Of Dawn and Darkness (The Elder Empire: Sea Book 2) (23 page)

Calder pointed to Andel. “See? He’s onboard.”

“I said following your lead was preferable to being eaten alive by Elderspawn. Don’t let it go to your head.”

But it was too late. Calder knew a compliment when he heard one, and he couldn’t stop a slow smile. At this rate, Andel would trust him before the year was out. Then maybe he could work toward skipping out on his debt.

Duster reached down and pulled his ankle restraints off. They parted as easily as the bonds around his wrists. “Might as well face death like a man instead of lying here.”

“The measure of a man is his attitude,” Calder said brightly. Then he held out his bound hands to Andel. “Pistol, please.”

With visible reluctance, Andel handed over the gun.

~~~

Andel Petronus gave Calder the gun on what one might call a whim.

While Andel didn’t trust Calder Marten’s character, he was starting to trust a few other things about the man. For one, Calder kept
trying
. Persistence was an admirable trait on the Aion, even when it resulted in the man trying the most ridiculous, least likely plans.

To get past the door, the Navigator took the pistol and hammered with the butt on the door. He pounded away in a rhythmic pattern, as though trying to tap out a code. Finally, when a robed man opened the door with a sword in hand, ready to subdue the prisoner, Calder broke his nose with the pistol.

It was quite possibly the worst plan Andel had ever seen in action.

What if the man opening the door had carried a pistol of his own? What if they hadn’t opened the door at all? What if the Elderspawn had entered the room and simply eviscerated them all, unafraid of Calder’s empty pistol?

But it had worked, and now—somehow—he and Calder and ‘Duster’ were crammed inside a dingy closet at the back of the house while cultists pounded on the door and shouted dire promises. Calder set his newly acquired cutlass down and pressed his untied hands against the door. “Everything coming along back there, Duster?”

The old gunsmith grumbled, his hands blurring over the upturned traveling trunk they were using as a table. He’d first loaded the pistol, faster than Andel had seen it done, and put it into Andel’s hands only seconds after he’d received it. Now he was working on a more delicate project.

Duster—Andel already suspected the man’s real name, though he couldn’t be entirely certain—had a wide leather belt buckled around his middle. Every inch of the belt was covered in pockets and straps, and in each position, there rested a tiny handheld tool. If Andel didn’t know differently, the belt would have convinced him that Duster was a leatherworker.

But now, knowing what he did, he understood that he was looking at the Vessel of a Soulbound craftsman. Even when Duster wasn’t actively using his tools, their presence hung with dark gravity in Andel’s mind. Soulbound made him uneasy.

Not that he would show it.

Duster continued rolling powder into tight cylinders, tying each end off so that a single cowlick of paper stuck out. As he placed one cylinder into a pile, his other hand was already rolling another.

“Make something that explodes,”
Calder had told him, and the gunsmith didn’t question it. He’d simply begun wrapping powder in paper—it looked like a mixture of ordinary black powder and something else, a bluish dust that had doubtless come straight from an alchemist.

“How many?” Duster finally asked, now that he had a healthy pile of ten or so miniature explosives.

“As many as you can make,” Calder said, just as a jagged pincer splintered through the door. The Elderspawn had arrived.

“...which is however many you have now,” Andel continued. “We’re out of time.”

“Point taken,” Calder responded. He released the door and steadied his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. “Duster, when this door collapses, light one of those things and throw it. Then...keep doing that.”

Duster held one up, though Andel was the only one to see it. Calder was facing the door, which was steadily being shredded under the Inquisitor’s assault. “Won’t get much out of these, just a flash and a loud bang. Might light a fire, if we get lucky.”

“That’s all we need,” Calder said, and at that moment the door burst inward.

The Navigator had to brace himself as a piece of the door slapped him, holding one arm to cover his face, but Andel was prepared. He was far enough back that none of the bigger debris hit him, and his eyes were narrowed to slits. When the Elderspawn scuttled inside the closet, Andel fired.

On the deck of a ship, a pistol was loud. Inside a closet, it was deafening.

A cloud of powder-smoke stole his vision even as the gun stole his hearing. His right ear felt as though a Watchman had driven one of those foot-long iron stakes through it, and his left was hardly better. But the ball had taken the lead Inquisitor in the head, popping one of its eyes. It flailed its ten spider-legs, backing up into the Elderspawn behind it. So the round had done its work.

Calder shouted something, probably trying to make himself heard over his own ringing ears, but a second explosion cut him off. It was the tiny bomb that Duster lobbed from the back, and it went off in a startling bloom of orange-white flame.

There were a number of Sleepless cultists behind the Inquisitors, but as soon as Andel had pulled his trigger, they’d gotten out of the way. Now the Elderspawn were fighting one another to back out of the doorway, flailing their spear-sharp legs as if they were blinded. They might have been screaming, though it would be impossible for Andel to tell.

Once the explosive had gone off, Calder charged forward. His lips were moving, which amused Andel in some small way.
He can’t even hear himself, and he’s still talking.

Andel had decades of experience in combat, including several small skirmishes with Elderspawn. Never with Ach’magut’s Inquisitors, unfortunately, but he had an idea how this should play out. Calder would strike quickly, hopefully drawing some blood or taking a leg from the Inquisitor, and then back up to avoid the counter-thrust. If he could disable the Elderspawn in the few seconds before the Sleepless regained their courage, then he would be able to regroup with Andel and Duster. The three of them would overpower one of the cultists, taking the man’s weapon and turning it against the rest. In that way, they should be able to fight their way through the house. The narrow hallways helped them, preventing them from facing more than two or three at a time.

He was so convinced of this version of events, so absolutely swallowed by his vision, that he almost didn’t notice when reality played out differently.

Calder struck with the cutlass once, and an Inquisitor’s head slid off. Twice, and a crack appeared in the exoskeleton of the second. Though their heads held most of their eyes, they had at least a few sets covering every angle, and both struck at Calder as though they could see perfectly well—even the headless one.

But the young Navigator slid to the side, out of the doorway, and his blade flashed twice more. Chunks of Elder flesh fell to the floor in pools of inky purple blood, and the Inquisitors collapsed.

Then red blood sprayed against the walls.

One robed body fell down, two, three, and Calder lowered his cutlass. His chest heaved as he panted, though Andel still heard nothing over the bright ringing in his ears. Calder said something, gesturing to the dropped weapons, and then jogged away down the hall.

Before this moment, Andel hadn’t realized that he had never seen Calder fight. Calder had mentioned something about his mother training him as a duelist, and Andel had taken it as a
joke
.

He looked at Duster, whose mouth was slightly open as though he couldn’t figure out what to say. One of the cylinders blazed in his right hand, its paper fuse lit, and he absently extinguished the flame between two of his fingers.

Duster raised his eyebrows in a question to Andel, and Andel could only shrug. Then they remembered themselves and ran out.

Calder stood at the end of the hallway, facing an old man with a bayonet-fixed musket. The old man was visibly furious, his face red and his teeth bared in a snarl, as he thrust the bayonet toward Calder like a spear. Andel saw the problem immediately: Calder couldn’t swing his sword to parry in the close confines of a hall, and couldn’t get close enough to lunge under the superior range of the bayonet.

As Andel got closer, he simply lifted his empty pistol.

The old man jerked back at the sight of the gun, and Calder found his moment. The sword licked in, sliced the inside of the man’s arm, and slipped out. He grabbed Calder on his way down, forcing the Navigator to waste time peeling him off.

Andel walked by them. He might have helped, but Calder could handle it.

Past Calder, Andel glanced to the right. Everything was as they’d left it there: door open, the little boy hunched in the corner, the four men in varying states of consciousness around the walls. So he looked to the left, where a locked door stood between him and the captive women.

It didn’t take long to find a key; as luck would have it, the ring was tied to the belt of the old man clinging to Calder’s shoulders. Andel delicately reached through Calder’s straining arms to the old man’s waist, snatching the keys and leaving.

As he did, Calder shouted something that Andel had no hope of catching. If his ears weren’t ringing, he could have recognized a plea for help, but alas. He had no way of knowing what the boy wanted.

He turned back to the women’s door—there were only three keys on the ring, so it took five seconds to figure out which was appropriate.

When the door swung open, he saw five women, just as he’d expected. But not in the way he’d expected them.

Jyrine knelt before them, arms spread. They crouched on the floor before her, nodding or weeping or both, and a strange green light filled the room like an echo of a quicklamp. Jyrine’s head snapped around at the sound of the door opening, the light cutting off and her last words unfinished. Of course he’d caught none of it, but Andel would have given a hundred silvermarks to hear exactly what those words had been.

Maybe being in the headquarters of an Elder cult had gotten to him, but the scene before him looked exactly like the early stages of an initiation dedicated to Elder worship. He’d seen scenes like this before, in the Luminian Order; usually he’d kick the door down at about this point in the ritual, after which the room devolved into utter chaos.

Jyrine’s eyes flashed with anger and irritation before snapping into a mask of happiness and relief. Tears even welled in her eyes, and she rushed up to him, saying something with a smile on her face.

Andel took a half-step back. It was how fast she’d covered herself, more than anything else, that told him something was actually wrong here. Only madmen or actors went from rage to tears of joy in a half-second.

But there were more important matters at the moment. He took his eyes off of Jyrine, waving to the others, leading them into the hallway. They hopped along after him until he used his stolen blade to cut free their hands and feet.

Calder had already gathered the men, and Duster was hurling fire at another Inquisitor who rushed down the hall toward them. Their crowd ran along together in a harrowing escape through the night-shrouded streets of Silverreach.

Swallowed up in their race for life, Andel pushed Jyrine to the back of his mind. He had worse to worry about, and he forgot what he’d seen.

For a while.

~~~

Thirteen people piled on
The Testament
and left Silverreach behind. To the sound of Elderspawn screeching impotently on the shore, Calder guided the ship out to sea.

Hours later, surrounded by black ocean, he sent his Intent down through his ship and urged the Lyathatan to stop. The monster halted its advance, the chains on its wrists tugging the human passengers to a comparatively gentle rest.

Nine of the ten passengers they’d picked up in town were asleep. Some of them rested in the spare cabins below his feet, others in his own cabin under the stern deck.
The Testament
had plenty of space for passengers and cargo both, and was intended to sail with a larger crew than this one. Though Calder could essentially operate the entire vessel alone, through his bond of Intent, there were a thousand tasks that no one could handle on their own. Magical powers aside.

They were anchored at the border of the zone most people called the ‘deep Aion,’ as opposed to the ‘shallow Aion.’ Here, they were unlikely to run into any of the unnatural hazards or monsters that plagued the deeps. Especially not with a giant pet Elderspawn of their own standing guard beneath.

Navigators had a different term for this area at the heart of the world: the Aion Sea. The shallows weren’t the true ocean, with its unknowable terrors. They were something else entirely, something for lesser sailors.

Usually, Calder would have no problem setting the Lyathatan to anchor them even in the hazardous depths of the sea. The anger of their Elder or the agony of the ship itself would wake him if they were in danger.

But tonight, the perils of the Aion Sea loomed over him like a dark wave. His hands shook on the wheel, and his knees begged him to collapse onto the deck. If he did, he wasn’t sure whether he would fall asleep as soon as his kneecaps hit wood or if he’d simply melt into tears.

The danger of Silverreach had come too close, and more than that, it was too personal. They’d grabbed him, taken his weapons, kept his crew. Locked Jerri away, where he had no idea what would happen to her. They’d threatened him with Elderspawn, and beneath it all, the oppressive presence of Ach’magut lurked as though he could split the earth at any second. Until they were two hours out of Silverreach, he’d still felt that silver tingle in his spine like he was being chased. He was having a hard time scrubbing the inhuman shrieks of the Inquisitors from his ears.

It was good that the fear didn’t overcome him in combat; it never had. He felt clear and clean when facing danger, as though he could see farther and faster than normal. But afterwards, when he had a chance to think, the razor’s edge he’d been walking finally sliced him.