The Consequence of Respite

 

The Consequence of Respite

by Owen Fedchenko

 

Warm night air brushed Drac’s face as it drifted up through the open terrace. It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling to him, especially this late in the evening. The land he came from was cold all year round, even this month in mid-summer, despite being only across the sea. Here, the moon cast a light almost as bright as day. A gleaming shaft illuminated the empty room so he could see every detail of the mural before him. The vast painted wall was spattered with dark stains of blood from the battle that took place here the previous night. The mural stretched the entire length of the sixty foot long, twenty foot high wall behind the throne. It depicted the great city of Arrowe and was said to be an exact replica; every single structure and most minor of households represented in the landscape. Overlooking the city, in the foreground, stood a man in glinting armor and a lavish fur-trimmed cloak, raising a gold-hilted sword. The figure in the painting was King Eldmer, and kneeling before him, presenting a strange purple stone, the great sorcerer, Ammaleir.

Drac turned his attention to the empty throne. Only yesterday, King Eldmer himself would have sat there. Now he will never sit on the throne again. To the left of the throne was the pillar of Ammaleir, where the stone once sat. It was the most sacred relic in the realm, perched in an open hall, nothing protecting it save for the walls of the great city - the impenetrable city of Arrowe. Drac smiled at the thought. He opened his black and sliver coat, took out the stone, and raised it in a mocking motion toward the mural. The moonlight danced off the perfectly cut shape, casting strange refraction that moved seemingly with life around the room. Looking at the stone, he could see right through to his palm on the other side, and his bones beneath them - a miraculous trick. 
Drac slipped the stone back inside his coat and strode to the large open terrace. The castle was built atop a precipice that rose high above the sea. From here he could see the entire city, or what was left of it. Smoke still rose from the great cathedral, where a giant hole scarred one of its more impressive domed roofs. The ancient tower of Icithan still stood though, far to the north, its height sticking out above the rooftops. If Ammaleir still lived, that’s where he’d be, casting spells to defend the city from the invasion. But the tower was already empty and useless when they arrived. The centuries old mage died in his sleep, only days ago.

 Kzi war ships blended into the bay’s dark water in the harbor. Some of them, Drac couldn’t see at all, but he knew they were there, hundreds of them. The ships were built from enchanted wood crafted in the dark fortresses beneath the Kzi Mountains, that gave the ships a look like obsidian glass and made them almost invisible against the black water. They came in the night, silent as crag mice; the waves rippling off the sides of the ships didn’t even make a splash - it was a Kzi witch’s trick of course. They had three of them with the entire fleet, working their magic. Drac recalled the overwhelming feeling of dread that seemed to enter your very soul if you were unlucky enough to get caught in the witch’s gaze. One of the fell witches had rode aboard his ship of course. A necessary evil, he had to keep reminding the crew.

To the east, the sky was already lighting over the mountains. Soon they would be heading back home with their prize, or prizes rather, Drac mused, thinking of the prince. Ammaleir’s puppet. Only there was no Ammaleir anymore, no one to pull the strings. He imagined Prince Erich, bobbing around like one of those wooden puppets he had seen at travelling shows as a child and chuckled to himself. 
“My lord?” A voice appeared in the stillness. Drac swiveled to face the broad Kzi man, standing on the threshold. In the moonlight, he could see the long scar that marked the length of the left side of Orlan’s face. He drew the blood himself, apparently, with his own fiendish dagger. Even now, his fingers absently caressed the dagger’s ornate handle. It was a fearsome weapon, its blade was made from Rhathi steel and could melt metal as easily as though cutting through butter.

Drac was not fond of Orlan. Many of the Kzi soldiers called him, The Cauldron, not for his size, but for his short temper. He proved the name was all too fitting the night before, when he slayed King Eldmer himself, before he could be taken prisoner, and all for calling Kzi weak. Well Orlan was weak for not recognizing the desperate taunt.

“What do you want, Orlan?” Drac asked, a little annoyed he was snuck up on so easily.

“I thought you might want to know that they are bringing the prince through to the harbor,” Orlan said, straightening himself a little.

“So they found him then?” Drac would not allow Orlan on the mission to search for the prince. He would have one prisoner at least. There was much he wanted to learn of Arrowe, and who better to teach him the powers of the stone than Ammaleir’s apprentice. He smiled at the thought. “Good. Yes, I would very much like to see the look on his face.”     

 

The red flag of the Kzi bannermen flapped in the wind at the front of the procession. It bore a black raven caught in bramble on a red background. Three rows of riders atop large Kzi war horses lead the column, holding the flags high with pride. Behind the riders came the spearmen, their sharp jagged spears pointed at their captive.

Prince Erich stumbled forward in response to a sharp prodding by one of the soldiers; a wicked looking woman with a sallow face and crooked smile. The prince’s head hung low and his shaggy brown hair hung over his face in matted clumps. His hands and feet were bound by chain and shackle.
The onlooking crowd of Kzi soldiers stepped aside to allow Drac’s passing, their sleek black cloaks moved in anticipation of the captain’s presence. When he reached the procession, the bannermen stopped. The prince lifted his head at the sudden cease of prodding. Drac stared down at his captive. It was the prince, some believed, that would be the first to cross the Boiling Sea and slay The Dark Lord Ragnathir himself. They were the prophecies the old crones spoke of - Orphaned from might and magic, the kin of kings will find strength anew, and walk across water aflame, to crack the Dark Throne asunder. Drac never believed in any of that augural nonsense, and the face staring back at him proved him right - there was certainly no strength left in the boy.
“So this is how the famed Prince of Arrowe defends his homeland?” Drac said, looking the filth covered prince up and down. “By hiding in the sewers like a frightened rat.” Erich tried to spit at Drac, but a lack of hydration produced no saliva, and caused some spearmen around him to laugh. Drac did not share in the mocking, but placed a hand on the prince’s right arm and pulled back his tattered shirtsleeve. Long protruding blue scars ran down the arm in lines like little rivers seeking the sea. They stopped at the wrist, just below his palm, where a dark metallic strap was placed tight by the capturing soldiers. “Go ahead,” Drac told him. “Use it.” 

The prince hesitated, confused, then in a flash, he flung his arms out toward Drac.  The scars on his arm glowed a bright blue, seething along his arm and stopped at the metallic strap. His arm seized up and he pulled it close to his chest doubling over in pain.

Drac looked down almost pitifully at the prince and satisfied he turned away to allow the spearmen to reclaim their prisoner. Many of the onlooking Kzi men and women watching from the crowd were applauding and laughing at the display. Then Drac noticed some movement in the crowd. Two soldiers in front of him were pushed aside and a figure leaped through, brandishing a dagger. The dagger came inches to Drac’s neck and would have got him too, but a purple flashing light filled the air and the figure was flown to the ground.

A young Arrowean woman lay on the ground in front of Drac. She wore the dark leather armor of the Arrowean military, but was wrapped in a Kzi soldier’s cloak, its hood pulled up over her head. Her icy blue eyes were fixed on Drac and shone with anger.  

Orlan pushed forward, unsheathing his broad sword and thrust it below her chin. “Devious little filth!” he spat in a fury, out of breath in his anger.

Drac placed a hand on Orlan’s shoulder to still his rage. “No harm was done,” he said simply and moved away from the girl, now surrounded by Kzi spear points. Drac walked along the edge of the road, scanning the crowd of soldiers. There was an over-turned trader’s cart abandoned on the road. Drac climbed on top of the cart so that he rose above the crowd.

He could see every face from here, but only saw his own Kzi soldiers looking back at him. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the stone, holding it high above his head. Sunlight reflected off the stone in a dazzling display, producing strange patterns over the soldiers faces. His voice boomed over the crowd, “If you think yourself brave, think again. The Stone of Ammaleir is ours. Ammaleir is dead, your king is dead, and your prince is our prisoner. There is no one that can save you, your city lays in waste, and soon the Dark Lord will be upon you. Accept his judgement and it may be swift, but if you fight back, I can assure you will endure a much graver fate. Mark me when I say you will find a new word for the suffering that is brought upon you.”
Drac returned the stone to his coat, and stared out at the crowd for a moment longer before stepping down and making his way back to the would-be assassin. “But for you,” he said in a low voice so only she could hear, “It is too late, I’m afraid.” And he left her there laying in the street, leaving her to a fate he knew would be harrowing, and walked to the front of the procession. The barracks of soldiers followed him to the harbor, stepping around the girl, some of them kicking her for good measure, but none would do more than that. They left her for Ragnathir’s judgement alone and their lord was not merciless.

   

 

     Orlan gripped the quarter deck rail tightly and he watched as the last semblance of land sink below the horizon. There were thirty ships he counted behind them and much more beside and in front. There was strategy to their ship’s position, even now, after the fight, and out of harms way. He did have to admit he admired that about Drac, who was speaking with Corinsoth, the helmsman, a good hundred yards away on the forecastle. He did however hear the waves crash against the hull of the ship loudly as there was no need for stealth anymore.

There was no Kzi witch in sight either, Orlan noted, thankful of the absence. He had had a run in with the witch on their journey to Arrowe; she had the audacity to question his authority, the first mate of the ship and requisitioner of the Kzi Empire. Orlan felt they didn’t need the witch, and he would have cast her overboard himself if Drac didn’t watch his every move like he were a suckling babe. Wherever the witch was, he was glad they had served their purpose. If he was lucky enough, he wouldn’t see them for the rest of the voyage, or the rest of his life for that matter. Soon he would have his own fortress somewhere in the world, his own city even, away from the wretches of Kzi. The Dark Lord Ragnathir would give him that, he knew. He owed him that much.
Orlan watched Drac leave the helmsman and head toward the captain’s cabin. As soon as Orlan saw lamplight glowing from within, he left his post and made his way to the main deck. Orlan heaved a bundle of rigging aside, opened the main deck hatch, and climbed down the ladderway.

He lifted an oil lamp off the wall, struck a match with the tip of his calloused thumb and held the match to wick. A soft glow erupted from the lamp. As he walked, a few soldiers passed by going about their work, but paid him no more mind than a courteous nod. He ducked down a dark passageway and when he walked its length, he looked behind him, raising the lamp high to spread its light. The passageway remained empty save for himself. When he was sure no one had followed him, he turned the corner.
  Orlan came upon a large oak door secured with an iron lock. He fumbled in his coat for the key, slid it into the lock and turned it slowly. He winced slightly at the loud metallic click as the door to the brig swung open. Quickly, he stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

Morgain lay drunk on the floor in the cell before him. There was a small puddle of drool beneath his gaping mouth. He briefly wondered what Morgain had done this time, but swiftly moved past, checking the other cells as he went. All of them were empty save for the large cell at the end. The entire cell was surrounded by iron walls that held a strange shimmer in the light. He didn’t know what it was, but assumed it some kind of witch’s enchantment and he dare not touch it.

Orlan peered through the small viewing panel in the door. Inside the dark cell was a bundle of rags and the shape of a man sitting against the back wall. “Hello, Prince,” Orlan said, sneering down at the man. “Comfortable in there are you? Drac may think life chained at the bottom of some Kzi pit is humorous, but I think it much more than you deserve. Arrowe belongs to Kzi now and there’s no place for your kind anymore. Your fate is your father’s. I will see to that.” Suddenly Orlan heard footsteps in the hall and he backed away from the cell. The door to the brig creaked open and the glow from a lamp revealed Drac on the threshold.

“I was not aware the prince was seeing visitors,” Drac said, looking at Orlan with one eyebrow raised.

Orlan hesitated a moment. “I was told Morgain was taken down here. Since he’s my man, I wanted to make sure he knew his punishment wasn’t over,” Orlan said, staring back at Drac with cold, unblinking eyes.

“The brig is off limits until we arrive in Kzi,” Drac responded, coolly. “As for Morgain, I will deal with him and any other insubordination myself.” Drac’s tone was hinting and his eyes were studying Orlan. Orlan scowled at his commander, wondering how he could possibly know he was down here. Another witch’s trick, he guessed.

The ship lurched, hitting some big wave probably and Orlan instinctively put a hand out in front of him to stabilize himself. He caught it on the iron wall surrounding the prince’s cell. “As you wish, Commander,” Orlan muttered and he let go of the wall and started for the door. He felt Drac’s eyes watching him as he left the brig and walked out into the dark passageway. So, Orlan thought, as he left the room, no enchantment after all.

 

      

On their third day at sea, Drac woke to the familiar smell of sulphur in the air and got out of his bed to look out the wide window panes that stretched across the back of the cabin. Steam rose in small patches all around them, out in the sea. He peered down at the churning waters splashing against the stern of the ship, already turning a brighter green. They had crossed into the Boiling Sea and would be home in less than a day’s time. Spirits would be high today aboard the ship - they had made it to the deadly waters and were without a doubt unreachable by enemy ships now. Not that there were any enemy ships left, Drac had seen to that, but he prided himself in his precautions. They sailed in battle ready formation all the way to the Boiling Sea, and now at last he could relax. The temperatures of those waters were high enough to melt the skin off a man’s bones in mere seconds and burn through the hull of any ship - any ship except for the enchanted Kzi warships of course.

Drac got dressed quickly, leaving his military coat hanging on the back of a velvet sitting chair, and he donned a red and black dinner coat that signified respite. He left the cabin and walked to the starboard rail atop the quarter deck. The steam was thicker now, probably mixing with the early morning’s fog rolling off the Kzi mountains from the cool night previous. He had sailed through the Boiling Sea many times before, and many times after a particularly cool evening, but he had never seen fog quite like this.

The fog continued to build, all but blurring the other ships in the surrounding fleet. It grew so thick, he couldn’t see twenty feet in front of him. Then, off the port side, one of their ships came into view, but it was angled toward them, its bowsprit heading straight for the port side rail. “We’re under attack,” Drac said under his breath, and somewhere in front of him a Kzi horn rang out.

 

 

The pain along Lya’s side throbbed from the many boot kicks of the passing soldiers. Still laying in the street, she watched as the last of them reached the harbour. She winced as she slowly got to her feet. She was alone in the street now, alone in the entire city it felt like. There was not a soul in sight save for the last of the Kzi invaders gathered at the harbour, preparing their black ships for voyage.

 Lya left the street and ducked down an alleyway. There was rubble everywhere and not just once she had to climb over piles of stone to get through. The occasional bundle of a body still lay, crumpled in a heap and she tried not to look at them as she passed by. She didn’t know where to go, or who she knew that was still left alive, or where even they would be. Stopping to think, Lya leaned her back against a wall, slid down to sit against it, and buried her face in her hands.  
Just then, she heard the shifting of feet in front of her and lifted her head to see four Kzi soldiers adorned in their crude black armor and their broadswords pointed down at her chest. She didn’t hear the faintest noise of them coming, as though they came out of thin air. Lya rose slowly, her hands held up in surrender and in a flash she knocked a blade aside with her leather bracers and threw her fist into the side of the soldier’s face, sending him stumbling backward. One of the other soldiers reached out to grab her and she slid her foot into his, knocking him off balance. She ducked to the side, but her shoulders were grabbed from behind and darkness came over her as a bag was thrown over her head and pulled tight around her neck.

Lya flailed blindly trying anything to get away. She smelled the sweet aroma of daga berries under the hood. It was an unusual thing for a Kzi soldier to have. The berries grew in the fields near her birthplace many miles from here and very far from the shores of Kzi. The healers of her village used to use them as a calming agent, to soothe pain. Her eyelids became very heavy, she could no longer keep them up and as soon as she let them fall for just a moment, she fell asleep.

 

 

Lya woke to a dull pounding in her head. She sat up on what seemed like a feathered mattress. She pressed her hand into it, and it slowly rose back into shape. It wasn’t a cell she was in, but a finely furnished stateroom. Elegantly carved furniture lined the walls, with beautiful tapestries hanging behind. In the center of the room, a wide Teskan rug covered the wooden floor. Bright sun was coming in through large glass-paned windows that completely covered the back wall of the room and she guessed it was somewhere around mid-morning due to the angle of the sun outside. Through the windows, the sun was glittering off bright blue water.
Lya got off the bed and went to try the door, but it was locked. She went over to one of the many wardrobes and began rifling through it, looking for something, anything she could find that could fit in the door’s keyhole. The wardrobes were filled with black woolen clothing, silks, and black Kzi tabards with red ravens on them that seemed to be staring up at her. There was a writing desk where she found quills, parchment, and small silver balls she wasn’t sure the use of. Then something white caught Lya’s eye atop one of the wardrobes. She lifted it off the wardrobe. It was a small whale bone comb. She snapped one of the prongs off and went for the door.
She slid the small appendage into the tiny key slot and wiggled it around until she heard an audible click. She turned the handle, and opened the door a crack. Peeking out, she saw Kzi soldiers, many of them, walking across the deck. She closed the door, rested her back against it and began to think.

After a moment, Lya crossed the room to peer out the glass-paned windows. She could see countless Kzi war ships all around them. She went back to the door and pressed her ear against it and waited. She stood there for almost an hour before she heard footsteps approaching.

The footsteps grew louder until they stopped right in front of the door. The handle began to turn and Lya jerked the door open. She grabbed the wrist of the soldier as the door opened, flung his arm upward and dove at his sword belt. In one quick motion, she slipped his sword out of its sheath, brought it up to his neck and pushed him against the door frame.

Passing soldiers on the deck below halted in surprise. Lya spun the hostage soldier around to face the others, his own sword biting into his neck. Blood already began to bead on the blade. Strangely, she heard soft laughter.“Well done,” a voice said from within the small crowd gathered around them. A tall figure moved gracefully through the soldiers and stopped in front of Lya. She removed her hood. Long crimson red hair fell in thick curls below the figure’s shoulders. Lya recognized her instantly as Melerie, the Arrowean enchantress. She stood a foot taller than the rest of the soldiers, looking out of place in her Kzi soldier’s plate mail and gleaming silver necklace, adorned with bright blue gems. She simply smiled at Lya. “I see you’re finally awake. Come, we have a lot to talk about.”

#

They sat at a small breakfast table in the corner of the stateroom. Melerie poured bright purple tea into a porcelain cup. Beside Melerie sat a man with a silver and gray pointed beard. His name was Mathais Cellwyn. She knew him too, a commander of the Arrowean Military. Orphaned, he joined the military at a very young age, and at only thirty-five he became the king’s key strategist, but he was well into his sixties now.

“Here,” Melerie said, as she passed Lya the cup. “It’ll help with your headache.”  Lya wrapped her hands around the hot porcelain. Steam rose in strange shapes, drifting out from the cup. The enchantress, Lya thought, couldn’t resist the showmanship. Out the windows another Kzi ship was sailing beside and she could see soldiers moving about the decks, almost at eye level. “Don’t worry, they can’t see us,” Melerie said confidently. She was looking at the panes herself with a slight grin, admiring her work and Lya noticed there was a faint shimmer over the glass.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?” Lya asked sharply. “Was that your doing, grabbing me in the street like that?”

“That was necessary,” Mathais broke in for the first time. His brows furrowed as he stared at Lya.

“To avoid detection,” Melerie added. “The Kzi witches would be watching Arrowe closely until they left the port. If they saw anything, it would only be Kzi soldiers, cleaning the streets of remaining Arroweans.”     

“They’ll think your dead, with any luck,” Mathais said casually.

“Who then, are the other soldiers on board?” Lya asked.

“They are my soldiers,” Mathais said with a smile. “All Arrowean.”   

Melerie leaned forward in her chair in a display of severity, “Lya,” she began slowly. “The ship beside us carries the captured prince. It is captained by the Kzi conqueror, Drac Farren. The Stone of Ammaleir is on that ship. We know well of your achievements, if anyone can stand against Drac in armed combat, we believe it is you.”
Lya leaned back in her chair - it was a lot to take in. They surely would be out of options to recruit her into all of this. Sure, she could handle a fight. She trained the twin blades at Khora Academy in the Jassan Mountains for most of her life. She fought with the Arrowean Military many times and proved herself a skilled warrior. But to stand against Drac Farren in armed combat, that she was entirely unsure of. Never had she witnessed better swordsmanship, than when she saw Drac in battle at the siege of Arrowe.

Mathais reached below the table, pulled out a bundle wrapped in brown wool and pushed it across the table to Lya. She unwrapped the bundle and saw her own twin blades inside. Lya reached out toward one of the swords, wrapped her fingers around the green leather grip and lifted it off the table, its blade shone in the sunlight. The familiarity was like nothing else, it was like regaining a piece of your soul that was stolen from you.

A tangible quiet filled the air at dawn, the only sound was the bubbling of the Boiling Sea below. Lya looked around at the Arrowean men and women preparing for the assault. They donned the dark blue tabards of Arrowe over their Kzi suits of armor, the Tower of Icithan emblazoned on their chest. Melerie bowed her head, hidden in the nook leading to the captain’s quarters. Five soldiers stood around her, solid and ready to protect her at all costs while she cast her magics. Her lips began to move, reciting some incantation Lya could not hear.

The sky above grew lighter as dawn came and Lya could see steam rising from the sea. It gathered up all around them, growing thicker and thicker, until an immense fog surrounded the ship. Concealed by the fog, Mathais ushered soldiers into ranks near the bow of the ship, whispering quick orders to a few of them. For a brief moment, he locked eyes with Lya and gave her a hard look before taking his place at the top of the forecastle. He placed one foot against the back of the bowsprit and unsheathed his Arrowean broadsword.
The helmsman delicately turned the wheel. Lya felt the ship turning right to starboard. There was a sudden lurch as the ship slammed into the side of the other and Lya had to jump forward to keep her balance. With a loud war cry, Mathais bounded off the ship and onto the other. The soldiers poured in behind him, meeting his cry and rushed forward in pursuit.
Lya unsheathed her twin blades and leaped off the bowsprit. She landed on the other ship in a crouch where the Arrowean attackers were already at arms with the surprised Kzi soldiers. An enemy soldier cried out and ran at her, she met his slashing sword with one of her blades, slid it aside aggressively, and came down on his exposed torso with the other, sending the man sprawling to the deck.

She looked around the ship for any sign of Drac. He would most likely be hiding in his cabin, until the fighting was done she figured, and began to make her way toward the stern. Two soldiers came out from behind the mainmast and charged at her. She dipped beneath the swing of the first attacker and thrust her sword upward through the base of his chin. With her sword still in the man’s chin, she deflected the strike from the other attacker with her free sword and kicked him to the ground. Flipping both swords around in her hands she plunged them into the chest of the fallen soldier.

Lya left the two soldiers dead on the deck, and continued forward. An Arrowean and Kzi soldier were at arms, fighting near the starboard rail. The Arrowean kicked the Kzi soldier in her chest and she flipped over the rail. Lya watched her plunge into the Boiling Sea, the soldier screamed as her flesh burned and blistered before sinking below the deadly water.

 

 

Orlan watched the battle playing out from his perch atop the quarter deck. The clashing of steel rang out all around the ship, the sound of fighting seemingly amplified from the surrounding fog like some kind of enchanted sound barrier was at work. Kzi soldiers lay dead on the deck below - the Arrowean invaders had the advantage and were sweeping through quickly. Orlan turned and made his way to the rear quarter deck ladderway. The steep stairway led him to a tight passage along the port side rail where there was a hatch that went down to the orlop deck. He opened the hatch and climbed down.
As far as he could tell, the orlop deck was empty - all the soldiers would be in the fighting. Boots pounded on the deck above him like thunder. He took one of the hanging oil lamps off the wall, and made his way down the passage. Approaching the brig he saw a soft light glowing out from the hall. Orlan quickened his pace and bounded around the corner to convey a sense of urgency. Two soldiers flanked the door to the brig, holding long pikes in their hands. Orlan greeted them with a quick salute. “I’m afraid the fight’s not going in our favor,” Orlan told the men, sternly. “You two are being reassigned to defend the captain.”   

One of the soldiers that he recognized as Callam, a proud and loyal lad, cleared his throat. “Drac gave us orders not to leave the post for any means,” he stated waveringly. There was a look of fury in Orlan’s eyes, “Uh… Sir,” Callam added posthaste, and he straightened his back to reflect his duty.

“I am ordering you, Soldier,” Orlan said, leaning in close to the man. He was half a foot taller than Callam, and loomed over him so the soldier had to strain his neck upward to keep eye contact. “Would you disobey an order from your first officer?”  

The soldier beside them, Orlan didn’t recognize, shifted his boots uncomfortably. “I’m sorry Sir, we were told not to leave on any order save from Drac himself. Not if the entire ship were alight with catch fire, he’d said.”

“Very well,” Orlan said emphatically. He grabbed Callam by his breastplate collar, and threw him into the other soldier, and the two soldiers crashed to the ground in a heap. Callam scrambled to face Orlan and pointed his pike up at him, but Orlan elbowed the shaft into the wall, breaking it in half. He picked the top end of the broken pike up off the ground and stabbed furiously at Callam’s neck and thrust it through the shocked other soldier’s eye.

Orlan got to his feet, tossed the broken shaft across the hall, and stepped over the soldier’s lifeless bodies. He opened the door and entered the hold. In the far cell, Prince Erich lay motionless in a feeble ball. Orlan produced a key and unlocked the door to his cell. He stood over the prince and kicked him in his side. “Get up,” he growled. The prince winced and opened his eyes to Orlan’s hulking mass hanging over him. Erich lifted himself slightly off the ground, shielding his eyes from the lamp light. “So this is what’s become of the prince of Arrowe.” There was a distaste in the way Orlan said the word prince like it had no place being on his tongue. “I used to imagine what it would be like to be born a prince. A whole kingdom handed over because of where you happened to be born. I realize now that true power doesn’t come from birth. It is something you earn by defeating your enemies. Power is gained by taking power away.”
Orlan slowly moved toward the prince. Erich weakly pushed himself as far back in the cell as he could and Orlan laughed as he followed his trapped prey into the corner. He reached out with his arms to grab hold of the prince’s neck, but as he leaned toward him, Erich kicked him square in the jaw. Orlan stumbled backward a step. “So,” he said as he wiped the blood off his lip. “It’s a fight you want after all.” And he dove at the prince.

Erich met his attacker in a grapple and the two men rolled to the floor of the cell, but Orlan was too strong, with a great heave, he threw the prince off of him, sending him crashing into the wall and he fell hard on the ground.
Orlan grabbed the prince and lifted him against the iron wall. He pressed his thumbs into Erich’s windpipe, with a sickly smile on his face. The prince grasped Orlan’s forearms, desperately trying to pry them off, but they didn’t move. He spotted Orlan’s belt knife and reached for it. He strained and just managed to get his fingertips on the pommel of the dagger and slipped the twisted blade out of its sheath. He stabbed the dagger into the side of Orlan’s ribs and Orlan screamed in agony and anger. The prince jerked the dagger out. Orlan let go of the prince and looked down at the wound. His skin sizzled around the laceration. He pressed his hands against the burning wound. Smoke seeped through his fingers.  

 Blood dripped from the prince’s wrist as he pressed Orlan’s blade against it. Orlan saw the metallic brace on the prince’s wrist burn a bright orange, and snap off. He quickly drew his broad sword, charged at the prince and brought the sword up to strike. The prince reached a hand out and grabbed Orlan’s face. The protruding blueish scars along Erich’s arm pulsed. A bright blue light exploded out of the prince’s hand, sending bolts of crackling energy lancing around the cell. Orlan screamed. He clutched his face and fell to the floor. His back slammed against the cell door and his hands dropped to his sides.

Orlan didn’t move. Prince Erich stepped forward into the lamp light. Smoke was rising from Orlan’s charred face, blackened and red and glowing like the hot fading embers of a camp fire.

 

 

The Kzi soldier flipped over Lya as she dropped her shoulder into his stomach and threw her elbow backward, sending him crashing head first into the stairs below.
She was at the top of the quarter deck now, the door to the captain’s cabin was straight ahead. She held her twin blades out in front of her and kicked in the door. The iron bolt exploded off its frame. Drac sat in a red velvet and gilded armchair, leaning forward with his chin on his fist and a pensive look on his face. He was wearing a clean red dinner jacket, free from blood and battle. When he saw Lya, subtle shock turned into a wicked curling smile.

“Never did I think I’d see you again,” he said, leaning back in his armchair casually. “You’re quite the fighter, evidently. Would you like to have a seat?” He gestured to a chair nearby.

Lya charged at him. Drac leaped from his velvet throne and unsheathed his black steel longsword.
The two warriors circled each other, swords pointed outward like they were in some kind of dance. Somewhere out on the deck a piercing scream rang out behind Lya. She lifted her hands to her ears and whipped around to look behind her. Through the open door she could see a black cloaked figure with ghostly white skin gliding across the main deck. Her arms were outstretched, the sleeves of her cloak almost reaching the floor. Greenish and decayed looking hair hung about the figure, floating as if it were under water - it was the Kzi Witch. Lya watched her drift across the deck, entranced.
Faintly from somewhere beyond Lya’s recognition, a man was laughing. Lya felt sick to her stomach and dazed. She forgot where she was, as if in a dream. She saw a woman with an Arrowean tabard clutching at her cheeks, digging her nails into the skin. Another soldier ran by her and jumped off the starboard rail, plunging into the Boiling Sea. Strangely, Lya felt a pang of envy as she watched the fleeing soldier fall to his death. Three more Arrowean soldiers ran in to attack the witch, but fell to the deck, writhing in agony at the witch’s feet. The witch was headed for the captured Kzi warship where Melerie was still casting her magics. In minutes she would reach the Arrowean enchantress and her spell would falter, revealing themselves to the entire Kzi fleet.

The witch crossed onto the captured ship and out of view. Suddenly, Lya remembered where she was and turned around to face Drac. He was also watching the Kzi witch, but in admiration. It was now or never. Lya rushed at Drac. Her twin blades met his longsword with a resounding clash. Drac pushed the blades aside with a forceful swipe of his own. Lya side stepped and her swords came at Drac in a flurry of blows. Drac met the attack, expertly deflecting the blows with graceful precision.

Drac was impressed. She was a good opponent, but Drac knew he would tire her out soon. For now, he let her stay on the attack until it was time to strike.
Lya calculated every move Drac made. She had to find a weakness in his fighting style that she could exploit, and above all, some way to separate him from the stone. He had presented the stone to the crowd in Arrowe to assert his power, but didn’t realize the mistake he’d made. Now Lya knew where he kept the stone - in his left breast pocket, close to his heart. She waited for her opening. The last time she struck Drac she had been flown backward from the protective aura of the stone. But that time she had jumped on him from above with great force.

Drac’s sword came down upon her with a swooping strike. She caught the sword with one blade at the hilt and managed to nick his gauntleted hand. On impact, her arm flew aside as a bright purple flash filled the room and she stumbled backward. Drac smiled. He pressed forward, his longsword swinging through the air in wide arcing swipes. Lya ducked beneath one swipe and met the other. He kicked her in the chest and brought his sword sweeping upward. The tip of his blade caught the side of her arm and she reeled back. Blood streamed out a wide gash going up the length of her tricep.

Lya grabbed at her arm. Blood dripped through her fingers like a leaky dam, ready for the bursting. With a pained cry she let go of her arm and leaped at Drac. She puller her bloody arm tight to her chest and swung wildly at Drac with her good arm. He blocked the attacks easily and when he saw his opening he thrust his open palm into her torso. She flew across the room at an incredible speed and slammed against the wall falling flat on the ground like a rag doll.

Drac looked down at his opponent, laying motionless on the deck. Blood spilled out from under her body gathering into a small crimson pool. He reveled in the moment a little while, basking in his victory. He closed his eyes and breathed deep in through his nostrils. Drac opened his eyes and lifted his sword up for the final blow. In the corner of his eye, a bright blue light streaked across the room and he faltered. Blue bolts of crackling energy struck his side, throwing him to the deck.

Drac felt his side, where the lightning hit - it was unscathed thanks to the stone. He looked up at Prince Erich standing in the doorway, sparks still dancing around his arm, his veins pulsing. Drac got to his feet. The prince’s arm illuminated as he flung it in Drac’s direction. Drac pulled the stone out of his breast pocket and a flashing purple beam met the lancing blue bolt and with a loud crack, deflected the blue lightning around the room.

The smell of burning filled Lya’s nostrils and she opened her eyes. She was looking out a door at a ship, her face flat against wooden planks. Dead Arrowean soldiers dotted the decks below. The sky was a bright and clear blue and hundreds of warships drifted in a vast green sea. A bright red light shot up from the bow of the ship and a woman screamed. The enchanted fog that was concealing their attack was gone. The Kzi fleet, and thousands of Kzi soldiers would be on the ship in minutes.
A crack resounded in the room behind her. Lya forced her neck to turn to the other side. The purple hue surrounding Drac leaped through the stone as he focused the energy toward the prince. The prince met the purple beam with a blast that knocked him backward. Lya couldn’t move her right arm and her vision was fading in and out. She was staring underneath the writing desk along the side of the cabin where one of her swords had been tossed aside. She lifted herself off the deck with her good arm and crawled toward it painfully.

The prince was knocked into the back wall, shattering one of the large glass-paned windows. His head hung down and his eyes were closed. He was bruised and bleeding from his nose and mouth.

Drac slowly stepped toward him and raised the stone. “Erich!” Lya managed to scream as Drac focused a beam of light on the prince. It met his body and the prince screamed, blood and purple light simultaneously erupted from his mouth like some kind of twisted firework and he fell to the deck. Drac continued to focus the beam on Erich’s unmoving body, burning the prince’s skin away with deranged anger in his eyes. Lya dove at Drac and plunged her sword into his heart. Drac dropped to his knees with a shuddering gasp. The stone went dark and fell to the deck with a heavy thud. Drac flopped to the floor on his back, his lifeless eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Lya turned to the cabin door. Kzi soldiers were boarding the ship from all sides. She ran and scooped up the stone as it rolled across the deck. She heard the pounding of boots as the soldiers climbed the steps to the stateroom. Lya ran to the back of the room and looked out the smashed window and down the stern of the ship. The deadly water bubbled against the rudder below. There was nowhere to go. Soldiers entered the room and were coming for her. She could not let the stone get to Kzi. She saw her only option - it was better at the bottom of the Boiling Sea where no one would be able to swim to. She jumped through the broken window and plunged into the deadly water.