Chapter 21
21
R HAIF CLUTCHED HIS livery’s seat as the carriage carted around yet another tight switchback. They were halfway up the Jagg’d Road toward the ridgeline of Eyr Rigg. From this height, the spread of Anvil glowered under a bank of soot and smoke.
Off in the distance, the Boils continued to smolder, casting occasional flames higher, as if daemons worked bellows to stoke those blazes. The firestorm continued to spread. One of the trading ships, a triple-sailed ore-trawler, was aflame, a bright torch floating on the sea.
Rhaif wondered how many had lost their lives to those fires. He wanted to blame it all on Llyra, but he could not.
I’m also to blame.
Still, fear burned through his twinge of guilt. He stared over to the bronze figure of Shiya, gone cold and still. He wondered if they’d be able to stir her enough to board the wyndship. And that’s if they even reached the docks above in time. The fifth bell of Eventoll had rung out as soon as the carriage had reached the ridge, competing with the distant alarms from the port. He expected the last bell to sound at any time.
Pratik stiffened by the opposite window. “Come look,” he gasped out.
Rhaif shifted across his bench to join the Chaaen. “What is it?”
Pratik pointed toward the low sooty clouds that hugged the top of Eyr Rigg. A large shape pushed through the pall, like a massive white orcso gliding through dark seas.
Rhaif tensed.
A wyndship was already departing.
Fearing the worst, he craned up. Its lower hull and keel sliced through the clouds, like the sky-god Pywll’s mighty sword. Only this blade was sculpted of wood and batten and held together with glue and studded bands of draft-iron forged to an airy strength with alchymies known only to a special caste of shipwrights. The craft’s shape was not unlike that of any wide-bellied barge, but instead of masts, draft-iron cables vanished into the clouds above, which hid the sleek gaseous balloon from which the ship was suspended.
Rhaif searched for flags at the winged stern, trying to identify the craft, but before he could do so, the ship rose higher and vanished into the gloom.
He turned and met Pratik’s face, both of them sharing the same worry.
Was that our ship leaving early?
Rhaif clambered to the other side and stuck his head out the open window. He quickly ducked back, coming close to losing his skull as an ox-driven cart trampled past, heading down the steep road, returning after offloading its cargo above.
Taking heed, Rhaif peered out more cautiously.
A long line of supply wagons and carts slowly worked their way up the Jagg’d Road toward the summit. Even more rushed downward, having discharged their duty. Their driver did his best to occasionally—and terrifyingly—pass those ahead of him. The extra gold march that Rhaif had promised the man clearly fueled such daring.
He sank back to his seat, recognizing there was nothing else he could do. It was up to the gods from here—not that any of them had smiled on Rhaif of late.
After another four switchbacks, the carriage finally righted itself and pulled out onto the flat summit of Eyr Rigg. The air here was as bad as the Boils, heavy with soot, barely breathable. All around people bustled with cloths over noses and mouths.
Rhaif ignored them as the carriage wheeled around and lined up with the other wagons and carts. He searched the breadth of the place. Most days three or four ships left Anvil at Eventoll. The murk made it hard to discern which ship had already departed. Even this close, the ships remained misty titans in their wooden berths, their gassy heights lost in the gloom above.
He read the marks painted on the hulls of the closest two: the crown and sun of Hálendii and the curled horns of Aglerolarpok.
No, no, no…
Then Pratik called to him. “Over here!”
Rhaif hurried to his side. The Chaaen pointed to a flag stirring in the firestorm-blown winds. He recognized the two curved swords crossed against a black background.
“The Klashean Arms,” Pratik said, his eyes moist with tears. “We got here in time.”
Rhaif intended for that not to change. “Out then. Quick about it.” He pressed a gold march into the Chaaen’s palm. “Pay the good man outside. He’s earned every pinch of it.”
As Pratik stumbled out of the carriage, Rhaif turned to their last passenger. He took the bronze woman’s hand in his own. None of her fingers moved in response to his touch.
“Shiya,” he urged, “we must go.”
She ignored his pleading and continued to sit like a statue come to rest. He took his other palm and rubbed her hand between his own, trying to warm her back to life. When that failed, he stripped off their respective gloves and buffed her bronze skin even harder.
“Please,” he whispered.
He finally abandoned her hand and lifted her veil. Her eyes were open, but they were cold glass. He rested his warmed palms on her cheeks.
“Shiya, I know some fear fuels you. Draw upon that now. We must go.”
He waited a breath.
Still nothing.
He considered abandoning her and escaping with Pratik.
No…
He pressed his palms more firmly. “I won’t lose faith in you. So, you don’t lose faith in me.”
At long last, a soft glow returned to her eyes. A hand rose to cup his hand to her cheek. Her lips moved, but no sound escaped. Still, he imagined what she said, wanting to believe it.
Never…
In short order, they were all out of the livery and moving toward the row of berthed ships. The behemoths towered into the skies, cables groaning. Laborers and dockworkers scurried all about in final preparations.
Pratik stopped and swung around.
“What’s wrong?” Rhaif asked.
The Chaaen showed his empty palms, then pointed from his boots to their collars. “I left the binding chains in the carriage.”
Rhaif frowned and glanced back in time to see the livery vanish over the edge of the ridge. Clearly the driver was taking no chances that Rhaif might reconsider his reward of a gold coin.
With a grumble, he turned back around. Ahead, docking lanyards were already being loosened from stanchions. He pushed Pratik forward, knowing the truth.
“At this point, it won’t matter,” he said with a sigh. “We must push on.”
A TOP A STRONG steed, Wryth galloped alongside Archsheriff Laach. Ahead of them, a clutch of a dozen riders in leather armor led the charge up Jagg’d Road. The swordsmen forced aside any impediment to their group’s swift passage. Another dozen men, mostly archers, trailed behind on horseback. The clanging din of the last bell of Eventoll drove them onward.
Wryth’s hood flagged behind him, so did one of his braids that had loosened from its tie around his neck. Such a disheveled state was unseemly for a Shrive, but he did not slow. He stabbed his steed’s flanks with his burred heels. The cavalcade pounded around the last switchback and up onto the summit of Eyr Rigg.
The hooves of their two dozen horses stirred a cloud of dust and sand as the group spread wide and skidded to a stop. Several legionnaires dropped swiftly from their saddles and shoved startled dockworkers out of the way. The others stayed on horseback, dancing their sweating steeds, ready to act.
Standing in his stirrups, Wryth waved an arm to clear the worst of the dust. Laach did the same, coughing to clear his lungs. It took a breath or two for Wryth to discern the conditions atop the soot-clouded summit.
High overhead, a wyndship rose into the darkness, its outline misty and faint. To the left, another balloon rose with a groan of strained cables. It, too, followed the first toward the gloom.
“There!” Laach said, his younger eyes far sharper than Wryth’s. He pointed to the right where a third ship was already off its cradle-berth, rising quickly skyward. “It bears the Klashean Arms!”
No…
Wryth could not let the bronze treasure—a weapon of inimicable power and mystery—fall into the hands of his enemy. Beyond his own desires for lost knowledge, he knew that the Kingdom of Hálendii had to be protected against the iron fist of the Klashe, where freedoms would be strangled, where knowledge would be forbidden. Wryth had spent decades gaining his lofty position here, committing himself fully to these lands, knowing in his heart he could guide the kingdom to an even greater glory. With the king’s ear at his lips and the Shrivenkeep nearly under his control, he was in position to wrest the secrets out of the past and raise the sigil of Lord ?reyk on high.
He also knew another certain truth.
The kingdom’s fate is my own.
Understanding this, Wryth spurred his horse toward the Klashean wyndship. He drew the others in his wake as he trampled and knocked workers to the side. He led the charge toward the rising ship. Still, by the time he was near enough, its keel was far overhead and beginning to turn south.
Laach clattered up to him. “We’re too late.”
Wryth turned his fury upon the archsheriff. “No. We do what we must.”
Laach shifted in his saddle. He was plainly uncomfortable with what had been worked out earlier, an eventuality that they had both hoped to avoid.
“If the king finds out you let that potent artifact of malignant power fall into the hands of his enemy,” Wryth warned, “it will be your head.”
Laach sank more firmly atop his horse, recognizing the truth in Wryth’s threat. He twisted and bellowed to his men, “Archers to the fore!”
A cadre of bowmen separated from the others, pounding forward and slipping from saddles, their longbows already in hand. A torchbearer ran across the row with a fiery brand, lighting the oil-soaked wraps knotted below each iron tip. One after the other, the archers dropped, bending knee and bow, strings pulled to ears, flaming points aimed skyward.
“Let loose!” Laach ordered, chopping an arm down.
Strings twanged, and bows sprang. A volley of streaming fire shot through the smoky air. Several hit their mark, piercing the skin of the balloon and winking out. Even before those struck, the torchbearer ran the line once more, and another dozen fiery tips pointed high.
“Again!” Laach hollered.
More arrows peppered into the balloon with hardly any more effect. As a third volley was prepped, Laach looked at Wryth. The sheriff’s face vacillated from apology to fear. Maybe even a little relief. What they were doing could ignite far more than a wyndship.
Then Wryth heard it. A muffled blast from above. He stared high but saw nothing. The wyndship continued to rise, the gasbag drawing it ever upward. The balloon faded into the bank of low clouds—which suddenly flared brighter, as if run through by lightning. Thunder followed in booming blasts. Gouts of flame shredded apart the gloom. The bow of the wyndship tipped downward as loose cables drizzled out of the fiery cloudbank.
“Back!” Laach yelled, swinging an arm overhead. He yanked his reins and tugged his steed around. “Go!”
To either side of Wryth, the guardsmen fled, some on horseback, others on foot. Laach galloped past him. Wryth kept his horse rooted in place. He watched the fiery spectacle above.
I must be sure.
Overhead, the ship canted steeply down, first slowly, then faster. Wryth searched for any billowing dispatches of sailrafts from its flanks, in case anyone on board tried to make an escape from the plummeting ship. He saw none. The destruction had happened too fast.
As he watched, the few cables still attached to the ship dragged the flaming remnants of the blasted balloon out of the black clouds. The ship plummeted even more swiftly, diving toward its doom.
Wryth swore he could hear faint screams of terror, but maybe it was only his own heart’s desire given voice. He cursed the thief for causing him so much grief, for requiring such rash action. But he dared not let that ancient bronze mystery fall into the clutches of Klashean alchymists. For the sake of the kingdom, that must not happen. No matter the consequences.
Better for it to crash to ruin here.
He finally tore his horse around, dug in his heels, and galloped away. A splintering boom exploded behind him. He twisted back to see the ship shatter against the rock, cracking in half, blasting a wave of sand toward him. He raced it to the ridge and finally reined in his steed alongside the others.
Sand washed over the group and rolled past the ridgeline. Debris rained and pelted all around. Finally, the flaming remains of the balloon drifted down and settled over the broken ship, like a fiery death shroud.
Wryth faced the destruction with one goal.
To sift through the wreckage for the treasure that is mine.
F ROM A QUARTER league above, Rhaif stared out their cabin’s window down to the fiery crater atop Eyr Rigg, where the flaming husk of the Klashean wyndship smoked and burned. He and Pratik had watched the flaming attack upon the other craft from the safety of a wyndship flying the curled horns of Aglerolarpok.
“Clearly your precautions—as deceptive as they were—have proven wise in the end,” the Chaaen said dourly.
Rhaif heard little praise in the man’s words, and he certainly felt no satisfaction himself, only a pain in his chest that he rubbed with a knuckle. “I did not expect my ruse to lead to such a fiery end, to more lives lost.”
As their wyndship was drawn farther into the clouds, the view below grew obscured. Rhaif turned his gaze out to the smolder of the Boils in the distance.
So many dead…
He shook his head. “I only wanted to fool the others into thinking that I’d fled to the Southern Klashe, to draw their eyes that way, instead of west.” He glanced to Shiya, whose bronze face was exposed after he had removed her veiled helm in the privacy of their cabin. He looked at Pratik. “I hadn’t imagined they’d have connected your escape from the gaol to me so quickly. I thought it would take them a day or two at the very least.”
He hadn’t even explained his ruse to Pratik until they were marching toward the wyndships. He had wanted everyone—including the Chaaen—to believe the other ship was his goal. Days ago, when Laach’s men had begun rounding up Klashean traders, Rhaif had come up with his plan. In order to reinforce the assumption that he would flee to the Klashe, he had plotted to break a Chaaen out of the dungeon, knowing eventually someone would realize who had orchestrated that escape. Especially as Rhaif had left behind clues at the whorehouse, connecting him to the crime. He needed everyone to believe he had persuaded the Chaaen to help him board a Klashean ship.
But I had underestimated who pursued us.
He knew the fiery wreckage could not be laid at the feet of Llyra hy March. He pictured the tattooed countenance of Wryth. From the air, Rhaif had spotted the Shrive ride up with Laach in a flurry of horses. Then the flaming arrows had flown, surely directed more by that accursed Iflelen than by the archsheriff.
Pratik looked ill. “Let us hope they do not realize too quickly that we were never aboard the other craft.”
Rhaif was not overly concerned in this regard. “It will take them some time for the fires to be snuffed out, for the ashes to be sifted through, before they realize that Shiya’s bronze form is not in the wreckage. Even then, they’ll still have to judge if we backtracked to Anvil or took one of the two wyndships. Hopefully, by then we’ll be across the seas and well on our way to the lands of Aglerolarpok.”
Pratik nodded. “Despite the tragic outcome, there was wisdom in your plan.”
Rhaif sighed and stared down through the dark clouds at the ruddy glow still faintly visible. He remained unconvinced if the steep cost in lives and misery was worth the freedom of one thief. The Chaaen’s next words reinforced this.
“There will be consequences,” Pratik warned. “This attack upon a wyndship flying the Klashean Arms, along with the fiery deaths of so many of my people, it will not go unpunished. The honor of the Imri-Ka will require swift and bloody vengeance.”
Rhaif swallowed hard, his stomach churning with the implication. Everyone knew of the escalating tensions between the Kingdom of Hálendii and the Southern Klashe. Any spark risked blowing both sides into a raging conflagration. He pictured the fiery arrow igniting the volatile gasses filling the other balloon.
Was that it? Did I just ignite a war that could consume half the Crown?
Rhaif quailed, imagining the many deaths from such a war. All the bloodshed and grief. He pictured cities burning, armies battling across mucked fields, innocents put to the blade. Aghast at such a fate, he stumbled back from the window.
Pratik caught his arm. The Chaaen’s eyes pinched with concern. He clearly sensed Rhaif’s dismay. “Do not draw that blood to your heart. Even if what I say comes true, you will not be the cause—only the excuse. And if it wasn’t you today, it would be another tomorrow. This hostility has been brewing long before either of us was born. It is rooted far into the past, tied to ancient animosities, clashing creeds, even differing gods. You cannot take all of history’s burden upon your shoulders.”
Rhaif heard the wisdom in his words, but it still failed to reach his heart. He shook his arm free from Pratik’s grip. Whether a scapegoat or an excuse, it’s still my hand that lit the fuse, not yours.
Pratik stepped toward him, ready to press his case, but a sudden flash of bright light flared all around, growing to a stinging blindness. He gasped and shielded his eyes.
Rhaif squinted against the glare as he turned to the cabin’s row of windows. The balloon had finally lifted free of the black shroud over Anvil. Raw sunlight streamed through the windows with all the force and vigor of the Father Above.
Rhaif drew it all in with a breath. For a moment, the brightness helped dispel the gloom inside him. Or maybe it was that the world below was now nothing but a rolling black sea, hiding all the fire and death beneath it.
He was not the only one affected by the change.
Movement drew his attention to the bronze figure of Shiya. Her face swiveled toward the radiance. She lifted her palms toward it, too. Her lips parted as if trying to inhale the potency in the sunlight. She took a stiff step toward the windows, then another. As she continued, her movement melted into a smoother stride. The bronze of her face and hands softened, their surfaces swimming in swirling patterns of crimson and copper.
Pratik retreated from her. Rhaif realized that the Chaaen had only witnessed her in a muted, stiffened state, never at her most glorious luminosity.
She reached a window and placed a palm against it. Her eyes—whether reflecting the brightness or fueled by it—turned to fire.
Rhaif drew next to her. He realized two things at that moment.
She was again facing west, as she had for days. And her gaze was fixed to the half-moon shining near the horizon, as if it beckoned her. Her expression turned pained, even anguished.
“Shiya,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
She finally found her voice, though it was only a whisper, like wind through crystals. “I must go there.”
Rhaif touched her arm. “Where? Why?”
She turned to him, her eyes still afire. “To save you all.”