Aethersmith (Book 2) (36 page)

* * * * * * * *

From the quarterdeck of the
Merciful
, Soria watched
the battle along with Captain Stalyart. Her eyes fixed on Zellisan, following
him as he waited his turn to make the crossing. She saw him standing there, his
unease at going into battle unarmored clear from his demeanor. She felt a pang
of guilt.
If I trusted that the three of them could ensure Stalyart’s
cooperation, I could have gone myself.
She knew better than to trust any
pirate—especially one she had so baldly threatened—to keep to any bargain without
a figurative blade to his throat. She was the only one who she could be certain
could keep one there.

On the poor, defenseless merchant ship, the crew was being
overwhelmed. They had one warrior among them, who seemed to have anchored a
portion of the defense, but he would not be enough, it seemed.

Zell had made the crossing, she saw, when she sought him out
once more. He held his blade bared, but had not made any effort to engage the
crew. He looked around, searching for any sign of Kyrus Hinterdale.

Suddenly the battle took a turn. The bulky, clumsy warrior
became an agent of death itself. His cumbersome blade, which had seemed so slow
as he waved it before him, cut through the air with the speed of a whip. Blood
flew, and bodies were torn asunder. The oncoming pirates took notice, and tried
to keep well back from the knight, whose golden armor had begun to peek from
beneath his coverings as his movements came quicker and more sweeping.

“What sort of fiend have we cornered?” Stalyart wondered
aloud, watching the slaughter of his men even as they took over much of the
deck by force of numbers. Those odds were steadily declining, however, in the
face of their devastating opponent.

Soria did not answer. Her heartbeat quickened in her chest,
watching the movements of the knight in the golden armor as he tried almost
singlehandedly to fight off the whole of the boarding party. She had seen a
slaughter like it once before, watching the fighting on the wall at Raynesdark.
She had been much farther away then, but the scene was eerily similar. It did
not yet register with her that Avalanche ought to have been safely sheathed at
Brannis’s side back in Kadris—she had heard the tale of it being lost along
with Brannis’s suit of armor in his “incident” but she had been distracted by
too many other things to give it much thought. It did not even occur to her at
that moment that she was looking for a shy, bookish scrivener who had developed
a talent for sorcery.

She could only think one word, and it came to the fore as she
noticed that Zellisan was caught in the path of destruction.

“Brannis!” Soria shouted as loudly as she could.

* * * * * * * *

Brannis blocked off the part of his heart that cursed him as
a monster as he ended life after life.
Innocents or pirates, men must die
this day and I can see to it that the choice is just
. Blood sprayed and
entrails sloshed about the deck in a wet, sloppy mess. He wished he was Kyrus,
that he could just lift up the pirate crew and hurl them a thousand paces out
into the Katamic.

The pirates were not retreating yet, as such, but they were
fleeing his path. Wherever he turned, pirates suddenly tried to be elsewhere.
Their stumbling escapes might have been comical in other circumstances. Brannis
continued to find where pirates were pressing the
Fontinue
’s remaining
living crewmen, and to lend them deadly aid. He took any pirate who came within
reach of his blade and saw to them along his route.

“Brannis!” the cry carried over the sound of the battle.

No, it could not have been.
But it was. He knew the
voice too well; it played itself over and again in his mind as he recalled his
happiest memories.

Brannis scanned the pirates’ ship, and saw a female figure,
clad in armor, standing near the ship’s wheel. He also saw a familiar pirate,
one of Zayne’s men: Robbono Stalyart. The two were arguing, or at least
carrying on some heated discussion.

From near his feet, and just shy of being cleaved in twain
before he had heard his real name called, one of the invaders spoke to him:
“Grand Marshal,” the man spoke in Kadrin, “we were looking for you. Juliana
was.”

“Fall back! Everyone return to the
Merciful
!” he
heard Stalyart’s voice ordering. Battles broke off as Stalyart’s men obediently
began an orderly withdrawal from the ship.

“I am Varnus Coldlake, captain of the Archon house guard.
Around here, they call me Zellisan, or Zell,” Zellisan continued in Kadrin,
smiling as he regained his feet. “She goes by Soria here, but I rather think
she would not mind you calling her Juliana.”

Despite the press of bodies as the
Merciful
’s crew
swarmed the railings back to their own ship, one person managed to fight
through the tide of bloodied men, and make the trip the other way. Brannis has
just enough presence of mind to return Avalanche to its sheath before a leaping
Juliana—or Soria—crashed into his arms. He caught hold of her by the waist,
noticing as he did, the toned, muscular physique and the slightly more drab
auburn hair, as well as the fact she seemed a bit heavier than the Juliana he
had last held in his arms. But it was the eyes that removed every bit of doubt
from him; they were eyes that he could see any time he wished, just by closing
his own.

They spoke not a word, but their lips met. A hunger, left
too long unsated, found a feast spread before it. There was no force in all of
Tellurak that cared to keep them apart. Brannis lost himself in memories of
kisses they had shared in another world, in a small, sheltered corner of it
that had allowed them, for a time, to see a future together. That future had
been snatched from their hands, their destinies rewritten by whatever force had
seen fit to allot the dragon’s share of the twins’ Sources to Kyrus instead of
Brannis.

If men watching from the deck of either ship had felt
inclined to hoot or call out, or comment upon their bared affections, they kept
it well to themselves. They had seen the blood of too many of their fellows
gushing forth in the wake of those two. And though their eyes might only have
seen one another, all others could not help but notice the wash of gore and
flesh they stood amid.

“You have no idea how much trouble I went to find you here,”
Soria said, beaming when drawing her first breath while parted from Brannis’s
lips.

“You have no idea the lengths I have gone to be here,”
Brannis replied. “I think we will have time aplenty for tales, though. Which
ship will we be taking?”

“Whichever we want, of course,” she said, then smiled
lopsidedly. All seemed to have been put to rights in her world. There was no
problem that seemed to matter anymore; all would be fine, with Brannis around.

* * * * * * * *

Brannis looked at his cards, and found them worthless. He
threw them into the middle, and took up his tankard in their stead. The ale
that Stalyart kept aboard was top tier, much better than Zayne had kept on his
ship. Brannis considered for a moment that Kyrus’s palette might have different
tastes than his own, but decided that Stalyart just had more class and a better
appreciation of strong drink.

It had been Brannis who had pointed out to everyone that
they really ought to be in charge of the disposition of the ships instead of
Stalyart or his crew. The
Fontinue
had been sent on its way with
generous reparations for the damage and casualties they suffered. Coin could
not buy back the lives of the men who perished, but it could make their widows
comfortable, and allow the captain to hire on new crew. Stalyart had been
irritated at the loss of so much of his ill-won treasure, but seemed to have
known he had been let off lightly by Soria and her friends, who had been more
concerned with swift transport than with justice.

“So, Captain Kyrus, where are we heading off to?” Tanner
asked.

Brannis had learned that Tanner’s twin was one of his
officers, stationed off in Naran Port. To the best of his recollection, he had
never met him before, though with the size of the army, he could not be
expected to know everyone. He made a point to look into the service record of
Tanner’s twin, though, both to check the character of Juliana’s companions and
for possible promotion; it was always good to have loyal men placed well.

Brannis chuckled. “I am not captain. I just happen to have
one under my boot for now. Sorry if I cannot be a bit more accommodating,
Stalyart, but last time I was on a ship with you, I got marooned.”

“This was nothing personal, I assure you. Captain Zayne was
merely wishing to avoid bloodshed,” Stalyart responded. Being good sports, they
had allowed the captain and his first mate into their game, a man by the name
of Crispin.

“His own, no doubt,” Zellisan commented. Not Varnus, Brannis
knew. The old guard at the Archon estate had been a familiar face since Brannis
had begun visiting Juliana at her family’s home when he was courting her.
Varnus or one of the other guards often accompanied them when they went
riding—if they had not snuck off. Sorcerers might have been untouchable in the
Empire, but their children still warranted protection from kidnappings and such
when they traveled alone.

“We will sail for Takalia, then I think we can give Stalyart
his ship back, assuming no betrayals between now and then,” Brannis said. He
looked around the table for signs of disagreement but found none.

“I will ensure he complies,” Rakashi commented from his post
by the door. The Takalish warrior disdained games of chance, but chose to stay
close by his comrades. “He knows I can find him in Veydrus.”

“Tiiba, you wound me,” Stalyart feigned indignation
lightheartedly. “You know I keep to my word when I give it. I am just a miser
of promises, so I have few to keep. I swear I will not harm any of you, or take
you anywhere but where I am instructed to go. I am no fool, and I wish my ship
back. See that keeping promises runs both ways, Tiiba, because I have friends
in Veydrus too. Remember who Captain Zayne really is.” Stalyart grinned.

“Um, should we be talking about this in front of this
person?” Wendell asked, indicating Crispin. It was an unwritten law among
twinborn—as all “laws” for their kind were—that matters of the other world were
kept well away from the ears of the one-worlders.

“Bah, Crispin is my half-brother. He has heard all this
talk. It is so much gibberish among madmen to him. Besides, who would he tell
that would find any use from such tales?” Stalyart said. He seemed far too at
ease for Brannis’s liking, considering the circumstances.

“I call,” Soria commented, bringing attention back to the
game at hand. She was well into her third tankard, and her eyes spent more time
aimed at Brannis than the cards. The needs of their circumstances aside,
Brannis was feeling much the same.

Juliana had always been a proper young lady, elegant and
refined, with an acerbic tongue and a wild streak kept carefully in check among
polite company (which, Brannis had noticed, she did not consider Rashan to be).
Soria was that wild streak unchecked. While Juliana took her adventures in
small bites—rides in the countryside, hanging about in dockside taverns—Soria
was living the life he could only imagine Juliana wished she could.

It agreed with her. Her slim body was toned like a dancer’s,
her skin lightly bronzed. He liked her hair cut short, though it would take a
bit of getting used to the color. He knew Juliana kept hers up with magic like
nearly every sorceress; Soria’s color was likely what Juliana’s would have
looked like if left to its own ends. There was an ease about her manner that
Brannis only occasionally saw from Juliana, when they had been free of
judgmental eyes.

“Where is the head?” Brannis asked, realizing that he had
taken too much ale, and needed to relieve himself of it.

Stalyart frowned skeptically, as if the question were
ludicrous. “To the bow. That is where we keep the front of the ship, before you
ask that, too.”

Brannis excused himself from the table, where his small pile
of Kadrin coins had nearly run itself to ruin. Kyrus had not been much of a
Crackle player, but at least he was able to cheat to win. Brannis had just been
guessing at the game, and staring into Soria’s eyes over his tankard.

Rakashi followed him out of the captain’s cabin, where they
had been playing. Brannis did not know what to make of the Takalish twinborn,
suspecting that he was not fighting for Kadrin on the other side, and likely
allied against them. There was an odd separation of politics between the worlds
that he was going to have to learn to understand.

“Sorcerer Kyrus, a moment if you will?” Rakashi asked
politely, putting a hand on Brannis’s shoulder.

Brannis had changed out of his armor once it was clear that
Soria and her companions had the ship well controlled, thus Brannis could feel
the warmth of the man’s hand through the fabric of his tunic.

“I am no sorcerer, but of course. Just a moment first …”

Brannis returned from the head to find Rakashi staring out
at the twilight sea. There was a calmness about him that almost seemed wistful.
Kyrus knew little of the ways of Takalish warrior-scholars, and Brannis was
finding this one an intriguing introduction to them.

“Kyrus, you are a man known to many on the other side. You
have a reputation, even among your enemies, you know,” Rakashi began. “I would
know what kind of man you are, and your intentions as regards Soria. Are you
the warlock’s thrall, or just a man fighting the war his people find themselves
drawn into? Are you the sort of man who gets rescued by a pretty girl, and takes
her to your bed, or do you truly care for her? I am not blind. I see the looks
between you.”