The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 46

46

M IKAEN SWEPT THROUGH the fiery skies in a small sailraft, savoring the victory to come. He crouched behind the pilot and gazed out the window. The smoky skies burned in every direction. The flames from a score of Klashean warcraft scorched the Breath of the Urth. Their fires hung in the air or slowly spiraled toward the distant sea.

His heart hammered in his throat at the sight of the destruction. His blood surged, hardening him in all ways. A tight sneer fixed his face, paining the scars hidden under his silver mask.

All around, Hálendiian hunterskiffs and swyftships circled through the dense pall, stirring the smoke and flames as they patrolled the skies.

But the worst was over.

For most of the day and well into the night, Mikaen had waged this war in the shadow of the mountainous Shaar Ga. The volcanic peak glowed in the distance through the dense pall of ash and fumes that had spewed endlessly from its fiery cone. What seemed like ages ago, he had arrived at the smoky wall of the Breath, the leagues-wide band of ash and fumes that divided Hálendii from the Southern Klashe. He had intended to ambush one, if not both, of the giant Klashean warships, to drive them back to their homelands.

Regrettably, the two warships had split off before he could engage. Mikaen was left with only one stubborn target: the Hawk’s Talon. It was said to be captained by one of the emperor’s sons. His opponent proved to be craftier than expected, coming close to escaping Mikaen’s ambush—until finally the Talon and its escorts had been pinned down and trapped against the fiery flanks of Shaar Ga.

The battle that followed had been fierce, but the end was inevitable.

Mikaen tilted onto his toes to stare below the raft as it circled toward its target.

The Talon hung crooked in the skies under them, smoking from countless fires. Its balloon had been shredded by bombs and fiery spears. Only a couple baffles of its gasbag still billowed and rocked, but they were not enough to hold the ship aloft. Its draft-iron prow—sculpted into the crested crown and hooked beak of a mountain hawk—pointed high, as if struggling to hold on to the sky. Its stern lay low, dragging through the pall.

All that was holding the ship in the air were two huge grappling cables that had snagged the Talon ’s flanks and ran up to Mikaen’s warship, proving his Winged Vengeance had the sharper claws.

A large hand clapped Mikaen on his shoulder. He glanced back at the crimson countenance of the Vyrllian knight, the captain of his Silvergard. The left side of the man’s face bore a tattooed sigil of a sun and crown, a match to what was etched on Mikaen’s mask.

“Well fought, sir,” Thoryn said. “Your father will be proud.”

Mikaen turned away, shaking off the man’s large hand. He had not flown out into the darkness of the Breath and fought so tenaciously for mere accolades. That was not what fired his fury, his determination.

Instead, he pictured Othan and Olia, suckling on his wife’s breasts. The twins were all that mattered. His chest tightened at the thought of them. Even now, he could taste the sweetness of that milk on his tongue, where he had gently licked the drops from Myella’s broad nipples, bonding him closer to his children.

Months ago, he had sworn an oath upon their birth, amidst the blood and squalling.

No harm or hardship must ever come to them.

He would die before he let that promise be broken.

“The battle is not over yet,” Mikaen growled back at Thoryn.

Below, on the tilted deck of the Talon, a ferocious fight continued between the Hálendiian knights and the last of the Klashean guardsmen. The brawl was lit by flames. Bodies lay everywhere.

“Get us down there,” Mikaen gritted out, bristling with frustration. He was determined to shine, if only at the end of this battle.

While the Winged Vengeance was under Mikaen’s captaincy, he had not truly led this campaign. Before the fleet had left Azantiia, the king had foisted the kingdom’s new war leader, Liege General Reddak vy Lach—freshly promoted from head of the Vyrllian Guard—upon Mikaen. While the prince’s counsel and input had been listened to, often even heeded, it was Reddak who had final say.

Still, over the course of the day, Mikaen had come to respect the stern warrior’s knowledge of tactics and strategy—if not his overly cautious nature. Mikaen had been kept back from the worst of the battle. Reddak had circled the Vengeance at a safe distance from the fiercest fighting, mainly plying the warship’s bulk to keep their prey trapped. Only after the Talon had been defanged was the Vengeance allowed to swoop in for the kill.

Still, while Reddak had been distracted, Mikaen had gathered his nine Silvergard and abandoned the Vengeance, flying off in one of the warship’s sailrafts. He was determined to bloody his sword, and more importantly, he must be the one who ultimately secured the Talon.

The sailraft made one final circle, then dove under the ruins of Talon ’s massive gasbag. The pilot proved his skill by expertly skidding the raft across the smoky deck and coming to a hard stop.

Mikaen turned toward the back as the stern door crashed to the planks outside.

Thoryn blocked his way with a steel-clad arm. “Stay close to us.”

Normally, Mikaen would have rebuffed such an order, but Thoryn had earned his status as captain of the Silvergard. If not for the Vyrllian, Mikaen would have suffered far worse than a scarred face from that ax blow. In respect for that act, Mikaen simply nodded. But there would come a time when Mikaen must step out of the man’s considerable shadow, to shine like a silvery sun and herald a new dawn for Hálendii.

Until then…

Thoryn barked and tightened the Silvergard around the prince. Together, they pounded out of the raft’s stern. The heat struck like a fist, both from the scatter of fiery blast holes in the deck and the scorch of Shaar Ga’s smoke. Flaming ash swirled all around. Screams and cries pierced the winds. The strike of steel echoed everywhere.

“This way!” Thoryn called out.

Mikaen followed at his back, using Thoryn’s body like a shield. The other Silvergard closed a sharp phalanx around them, forming a deadly arrow. They sped across the deck toward the stubbornest fighting, climbing toward the ship’s forecastle.

Upon reaching the snarl of armor and ringing steel, they crashed headlong into the midst. Mikaen did not hold back or shy away. With sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, he let loose his frustrated fury. He had been hard-trained in the Legionary and sparred regularly with Thoryn. He wanted to scream and bellow as he fought, but it was Thoryn who had taught him that the most skilled fighter was the silent one.

With his lips clamped, breathing through his nose, he hewed and stabbed and slashed. Thoryn stayed at his shoulder, adding to his effort but giving Mikaen full rein. The captain only corrected—teaching even now—whenever the prince misstepped.

Together, they forged through the remaining Klashean guards. While Mikaen savored each kill, he knew it was enabled by the trembling exhaustion in this last stand of defenders. It was less a glorious battle than a quick slaughter.

He backhanded a curved sword as it slashed at his face, knocking it out of the guard’s hand. He followed with a thrust of his dagger, aiming for the gap in the armor under his opponent’s raised arm, to sever the thick arteries, as he had been taught.

But his lessons weren’t over.

Thoryn blocked Mikaen’s dagger with the hilt of his sword and kicked a steel-heeled boot into the guard’s knee. The man gasped and fell to the planks. Thoryn pointed his sword at the guard’s face.

“It’s Prince Paktan,” Thoryn explained. “Third son of Emperor Makar.”

Mikaen lowered his own blade, shocked. He had expected the imri prince to be cowering in the forecastle, that they’d have to dig his craven arse out of hiding. He gaped as the young man rolled to his knees. Under his helm, sweat and ash plastered the Klashean prince’s face. Blood ran through it all from a gash in his forehead. Dark eyes glared at Mikaen and Thoryn.

With the prince at swordpoint, the remaining defenders lowered their weapons.

Mikaen retrieved the curved sword, its hilt shining with black diamonds and thumb-sized rubies, the weapon of a prince. In the heat of the battle, he had failed to spot the opulence of the weapon.

Fortunately, Thoryn had—along with the magnificence of the prince’s armor. On its breastplate, the crossed swords of the Klashean Arms were made of pure gold.

Mikaen shifted Thoryn aside, replacing the captain’s sword with his own. He stared down at Paktan, recognizing the prince was only five or six years older than him. Paktan spat on the planks, not in insult, but only to clear his mouth of blood.

“Do you submit?” Mikaen asked firmly, letting his voice carry across the deck.

Paktan’s eyes narrowed, glanced around the ruins of the ship, then back to Mikaen. “I so swear,” he grunted out.

Mikaen sheathed his sword and offered his hand. Paktan reached and took hold of Mikaen’s forearm. Mikaen matched his grip and tugged the prince up. As he did, Mikaen swung his other arm and punched a gauntleted fist into the man’s nose.

Bone broke under steel.

Mikaen felt its satisfying crunch all the way down to his groin.

He stepped back as the Klashean prince crashed to the planks. With a long breath, Mikaen stared up past the billowing ruins of the balloon, to where the Vengeance ’s forges flamed the skies, fighting to hold the Talon aloft. The roaring filled his ears, his chest.

Paktan groaned, drawing his attention back.

Mikaen looked down, searching inside himself for some surge of victory, but all he felt was disappointment. And he knew why.

This is not the prince I want bloodied and broken at my feet.

W RYTH STOOD BESIDE Liege General Reddak on the broad deck of the Winged Vengeance. The air burned and choked with smoke, but Wryth knew he had to be present as Prince Paktan, the third son of Emperor Makar, was led across the planks in chains, a prisoner of the realm.

The Klashean prince was flanked by Mikaen and Thoryn, the massive captain of the Silvergard, who gripped the prisoner’s arm—not to hold Paktan captive, but to keep him on his feet. The imri prince swayed on his legs, dazed, blood flowing from the ruins of his nose.

Wryth tightened his jaw. Earlier in the battle, when the tides had turned their way and the Hawk’s Talon had been greatly damaged, he had urged Reddak and Mikaen to cordon the Breath and force the Klashean ship to retreat home, humiliated and defeated. Such an act would have been victorious enough without raising tensions. It would have also freed them to pursue and hunt down the other colossal warship, the Falcon’s Wing, to stem any havoc it might wreak.

Reddak had leaned toward that plan, but Mikaen smelled blood in the water, stirring his lust for a more dramatic victory.

Wryth watched it being marched toward them.

Maybe I was wrong.

This capture could serve them well. From Mikaen’s hard sneer, even the prince seemed to recognize the significance of his triumph. Mikaen lifted a Klashean scimitar in hand, a gem-encrusted trophy. This earned a resounding cheer from the legion gathered on the deck.

Once close enough, Paktan was thrown at the liege general’s feet.

Reddak ignored the prize and glared over at Mikaen and Thoryn. The shaven-headed general stood only a brow shorter than the Silvergard’s captain, whom most thought was half Gyn from his boulder-sized shoulders and hulking mass. Reddak came outfitted in only light armor, compared to the heavy battlement of the others. Still, the liege general likely could be naked, baring all his scars, and pose no less of a threat. Even Thoryn respected Reddak’s talents in warcraft and his daunting skills with sword, hammer, and ax.

One did not defy such a man lightly.

“I do not recall giving you two permission to leave the ship and sneak off like a pair of thieving whores from a bed.”

Mikaen stepped forward, his back stiffening. “I need no such consent. I’m still captain of the—”

Thoryn cut him off, doffing his helm and dropping to a knee. He bowed his head. “We apologize for the affront. And accept any punishment.”

Reddak turned his hard eyes on the prince. Mikaen stared back, gripping Paktan’s sword as if the trophy insulated him from any reprimand. Still, Mikaen slowly sank and matched Thoryn’s pose, bowing his head. Captain or not, prince or not, there was a protocol that must be adhered to.

Wryth appreciated the general’s strict fortitude, hoping with time that it would rub off on Mikaen and temper his growing recklessness.

Satisfied at the show of respect, Reddak waved Mikaen and Thoryn up. “We’ll discuss such matters in private later. For now, what is to be done with our new guest?”

By now, Paktan had rolled to his own knees. “I’ve sworn submission,” he said formally. “I beseech you take my remaining guardsmen prisoners and into your safe custody.”

All eyes turned to the Vengeance ’s rails. The roar of its dozen forges rumbled across the smoky skies. The two giant grappling bows, one on each side of the ship, vibrated and strained from the cables that ran down to the Talon.

Reddak cleared his throat and nodded to Mikaen. “You are indeed captain of the Vengeance and took the prisoner’s oath. What is your judgement?”

Mikaen narrowed his eyes, possibly wondering if this was some ruse.

“It is your decision,” Reddak assured him. “You seem more than willing to make plenty of them whenever I’m not looking.”

Mikaen nodded and turned. He glanced to the two archers posted beside the iron grappling bows. Their eyes were on him, waiting for his order.

Mikaen stepped back and extolled loudly, “We’ve carried this burden long enough.” He slashed a finger across his throat. “No more.”

Upon this command, the two archers pulled tall levers next to their bows. Thunderous twangs snapped from both sides of the ship. The grappling cables, now free of their locks, spooled away, vanishing over the edge. The Vengeance, unburdened of the Talon ’s weight, thrust upward. Most everyone on the deck was thrown off balance for a stomach-churning breath before the forges compensated.

On the starboard side, the Talon fell into view, plummeting through the smoke toward the distant sea—then vanished into the pall.

By now, Prince Paktan, still on his knees, had also dropped to his hands, his head hanging low.

Mikaen lifted his captured sword again, clearly expecting another enthusiastic response from the legion, but all it engendered was a smattering of claps and a couple of cheers.

Wryth glanced sidelong at Reddak. The only reaction to Mikaen’s callous decision was a slight narrowing of one eye. Wryth gave a small shake of his head.

Only the young believe such an ignoble act is a show of strength.

Mikaen lowered his arm and turned back. The half of his face in view had hardened to match the silver on the other side. His eyes flashed with anger, maybe some embarrassment.

Reddak waited a breath, then nodded again to Prince Paktan. “As to the prisoner?”

Mikaen stammered, clearly trying to regain his footing. “We’ll take him to Azantiia. Present him as a gift to King Toranth.”

Reddak dipped his chin in approval.

Wryth spoke up. “Prince Mikaen, you’ve done the kingdom a great service. The Klashean prisoner will serve us well in prying your traitorous brother out from the imperial palace. I’m sure Emperor Makar will happily trade one prince for another.”

For the first time in months, Mikaen met Wryth’s gaze and smiled. Bloodlust stoked the prince’s eyes even brighter. It was a desire they both shared, one that could potentially repair the bond between them. Wryth recalled his earlier anger upon hearing of Mikaen’s plans to ambush the Klasheans. He had wanted to stop the prince from such a hasty path.

Maybe I was wrong then, too.

But Paktan proved exactly how wrong he was about everything.

“I do not understand,” the prince said, sitting straighter. “Why would you need to barter me for Prince Kanthe? He is the reason we set off for your lands.”

Reddak frowned. “What do you mean?”

Paktan looked up with bewilderment. “Prince Kanthe is not at our palace. He abducted my younger brother and sister three days ago and fled. We were told he was returning to Hálendii.”

Mikaen stiffened. His lips twisted into a snarl so hard he struggled to speak through it. “What… What trickery is this?”

Paktan lifted his chin and turned to Mikaen. “Prince Kanthe is gone.”

Mikaen bit off each word as he clutched hard to his stolen sword. “Then you are of no use to us.”

Wryth stepped forward, knowing what was going to happen.

No, no, no…

Mikaen swung the royal scimitar with all the force of his fury and frustration. The blade cleaved under Paktan’s raised chin and through his throat. Steel rang off bone—then swept high, trailing an arc of blood.

The prince’s head flew even farther.

Wryth stumbled back into the stunned gasps of those around him.

He had to turn away, covering his eyes, not at the horror and brutality, but in despair. With that one act, he knew Mikaen was lost to him forever.

He dropped his hand and accepted this truth. He stared beyond the ship’s rail, casting his gaze south, toward another prince whose actions continued to dismay him.

Kanthe, what have you done?