Aethersmith (Book 2) (35 page)

“Barkin’ wonderful,” Tanner groused, folding even before the
communal cards were shown at the middle of the table.

Two of Stalyart’s crew, whose names Soria did not care to
learn, threw their cards down as well. The skinny one said nothing; the one
smoking the pipe somehow managed to say even less.

Stalyart threw in a small bet, enough to move things along,
but not seem a bully. “Four hundred eckles,” he said, throwing in what seemed
to be a proper amount. Soria was not interested in the accuracy of tiny sums
like that.

Zellisan scratched at his stubble as he studied the cards in
his hand. “I call,” he said at length, tossing in a like amount.

“Raise,” Soria said immediately. She selected a stack of
coins, and shoved it toward the pot without counting it out. It might have been
two thousand eckles. It might have been twenty-five hundred. She was sure it
was enough of a raise to get the pirate captain’s attention.

The rest of the pirates abandoned their cards. Rakashi did
nothing; he had not deigned to join the game. He disliked the pirates as much
as any of them, but was less shy about expressing it. He would not share either
table or games with them, given the option.

Stalyart looked at her, studying her face. Most Crackle
players avoided making eye contact with an opponent who was considering their
play, fearful of giving themselves away, whether bluffing, trapping, or merely
not wishing their opponent to know whether they were trying any deception at
all. Soria met the pirate captain’s gaze, though, locking stares with him. The
man was older than her and, by grace of years, had likely seen more hardened
men in his day than she'd had the opportunity to meet. The dark brown orbs
reached out to her bright green eyes, and tried to force them to yield up her
secrets. Her face was impervious to his scrutiny.

“I fold as well,” he admitted after long consideration.

Zellisan followed suit, and Soria blinked away her
aether-vision so she could see her winnings.

A shout from outside the cabin interrupted the game as the
cards were being dealt for the next hand. Someone knocked hastily on the door,
opening it before any response was received.

“A ship!” one of the crew yelled to those inside.

“What sort of ship?” Stalyart asked curiously, his dour,
stern face resuming its animation as he was distracted from the card game.

“The best kind, sir,” the man said, then grinned, showing a
mouth half full of yellowed teeth.

“Excellent. Signal our prize ship to hang back, then begin
pursuit. I will be there in just a moment,” Captain Stalyart ordered. He took
his tankard, and drained the contents in one giant swallow. The costly Takalish
spirits went down smoothly, for all their potency.

“Hey, sit your ass back in that chair, Stalyart,” Soria
commanded. “We are heading to Denku Appa. No detours. No distractions. No
delays.”

“My pardon, lady,” Stalyart apologized. “I would only have
assumed that you would wish to stop any ship we saw. This is not a tradeway,
very much not. We are not traveling very fast, so we would not have caught up
to anyone sailing in the same direction as we. Anyone out here ought to be
coming
back
from Denku Appa.”

“What are you saying?” Soria demanded. “That you think Kyrus
might be on that ship?”

“It may be that some smuggler wished to be very much far
from the places other ships go. It would not be the first ship to travel thus.
But more likely, I think the ship returns from the island we are heading to. It
may be a coincidence, but I would think you would want to investigate it, to be
certain,” Stalyart said.

“And if it is not … you stand to take a second ship as
plunder,” Tanner offered.

“Oh, no. That is not the case, my friend.” Stalyart smiled.
“We plan to take it for plunder either way. Everyone wins, you see.”

Soria glared suspiciously, but could not find a hole in his
logic before having to relent.

* * * * * * * *

“Pirates!” came the call from on deck, loud enough for all
to hear. The crew scrambled about the ship, changing their course, and trying
to find as much wind as the gods and spirits could provide. Few pious men took
to a life at sea, but devotion always peaked during storms and pirate attacks.

Belowdecks, Wendell rushed to find Kyrus Hinterdale. Old and
fragile though he seemed, sailors shouldered past him with all the concern
shown a street peddler during a riot. The scent of panic hung heavier in the
air than even the odors of sea air, sweat, and pitch could overcome.

“Kyrus, we have to do something.
You
have to do
something,” Wendell clarified upon barging into the cramped little space they
had housed Brannis in. This was just the sort of thing that he hated about
being so weak in the aether: being at the mercy of those with more strength of
arms.

“Working on it,” Brannis replied, rummaging in the trunk he
had brought aboard with his possessions. He heaped piece after piece of Liead’s
armor onto the bed until he had found all of it. Wendell looked on in
puzzlement.

“This armor looks just like the stuff Brannis wears …
remarkably so. Where did you get this?” Wendell asked.

“Just shut up and help me get into it. I can manage it on my
own, but it goes quicker with help,” Brannis snapped. He stripped out of his
tunic and breeches, and began pulling on the aether-forged armor.

Wendell seemed dazed as he handed pieces of the suit to
Brannis, and helped with the more awkward pieces. Every time Brannis donned a
part of the armor, it shrank and sized itself to fit him perfectly.

“This is remarkable,” Wendell said. “You … You have copied
it marvelously. How did you manage it?”

“Depends which version of my story you would like to try
believing. Either I am a master craftsman and aethersmith, able to duplicate
priceless artifacts of magic just a few months after learning to keep a light
spell from getting stuck on the end of my finger; or I am an overly gifted fool
with a poor enough sense of direction to get lost and miss the entire
world
I was aiming for with my attempt to escape Denku Appa using a transference
spell,” Brannis said as he secured the demon-faced helmet to his head. “Have
your pick, or worry about it later.” He reached again into the trunk, and
buckled on his sword belt. It felt reassuring to have Avalanche at his hip,
pirate attack or no.

Wendell looked long and hard at him. The pieces were fitting
too well—not just of the armor, but of the puzzle before him—and he was seeing
a picture he had not been able to reconcile until he saw them all put together.

“Brannis?” Wendell ventured. “Is it
truly
you?”

Brannis nodded. “We can talk more when we have driven off
these pirates.”

“Wait,” Wendell said as Brannis was about to head to the
deck. “They might hit us with more cannon fire if you look too dangerous. That
armor can stop grapeshot, I would imagine, but the rest of the crew will not be
so lucky. If they board us without feeling threatened, you can better ambush
them.”

Wendell’s gaze swept about the tiny room, finding nothing
remotely useful aside from the bed linens. He gave a shrug, and tore them from
the bed.

* * * * * * * *

“You will board,” Stalyart told Soria as they closed in on
the outmatched merchant ship. Men were lining the rails of the
Merciful
,
like dogs straining against their chains, waiting to be loosed on their
helpless prey. “If Kyrus is aboard, you will need to keep him from turning my
ship into cinders. I will take you to where you need to go, but the pledge of
safety must run both ways.”

“No deal. You fight your own boarding actions. I will send
Zell to look for Kyrus; he would know him by sight. I am not letting you put me
off your ship until we have Kyrus with us. Tanner and Rakashi stay with us too.
Neither would know Kyrus’s face, and they are not here to bloody their hands
for you,” Soria answered back. Actually, she guessed that Tanner would be able
to pick out the twin of the grand marshal by his face, but he had not known
Brannis as well as Zellisan, nor seen him as recently. Tanner was just a
middling officer, without regular interaction with the high command. He saw the
army’s commanders in parades and atop podiums, just like the commoners.

So Zellisan waited at the railing with no armor save for his
helm and buckler. He was not a young man, and disliked the idea of leaping the
gap between ships once the grapples had pulled them together, no matter how
close they got. Even in mild seas, the boats could sway together, crushing
anyone who was in the water between them—or so he imagined at least. Zellisan
was not much of a swimmer to begin with. The ache in his injured knee made the
prospect of plummeting into the Katamic seem more likely than normal for a man
north of forty-five and stout of frame.

“You turn sides this time, I’ll gut ya myself,” Zell heard
from near his right shoulder. He turned to see the mountainous man he had
dueled with on the
Frostwatch Symphony
the day before. The threat seemed
to carry more teeth in it when spoken from so close, with no armor to stop a
hidden blade from sliding through his skin.

“Bah, mind yer own backside. I’ll mind mine,” Zell grumbled
in reply. He watched as the merchant ship came closer—or rather as the
Merciful
gained on them. He reached up under his helm, and grabbed the corner of a
handkerchief that he had stuffed beneath it. Tugging it free, the helm settled
properly onto his head.

The world grew another dimension. His aether-vision overlaid
the world of light, disorienting him at first, as he adapted to the magic of
the crown concealed within his helmet. He saw Sources aplenty, from the
strongest to the weakest among the crews of the two ships. The only one that
stood out as distinct from the rest was Soria’s, shining brightly among the
rabble. A few, like Rakashi and Captain Stalyart seemed more than typical as
well, but nothing on the ship they pursued seemed extraordinary.

Well, there is nothing but to see this out
, he
thought glumly,
but it does not look like they have anyone aboard with the
kind of Source that Kyrus Hinterdale must have.

It appeared that despite being an unarmed vessel, the
merchant ship, bearing the name
Fontinue
, was going to try to repel
their boarding. Crewmen had armed themselves with belaying pins and a
scattering of blades, but there was one cloaked figure who stood out among
them. His blade was a warrior’s weapon, bared steel glinting in the sunlight,
the ship’s glimmer of hope. The man’s bulk beneath his coverings suggested that
he wore plate beneath, else he was the size of the hulking brute who stood at
Zell’s side.

Must have had some knight aboard as passenger. Must have
insisted on making a stand of it. Blasted fool is going to get good men killed
when Stalyart might have spared them if they had given up.

* * * * * * * *

Brannis stood waiting, his makeshift disguise giving no
cause for alarm as the
Merciful
drew to grappling range. It was not the
Fair
Trader
, as he had feared, but the chatter of the crew suggested that it was
known to be one of his ships. Denrik Zayne had been doing quite well for
himself while Kyrus was stranded on Denku Appa.

It seemed he had wasted Wendell’s time in obscuring the glow
his weapon and armor gave off in the aether. It was good to know he was up to
such a task, since circumstances might call for it again if they were to
encounter gifted twinborn. He had wondered if Zayne would have been so eager to
engage the ship, had he seen Brannis there, looking just as he had during the
Battle of Raynesdark.

The crew of the
Fontinue
stood back from the railings
as the pirates’ grappling hooks took hold, and lashed the ships together.
Brannis had been pleased at how well trained they were, and how smartly they
snapped to obey his commands. It seemed that some men, either by selection or
training, were malleable in the hands of a man who took command as second
nature. The sight of him towering over them in his golden armor, and carrying a
massive broadsword could only have helped his cause.

As the first of the pirates swung themselves over the
railings, Brannis gave the signal to attack. “Get them!” he shouted, having had
little time to prepare more elegant signals or tactics. Twenty fighting men,
most of whom would not have been described as such by any commander on land,
faced four times that number of hardened killers.

But the
Fontinue
had its secret weapon. Brannis met
the advance head on. He hated killing men. Goblins and ogres were different
enough that he could turn off that portion of his mind that could empathize
with them, at least long enough to cut them to pieces in the heat of a battle.
For all their monstrous actions, Zayne’s pirates were still flesh and blood not
so dissimilar to his own.

He thought back to the wall at Raynesdark, when wave upon
wave of goblins and their wolf mounts swarmed him. The torrents of blood and
gore had washed his blade as Avalanche smashed through them like they were
merely glass pitchers filled with the stuff. Not wanting a reprieve of that
scene, he pulled his blows. He swung lazily at his opponents, sweeping them
before him with irresistible force. Invaders were knocked to the deck with
broken bones or forced over the railings and into the warm waters of the
southern Katamic Sea. Some were slain, surely, but none so gruesomely as he
knew his sword was capable of.

The fighting spread as Brannis’s presence was not
ubiquitous. Wherever he fought, the defenders prevailed. Elsewhere the pirates
were advancing and gathering their strength. Men of the
Fontinue
died—perhaps valiantly—but they were dead all the same. The well-scrubbed wood
of the deck pooled with blood. Brannis saw that his gentle tactics were going
to get his new comrades wiped out. He saw one man about to be run through, and
bisected his attacker with a quick swipe of Avalanche. He winced at the
gruesome mess it caused, but knew it had to be but the first of many.