d come straight to her with his accusations instead of to Calder.
“I spoke with him last night, yes,” Jerri said, now sounding puzzled. “I saw him packaging up the alchemical munitions. Thank the Unknown God I didn’t stay long enough, or I’d be ash on the floor beside him.”
Goss extended his hand, and in it was a twisted key that looked to be made of blackened bones. She froze.
He nodded, his eyes flaring with excitement as though he’d caught her at last.
In truth, he really had.
“Yes, you recognize this, don’t you? I can call the cabal anytime I want. And you will answer to them.” His fist tightened around the key. “Now, I need you to bring me the crown.”
Jerri understood the plan as Goss must see it.
First of all, he really was crazed and feverish, thanks to whatever the Elderspawn had done to his mind and body. In his irrational state, he had become fixed on his mission.
Maybe he thought if he completed it, the death of his friends would be worthwhile. Maybe he thought the cabal could bring the rest of his crew back to life.
He saw that he had a lever over Jerri, and that was the one lever he could pull to get him closer to the crown. She doubted he’d thought about what to do with the crown once he had it; Tommison had already proven that it couldn’t be passed by void messenger.
But he knew he had leverage because he knew she was one of the Sleepless.
And didn’t know that she was a Soulbound.
She deflated, letting her entire body convey obvious defeat. “I will obey.” She reached out for one of the clean syringes that Petal had left beside Andel. “Excuse me; I have to give him his medicine on the hour. Do you know how you will get the package to the…head office…once I bring it to you?”
Jerri partially filled the syringe from the vial of sedative that Petal had left out for Andel.
Goss twitched, the key shaking in his hand. “They’ll tell me!”
Jerri nodded along, sticking the syringe into the next vial along. This was a new recipe for a paralysis potion, meant to be ingested, that Petal had been trying to perfect for months. “Good. That’s good. I can get the package, you know. No problem. By this time tomorrow night, I’ll have it, and I’ll bring it straight to you.”
The next vial was labeled, in Petal’s hand, “EXPERIMENTAL – DANGEROUS.”
It went into the mix.
Goss was nodding spastically. “Good, good, good, good, good. Yes. I think—I think I…”
Jerri casually turned and stuck the needle into his thigh. She pressed the plunger.
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it.”
In his normal state, Goss could have easily avoided her. He would probably have pushed her off. But he was half a thread away from snapping, so she had time to finish the entire syringe, pull it out, and wipe it down with a cloth before he finally gasped.
“You…what did you do?”
Jyrine started washing out the syringe.
With both hands, Goss stuck out the key, muttering something with a tongue that sounded like it was growing thicker by the second. Ice began to form at his feet, and the room darkened.
Jerri’s earring flickered green, and she tossed an emerald spark at the key.
It didn’t take much damage to ruin the delicate Elder artifact; only a little burn and the light and warmth of the room returned. Goss gaped at her like a fish, but that could have been because the site of the injection on his thigh had swelled to the size of a grapefruit.
“Come here, Mister Goss,” Jerri said.
He made a choking sound and lunged for her.
If she wasn’t a Soulbound, she would have been in danger. If not from Goss himself, then from the noise he would inevitably make upon attacking her.
Instead, she reached up and grabbed his neck, unleashing just a little of her power into his throat.
It was impossible for her to control her Vessel so precisely without time, focus, and contact. Even with those things, it was difficult to inject fire into something that had its own Intent.
But this didn’t take much.
Goss tried to scream, but with his throat fused shut, he made little progress. He couldn’t even flail his limbs; they had already gone dead. In only a few more seconds, the cocktail of potions completed its work, and he collapsed.
A green-tinged fluid had started leaking from his thigh. Jerri pressed her palms against a nascent headache.
Now she not only had to clean up the syringe and put it back where it was, she had to return a grown man’s limp body to his bunk. Without waking anyone.
It was going to be a long night.
Once they found the wound on his thigh, the cause of death had been clear anyway.
The Elders had claimed another victim.
Chapter Fourteen
Don’t use anything as bait that you don’t want eaten.
—Loreli the Strategist
(modern paraphrase)
present day
Calder stood on a wide balcony with Imperial Guards standing to either side of him, looking out over a crowd of ten thousand people packed into a massive courtyard. The Emperor’s Stage was a three-story building at the entrance to the Imperial Palace from which the Emperor or his representatives could address the gathered citizens of the Capital.
For years, he had dreamed of standing in this position.
But in those dreams, the people hadn’t been screaming at him and waving news-sheets that accused him of worshiping the Great Elders.
He wore the silver Steward’s crown and loose, layered green clothes from the Emperor’s wardrobe. His sword was buckled on his hip; the Emperor had never worn a weapon belt, but one of the Palace attendants had made it work, making the equipment look surprisingly natural.
He was a mix of old and new, presenting himself as someone who could rule the Empire without pretending to be the former Emperor.
No one who had used this platform had wanted to carry a broad metal cone in their hands, so the speaking-horn was bolted to the balcony. It had been used by centuries of orators, including the Emperor himself, so it easily caught his voice and sent it booming over the crowd.
He delivered his speech mechanically, one word slotting into the next like the gears of a clock, his inflection raised and lowered at precisely the calculated moments. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Will they come after me tonight?
The Consultants would try to kill him. He’d been certain of that since the battle at the Imperial Palace, and the assassination of the Champions had only confirmed his suspicions.