Read Shattered Shields - eARC Online
Authors: Jennifer Brozek,Bryan Thomas Schmidt
Shattered Shields - eARC (6 page)
Syreth sniffed the air. “Tallest stink everywhere…can’t pick up his scent.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat when I saw Nereas’s toppled oak, its limbs torn or chopped off and its bark scored with dozens of sword cuts. Like us, the tallest were not merciful to their enemies.
We cautiously entered the clearing, ready to run at the slightest sound of the enemy. “Guard me.” I sank into the ground again. Concentrating, I extended my senses, searching for any sign of our comrade.
There.
Rising, I trotted to the far side. On the ground, amid a line of tallest boot prints, was a lone, glowing drop of blood. Walking a few steps into the woods, I found another one. Next to it lay a single, tiny, broken arrow, confirming my worst fear.
“He’s been taken.”
* * *
Our reduced unit traveled swiftly through the forest, ready to slaughter anyone who got in our way. When we returned, there was no discussion about what had to be done. We never left one of our own in the hands of the tallest. Ever. Even Bzith had nodded when he’d learned where we were going. Although his seamed face was drawn and pale, and his side must have pained him with every step, he hadn’t uttered a sound of complaint.
Twice we avoided tallest patrols, although we were forced to double back and circle around the second enemy party. We weren’t sure they were specifically looking for us, but it made sense—we’d killed theirs and escaped with our lives. Well, most of us. After dodging the second group, caution slowed our steps—no sense losing four to save one.
After calling yet another halt, Syreth returned from point and bent to my ear. “Edge of the woods is just ahead. Suggest we take a look before going in.”
I nodded, and we all crept through the underbrush to where the woods ended and the realm of the tallest began.
Before us stretched endless plains, once mighty forest like what we were being pushed deeper and deeper into, now denuded and bare, so that more tallest could build their villages, ‘towns,’ or even the largest and most offensive of their settlements, a city.
We crouched near one of these smaller holdings now. Once, it had been a thriving settlement we’d been friends with long ago, living next to them in harmony and trading for what we needed.
Now the village was mostly razed wreckage. Only a few scattered homes were left, all damaged from the skirmishes ranging along the edge of our forest. Thatched roofs were burned or holed, doors and walls smashed in. All that was left of the mill where we’d once bought flour was a single wall near the dry creek; the rest had been reduced to rubble.
It wasn’t always this way. Years ago, we smallkin lived in peace with the tallest. We had been allies, fighting side by side in the Great Trollent Wars. The alliance had been powerful enough to shatter the Trollent King’s attempted conquest of the other races. It had even freed the goblins, who had supplied invaluable intelligence before the final battle on the Plains of Toolk, and they had been rewarded by being allowed to live in the forest among the rest of us. The several years of peace afterward were wonderful.
But as the peace continued, the tallest began chafing under it. Restless and aggressive, they began pushing their borders out more and more, encroaching on our lands, countering any protest by saying they needed “just a bit more space.”
We tried reasoning with them, but all attempts failed. The elves sought an accord first, seeking to ratify borders for both sides, and halt the increasing skirmishes between the two races, but the tallest accused them of plotting to take over their own lands. They warned the elves that if their demands were not granted, they would take what was rightfully theirs. War was declared soon after.
At the time, we kept out of the conflict, not wanting to choose one side and risk the wrath of the other. The Tallest-Elven war shook the countryside, laying waste to kingdoms of both races before the fecund tallest practically wiped out the elvish race. A scattered few may have survived, but they were hiding far, far away from here.
We thought there would surely be peace after that, but the tallest next turned their greedy gaze to the mountain kingdoms of the dwarves, saying those industrious people were hoarding their best gems and gold for themselves, and trading the poorest ones with the rest of us. When the drums of war sounded again, still we did not participate, feeling that as long as they left our homes alone, the tallest would be content when they had again taken what they felt they deserved. It was a terrible mistake for both races. The dwarves have barricaded themselves inside their mountain fortresses, thinking themselves safe, but we know the truth—it is only a matter of time until the tallest eradicate them as well.
Only when the tallest launched their war on our homeland did we realize the extent of our folly. They would never be content until they had conquered everything, controlled everything they could see. And we had foolishly allowed them to expand their holdings until there was no choice left but to come at us.
We fought, of course—we still fight today. I have battled the tallest through many campaigns, watching friends and family fall underneath their relentless advance. Burying my husband and children, carrying on the fight in their memory. Deep in my heart, I know we are losing, as we retreat a bit more every day. The tallest seem to have been placed on this world to do two things—make offspring and make war. From the smallkin to the dwarves to the elves, our long-lived races do not reproduce as quickly, a critical disadvantage against them. Add to this the terrible magics their casters wield, and sometimes I wonder if any of us will survive.
“Top?” Rethgar whispered. “There’s a light on the far side.”
“Movement, too,” Syreth said. “One, maybe two of them.”
“If the rest are in the woods looking for us, this is our best chance to save Tliel,” I said. “Let’s go.” We were taking a huge risk, but there was no other way. By the time reinforcements could get here, the pixie would surely be dead.
With Rethgar on point, we began sneaking into the ruins, pausing every time we took cover so I could sense if anyone was approaching. We scurried from shattered wall to pile of rubble, every sense alert for any sign of detection.
After many tense minutes, we crept within sight of the building with the flickering light in the window. It was a keep tower, once part of a larger stone building, now standing alone. The structure was quiet, but four guards were posted outside. Tliel had to be inside—there was nowhere else to keep a prisoner.
“The rest of you lure as many guards away as you can,” I whispered. “I’ll go under, enter the tower, and free Tliel. We meet back here in ten minutes. If an alarm is sounded, or we don’t make it, you all head back to base. Everyone understand?”
The others all nodded.
“Give me a count of thirty, then begin.” Orienting myself and estimating the distance to the wall, I took a deep breath and sank into the ground. With so little movement around me, it was difficult to be sure I was heading in the right direction, but I pressed on. After forty paces, I cautiously poked my head up.
Light assailed my eyes, making me blink furiously through my tears. I was right where I wanted to be—inside the keep tower. Freezing in place, with only my head above ground, I looked around.
The first thing I saw was the Ravager, not more than two paces away. In the candlelight, the motionless iron construct cast its bulky shadow over a wooden table beside it. Although its featureless face looked right at me, it made no move to attack.
Maybe the operator isn’t inside it now
, I thought. Slowly I withdrew from the packed earth floor, my gaze locked on the metal monster, ready to descend again if it reached for me or lifted a giant foot to stomp me into jelly. It did not move. Other than the construct, the room appeared empty.
In the distance, I heard the distinct
clip-clop
of Syreth’s hooves on what remained of the stone streets. He bleated once, then again. Seconds later, I heard heavy footsteps heading toward him; the carnivorous tallest no doubt thinking they’d heard a wild goat. Syreth would lead them on a wild-satyr chase for their trouble.
The faint clink of chains on the tabletop drew my attention. Spying a three-legged stool nearby, I climbed on it to see what was making the noise.
My breath caught in my throat when I did. Tliel lay there, naked, his normal, bright silver glow dim and wavering, tiny arms and legs stretched wide by slender chains. A large, dark bruise covered his chest where the arrow had hit him. Angry black welts marked where the iron cuffs bit into his flesh. Wide, panicked eyes stared at me while he made desperate noises behind the wooden twig strapped in his mouth. I smothered a scream when I saw the worst injury of all—his wings were gone. The barbaric dogs had cut off his wings!
My plan had been to have Tliel fly away once I’d freed him, but now I wasn’t sure how we would escape, since I can’t carry another being with me underground. Nevertheless, I had to help him.
“We’re getting you out—” was all I could whisper before he shook his head violently. At the same time, a key rattled in the door. I jumped down and hid underneath the table, drawing my dagger as the door creaked open.
A pair of sandaled feet, their shins wrapped in white strips of cloth, walked to the table. Tliel rattled his chains furiously, then quieted as the tallest did something I couldn’t see.
“There now…this will all be over soon.” Although the words should have been soothing, they were spoken with all the warmth of a trollent. “Just another moment—”
The tallest’s words devolved into the harsh language of their magic, and a familiar blue-white light filled the room, throwing everything into harsh shadow. The chains shook as tiny hands and feet beat a frantic staccato on the wooden table. On the wall, the shadow of Tliel’s body arched in agony as the tallest caster tortured him.
Rushing under the caster’s legs, I stabbed up with all my strength. The tallest’s arcane words turned into a shriek of agony, and the light flared even brighter. I pulled my blade out as the tallest stumbled away, his hands clutching his groin. Ignoring him, I leaped onto the stool, intending to free Tliel, but froze in horror.
Whatever spell the tallest had begun was still going. Dozens of tiny bolts of energy arced from the pixie’s body to the Ravager. Tliel’s hair stood on end, the tips of his fingers and toes singed black as arcane power was drawn from him. The construct began glowing as it absorbed more energy from my comrade. The blue-white light streamed into its joints, making them glow like when it had come after us in the forest. With a final strangled scream, Tliel collapsed, his last breath rattling out of his sunken chest. Acrid smoke wafted from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
The Ravager swiveled its head toward me. As if recognizing who I was, it raised an iron fist to crush me where I stood. I leaped aside as its hand came down, pulverizing the table. Knowing there was nothing I could do to save Tliel, I kept going, sinking down into the earth.
“Stop…
Alten!
…I command you!” the bleeding mage gasped as the Ravager lurched toward him. “
Alt!
—
ALTEN, I SAY!
”
The last thing I heard was his dying scream as the iron monster crushed his chest with a heavy foot.
Shuffling through the dirt for a few yards, I came up outside the keep tower. Two guards threw the door open and ran inside. One flew back out almost instantly, sailing through the air to slam into a partially collapsed wall, breaking off a large chunk of it. He fell onto the stone street, his head bent at an unnatural angle. The other retreated to the doorway, but was jerked off his feet and hauled back inside. His screams were also brief.
More tallest ran to the tower, now trembling under blows from the rampaging Ravager. I ducked back down and retreated from the chaos, stopping only when I felt a loud rumble shake the ground.
Poking my head back up, I saw the tower had collapsed, apparently brought down by the construct. Tallest ran everywhere, shouting orders and calling for help. No one noticed me slink into the darkness.
I rejoined the others back at our rendezvous point. “Where’s Tliel?” Syreth asked.
I shook my head. “I didn’t reach him in time.” A partial truth, to keep my unit quiet until I could talk to my superiors. “Let’s head back and report.”
* * *
The memory of what I’d seen in that tower was seared into my mind. I knew the tallest could be capable of terrible cruelty—they’d proven that when they had killed my husband and children; revenge for deaths inflicted on their own. But if they were capable of this kind of monstrousness, what hope did we possibly have against those who would use the very lives of our people against us?
I have racked my brain for a solution ever since we returned to headquarters, deep in the heartswood. Now, as I am about to give my report to our leaders, I have come up with what I hope is the answer. It is savage and dangerous, and will require the sacrifice of more lives. I will volunteer to lead this special unit on what can only be described as a suicide mission. But I see no other choice.
We must seek out and kill all of the tallest casters that know this magic. We must destroy their ability to make the Ravagers. It is the only way we will survive.
I only hope that we are not too late—that we can kill all of them before they kill all of us.
Invictus
Annie Bellet
Brigadier-Capitan Alonso Xabi took the spyglass from his first mate and Navie-Capitan, Mateu, and stared out across the foaming waves. NC Mateu had the sharpest eyes of any man Xabi had sailed with in his twenty-year career, and unfortunately they hadn’t failed him this time.
Sails on the late-morning horizon, sails rigged to the standard of the Zerrijkan Navy. The ocean swelled, pushing the stern of his ship toward the heavens, and for a moment, in his glass, Xabi caught the flash of a red hull. He handed the piece back to Mateu and ran his hand through his thinning hair.
“It’s the
Tyger
all right,” Xabi muttered. Deep in his belly, he felt the familiar nervous thrill he always felt before a fight. The brine-and-tar scent of ship and sea turned to smoke and blood in his nose as the old battle-hunger rose, blurring his vision.
“Men in the rigging, Capitan,” Mateu cried. “We’re spotted. I think they are prepping the turn.”
The
Tyger
was a ship Xabi knew from the reports. She was suspected of sinking Eregensian trade vessels, but no one had ever been able to bring proof enough for a war declaration. If Xabi tangled with her now, it was quite likely none of his crew would survive to carry this tale, either. Not that the
Senyera
wasn’t a fine vessel, but she was built for speed and show more than battle. Good for taking the two Ineo ambassadors and the signed treaty back to the Whispering Isles, piss and culo for outfighting the heavy Zerrijk galleon.
Xabi’s mind raced, listing their advantages against the enemy. They had just sailed out of a spring storm, and many of the sails were still stowed to ride out the gale, but they had the windward advantage on the
Tyger
and would be able to maneuver more easily than the heavy galleon for a little while. But the
Senyera
lacked the sail power and top speeds of the galleons and was loaded down with gifts for the Ineo; riding low and pregnant in the water.
Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t be one ship he’d have to outmaneuver and outrun.
“Where goes Berkhout, goes Van Zeyl,” Prime Teniente Porras said. He and Xabi had come up on the ships together, through the line from Guardiamar. It hardly surprised the Capitan that Porras seemed to read his brooding thoughts.
The
Tyger
and her Capitan, Berkhout, never sailed without the sister ship the
De Brack
and Capitan Van Zeyl. Two war galleons lurking in these waters left no doubt in Xabi’s mind that they were laying in wait for his smaller ship and her precious cargo. It was an act of war, if anyone made it out alive to report home.
How the Zerrijk had found out about Eregensia’s plans and the treaty, he couldn’t speculate. Not yet, at least. Though the word “traitor” teased his mind.
“Capitan?” PT Porras tapped Xabi’s arm gently.
Xabi looked down at Porras’s weathered and scarred hand resting on his green coat-sleeve. Orders. He had to give orders. Now. He felt the weight of his men’s eyes on him, at least those who weren’t in their hammocks catching up on needed sleep after the gale.
“Rouse the full crew. Set the sails. Send Mar Alben and Mar Tosell up top mid and mizzen. I want to know where the
De Brack
is as soon as she shows herself. For all we know, Berkhout might be pushing us right into her, showing his sails so that we’ll run.” It was what Xabi would have done in his place.
His men left the rail of the poop deck, crying out his orders and adding their own. Pride lifted his heart from its black reverie for a moment. At least the Almirante had let him choose his crew for the journey. Escorting the Ineo was a punishment duty disguised as an honor. The treaty was important, granting Eregensia the right to sail her trade ships through the Southern Passage. It was the first such agreement signed between a human empire and the elusive Ineo.
But a Brigadier-Capitan should be commanding war-class ships and keeping the waters off his kingdom safe from encroaching powers like Zerrijk. The Zerrijk had been skirting open war for a year now. He shoved his resentment away. It was that sort of blunt anger that had him hundreds of nautical leagues from his home waters, playing host to two foreign civilians. He was, as the Almirante had put it, supposed to be out here on the Southern Ocean cooling his boots and considering an early and graceful retirement.
Xabi snorted, thinking he’d retire when the sea herself closed over his balding head and not a breath before.
The call came down from the foremast nest as Xabi descended to the quarterdeck, trying not to crowd his Capitan-Navie as the huge man gripped the wheel and looked to him for direction.
“Sails sighted fifty degrees east,” Mateu repeated.
“Make for the west, three-hundred,” Xabi said, pleased his voice carried none of his agitation. The
De Brack
was between them and the Barren Coast, where, with a little skill and a lot of the God’s luck, the
Senyera
might have been able to slip through and hide in the shallower water. The only options were to fight or sail to the west, where the two war galleons would eventually hunt them down on the open water.
There was, of course, a terrible option. From the look in Mateu’s eyes as he pulled the wheel and called out the orders, Xabi knew that his Navie-Capitan had thought of it as well.
A smooth blue-green head that seemed carved out of jade and painted for a child’s fancy crested the steps to the deck. The Ineo’s thick, muscular body barely shifted with the movement of the galley, even as the wind caught the unfurling sails and pulled the ship starboard. The afternoon sun glinted on the Ineo’s scales and off his flamefish-skin robe. Xabi acknowledged the Ineo, who went by the name Sun Sin, with a nod.
“My sister and I offer help, Capitan,” Sun Sin yelled over the creak of lines and snap of sails catching wind and shifting.
The offer made Xabi smile. He had taken this assignment with great protest and decided before even meeting the two sea folk that he wasn’t going to like them and that they’d better just stay out of the way. The Ineo had done just that these last five weeks, but they’d slowly won over the crew with their steady ways, their lovely singing voices, and their uncanny ability to lose at dice and cards.
Out of pity for Sun Sin and Min Yi’s cache of personal coin and jewelry, Xabi had started inviting them to dine in his cabin and taught them the board game of King’s Defense. Apple brandy flowed, conversation followed, and a tentative friendship based around admiration for the sea and love of tactics and strategy.
“I accept your offer,” Xabi said, “though I’m not sure of the diplomatic consequences.”
“If we are killed, treaty dies.” Sun Sin’s expressions were difficult to read, his broad facial muscles less expressive than a human’s and his large green eyes pupil-less and unblinking, but Xabi caught the dark amusement in his tone.
“It would help if we dropped weight. We can’t outrun them on open water, but we might be able to lose them if we can find shallows.”
“Shallows?” Sun Sin tipped his head to the side in question.
“He means the Boneyards,” Mateu said, spitting over his left shoulder as he named the cursed atolls.
Sun Sin’s thin lips split over his sharp black teeth. “Good, put risk onto enemy,” he said. “Drop whatever gifts you wish into sea. In face of danger, it becomes…how you say?
Baboui geum
, false riches.”
“Thank you, my friend,” he said with a slight bow, praying his idea would put risk, as Sun Sin phrased it, onto the heads of his enemy.
Xabi saw Fraga Teniente Banxar’s bright copper head ducking and weaving among the mizzenmast shrouds and descended, yelling for the young Teniente to join him as he moved for the hold.
“Come, Fraga Teniente,” he said, fighting the nervous, thrilling urge to grin, “let’s go feed a fortune to the Lady of the Sea.”
* * *
The Boneyards were a string of bleached and barren coral atolls that stabbed up through the churning sea around them like discarded monstrous bones. Sailing south from Eregensia, ships always took the inner passage, staying a score of naut leagues off the cliffs where the water was deep and the winds stable until the continent curved away to the east. To sail near the Boneyards was to beg trouble. The currents were wild there, and the winds changed at the whims of the gods. Depths were unpredictable due to the breaking and shifting of the coral reefs and the constant rumbling of the seabed.
Xabi strode the length of the main deck, watching his men, calling out instructions when needed, his shoulders tight with anticipation and his heart full of quiet pride in his men. There wasn’t a man among his crew of sixty that he hadn’t sailed with before and found as steady in a storm as in a calm. Even his youngest officer, Castel, one of the Guardiamar, had bright, excited eyes unclouded by panic.
Of course, the young man hadn’t ever seen combat. The way sails and rigging tore and crushed men beneath them under the onslaught of sail-rippers fired from shipboard ballistae, the giant crank catapults bolted into the decks of most warships. The way man and metal and wood burned in the unquenchable fires of Foc’deu, the green fire that burned on water. Once the warships got within range, there would be no more options. No escape. No retreat.
“Depth-finders!” Xabi called out. He strode up to the forecastle, joining the two Ineo who stood silently out of the way at the bow.
“Capitan,” FT Banxar said as he brought two Mar with him carrying the fathom weights and line used for checking depth when sailing in uncertain, tight passages. “The
De Brack
has swung away to the south, but the
Tyger
stays the course.”
“They mean to cut us off if we cross the Boneyards, Capitan,” said Mar Roig, a cheerful young man who had been on ships since he graduated his smallclothes.
“But we do not mean to cross,” Xabi said with a slight smile. He and the Ineo had come up with a plan so stupid it might have turned the edge of midnight back to bright again. If it worked.
“Capitan?”
“Turn the foremast, slow the ship,” Xabi called out and a dozen Mar leapt into the rigging, pulling the sails perpendicular the main and mizzen sails, dragging the ship to nearly a full stop.
“Depth?” Xabi asked. The waves were choppy here and water swirled in tiny maelstroms beyond the bow of his ship. The ivory bones of the nearest atoll loomed closer with every wave roll even as his crew shortened sail.
“
Tyger
’s gaining, Capitan,” his hirsute Segund Teniente, Laque, called out, the message passed down from the nest.
Xabi looked at Sun Sin and raised an eyebrow in question. It was the Ineo woman who answered him in her softer, lower toned voice.
“We need twelve fathoms,” said Min Yi. She was a twin to her brother, same gemlike eyes and muscular body beneath a shimmering robe.
“Prime Teniente Porras! Men ready?” Xabi called down to the main deck.
“Men ready,” came the relayed call back.
“We’re losing the light, Capitan.” FT Banxar shifted from boot to boot on the deck.
“When I need you to point out the obvious, I’ll give you the order, Fraga Teniente,” Xabi growled. He didn’t mean to be rough with the man, but timing was key now, essential even, if he could hope to pull his ship and his crew free of this trap alive.
Among the treasure below decks, he had found a ship-wrecker chain, clearly intended as a novelty gift and show of goodwill to the Ineo. It was a large spiked chain made for holding entrances to bays and protecting harbors, designed to crack ship hulls. There was no time to set it up at a narrow point in the Boneyards, even if they had known the terrain enough to try. The best that Xabi and the two Ineo had come up with was to find a place where his ship could sail over and the
Tyger
or
De Brack
could not quite touch. That meant at last ten fathoms but no more than twelve.
It also meant letting the Tyger close enough that they could potentially get off their ballistae or launch pots of Foc’deu.
“Twelve fathoms, Capitan,” Mar Roig called out.
Xabi took a deep breath. Then a second. Out to the east he saw the sails of the Tyger, the galleon sailing close enough now that the blood-red hull leapt above the waves like an unsteady flame. All commands carried risk.
“Drop chain! Furl sail!” he yelled and listened to the echo as the commands were given down the length of his ship. The heavy chain went over the stern, lowered like an anchor and draped out behind the
Senyera
, an invisible and deadly fin beneath the waves.
The
Tyger
drew closer, shapes resolving themselves into red-uniformed men crawling the rigging and decks like vermin. His own men loosened their swords and readied crossbows, but Xabi hoped it would not come to a fight. The enemy ship was half again the size of his and carrying over double her crew. As much as his blood sang for a good battle, blade to blade, he had long and many scars ago learned the folly of such glory. If only he’d learned to keep his tongue as sheathed as his sword. He shook the thought off.
The chilling scream of a ballistae spring, the shrieking release of wire and rope cranked tight and now freed to fire a thick bolt, as though from a giant crossbow, whistled across the churning waters. Sail-rippers.
“Make room!” came the cry from the poopdeck Guardiamar, a serious and capable lad called Mata for how many men he’d killed in a pirate raid his first summer aboard ship.
The sails were pulled in; making smaller targets, but the thick missile with its toothy broad head caught the rigging in the mizzenmast. Braces and halyards caught and tangled, ropes ripping free. The second sail-ripper finished the port lift on the topmast and yard, tearing the whole rig free as it swung and dragged itself down.
Xabi moved without thinking, leaping off the forecastle to the main. There had never seemed to be so much room on a ship before, and yet so many things in his way. Men yelled and screamed, and the ship herself tipped to port as the mizzenmast groaned. It was too far.
“Capitan!” A huge, sweaty body shoved Xabi back as he gained the quarterdeck. The top mizzenmast and yard hit the poop deck only a few strides ahead of him. He looked up into his Navie-Capitan’s eyes as men screamed and others rushed to pull rigging and the splintering yard free of the wounded.