Chapter One: the Thief and the Smith
The colors of the setting sun’s shadow eventually faded into a black silhouette, as it had 364 times since that ferocious storm rocked the Cathedral and since the bloody slaughter of the Iceloadic Vokarburrock. As the stars sprawled out across the sky like snow flakes floating across the sea, the tension in the air remained contained between Solaris and Mystakle Planet. Quiet had returned after the abrupt revolution, but peace had not. The air remained taut as if lightning was about to strike. The world was wrapped in a strained silence, listening for the distant whispers of thunder.
The waves of the Aquarian Ocean were reluctant to rise but relieved to fall. Darker than the night tide and barely visible in the moonlight, a ship tip-toed over the waves. The crew dozed, ears vigilant as their minds dreamed. Magic quietly operated the black sails and magic adjusted the ropes. The boatswain, the one-man crew that worked throughout the night, stood beside his captain at the wheel.
The Captain was a stern man and, like the quiet determined pace of his ship, he trudged steadily through life. Black scales, rare for his race, covered his body. They were almost iridescent, twinkling like the constellations in the twilight. He wore a pair of sirwals that hung loosely from his hips, tethered by a thick leather belt which also held his sword. No shirt covered his chest, his well toned muscle was covered only by flesh and scale. His dome shaped face – like that of a reptile’s, though without the toothy snout – gazed into the night as if he had asked the darkness a question and was growing impatient to find the answer. The chidra breathed in and the taste of the air alerted him of the intruder.
“You are not welcome upon my ship.” He stated, speaking to the creature behind them without turning to glare at it.
“Are you going to make me leave, Dresdan?” The intruder asked, its voice raspy like the wind.
“What do you want?” Captain Dresdan demanded.
“I want you to kill the King of Batloe. I want you to kill Duifeen Shelba.”
The boatswain shifted.
“Stay, Drakken.” The Captain’s grip tightened on the steering wheel until the wood squeeled then he released it and stepped back, saying, “Take the wheel.”
Drakken, a thinly furred old moleman with a limp fez for a hat, did so with a nod.
Dresdan did not turn to the intruder, instead he strode past Drakken at the helm and clasped the banisters on the starboard side of the bridge. A thorny stem fell from his pocket as he walked away from the visitor.
“Tonight’s as good as night as any to break the news.” Dresdan cleared his throat, “We aren’t working with the Disciples of Darkness or the Pact anymore.”
The robed alien took a step forwards and grabbed the flowerless-stem from the floor boards. Its claws penched the thorns until blood squirted from its thumb and index finger. Words whispered beneath its cowl began to freeze the symbolic plant. When it dropped the stem to the floor, it shattered like glass.
“I’d heard of your change of heart.” It snickered, “The great Captain Dresdan has pillaged his last port, sold his last slave, smuggled your last product…I heard you’ve begun begging the Emperor to legalize your beloved contraband,” it snorted with a smirk, “but I had to hear it from the tongue of the snake himself. Why?”
“Peace of mind,” Dresdan said plainly, “for my crew and myself.” Then a smirk slipped across his face to curve his lips, “We’ve spent too much time mulling around in the mud with swine.”
The intruder was silent. Only the sound of water lapping at the sides of the Obsidian Sail pierced the night sky. Finally, Dresdan broke the silence.
“Why do you need me to kill the King of Batloe?” He asked, “There’s a dozen other captains in your debt, not to mention the mancer warlords that serve you, and finally there’s yourself. I’ve seen you in combat. Why me?”
Another silence fell over them. Then it replied.
“Peace of mind.”
Dresdan chuckled.
“That’s it then.” It asked.
Dresdan nodded.
“Being with the Rosethorn now,” it began, “that makes us enemies.”
“It does.” Dresdan stated.
“Then pray we never meet again.”
In an instant, the intruder’s dark silhouette melted into a pale ooze. The substance collapsed to the floor of the deck and spread away from the Captain, pooling by portside gunwell where it seaped through the balustrades and dripped into the sea. Dresdan didn’t react. He stared into the horizon. Midnight was approaching, the day was almost over, and he knew in his heart, prayer or no, this wouldn’t be the last he would hear of this intruder. That was most definitely, not “it”.
“Dresdan?”
“Yes, Drakken?” the Captain turned to his comrade.
“If I’m not imposing, might I ask who that was?”
“They’re from the Dragon Islands.” Dresdan answered, “We fought together in the War of the Tiger.”
“Ah…” the boatswain muttered, “hence her necromancy.”
The Captain frowned, “Her?”
“Aye,” the mole shuddered, “what’s her name?”
“I knew them…” the chidra paused, then started over, “I knew her only as Truth.”
“Truth…” Drakken caught his tongue before giving away anymore of his opinions.
Dresdan looked back over the ocean.
“Truth is, Drakken,” Dresdan sighed, “I think we have to kill her.”
– – –
The earth elf slipped shoulder first through the crowd. His left hand was held low, flat and pointed forwards to split the scores of static shoppers as he weaseled between them. His right hand tickled his hip, like a cowboy clawing at the handle of a holstered revolver in the long drawn out seconds before the start of a duel. Though not a cowboy, he was in a duel and – like a cowboy – his feud was with the sheriff and the sheriff’s goons. Goons that would soon be upon him.
Finally his fingers found it: a penny pouch slapping the thighs of a tradesman, tethered to their belt by a loose knot. His right hand struck like a snake. He pinched the thread, yanked it, and pivoted. As he did, his left hand retrieved a caribeener from his own belt. He shoved the sharp end of the clip through the sack and then latched it to the belt of another stranger. Continuing to rotate, he faced back the way he’d been and sped off just as his victim turned to accuse the unsuspecting fool he’d set up. As an argument developed, the pursuing policemen took the bait. The earth elf had won a brief reprieve, one he should’ve utilized to escape but instead he exploited the distraction by diving deeper into the markets of Yelah.
The salty sulfurous scent of the sea cut through the must of the multitudes. The waves whapping the wharfs drowned out the droning of the droves. Despite the chaos created by the crossword puzzle of piers and the crowds packed in upon them, the smell and song of the ocean – made of the same recipe and melody as that which had been for ages – brought the illusion of order to the bayside bazar, like a siren’s call in the midst of a storm.
The docks dipped below and twisted around one another. Jetties used overpasses as awnings. Promenades were turned into rooftops over concave caverns carved into the short cliffside to make more room for piers. Shops crowded onramps, staggered on a first-come-first-serve basis though there were a few venders that had spots reserved – spots pirates dared not seige and police needed not protect. These were reserved for the kin of the frozen land’s great dynasties. Descendants of the ancestors that had logged the cedarwood to construct the mercantile labrynth that made up Yelah’s harbor. Even the seagulls skirted these stalls, especially the lot belonging to the Sentry. For though the Sentry’s were smiths, forgers of the finest swords beneath Solaris, the current heir had a gun on her hip – and she never missed.
While the theif was smarter than a seagull, he didn’t recognize the Sentry. He did, however, recognize their merchandise. The sabers shone in the sunlight like the opal glaciers atop the Medull Mountains to the north. One blade in particular drew his dark amber stare. His glare was so powerful it seemed like a blade itself. The smith could almost hear it strike the sword it bore down upon. When her golden eyes found his, he almost forgot about the weapon.
“Ah’ve shot strangers for softer stares-”
He flinched – he hadn’t even realized that he’d made his way up to her booth – but he didn’t blink. He couldn’t look away. Despite the threat, there was also an offer in those eyes. Her hand moved from her holster to the hilt of the sword that had initially drawn him.
“-but this stael calls to you.”
She lifted the weapon, balancing the blade flat on her index finger.
“You a blademaster?” She continued, “Swordsman?”
He reached for the weapon. With a flick of her wrist she tossed the sword up and caught it with the same hand – the edge of the blade was hardly a centimeter from the tip of his fingertips.
“A mute?” She asked.
“Tou Fou.” The theif said.
“That a name or a noun?”
Smirking, she twisted her arm and spun the sword so that the hilt lay in her palm and the blade ran up her arm. It was sharp enough to shave with, but she was skilled enough to keep it from slicing off a slab of pale electric elven skin. She let the smirk slide into a warm smile, nodding for Tou to take the weapon.
“Tabuh Sentry.” She said, “And the sword’s name is Future.”
Tou took the sword and weighed it in his hands, asking without looking up, “Future?”
“It was made to cut away the past and,” Tabuh elaborated, “carve out the future.”
There was a bit of a crowd gathering around the stall. The smith was well known in the city, but rarely known to hand off a sword. The Sentry booth was mostly maintained for tradition as there was nothing in the harbor more expensive than a Sentry Sword and the only people in all of Iceload that could afford one were celebrities of some kind or another. This Tou Fou was not. As a matter of fact, among the capitalism-hardened hearts of the street folk gathered around the booth that morning, this Tou Fou looked a bit like a rogue. Someone you might should check your pockets after passing. He was an obvious foreigner – dark skinned earth elves were few and far between among those on the icy shores of Iceload – and dressed peculiarly. There wasn’t so much as a stain or a wrinkle from his tunic to the rolled up cuffs of his slacks. There wasn’t a single barb missing from the feather poking out of his dark green tudor cap. His leather boots were unmarred and unscuffed, but it was the boots that gave him away. They weren’t the boots of a mysterious entrepreneur, they were bulky, belt-banded combat boots. Sure, they – like the rest of his attire – appeared to have been acquired mere hours prior, but they weren’t worn for fashion. These were boots that could withstand the elements and outlast the years, these were boots that could run. And yet Tabuh Sentry had handed him a sword.
With all the attention, Tou had the space to shadow-spar a bit with the saber. Tabuh put her palms on the counter and leaned over the rest of her weapons with a crooked, squint-eyed grin. The young man’s swordplay was novel. It was obvious he knew what he was doing, yet she had never seen someone use a sword in such a way. His swings and slashes were all a part of a single fluid dance despite the abruptness of his transitions – he moved like a wildcat closing in on a fox.
She cocked her head to the side, “Where did you train?”
Tou cut a figure eight in the air so fast that it shot a breeze that ruffled the drapes above Tabuh’s head as he replied with a preoccupied shrug, “The woods.”
There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd, a murmur that Tabuh silenced with a brief chuckle of her own.
“Ha!” Tabuh winked, “The woods? Well, fancy that, Mr. Woodsman, wae’re lookin for a new swordsman for the Woodsmen – assumin you aren’t the tahpe that could afford such a sword, wae maht could figure out a payment plan if you can make the taem…were do you plan to bae tomorrow?”
“Sorray, Miss Sentray.”
Another murmur rushed through the crowd as a shadow moved to loom over Tou Fou. Despite the Sentry accent, the man was not elven. He was a giant – even for his race – standing over eight feet tall. His muscles were so profuse that he had to use two plates of armor where most would’ve had one. Tufts of fur stuck out from between his metal pads. Of all the bearns Tou had ever encountered, this one was certainly the most bear-like.
“Mr. Woodsman is to bae in Southbay bah waeks end.”
A black tunic hung like a bib from around his neck, the symbol of a rose frozen in a shard of ice was blazed across the center. Similar bibs hung from his comrades, though these fit them far better. The Sheriff’s three goons stuck to the edge of the crowd, their arms spread to legitimize the space that had already existed before. The giant bearn drew an Otusacha-style claymore – a sword made to be held with two hands. He brandished it in his left hand alone. The tip of the sword pointed at the back of Tou’s head.
“If hae makes it that far.” The Sheriff growled.
Tou turned back to lock eyes with Tabuh.
“You’re under arrest for thaevaray.”
Tabuh extended her palm out to Tou, nodding at her sword, “Mr. Woodsman.”
“Ah’m sorray Miss,” the Sheriff smirked, “but ah belaeve that sword belongs to the Mystvokar.”
“Excuse me?!” Tabuh exclaimed.
The crowd took a collective step back, despite the three deputees having done nothing to influence such. Their eyes weren’t on the officers, they were on the wild golden eyes of the smith behind the counter. She took a deep breath and let her shoulders slump. Blinking her rage away, she put on a taut smile.
The bearn’s snout twisted a bit more, making the smile seem more like a snarl, “Evidence…Miss.”
“You must bae a few arrows short of a quiver.” Tabuh laughed, “What happened to Sheriff Andras?”
“Ah can take ya to Southbay with Mr. Woodsman if you’d lahk to sae him?”
The murmur that swept through the crowd this time was a grumble. The smith’s upper lip curled as her posture stiffened. When she spoke, her voice was colder than the water that rushed beneath them. Again the shoppers took a step back.
“Sheriff Andras was a good man.”
“Hae was a traitor.” The Sheriff snapped, “Are you a traitor, Miss S-”
BANG!
Even though Tou had been staring straight at her, he hadn’t seen her move. He saw a flash like lightning followed by immediate thunder. His eyes slammed shut and he staggered away from the smith’s booth, toppling backwards.
BANG!
When his butt hit the pavement, his eyes bounced back open. Smoke wafted from the barrel of the revolver, a gun as gold as the shooter’s eyes, as plumes of fire burst from the mouth of the weapon in the wake of the fat chunks of lead.
BANG!
The firearm hardly pitched in her grasp as she adjusted her aim. The cylinder turned, her finger squeezed, and the hammer struck. With the very same precision she used to pummel a new blade into existence, she drove a fourth bullet from the barrel.
BANG!
Tou could see the scene behind him in her wide open eyes – he saw the figure of the giant bearn tumbling forward. From the ground, Tou dove headfirst, rolling into the façade of the Sentry’s stall. He came up facing the crowd just in time to see the Sheriff slam shoulder first onto the cobblestone. His shoulder armor had been punctured right where two plates overlapped. His knees had been struck too. He couldn’t blame the uniform for those two. It was his bowlegged stance that allowed Tabuh to plant a slug just behind the bulb of steel that cupped his kneecaps.
The bearn reached for his sword but his arm stopped short as blood spurted from his shoulder wound. He writhed forward onto his stomach, smashing the brick with his fist. Foaming at the snout, he roared.
“GET THEM!”
“FOR THE MYSTVOKAR!” His deputies cried.
As the officers – an electric elf, nellaf, and a normal-sized bearn – charged from the edge of the crowd, Tou hopped up. He winced as he turned to Tabuh but saw that her gun was back in its holster. She appeared to have started organizing her booth.
“Kaep those thrae back whahl ah pack up.”
Tou kept staring at her.
Tabuh looked up, rolling her eyes, “Hare’s your audition!”
Tou whirled around, took a lunging step forward, and raised Future in an arching swing to collide with the blade of the first officer. With both their sword arms above their heads, Tou hit the elf with a karate chop to the throat. As the man staggered back, Tou pushed his blade off of his foe’s blade and bound towards the next opponent – the nellaf. This time it was the officer that parried his attack, but Tou drove his enemy’s sword to the pavement. Having seen Tou’s aggression, the nellaf tried to beat him to the punch – literally. The nellaf punched with her free hand but Tou leaned out of the way and grabbed the woman’s wrist. Then, Tou slid Future up her blade, slicing her forearm all the way up until his saber stopped at the lip of her shoulder plate. Before she could cry out in pain, he yanked her by the wrist he still held and pranced past her.
A yard from his boot was the Sheriff’s sword. The Sheriff had almost managed to shimmy to it. His face trembled with rage as his eyes met Tou’s.
“You farakin-”
Tou dropped Future and, with both hands, took the bearn’s sword. He began to pivot on his heels before even looking to see if his suspicions were correct: they were.
The third deputy had circumvented Tou, going straight for Tabuh – Tabuh who was still fixated on closing up shop. This third officer, a bearn, was almost to the booth when Tou picked up the Sheriff’s sword, which is why Tou had picked it up spinning. A three-sixty gave him enough momentum to lob the massive blade. It pinwheeled across the clearing – nearly clobbing the two deputees Tou had already bested – and slammed into the bearn, square across his back, cracking his spine through his chainmail. The bearn went down, his chin bouncing off the edge of the booth as he collapsed.
Tabuh looked up as she snapped shut the clamps of her trunk.
“Mr. Woodsman,” she gestured behind her where the top rungs of a ladder could be seen poking up above the edge of the pier, “shall wae?”
Tou nodded like a bug had landed on his nose.
With a heave, she tossed the sword case down. A loud THUMP was followed by muffled yelps from the shocked victims below who would soon get to comfront the prankster that had startled them, for Tabuh hopped down to the dock underneath and landed on her sword crate. Her golden eyed glare was enough to cool the tempers of the locals on the lower dock, they’d already begun to mosey on by the time Tou landed beside her.
“Where now?” He asked.
She drew her pistol and pointed it above her despite turning to face Tou. Without even pulling the trigger, the cop that Tou had karate chopped in the throat hollered bloody murder and jumped from the ladder into the bay.
“The Den!” Tabuh exclaimed, “Get the othersahd!”
The two hopped off the trunk. Tabuh took the front handle and led the way, dragging the case a few inches before Tou could follow suit with the back handle (it took him a second to slide the saber between his belt and his britches without turning his pants into a pair of bottomless chaps). Yet, no sooner did Tou sheath Future and grab hold of the handle than did he see more black-tunic brutes rushing their way.
“Tabuh!” He yelped.
“Shut up!” She hissed over her shoulder.
His head cocked to the side and his right eyebrow pitched, “Huh?”
Her golden eyes bulged, dancing from the police – now passing them – to Tou and back. They don’t know! Tou realized. As the police hustled past, hollering at some other poor fools, one of their rank stopped alongside them. Tabuh yanked the case and Tou scurried on along with her but as he did he watched the last officer out of the corner of his eye. There was a little red dragon on his shoulder, no larger than a lizard, with tiny heart-shaped wings. Its neck snaked around the jaw of the guard so that its nose neared the police officer’s when it emitted a quick puff of smoke.
A shield dragon! Tou choked on his own spit as he saw the message coded in the scent of the little reptile’s smoke translate to orders in the mind of its recipient. As his eyes turned back to Tabuh, he saw that she saw it too. They know now!
The guard turned to Tou, his lips parting to call out to his comrades, but his shout never left his throat as Tou dropped the sword case, grabbed the cop by his jersey, and tossed him over the side of the dock – or rather, he tried. The officer landed in the unfortunate grasps of two unwitting passerbies.
“Oof!” One grunted, grabbing the cop by the bicep.
“Hey!” The other yelped, catching hold of the guards flailing hand.
The deputy clung to them for dear life as momentum continued to drag him towards the edge of the dock. The two townsfolks needed only a second to realize what he was but that was a second enough for him to call out.
“OY!” Then, cursing the state underneath their breathes, the two shoppers let the cop go and he tumbled backwards into the sea, hollering, “THE DIRT ELF!”
Tou looked down the dock as the other two policemen looked up.
BANG!
One of the guards flew backwards, a ribbon of blood pouring from her shoulder. Her comrade hesitated but after a second’s glance at the gun toting smith and sword wielding thief, she decided to tend to her fallen partner instead.
“COME ON!” Tabuh roared.
Tou’s head was yanked back around to Tabuh who was dragging the sword case by herself into the throng of people with little success, her gun already back in the holster. Nodding, Tou retrieved the handle and together they rushed up the pier.
A sweaty fog filled the underdocks. The clamor overpowered the comforting sounds of the sea. Chains clinked as ships tugged and slackened. Engines bellowed as they cooled or ralleyed back to life. Gears rang as they wound up heavy steel cords that lifted elevators and lowered bridges. Sailors swore across splashing water-alleys as they fought for their dinghy’s right away through cramped intersections that cut deeper and deeper underneath the harbor and into the shadows of Yelah’s underworld.
“The Mystvokar has no power down hare!” Tabuh explained, having to shout over all the commotion as they pushed further.
“Do you?” Tou asked.
Tabuh’s grimace was not the answer Tou was looking for.
“Ah’ve got two shots left,” She said, turning from Tou to crane her neck so that she could see where they were going as they scuffled onwards, “That’ll get us to the Den – donum!”
The gangway beneath them shifted as it was hoisted up into the air. The seamen on the modest rowboats on either side of the bridge cheered and applauded as passage had been finally been granted while those on the rising scaffold snorted and stomped. Tabuh shoved a bit with her shoulders – her golden eyes bound to the stationary dock just beyond – but the folks weren’t budging. Instead, two chidras turned to snarl at her. Cursing foreigners under her breath, she turned back to Tou. He was nervously observing the people above them. There was an intermediate level slipped inbetween the underdocks and the upper – stumpy shacks hid out in the crevace there, the fumes that seeped from the gaudy stalls stung the earth elf’s nostrils.
“Don’t braethe too hard, Mr. Woodsman, if you’ve never had snake smoke.”
The grumpy reptilians rolled their eyes at Tabuh’s slur as they got off the lift. The tweeny-docks had the air of an insect layer. Patrons literally crawled about the place, mostly due to the lowness of the ceiling but for many it was out of inebriated necessity. Bearns wouldn’t make the cut in the tweeny-docks, but here Knomes thrived. Despite having nothing in his trousers other than what the good Lord had given him, Tou’s hips itched at the sight of the little old, cone-hatted men dipping in and out of view. Tabuh, on the other hand, likely had gold in her belt purse and, with both their hands occupied by the sword case, Tou trained his eyes on her waist.
Tabuh smirked, “Assume your watchin mah pockets?”
Tou’s dark chocolate skin hardly helped to hide his blush. Turning his eyes back to hers, he asked, “You got friends at ‘the Den’?”
“No.” She admitted, “But nor do ah have enemaes.”
With an abrupt jerk, the bridge began to descend. Tabuh sighed with relief. Tou gulped.
“What if they heard about the Sheriff?”
“Saelu to that!” Tabuh exclaimed, “They’d prollay bah us a baer!”
Tou wasn’t laughing, “If the cops’ll go after you, what makes you think pirates won’t?”
“Hae’s gotta point, lass.”
The hairs of their napes stood at attention as the owner of the deep, gravelly voice came into view. He was perpendicular to the lift, standing in a dinghy that was far too small for a bearn of his size. His head nearly scraped the roof of the underdocks. His appearance sent a second wave of chills down Tou and Tabuh’s spines, for his face looked to be an identical clone of the very Sheriff they had just recently crippled.
They dropped the case as their hands shot to their weapons. The heavy trunk shook the bridge, thoroughly antagonizing their fellow passengers who’s opinions of the two only diminished further when they saw the two were pointing a sword and a gun at the nice bearn waiting in a rowboat before them.
He was shirtless, but that hardly appeared naked. The man’s fur was so thick and his chest so broad it seemed likely that there were few shirts beneath Solaris thicker than the behemoth’s natural coat. A gaudy belt road high up his belly though it was hardly visible beneath the assortment of weapons strapped at his waist. Despite his hipside arsenal, his hands were empty and folded into his armpits as if in an attempt to restrain himself. His lip was curled. Not to snarl, but rather to smile. The warmth he exuded made both Tou and Tabuh suspicious.
“Well that’s awfullay rude.” He said, “Were ya raised in the woods?”
“You know aech other?” Tabuh asked, not taking her gaze off the bearn.
“No.” Tou said, “You?”
“No.” Tabuh stated.
“Wae will soon enough.” The bearn promised.
The platform rattled as it stuck back in place along its initial dock. A wave slapped over, splashing the boots of the theif and the smith and splattering the trunk of swords between them. There were two dinghy’s behind the one dedicated to the giant bearn, bobbing in the wake like ducklings behind their mother. When the lift landed, the bearn raised his hands and his comrades on the boats behind him hopped onto his dinghy and then onto the dock on either side of Tou and Tabuh. Their fellow lift passengers quickly departed.
“They take another step towards us, your dead.” Tabuh warned.
The bearn’s bushy brow raised and his grin widened, “That so, lass?”
A tiny red head wiggled out from the thick curls of fur along his bare shoulder. A slender stream of smoke trailed from the little dragon’s nostrils.
“A lil birday told mae ya onlay got two shots left.”
“What do you want?” Tabuh demanded.
“The Captain would lahk to commission a blade.” The bearn explained.
“Tell him to get in lahn.” Tabuh snapped.
“Ah, but ma’am,” the bearn cocked his head to the side, “it is you that is gettina skip the lahne.”
Now it was the electric elf’s head that tilted at an angle.
“Smiths across Solaris are vahin for this opportunitay.” He continued, “This won’t bae just anay sword…”
Her golden eyes narrowed to be as sharp as her blades.
The bearn raised his left hand to calm his audience as his right fished into his pocket. He pulled out a slender black box and tossed it to Tabuh. She caught it in one hand without lowering her gun. Keeping her glare on the bearn, she held the box out to Tou. Tou reluctantly slid Future back between his belt and his pants then took the box and opened it.
Blue light lit up the underdocks, spraying Tou’s face with sapphire. Inside the little box was a vial of radiant sand, pulsating and whispering unintelligible words as if tiny fairies were hovering by his ears singing ancient alien songs. Tou had no clue what he was looking at but when he turned to Tabuh he saw that he was alone in his ignorance.
“Void-dust!” She gasped.
“Huh?” Tou remarked, turning to the bearn for an explanation.
The bearn chuckled, bowing low before them, saying only, “Welcome, then, to the Obisidian Sail.”
– – –
Above the interwoven branches of docks that crisscrossed the bay like a canopy, a façade of arches separated the main streets from the marina. A row of narrower arches lined up above these and it was among these that the hustle and bustle of the harbor was finally eluded. Though open to the ocean air, the shady second floor was strolled by sabor strapped soldiers. Nothing but the breeze passed them without permission, for it was only through them that one could access the floors above. No dragons would fit through the balistraria-like slit windows that split the upper walls with such frequency it was as if the architect had sought to see how many they could possibly fit. Then, atop the boxy upper chambers, was a vast dome which so overlapped its rectangular base that little turret towers had to descend to support the circumference.
These towers, which hung beneath the dome like Atlas beneath his globe, had once bore the banners of the brave citizens that had opposed their governor. Nearly three hundred years ago, a mutiny made Yelah independent of the greater Sentrakle region. It was a period of faltering factionalism and rising populism. After all, less than a decade after the Yelah Mutiny, the people of the city swore their allegiance to the Mystvokar, the First Mystvokar – the monarch that laid claim to not only Sentrakle but the entire continent upon which Sentrakle resided. Now, three centuries later under the Second Mystvokar’s continental-rule, the Magistrate of Yelah was faced with a similar dilemma.
Onotna Sentry was not only the Magistrate of Yelah, but also the Battle Admiral of the Imperial Navy. Onotna ruled a city that belonged to the Mystvokar, the Mystvokar being the King of the continent of Iceload, but Onotna commanded ships that served the Emperor of the Trinity Nations, a rival alliance of surrounding continents. He could smell the rot of factionalism, but was it regional or continental? And the incoming warm front of populism – was it national, did it stop at the throne of the Mystvokar? Or did it extend across the oceans to the many crowns beneath the Trinity Nations? These were the questions Onotna mulled over as he leaned out an arrow slit. Questions that were of little concern to the producers and profiteers in the port before him. For the people of Iceload, armies and authorities came and went, it was their appetites that stayed the same. Neither kings nor councils seemed to serve them supper. That reality was on the forefront of Onotna’s visitor’s mind that morning.
Commander Shaprone Ipativy was as fond of the Magistrate as he was of the task at hand: pacifying a petty squabble between the police and a poweful pedestrian. The only reason he was chosen for the job was, in fact, the only reason he was willing. Had it been for anyone else, he might’ve preferred outright desertion over such a dishonorable chore, but alas, it was not. It was Tabuh Sentry.
“She shot your new sheriff.”
“Ah beg your pardon?!” The Magistrate whirled away from the window to face the Commander, his head spinning far faster than his bulky girth could manage, “Shae did no such thang!”
“Four times.” The Commander added, “Then she ran off – and not only did she run off, she ran off with a suspected theif – the very theif that Sheriff Kakal was attempting to arrest when she shot him…four times.”
“Sir!” Onotna cried. His belly, as rotund as the great dome atop his palace, tremored with such gravity it rustled the contents of the chamber, “Mah daughter was kidnapped!”
Shaprone raised a blonde eyebrow, “Kidnapped?”
“Bah the Obsidaian Sail.” Onotna nodded.
“By pirates?” His brow fell.
“Enemaes of the state, sir.”
Battle Admiral Onotna’s voice was suddenly gruff. His blue eyes distant as he gazed back out the arrow slit at the bay, as if he was remembering some traumatic battle. Rolling his eyes was all Shaprone could do to withhold a scoff. If the old man’s plump stature didn’t give it away, then his melodramatic antics made it clear: the Battle Admiral was not a soldier. His talents hid above his shoulders and, even there, he kept them well hidden from view.
Shaprone said, “Enemies of your state, not mine, Magistrate.”
“They sell illicit materaials in your state, Commander.” Onotna noted. He paced over to a paper laden desk and snatched up a skinny folder. He opened it, revealing neatly packed documents. There wasn’t even a mar in the layer of dust upon the sloppy desk, it was obvious Onotna had brought the folder with him to meet Shaprone, yet still he picked through the pages as if double checking. Finally, his index finger shot into the air and he drew out a sheet of paper – it just so happened to be the sheet at the front of the folder: a mugshot and short bio of a brawny looking bearn. He said, “Jason “the Giant” Kakal – First Mate of Captain Dresdan Otubak of the Obsidaian Sail – the bearn was saen laeving the harbor with mah daughter and your thaif. Tell mae again, what was the name of your bullet riddled sheriff?”
Taking the sheet, the Commander answered, “Justin Kakal.”
“Blood brothers.” The Admiral explained, “Coincidence?”
Shaprone closed his eyes, lest he roll them again, saying, “Magistrate Sentry-”
“It’s Magistrate Battle Admiral, Commander.”
Shaprone kept his eyes shut. He cleared his throat. Then he started over, “Magistrate Battle Admiral Sentry, Sheriff Kakal was shot by your daughter’s gun-”
“Whah would shae attack an officer of the law?”
“The same reason every other Sentry attacks our officers! We have at least a dozen assaults a day – in Yelah alone, not to mention the rest of Sentrakle! – and you know Tabuh, do you really think-”
“Do you raellay think telling Yelah that mah daughter shot a Sheriff is a good ahdaea, Commander? Let the papers run with that storay, Mr. Ipativy, and sae how that does.” He tossed the folder back onto the table and a plume of dust rose up behind him like a mushroom cloud. Spreading his hands out before him to frame the potential headline, he continued, “Princess of Sentrakle Shoots Sheriff Four Tahmes – think that’ll reduce vahlence against your Mystvokar’s state or encourage it?”
Shaprone shuffled his boots and grunted in concession.
“Tell them it was pahrates. Ah hate pahrates, you hate pahrates, wae all hate pahrates.” Onotna continued, “Common enemay. That’s how wae reduce this tension.”
A knock on the door offered Shaprone an escape from his surrender as outrage oncemore became an appropriate response. His hand shot to the hilt on his hip, but Onotna raised a calming hand.
“Behand that door lahs a favor from mae to you – a good faith donation to the solution of this fickle pickle wae’ve found ourselves in.”
Shaprone rustled his curled mustache with a discontented snort as the door swung open.
A full suit of armor strode first into the room, all that was visible of the individual within was a pair of silver eyes that glared through the slit in her helmet and the long silver strands of hair that wrapped her chestplate like a sash, carrying a strap where her bow could lie across her spine had it not been in her hand. The armor and hair alone would not have identified her, though it did narrow down the possibilities. Metallic eyes like hers could belong only to the translucent race of ghostlike beings known as spirits (though they were, unlike ghosts, very much alive). These people normally dressed in clothes as transparent as their flesh, but a certain warrior-sect of their kind adorned a fashion quite different. Disciples of the Woodland Ridge Monastery left their holy hills armored from head to toe, donning the family name “Shisharay”.
Yet Shaprone knew immediately who she was. It was the bow in her hand, an intricate compact bow, that identified her beyond race and ethnicity. The handle clamped in her gauntlet glowed blue, hued like a glaciar lake beaming in the light of a mountain sun. The shine peaked through blossoming vines that twisted around the limbs, so decorated was the artifact that it could almost convince admirers it was a novelty and not a weapon – if not for that sapphiric energy. Beautiful yet threatening. Though there was no string, her right hand pinched the lotus-dressed tail of an arrow that sat above where her thumb curled around the handle.
“Lalmly Shisharay and,” Shaprone bowed his head, but made sure not to stoop too low so that he could keep his eyes on the door where he was sure her partner would soon appear, “Zaria Ein?”
“Commander.”
Zaria curtsied. She was in full formal uniform: polished high top boots, pressed blue slacks, and a dark navy blazer held taut over her torso by fat golden buttons. Her arms were hidden beneath a heavy maroon overcoat, though the right shoulder had slipped off to hang on her upperarm just low enough to reveal the golden three-leaf clover above the anchor insignia on her shoulder. Her hands where shrowded beneath the maroon overcoat, as were both the sword and firearm on her hip.
Despite her respectful salutation, Zaria’s righthand man did not grant Shaprone such decency. The little yellow dog – stocky, due to the unfortunate cuteness of his breed, but fit – emitted a low growl as it plopped onto its fluffy white rear end, perching on the steel plated tip of the Strategy Admiral’s boot.
Shaprone echoed the sentiment with a snarl, before turning to Battle Admiral Onotna, “Dogs are permitted in Mutiny Palace?”
“The little did-vallhund is an honored guest.”
Onotna stooped as far as his wideberth would allow so that he could tempt the dog over for pets. The dog didn’t budge.
Zaria winced at the nickname, providing his true title, “Cowboy the Pirate Killer is, in fact, Lalmly and I’s personal guard.”
“Is that so?” Shaprone grunted.
“Indeed, Commander.” Zaria smirked. She rolled her shoulders and cleared her throat to tear Onotna’s attention back to her dark brown eyes. She said, “So, Magistrate Battle Admiral Sentry, I heard you’ve got some pirates that need killing?”