Chapter 89
89
K ANTHE WOKE WITH a pounding headache that lanced across his eyes and throbbed his molars. But worse was the foggy confusion. He struggled to figure out where his body ended and the world started.
“He’s stirring,” a harsh voice grumbled.
Something foul was shoved under his nose. It stung his sinuses, as if a lycheen ’s fiery frill had been jammed up there. He gasped and choked. Bile rose up his throat, then burned its way back down to his stomach.
He sat up as the world snapped sharply into focus, but it did nothing to dispel his confusion. He reached to wipe the snot running from both nostrils, but he discovered both his arms were bound behind him. His legs were also weighted by chains.
What the—
He glanced to his right and left, discovering black-cloaked figures seated to either side. Their wraps had been pulled to their necks, revealing silvery pale skin and ice-blue eyes. Rhysians? But these faces were men. Their black hair had been sheared to a stubble that formed a tight V over their brows.
Kanthe cringed inwardly, suddenly knowing what group had kidnapped him.
The Brotherhood of Asgia.
Kanthe flashed to the garden bath, the feathered barbs. His chest and neck still burned from those impacts. He silently apologized for thinking it was Cassta and her sisters who had attacked him.
Where am I?
From the motion of the cabin and the low roar of a forge, he knew he was in a small ship, though he could not discern the design or type. The lack of windows only added to his confusion. He heard booming outside.
Sadly, that he recognized.
Cannon fire.
He feared the worst, and as a door opened in front of him, it was confirmed. Beyond a man’s shoulders, Kanthe spied a bulbous window that looked out over the ship’s pointy prow. The small vessel sped low over treetops. High above, a battle raged as ships bearing the Klashean Arms fought others waving the Hálendiian flag.
Smoke filled the air. Grappling chains linked ships that spun together in some deadly dance. Fighting swept decks. Bombs burst in the air. A misfire arced low and detonated in a blinding flash to their portside. The wheelman at the front cursed and rolled them away, tipping the ship nearly sideways.
The cloaked Brother who had opened the doorway clung to its frame. “ Hyperium ahead! Make ready to board!”
As they turned, a floating island of wood and draft-iron filled the skies ahead and swiftly grew larger. The sounds of battle faded behind them as their craft slipped past the fighting and approached the flagship.
The Hyperium loomed over the war, ready to engage the enemy or pick over the spoils. Sunlight flared from the ship’s sculpted prow. A draft-iron stallion reared its head high, with wings flaring to either side.
Kanthe fingered the gold signet ring with a sigil that matched the ship’s figurehead. He had no doubt who orchestrated his kidnapping.
Their vessel dove steeply and sped under the monstrous keel. The Hyperium ’s hull now roofed the world. A score of forges flamed the skies, their roar vibrating through their tiny craft. More ominous still were the huge doors overhead. If they were open, a regular-sized warship could rise into the Hyperium ’s hold. But Kanthe knew the purpose of those doors wasn’t for something to enter, but for something to be dropped out.
He had heard the rumors, the claims, even the name of Hyperium ’s notorious cargo.
A Madyss Hammer.
Kanthe was glad when they finally cleared those massive doors. The skies opened again, and their craft shoved its pointy nose up into a steep climb. Just when he thought the vessel would roll backward, it tipped sideways, twisting as it fell.
Kanthe groaned, bile rising again.
Then the world righted itself as the little craft caught air, straightened, and now faced the Hyperium ’s stern. The massive wooden cliff was sealed tight, except for one bay.
“That had better be a blast hold,” the Brotherhood leader warned.
“We’ll find out.”
The wheelman hunched low, made tiny tweaks to their trajectory, and shot them toward the opening. It looked too small for even their tiny ship. But it was all a matter of perspective, which was thrown off by the Hyperium ’s size.
As they raced toward the stern, the bay and its hold grew until it dwarfed their ship. He expected them to slow, but they maintained their speed.
Kanthe cringed as the small craft dove into the shadowy hole. He braced for a crash—then fire burst ahead of them. Flames shot out the pointy prow, illuminating walls lined by draft-iron. It was clearly a hold designed for such fiery vessels.
The flaming forge braked them swiftly, throwing Kanthe forward. The Brothers to either side must have expected this maneuver and caught his shoulders and pulled him back.
The tiny ship came to a swinging stop and lowered swiftly to the hold’s deck with a small bump. “Out in five!” the lead Brother shouted.
Kanthe searched around but saw no door.
Then the entire starboard half of the vessel fell open. The curved hull dropped toward the deck but stopped with a slight bounce, suspended by draft-iron cables. Kanthe had no time to gape. His body was unceremoniously hauled by the two Brothers and tossed out of the ship. He rolled across the deck and struck the armored legs of a knight.
“Get clear!” the lead Brother shouted as the ship resealed.
Kanthe was dragged away by his collar.
Ahead of him, the forge at the prow fired, and the small craft shot backward out of the Hyperium.
Kanthe winced at the surge of heat from its passage.
I don’t think that was even a count of five.
Kanthe was hauled to his feet by two knights, their faces stained crimson, marking them as Vyrllian knights. But these two had additional markings. Black tattoos stenciled one side of their faces, forming the Hálendiian sun and crown.
Strange.
But he had no time to question it. The knights manhandled him out of the hold and up a confounding maze of stairs and walkways. Crewmen gawked as they passed or simply went about their duties.
Finally, a hatch opened ahead, and sunlight blinded him. He winced at the glare and at the louder sounds of battle. The two knights dragged him from the stifling interior and out onto the Hyperium ’s main deck. The fresh air helped clear his head, but only stoked his fear. He had expected to be secured in some dark cell, waiting to be hauled back to Azantiia to face his father’s wrath.
But it was not King Toranth that he should have been worried about.
“Hello, brother!” Prince Mikaen called over. “Well met!”
F RELL WANTED TO look everywhere at once as they flew through the shadowy forest. Their vessel—which Tykhan called a lampree —was unlike any design he had ever seen or read about. Outwardly, it looked like a flat-bellied beetle with a domed top and two tapered balloons, like the wings of the same insect. Beneath it, and curled tight to its flat keel, were six jointed draft-iron legs.
The interior, though, was far more astounding. It was one undivided hold, nearly as wide as it was long. It easily held the four Rhysians, including Cassta, who was strapped down next to him. Saekl and Tykhan manned the two seats in front. The Rhysian captain gripped the wheel, while Tykhan assisted with secondary controls, trying to explain some of the arcane mechanics.
“I have the feel for it well enough,” Saekl scolded. “Let me focus before I slam us into a tree.”
“Don’t forget to keep the level—”
Saekl’s scowl shut him up.
Frell stared at the apparatus that surrounded the wheel. It was a convoluted network of copper tubing and crystal tanks, bubbling with a golden elixir. Tykhan twisted a metal valve overhead that triggered a harsh hissing and one of the tiny tanks along the roof emptied with a furious swirling.
Frell stared overhead, picturing those gasbags. He had thought the slim pair were too small to lift the squat beetle, but they had—proving that whatever alchymy fueled this strange craft must produce a far stronger lifting gas.
Tykhan noted his attention. “ Ta’wyn ingenuity paired with Klashean design,” he explained. “Like the other two ships I crafted.”
Frell pictured their trek through the treacherous Nysee Bog north of X’or. Tykhan had led their party via a tortuous route through the deadly and poisonous fenland, all steeped in thick mists. Their guide had cleared the path ahead of them, casting aside vipers with his impervious bronze hands or warning them where to set foot to avoid sinking sands or mud that could trap a leg. They finally reached a nest of chokevines that climbed twice his height and had thorns longer than Frell’s forearm. In the center, hidden by the mists and protected all around, three ships rested, each stranger than the next.
Tykhan had directed them to one—the lampree—explaining the three ships’ origins as he inflated the twin gasbags. Over the passing millennia, Tykhan had constructed fourteen of these wyndships, all of varying designs, and hidden them throughout the Klashe and elsewhere.
Built for emergency, he had told them. And somewhat out of boredom.
According to Tykhan, a Root’s primary imperative was to construct. Apparently, even Tykhan could not resist the urge to tinker, fabricate, and assemble, especially over such a long span of endless years. He even admitted to sharing some of his creations with the Crown, stirring advancements along the way.
“Hold tight!” Saekl called from the front.
Frell shifted as the Rhysian captain goosed the forge to a louder roar. The lampree rolled through the air, while dodging around trees and crashing through bushes. Frell clutched his seat, understanding now why they had been told to strap tight. Their dizzying path finally leveled out.
Tykhan had suggested this route—to travel through Tithyn Woods rather than over it. They could not risk being seen. The echoes of cannon fire and sharper blasts reminded them of the danger above. Not that his path was much safer.
“Grab tight again!” Saekl warned.
Despite the wonders within, Frell squeezed his eyes closed.
Let’s hope we’re not too late.
D ESPITE THE SHIPBOARD welcome, it took Kanthe an extra breath to identify the silver-masked figure striding toward him as his twin brother.
Still, Mikaen struck a shining figure, a prince sculpted of sunlight.
As his brother approached, he shed his heavy armor, piece by piece, helped by an escort of the same tattooed Vyrllian knights. Apparently, they must be a personal guard to the prince. Kanthe now recognized where the idea for those black tattoos had come from. They mirrored the sigil of Mikaen’s mask.
By the time Mikaen reached him, the only armor remaining on his body was that mask. His brother stood only in his leathers now. His lips—at least the halves that were visible—twisted into a sneer, one hard enough to draw forth some of the scarring hidden behind the silver.
“This reunion is long overdue,” Mikaen said.
By now, his crimson-faced guardsmen had closed around them, forming an armored wall. One of them sliced Kanthe’s wrists free and removed the chains from his ankles. Another broke ranks and stepped forward, carrying a broadsword across his gloved palms.
Kanthe recognized the hulking man from half a year ago, from the Shrouds of Dalal ?e a. Captain Thoryn. Kanthe pictured the roof atop a cluster of stone homes, where he had been ambushed by Mikaen and this giant knight.
More of the crew gathered closer from across the wide deck.
“What is all of this?” Kanthe asked.
“Besides our reunion being belated, so is the sparring match that we left unfinished. When we were so callously interrupted.” Mikaen touched his mask and nodded to Thoryn. “Now we may carry on where we left off.”
The huge knight brought the sword in hand and held it out toward Kanthe.
He balked, stepping back, but a hard palm blocked him from behind.
Thoryn came forward, with a glint of pity in his eyes. His voice, though, remained firm. “You must take it, Prince Kanthe. If you must die, better with a sword in hand than on your knees.”
Kanthe respected this ruthless assessment and took hold of the sword’s hilt. He stepped back, unsheathing the blade from the knight’s palms. Thoryn nodded his head and returned to a post behind Mikaen, joining his fellow guardsmen.
Kanthe lifted the ponderous broadsword. It was unwieldly and heavy. He brought his other hand around to steady it.
Across the circle, Mikaen drew the same weapon from a sheath at his waist, but he was able to lift it with one arm.
“Shall we begin?” his brother asked.
Before either could move, a booming shout echoed across the deck. A tall figure strode through the clusters of crewmen—who quickly scattered back to their posts. Kanthe didn’t know the man, but from the laurels engraved on his breastplate, he was a liege general.
“What is the meaning of this, Prince Mikaen?” he shouted as he approached. “We’re about to engage in battle!”
The explosions had grown louder. Ahead, the wall of smoke rolled toward them. Distant screams and shouts could be heard.
For once in his life, Kanthe prayed for war.
As the liege general reached them, he finally noticed the other prince aboard the Hyperium. While Kanthe might not recognize the man, the liege general had no difficulty identifying him. Shocked and startled, the man tripped a step. Clearly, he had no idea of Mikaen’s plot and the successful abduction of the traitorous prince.
“This is between brothers, Liege General!” Mikaen shouted back, fury sharpening his voice. “It does not concern you. My father has made it clear that I’m not captain or commander here. The battle ahead is yours to wage. I will address my own fight here, rather than sit idly by. And we’ll see who brings home the greater glory to Hálendii.”
The liege general glowered, his face going dark under his helm. Still, he stared between the two brothers, trying to judge whether to intervene. After a long, tense pause, he gave a small shake of his head, settling on neutrality as the best course. If there would be any punishment for what happened next, it would be meted upon Prince Mikaen.
To further settle matters, a hunterskiff shot high across the Hyperium ’s bow, flashing the Klashean Arms. It looked to be a scout, surveying the approaching behemoth. As the enemy ship turned and rocketed away, the liege general followed after it, pounding across the planks, bellowing orders.
“Now where were we?” Mikaen asked, lifting his sword higher.
Kanthe guarded himself, knowing there was nothing he could say to dissuade his brother. Still, he tried. “It’s not too late, Mikaen. Together, the two of us have a rare chance to broker peace between Hálendii and the Southern Klashe, to bring greater glory to both.”
“Whoever said I desired peace ?” Mikaen stepped forward with a flourish of his sword. “And when I bring your head back to Azantiia, I will garner plenty of glory. ”
Mikaen lunged at him, his sword driving low for his belly. Kanthe sidestepped and parried with the flat of his blade. Steel rang loudly. The impact stung his palms, but he gripped harder.
Still, there was no pause to savor or sulk. Mikaen spun off his parry and swung his sword high, while Kanthe’s sword hung near his waist.
Kanthe ducked, hearing steel sing over his head. He twisted to the side. Mikaen came again and again. Kanthe matched him—two-handed to Mikaen’s one, but still holding his own. Kanthe found a rhythm.
Mikaen’s first attacks had been taunting, nearly mocking, wanting Kanthe to look foolish. But soon their fighting grew earnest. They circled, clashed across one another, rebounded to new positions.
Kanthe still played a defensive role, which he knew was foolish. He would tire out quickly. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to go for a mortal blow. It was less a conscious decision than it was reflexive. He could still hear Mikaen’s childish laughter as the two fled through the halls in some grand adventure of play. This battle had also come too suddenly. To kill a brother took time to digest, to let sit in the gut and weigh, before committing to such an act.
Mikaen hissed and came at him again.
Plainly, his brother had found that time.
Distracted by these thoughts, Kanthe missed a feint. The edge of Mikaen’s sword sliced along his ribs, down to bone. He fell back with a gasp.
Mikaen retreated rather than going for a killing blow. But it wasn’t a hesitancy against a mortal strike. His brother wanted to relish first blood.
“You’ve vastly improved,” Mikaen commended him.
“I’ve had good teachers.” Kanthe leaned a hand on a knee, resting his sword tip on the planks. He pictured sparring with Jace, being taught balance and technique from Darant and Graylin. “It’s a shame our father refused to let me train with the legion.”
“Our father made many mistakes,” Mikaen answered, his voice tightening with anger—but not toward Kanthe. “I will not make the same mistakes with my son.”
Kanthe straightened, paining his wound. “You have a son?” He had not heard. “With Lady Myella?”
Mikaen glanced sidelong; clearly few others had known about this. Kanthe had no difficulty doing some swift calculations and realized why no one knew. To be born this early meant they were conceived before marriage. Mikaen looked ready to refute this, but his face strained to hold the secret. In the end, he couldn’t deny them.
“And a daughter,” Mikaen hissed low, so only his immediate guardsmen could hear—who likely already knew.
“Twins?” Kanthe dropped his voice accordingly, both to avoid goading Mikaen and to protect those children from the scandal that such a revelation would cause. The twins—his niece and nephew—were innocent of all this strife. He would not sully their births.
Mikaen nodded, his face breaking with pride, a flash of the sun through clouds. “Both of them—Othan and Olia—beautiful and healthy.”
Kanthe offered a tired smile. “I’m happy for you. I truly am.”
Mikaen winced warily at his words.
Kanthe left his sword tip on the boards and leaned out his other hand. “Congratulations, my brother. No matter the future, I hope they live long and happy lives.”
Mikaen acknowledged this with a nod. He took a step forward to meet him and clasped his hand. “Thank you, brother.”
Kanthe squeezed, trying to remember the last time he had grasped his brother in any measure of true warmth.
Mikaen stared at their clasped hands, too. Then his grip tightened, spasming hard. “What is this?” he gasped out.
Kanthe looked down as Mikaen turned their hands, further exposing the gold ring on Kanthe’s finger. The crimson garnet caught the sunlight, revealing the winged stallion engraved on it, a match to the ship’s draft-iron figurehead.
“One of Mother’s signet rings,” Mikaen said, calculating in his own head. Like Kanthe, his brother had lived with the same rumors and whispers of a twin birth. Mikaen glared at him. “That’s why you sided with the Klashe! To challenge our bloodline!”
“No, I never—”
His voice swelled into a murderous roar. “To challenge the birthright of my son, my daughter!” He lifted his sword high, clamping hard to Kanthe’s hand. “Never!”
The blade fell with the fury of a father protecting his children. The sword cleaved through Kanthe’s arm, severing it below the elbow.
Kanthe fell back in disbelief, dropping his sword.
Mikaen stumbled the other way, still clasping Kanthe’s hand—and the remains of his arm. He finally threw them aside, along with the ring on a finger.
Kanthe collapsed to his knees. Blood poured and pumped across the planks. Mikaen shouted to Thoryn, but Kanthe’s ears rang with shock. Then the pain doubled him over. He swooned and fell to his side, his blood pouring over him now.
The world narrowed.
Shadows swam in and out.
Then he felt his body clasped, the stump of his arm raised.
Mikaen leaned his face close, his voice acid. “You’re not escaping that easily, brother.”
The agony in his arm flared—with the sizzle and smoke of searing flesh.