Chapter 84
84
M IKAEN STRODE THROUGH the legion’s mooring fields toward the majesty of the Hyperium. It was a sight to behold, to stir hearts in wonder and inspire terror in an enemy.
It had taken two decades to build the ship. Entire forests had been cleared to shore its hull and build its decks. Hundreds of seamstresses had worn fingers to the bone sewing and waxing the fabric of its gargantuan gasbags. Unlike other warships, three large balloons pulled overhead, straining their draft-iron cables, each the thickness of a century-old tree trunk. Three rows of cannons poked from its sides; triple rows of ballistas lined its middeck, stacked one atop the other. The open deck itself spread to twice the size of a tourney field.
Mikaen’s heart stirred at the sight of it. His pace increased. He was anxious to be aboard and to assume the captaincy of the mighty flagship. Thoryn kept to his side, trailed by a phalanx of his Silvergard. They all wore heavy armor, which glinted in the morning sun. They were the shining arrow of the kingdom, ready to pierce the heart of the imperium.
For once, his father had shown the true steel of a king. There would be no mercy for the torching of the Shield Islands, for the thousands killed, for turning those islands into scorched rocks, where nothing would grow.
Mikaen approved this course of action. He stared at the Hyperium ’s massive hold, picturing the giant steel drum hidden inside, twice the size of any Cauldron. He hardened and stirred at just the thought of the Madyss Hammer and the destruction it would wield.
Its thundering quake will make the imperium tremble.
He headed to the large ramp that led into the lower bowels of the ship. He ached to place his palms against the Hammer’s steel flanks. Ahead, at the foot of the ramp, King Toranth waited with Liege General Reddak. As with the prior mission, Mikaen would have someone watching over his shoulder, questioning and judging his every decision. Still, he would tolerate such a position for the chance to captain the Hyperium on its first voyage.
He swept up to King Toranth and Reddak. Mikaen gave a swift bow to his father and a curt salute to the general. “I’m ready to carry out your will, Father. We will knock the imperium to its knees and keep them there.”
Toranth nodded his agreement. “We all know this undertaking is critical in asserting our dominance. A sixth of the legion’s winged force will be sailing forth. There can be no mistakes or mishaps that make us look weak.”
Mikaen placed a fist to his breastplate in acknowledgment of these words.
“For that reason,” Toranth said, “I’m assigning the captaincy of the Hyperium to Liege General Reddak, along with full command of this mission.”
Mikaen fell back a step, no less shocked than if his father had slapped him hard in front of the entire legion—which, in truth, he had.
“No hesitancy in command will be tolerated,” Toranth finished. “Nor will any rash or imprudent choices be allowed.”
His father stepped forward and clapped Mikaen on the shoulder. It took all of Mikaen’s effort not to knock the arm away. “I know this wounds you, my son. But you’re still young. You have much to learn from Reddak. Use this opportunity. Bring glory to the kingdom, and nothing will ever be held back from you again.”
The king shifted his hand to cup Mikaen’s neck. His voice lowered to a sincere pitch. “I’m hard on you because I have faith in you. You will bring great honor to the Massif name. In this, I have no doubt. You just need to tame that fire inside you. The flame that best serves the kingdom should be that of a forge, one that tempers steel, not a wildfire of destruction.”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” Mikaen said stiffly.
His father patted his neck. “I knew you would.”
The king dismissed Mikaen so he could board. He did so quickly, pounding up the ramp with his Silvergard in tow. He entered the hold and climbed the dozen levels to the top of the forecastle. He no longer had any interest in paying homage to the Madyss Hammer in the hold. Instead, he headed to a door marked with a golden sun and crown, sigil of the Massif clan, the cabin of the ship’s captain.
He stopped before it, trembling, humiliated.
Thoryn drew closer but knew better than to touch him.
“Hide your fury and bide your time, my prince,” the Silvergard warned. “Do not let them know your pain. Become as hard as the mask you wear, that we’ve marked upon our faces to match. All will come in due time. This, I swear to you.”
Mikaen nodded. He made sure no one was in the hall and spit a heavy gobbet onto that symbol. He watched it dribble off the gold and down the planks. Only then did he turn away and head off toward the open deck. He would glory in their departure and, as Thoryn wisely recommended—
I’ll bide my time.
For now.
He hurried through the forecastle and shoved out onto the open deck. Winds cooled the heat from his face. The massive gasbags shadowed his angry countenance. He crossed to the starboard rail, passing between the tiers of giant ballistas.
As the knights guarded his back, he stared across the fields to the distant rise of Highmount. The castle walls towered over the city of Azantiia, forming the six-pointed sun of the Massif clan. His family had ruled the kingdom for centuries, eighteen generations had claimed its throne.
I will be the nineteenth.
Mikaen pictured the faces of his son and daughter. He gripped the rail harder, determined and assured of one certainty, a destiny that would not be denied.
My son, Othan, will be the twentieth.
A stirring drew his attention away. A black-cloaked figure passed through the wall of silver. The man dropped to a knee before him.
“My prince,” he said, “we’ve confirmed the location of your brother.”
Mikaen stepped forward. “Keep your voice low. The very winds up here have ears.”
The man bowed his head. “Prince Kanthe remains in the Southern Klashe as all have suspected. But he does not reside in Kysalimri.”
“Then where?” Mikaen asked sharply, defying his own dictate from a moment ago.
“He abides in X’or.”
Mikaen glanced to Thoryn. The Vyrllian knight’s crimson-tattooed face remained stony, leaving this decision to him.
As it should be.
Mikaen faced the spy. “Alert your brothers. They know what must be done.”
The man bowed again and swiftly departed to carry out Mikaen’s order.
Mikaen gazed out across the deck as it bustled in preparation for the inaugural launch of the Hyperium and the glorious mission ahead. No longer in command, he cared nothing about the success or failure of this venture.
Before this day is over, I will have my own victory.
W RYTH SUFFERED THROUGH a defeat that stung all the way down to the bowels of the Shrivenkeep. He had tried to persuade passage onto the Hyperium. Not only to keep close to Prince Mikaen in what would likely prove to be another vain attempt to warm the bond between the two, but as the first voyage of the kingdom’s flagship, Wryth should be there.
The lack of an Iflelen—or any Shrive—damaged their order’s standing. His absence would be noted by many, and the slight taken as a falling from royal grace—which it was. Wryth had not even bothered approaching Mikaen or his crimson-faced lapdogs. But both King Toranth and Liege General Reddak had asked him to step aside. After failing to rein in Mikaen during his last outing, Wryth was being punished.
Angry and perturbed, he shoved into the Iflelen’s inner sanctum, needing a moment to firm his composure. He was already calculating ways to polish this affront with face-saving measures. As he stepped inside, a loud shout made him trip a step, indicating how out of sorts he was.
“Phenic finally found you!” Keres yelled to him.
Wryth took a deep breath and called across the obsidian dome to the heart of the Iflelen’s great instrument, “What do you mean, Keres? I’ve not seen Phenic.”
Keres shouted back, not looking up, concentrating as he worked, “Another message from Skerren! It’s still being sent.”
Wryth’s heart pounded harder, surging with hope that this day could yet be saved. If he could bring word to the king of the recovery of the bronze artifact, he would shine far brighter than any victory in the Southern Klashe. The last message from Skerren had his forces locking down the hidden sea out there.
Holding his breath in anticipation, Wryth wiggled and ducked his way through the instrument, chased by the hissing sighs of the four bloodbaernes’ bellows. He reached Keres and hovered over the man’s shoulder. Wryth kept a silent, anxious vigil, watching the glowing red blip that marked Skerren’s battle barge blink in stops and starts in a complicated code. Keres recorded it diligently until the glow returned to a solid, fixed shine as the message ended.
Wryth folded his arms into his sleeves as he waited for Keres to decipher Skerren’s words. Wryth grabbed his elbows, gripping them hard. He tried to pace away his anxiety and excitement, but it was to no avail.
“What did he say?” Wryth finally demanded.
The grim expression on Keres’s face did not bode well. He continued to work while explaining. “Skerren lost both swyftships.”
“What?”
“And nearly all the forces he sent down into that steamy sea.”
“How is that possible?”
Keres paused his work to turn to him. “Commander Ghryss returned to the battle barge with the last of his men. He barely escaped.”
“From what?”
“I deciphered it twice, though it makes no sense.”
“What?” Wryth pressed him.
“From bats. Ice bats. They attacked both his men and the village. It was chaos and slaughter down there.”
Wryth shook his head, trying to dismiss Skerren’s claim. It sounded outlandish. Still, none of that mattered. “What about the bronze artifact? Did he ever discern its location?”
“I need a moment more to finish decrypting the rest.”
Wryth returned to his pacing, even more impatient and anxious. He stared over at the bronze bust that softly glowed, slumbering in peace. Wryth wanted to wrench it out of the instrument’s heart and throw it across the room.
Keres finally cleared his throat, his eyes wider, shining with hope. “The artifact is not lost. He says a swyftship rose out of the mist, ablaze with flames, and sped off to the west. It was the enemy.”
“They’re on the run again?”
“Skerren doesn’t say, but they must have finally fixed their ship enough to escape the bats and flee. Maybe they were chased off by those infernal creatures, flushed out by them.”
“And Skerren?”
“He’s in pursuit. He’s following at a distance, trying to keep his presence hidden for as long as possible.”
“What’s his plan?”
“The enemy is clearly headed somewhere. Fast. He intends to follow them, not only to chase down the artifact, but to determine what had driven them on such a strange course.”
Wryth nodded, just as curious.
Keres continued, “Once they slow or reach their destination, Skerren says he’ll not hold back. He’ll release, as he states here, the weapon you sent. ”
Keres glanced over, looking for some explanation. Not even Keres knew of this weapon. Only a handful in the Shrivenkeep had been informed of Wryth’s project, an undertaking of the darkest alchymies.
“Go on,” Wryth urged. “What else did he say?”
Keres frowned at Skerren’s message. “All it says is that he’s ‘readied the formidable Kalyx.’”
Wryth shook his head, not in disbelief but certainty.
No one is ready for Kalyx.