Rise Of Empire (70 page)

“Oh sweet Maribor!” Lynnette cried, falling to her knees beside her son.

Brice knelt on the stone, holding Wery in his arms. Blood soaked his hands and tunic. The boy’s eyes were closed, his matted hair slick as if dipped in red ink.

“He fell from the baker’s loft.” Finis answered their unasked question, his voice quavering. “He was pulling one of them heavy flour bags down ’cause the baker said he’d sell us two cups for the price of one if he did. Pa and I told him to wait fer us, but he ran up, like he’s always doing. He was pulling
real
hard. As hard as he could, and then his hands slipped. He stumbled backward and …” Finis was talking fast, his voice rising as he did until it cracked and he stopped.

“Hit his head on the cobblestones,” declared a stranger who wore a white apron and held a lantern. Arista thought he might be the baker. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t think the boy would hurt himself like this.”

Lynnette ignored the man and pried her child from her husband, pulling Wery to her breast. She rocked him as if he were a newborn. “Wake up, honey,” she whispered softly. Tears fell on Wery’s blood-soaked cheeks. “Please, baby, oh for the love of Maribor, please wake up! Please, oh please …”

“Lynn, honey …” Brice started.

“No!”
she shouted at him, and tightened her grip on the boy.

Arista stared at the scene. Her throat was tight, and her eyes were filling so quickly that she could not see clearly. Wery was a wonderful boy, playful, friendly. He reminded her of Fanen Pickering, which only made matters worse. But Fanen had died with a sword in his hand, and Wery was only eight and likely had never touched a weapon in his short life. She could not understand why such things happened to good
people. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she watched the small figure of the boy dying in his mother’s arms.

Arista closed her eyes, wiping the tears. When she opened them again, she noticed several people in the crowd backing away.

Her robe was glowing.

Giving off a pale light, the shimmering material illuminated those around her with an eerie white radiance. Lynnette saw the glow, and hope flooded her face. She looked up at Arista, her eyes pleading. “Ella, can …can you save him?” she asked with trembling lips and desperate eyes. Arista began to form the word
no
, but Lynnette quickly spoke again. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can! I’ve always known there was something different about you. The way you talk, the way you act. The way you forget your own name, and that—
that robe!
You can save him. I know you can. Oh please, Ella.” She paused and swallowed, shaking so hard it made Wery’s head rock. “Oh, Ella, I know—I know it’s so much more than three coppers, but he’s my baby! You’ll help him, won’t you? Please, oh please, Ella.”

Arista could not breathe. She felt her heart pounding in her ears and her body trembled. Everyone silently watched her. Even Lynnette stopped her pleading. Arista found herself saying through quivering lips, “Lay him down.”

Lynnette gently lowered Wery’s body, his limbs lifeless, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. Blood continued to seep from the boy’s wound.

Arista knelt beside him and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. He was still breathing, but it was so shallow, so weak. Closing her eyes, she began to hum. She heard the concerned mutterings of those in the crowd, and one by one, she tuned them out. Arista could sense the heartbeats of the men and women surrounding her, and she forced them out as well. She
focused on the sound of the wind. Soft and gentle it blew, swirling between the buildings, across the street, skipping over stones. Above her she felt the twinkle of the stars and the smile of the moon. Her hand was on the body of the boy, but her fingers felt the strings of the instrument she longed to play.

The gentle wind grew stronger. The swirl became an eddy; the eddy, a whirlwind; and the whirlwind, a vortex. Her hair whipped madly, but she hardly noticed. Before her lay a void, and beyond that was a distant light. She could see him in the darkness, a dull silhouette before the brilliance, growing smaller as he traveled away. She shouted to him. He paused. She strummed the chords and the silhouette turned. Then, with all her strength, she clapped her hands together and the sound was thunder.

When she opened her eyes, the light from the robe had faded and the crowd was cheering.

S
ail ho!” the lookout shouted from the masthead.

The
Emerald Storm
was now two weeks out of Aquesta, slipping across the placid waters of the Ghazel Sea. The wind remained blowing from the southwest. Since rounding the Horn of Delgos, they made slow progress. The ship was close hauled, struggling to gain headway into the wind. Mr. Temple kept the top crews busy tacking the ship round, wearing windward, and keeping their course by crossing back and forth, but Hadrian guessed that a quickly walking man could make faster progress.

It was midmorning, and seamen who were not in the rigging or otherwise engaged in the ship’s navigation were busy scrubbing the deck with sandstone blocks or flogging it dry. All the midshipmen were on the quarterdeck taking instruction in navigation from Lieutenant Bishop. Hadrian heard the lookout’s call as he returned to the galley after delivering the previous evening’s pork grease. Making his way to the port side, he spotted a small white square on the horizon. Bishop immediately suspended class and took an eyeglass to see for himself, then sent a midshipman to the captain’s cabin. The captain emerged so quickly that he was still adjusting his hat
as he appeared on the quarterdeck. He paused for a moment, tugged on his uniform, and sniffed the air with a wrinkle of his nose.

“Lookout report!” he called to the masthead.

“Two ships, off the port bow, sir!”

Hadrian looked again, and just as the lookout had reported, he spotted a second sail now visible above the line of the water.

“The foremost is showing two squares—appears to be a lugger. The farther ship … I’m seeing two red lateen sails, single-decked, possibly a tartane. They’re running with the wind and closing fast, sir.”

“What flag are they flying?”

“Can’t say, sir, the wind has them blowing straight at us.”

Hadrian watched the ships approach, amazed at their speed. Already he could see them clearly.

“This could be trouble,” Poe said.

Hadrian had been so intent on the ships that he had failed to notice his assistant appear beside him. The thin rail of a boy was busy tying the black ribbon in his ponytail as he stared out at the vessels.

“How’s that?”

“Those red sails.”

Hadrian looked back out across the water. “And why’s that a problem?”

“Only the Dacca use them, and they’re worse than any pirates you’ll run across.”

“Beat to quarters, Mr. Bishop,” the captain ordered.

“All hands on station!” the lieutenant shouted. “Beat to quarters!”

Hadrian heard a drumroll as the boatswain and his mates cleared the deck. The midshipmen, dispersed to their stations, shouted orders to their crews.

“Come on!” Poe told him.

There was a pile of briquettes at the protected center of the forecastle. Hadrian ignited them with hot coals from the galley stove as soon as the surrounding deck had been soaked with seawater. Around it, archers prepped their arrows with oil. Seamen brought dozens of buckets of seawater, along with buckets of sand, and positioned them around the ship. It took only minutes to secure for battle, and then they waited.

The ships were closer and larger now, but still the flags they flew were invisible. The
Storm
remained deathly silent, the only sounds coming from the wind, the waves, and the creaking hull. A random gust fluttered the lugger’s flag.

“They’re flying the Gribbon of Calis, sir!” the lookout shouted.

“Mr. Wesley,” the captain addressed the midshipman stationed on the quarterdeck. “You’ve studied signals?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Take a glass and get aloft. Mr. Temple, run up our name and request theirs.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Still no one else moved or spoke. All eyes were on the approaching vessels.

“Lead vessel is the
Bright Star.
Aft vessel is …” Wesley hesitated. “Aft vessel isn’t responding, sir.”

“Two points aport!” the captain shouted abruptly, and Wyatt spun the wheel, weathering the ship as close to the wind as possible, heading them directly toward the lugger. The top-men went into action like a hundred spiders, crawling along the shrouds, working to grab every bit of wind possible.

“New signal from the
Bright Star,”
Wesley shouted. “Hostile ship astern!”

Small streaks of smoke flew through the otherwise clear sky. The tartane was firing arrows at the
Bright Star
, but the
shots fell short, dropping into the sea a good two hundred yards astern.

“Ready the forward ballista!” the captain ordered. A squad of men on the forecastle began to crank a small capstan, which ratcheted the massive bowstring into firing position. They lighted another brazier in advance of the stanchion as an incendiary bolt was loaded. Then they waited, once more watching the ships sail closer.

Everything about the Dacca ship was exotic. Made of dark wood, the vessel glittered with gold swirls artfully painted along the hull. It bore long decorative pendants of garish colors. A stylized image of a black dragon in flight adorned the scarlet mainsail, and on the bowsprit was the head of a ghoulish beast with bright emerald eyes. The sailors appeared as foreign as the ship. They were dark-skinned, powerful brutes wearing only bits of red cloth wrapped around their waists.

Poorly handled, the
Bright Star
lost the wind and its momentum. Behind it, the tartane descended. Another volley of arrows from the Dacca smoked through the air. This time several struck the
Bright Star
in the stern, but one lucky shot made it to the mainsail, setting it aflame.

Although victorious over the lugger, the tartane chose to flee before the approaching
Emerald Storm.
It came about and Hadrian watched Captain Seward ticking off the distance as the
Storm
inched toward it. Even after the time lost during the turn, the Dacca ship was still out of ballista range.

“Helm alee. Bring her over!” the captain shouted. “Tacks and sheets!”

The
Emerald Storm
swung round to the same tack as the tartane, but the
Storm
did not have the momentum under it, nor the nimbleness of the smaller ship. The tartane was the faster vessel, and all the crew of the
Emerald Storm
could do was watch as the Dacca sailed out of reach.

Seeing the opportunity lost, Captain Seward ordered the
Storm
heaved to and the longboats launched. The
Bright Star’s
mainsail and mast burned like a giant torch. Stays and braces snapped and the screams of men announced the fall of the flaming canvas to the deck. Still, the ship’s momentum carried it astern of the
Storm.
As it passed, they could see the terrified sailors struggling hopelessly to put out the flames that enveloped the deck. Before the longboats were in the water, the
Bright Star
was an inferno, and most of the crew were already in the sea.

The boats returned laden with frantic men. Nearly all were tawny-skinned, dark-eyed sailors dressed in whites and grays. They lay across the deck coughing, spitting water, and thanking Maribor, as well as any nearby crew member.