Einsdee, the 1st of Falling, 768 A.E.

  Genero spotted Illias before Illias saw him. Illias was just exiting another inn, flanked on either side by a blood-spattered Guardian with an arc-sword in hand. The other Guardians in his group were running in and out of the alleyways, checking for Anthea and her companions in case she was trying to escape through the dark passages between the strangely built Kerathi structures.

  In the dead of night, the whipping noises of the colored marker flags hanging from the masts of most major buildings were disconcerting. It was bad enough being in the dark, but with alien smells and sounds to compound the strangeness of the situation, it was even worse. People rushed about, most of them ignoring everyone else as they rushed home or rushed to join the crews who battled the fires.

  To Genero’s surprise, Illias and the men still with him were not setting fires. No, that must have been the work of a couple Guardians who were set to starting fires away from where Illias was working, so the attention would not be on him. It was rather cunning really. In fact, Genero wished he’d have thought of that, not that it would have made much of a difference at this point. Leander was dead and his men were scattered; no fires he might have set would change that now.

  His first emotion, upon seeing Illias, was surprise. Sure, the attention was elsewhere, but the man walked with his weapons in plain sight and his hood drawn back. Even if he were not as traditional in Aurean appearance as Genero was, his features painted him as a foreigner for sure, if not an Aurean. Although as much as the man seemed to enjoy the intensive physical work interrogation presented, Genero doubted the man cared if his appearance made the Kerathi suspicious, guarded, or outright hostile toward him.

  The second emotion he felt was fear. His heart flitted wildly like the wings of one of Aaren’s mountain eagles. The God of skies, winds, and birds was a God of ephemeral things, and Genero felt as if his life might end as quickly as a gust of wind. His middle and forefingers touched his forehead as he whispered a prayer for protection to Haestos and Maletos.

  With a hand resting on the hilt of each of his pair of arc-swords, Genero called over to Illias, ready to bolt into an alleyway should something go awry. Illias’ head swiveled over toward him and regarded him boredly, as a man whose much more important task has been interrupted would do. Again, this was hardly the treatment that Genero, as the man’s superior, deserved to be receiving. He choked back his pride yet again when the insubordinate man waved him over to report.

  Genero eyed each of Illias’ companions warily as he came to stand no closer than three paces away from Illias. No doubt the men had not noticed Genero’s hands on the hilts of his swords either. “We were set upon by Anthea and her allies.” He began.

  “And? Where is she now?” Illias demanded eagerly.

  “I’m not certain. Leander led us into a place he suspected they were might be housed in and made us stay outside. He and two men went inside and tried to face them while we covered any possible retreats.”

  Illias frowned, already not liking the way this was going. “He took only two men in with him?”

  “He said it would be enough for an animal and a little girl, though I advised him against it. Lacking his command of Lower Elegian, I could hardly interfere in his interrogations anyway.”

  “Perhaps.” Illias said, waving his hand impatiently for him to be on with it. “Continue, and be quick about it, we have little time left. We have already missed the first pickup time.”

  “I didn’t see what happened, but there was a commotion, and then the Ox-Man threw himself out of a window and crashed down into our midst, killing two or three in just Saycunds. Something must have been done to him to make him resistant to arc-sword fire, because we couldn’t harm him very easily. It must have been his master Orestes.” Genero surmised. “We were slowly getting the better of him when the Kerathi opened fire on us, and then the girl threw an enchantment at us.”

  “She enchanted in the dark? That’s impossible. She needs light to do it. I have been told so.”

  “Then you were told wrong.” Genero spat the words at Illias, feeling angry that he was being questioned and his quarry had bettered him. “I was there. Her enchantment made even the bravest of us flee. Your Guardians scrambled away like beaten dogs.”

  “I doubt you needed much urging to flee.” The Guardian on Illias’ right scoffed.

  One of Genero’s swords flashed out, sliding from its sheathe into his capable hands. His feet carried him the two Mayters he between them in under a Saycund, giving the Guardian just enough time to flinch before Genero brought the arc-sword sweeping upward in a vicious cut that opened the Guardian’s chest to the night air.

  Genero stepped back then, shaking the blood from his blade as he resheathed it. Strangely, he felt himself growing more confident and less sick the more violence he committed. His stomach was oddly settled and the maddening pulse of his headache lessened with each death he dealt.

  Illias looked down at the dead body beside him, and then up at Genero with appraising eyes. Genero felt that it was clearly that his value had just risen in the man’s book. “What of Leander then?”

  “Now, as I said, the enchantment carried us away, but after its effects faded, I went back. As I feared, his plan to go in with only two men to support him had failed. Perhaps if we had sent more in there in the first place, the girl would not have gotten the enchantment off at all. Surely then we would have killed the Ox-Man and taken Anthea captive instead of what happened.”

  “Leander… is dead?” Illias asked, his jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth in anger.

  Genero took an almost imperceptible step backward and tried to think of the best response he could to shift blame away from himself. “Yes, he had been pierced by a spear or blade through his chest that opened him right up. The wounds were odd, as if the weapon had been barbed.”

  “And you let them escape?” Illias demanded, stepping forward, his neck a mass of cords as his face purpled in rage.

  Genero slid back a pace without lifting his feet. He knew his trick with the Guardian before wouldn’t work again. This time they’d be waiting for him. For a moment he wondered why he hadn’t tried to kill Illias instead of the man next to him the last time he’d drawn his blades. But then he realized he’d have not been able to fight his way through Illias’ other men, who would have surely hunted him down if he had managed to defeat their leader. If he could have even killed Illias that was, and Genero wasn’t so sure that he could, even if he had the jump on the man.

  “Sir! A boat is trying to escape.” One of the other Guardians shouted.

  Genero wanted desperately to look toward the man and see where he was sure to be pointing. He knew that the boat must be carrying Anthea – his ticket home to his wife and son – but he dared not look away from Illias. Let the other man look first, he silently willed toward the other man, whose dangerous eyes seemed reluctant to leave his own.

  Then, slowly Illias began to turn, and when he had finally turned, he strode off powerfully, shouldering past the Guardian who had stood stock-still at his flank for several moments. Illias walked out onto the pier to get a better look at the escaping boat, not that it was hard to see. To Genero’s light-sensitive eyes, the boat looked to be lit up like the light of middee. An aura of light surrounded it.

  “Crystal pods.” Genero remarked in wonder. “It must be her. They’re escaping.”

  “I can see that. They look to all be on deck too, though I don’t know how that rickety old thing is moving so fast.”

  “Enchantment. I told you what she was capable of.”

  For a moment, the scene was so surprising that they both just stared and watched. The ship bathed in light flitted across the harbor, dodging around the wreckage of burning ships or burnt-out hulls. Ene man on the ship seemed to be working like a fiend, dancing from the wheel one moment to the lines the next.

  Then the man on the boat bent down and pulled out something long, perhaps two Mayters in length. It seemed to shorten as it swiveled to face them. A flash of light erupted, and Genero’s eyes widened as he realized that they were being shot at. He dove to the side while Illias stood there with a frown fixed on his face.

  The slug impacted on Illias’ chest with a sound like a tenderizing hammer slapping onto a large pork loin. As Genero watched, blood sprayed out behind Illias when the slug tore all the way through him. Illias staggered as if shoved hard and then dropped to one knee, steadying himself with a hand on the ground. The nearest Aureans gathered around to see if he was all right, and even Genero found himself getting up to see.

  After a moment, Illias raised his head and gritted his teeth through the pain. “Light the flares!” He bellowed. “Signal the Flier. We have a boat to catch.”

  “You’re bringing the Flier here? You’re going to land it in the town after what you’ve had it doing the last half Ouer?” Genero asked in surprise. If the people in the city didn’t already know what had started all the death that night, landing the Flier in the middle of the docks would certainly give them a pretty obvious guess.

  Illias grunted and pushed himself back up to stand on both feet. He held a hand over the wound in his left side that dribbled blood down his hip and he glared at Genero. “Haestos and Maletos themselves couldn’t stop me from getting that boat. I don’t care if we must burn this whole city to the ground for the Flier to land. We will get on here, and we will catch that girl!”

  Genero touched his middle and forefingers to his forehead and regarded Illias. He knew from the look in the other man’s eyes that nothing would stop him, just as he promised it would be. They would all be dead or accomplish what they sought to do before this night was finished; he just didn’t know which one yet. The fires, the noise, and the death around him didn’t portend to the latter as much as the former.

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  So he watched helplessly as the flares were lit and the Guardians began to gather. They all moved back in from the city toward the bright blue streams of the Aurean flares that streaked into the sky. They were not the only ones who noticed them either. Genero and all the others had their swords out as they waited for the Flier.

  A fight was guaranteed when you tell thousands of angry Kerathi where you were. It was like they’d just poked an anthill and shook a beehive all at once. Angry onlookers came to see what was amiss, and things just escalated from there.

  By the time Genero heard the whirr of Flier turbines approaching, bodies had already piled up waist deep. The Kerathi threw themselves at the artists of the night’s suffering with a maddening desperation. Half of them were not even armed, and the others that were often held tools of their trades as they hurtled themselves at the Aureans. Illias and the others met them gladly, extracting high casualties for each wound they took and for each man who fell to the rising force. All the training in the world and the arc-swords they held would not keep the Kerathi at bay for long.

  The Flier had to burn their way through the crowd that was swarming around Illias and his men before they could set down. When the wounded retreated into the safety of the Flier’s hold, no one had to mention that only a third of the men who had climbed out at the beginning of the attack had made it back on board.

  Genero shuddered in revulsion at the smell of death and burned flesh that filled his nostrils even as they lifted off. A few foolish Kerathi sought to bear the ship down by throwing lines over the wings or grabbing onto the landing struts. A more timely and concerted effort might have accomplished just that, but these men were shrugged off rather easily, though the last of them didn’t let go and fall until they were halfway across the harbor. His scream was audible even over the Flier’s rotors.

  Makan looked back over his shoulder for what must have been the thirtieth time after he’d shot at the Aureans on shore. He was sure he’d hit the man from the way he’d staggered. That alone was a miracle he owed to Cainel, whose hands had guided his on the unfamiliar weapon, and perhaps Aaren, too, since it was his winds that had carried the slug straight and true to its target.

  He was nearly clear of the harbor, and there was still no sign of pursuit. This was both good and bad. If he was stopped before he had led the Aureans far enough away from the harbor, it was likely that Anthea and the others wouldn’t escape. On the other hand, if they didn’t follow him at all, they were even more likely to spot Anthea when she made her move.

  That they had seen through the ruse was a notion that Makan pushed back into the far corners of his mind. He wouldn’t give the thought any attention, lest it become true. He willed for them to follow him as he manned the old ship, pushing it to its limits.

  Anthea’s enchantment still held sway over the vessel, and the mast strained with the effort of holding the considerable winds in its sails. The ship shuddered and creaked noisily as Makan executed a sharp series of turns around a set of masts that jutted up out of the water like dead tree trunks in a swamp. Those ships that had not been sent to the bottom of the harbor were mostly burned down to the waterline now. Their smoldering birthed smoke that gathered in clouds that hovered over the water like fog.

  He had to move as fast as possible, yet he couldn’t afford to lose the wind in his sails if he overshot a turn. Yet this fishing boat wallowed in the water and rolled about on its nearly flat bottom like a beached whale. Its controls were cumbersome, very different from a Mueran vessel, which would glide smoothly across the roughest of waters. No, this ship was definitely not Mueran. It seemed to embody the Kerathi mentality – brute force. The ship cut through water and tried to impose the will of the navigator on the water, instead of working with the water and giving heed to its mercurial will and moody nature.

  Makan said a brief prayer to Tulis, on whose waters he now sailed. He saw a tight turn coming up, so he locked the wheel as he went to adjust the running rigging for the sail, lashing it down snugly. Then he grabbed the wheel again and put his back into it, cranking it hard to starboard. As he turned, he saw a commotion along the waterfront. The Flier was descending onto the docks amidst blue flares of light, all the while sweeping arc-lance fire along the docks to clear a place for itself.

  “They’re coming…” Makan said in wonder, but then the boat required his attention.

  He crashed through the smoke and mist, scraping the hull against the charred shell of one of the Kerathi patrol vessels. He felt exhilaration building in his breast as he raced out of the harbor and into the dark sea beyond. He was clear, and the enemy was coming to stop him.

  He plied the waters with every trick he knew and every iota of seamanship he possessed. He used the skills that had earned him the title of Oceanwalker among his kind, and he pressed the boat to its limits and beyond. Water sprayed up behind the boat as the hull skipped along the waves, sometimes nearly leaving the water as it hurried from one crest to the next.

  With the smoke and haze left behind as he was carried beyond the harbor, he realized just how smoky it had been. Looking back toward the harbor, it was cloaked in grey, but the sky before him was open and wide, if in the deep dark of the night. The moon was dozing gently behind thick dark clouds, so Makan knew his boat was very visible, being lit up so brightly. They would have no trouble following him.

  With things seeming to go his way, Makan finally had a moment to think about how he would survive this attack – Fallu willing. He knew he had to bait them into destroying the ship, if they didn’t already have enough reason. At worst he knew he could capsize it, and they might believe they’d all drowned, but the destruction of the ship would be a much more effective convincer.

  He had little time to consider his options. A soft drone began to grow in his ears. He was two Kilomes or more out from shore and working on a third when he could first see the Flier coming up from the stern. The Flier’s bubbled windows glinted like a maddened insect’s eyes in the faint moonlight.

  Despite being free of the water’s friction and hindrance to motion, Makan realized that the Flier was not that much faster than his boat. He let the wind and water carry him east, as if he were going to make a run to hide in the coves of one of Maethlin’s smaller cousin islands.

  If he managed to make it, he knew they would never find him. Many of these islands were riddled with caves and dense cedar forests. They’d have to comb every square Mayter of the islands, and that would take them Waykes. Makan knew he couldn’t count on them knowing that though. He only knew himself because he had traveled so wide and far, spoken to many sailors, and had made a hobby out of examining navigator’s maps from people of all races.

  By the time he was five Kilomes out from shore, the Flier was close enough that he could make out the silhouettes of two figures at the controls. A small islet loomed ahead of him. It looked to be uninhabited, and it wasn’t that large, so it was hardly the best place to hide, but he made for it anyway. After all, he didn’t really want to hide even if he needed to make it look like he was going to try. He wanted them to think they were dead, and then he’d slip away to rejoin Anthea.

  Unless it occurred to him, that this was all the part he was to play in Anthea’s struggle. He wasn’t even sure what she was struggling for or against yet, but he was certain that she was tied up in something big. And Fallu wouldn’t have appeared to him just to have him die this easily. No, there must be something greater planned for me, Makan decided.

  A warning shot arced over the ship and fizzled out in the night air. The second one was closer, slapping the water beside the ship. Makan’s hair stood on end and the air smelled of ozone, but he continued. Then next time they fired, he went hard to port, carrying himself out of the way. The Flier banked sharply to follow and fired another near miss. Makan went hard to starboard, tacking toward the island.

  This ploy didn’t take long to irritate the pilots, and likely the crew, who were being tossed around like rocks in a box. They decided to take the wind out of his sails, literally. Arc-lance fire ripped through the sail canvas, and it burst into flames around the holes it had burned. This would have stopped most ships, but this ship was being pushed on by enchantments. The winds blew the fire out and the waves continued to toss the ship from wave to wave toward the island.

  A pair of arc-lances opened fire then, raking fire along the waterline of the boat. Wood sizzled and burst as pockets of moisture trapped in the wood superheated and exploded. Slivers of wood flew everywhere, like a storm of needles. Water sloshed across the deck past Makan’s feet. The next shot hit the rudder. The stern of the boat was sliced into violently. The rudder was gone as was most of the transom, but the boat was moving too fast for it to take on water very fast.

  Makan turned the wheel one last time for good measure, but it was to no avail. Other than adjusting the trim of his sail or throwing the anchor over one side, he had no way to steer. The boat would keep going straight until it hit the rocky shores of the island ahead, unless the Flier blew it to little pieces first.

  Makan shook a fist at the Flier, and he was amused to see the ghostly images of Bedros, Rolf, and Anthea mirroring his gesture. He laughed and locked the wheel in place. He could steer no more anyway, so he figured he might as well try to aggravate the Aureans further. They were getting brave, coming in close now to inspect what they thought was a helpless catch.

  When they got close enough, Makan heaved a gaff at the pilot’s window. His aim was true, and even if it didn’t crack the glass, it was enough to startle the pilot, who must have jerked on the controls when he was startled. The Flier wobbled in the air and banked sharply to the left.

  After they’d stabilized and caught back up again, they came back in a fury. All seven arc-lances spit fire at the ship, tearing it to pieces as Makan dove for cover. Chunks of burning wood, canvas, and rope were thrown about. Water began to flow freely through the deck, and the ship began to lose speed rapidly. The islet was just a couple hundred Mayters beyond, and the ship was going to crash. Nothing would stop that now.

  At the last possible moment, Makan did something that was half a tumble and half a slide off the back of the ship, where there was no railing to hold him in. He slipped into the dark, cold water like someone had pulled a frothy blanket over his head. The burns he’d acquired during the last attack made him want to howl in pain, but he bit his lip and closed his eyes against the pain. When he surfaced just long enough to see the fate of the ship, he saw that to Anthea’s credit, the enchanted spectres stayed there until the very last moment. When the ship broke upon the rocks, throwing kindling-sized pieces of wood across the shore, the spectres were flung from it. They crashed into the sea where they disappeared among the wreckage that washed back out from the rocky shore.

  The Flier hovered over the wreckage, circling like an angry bee for many Mynettes. Twice it cast beams of searchlight toward him, but each time he ducked under. Even if they had seen him in the dark and amidst the wreckage, he would have looked like little more than a random piece of flotsam and jetsam.

  Like the Whale Divers of his people, he took in a breath and allowed himself to sink into the sea, holding the breath as he waited in a state of calm for what would happen. “Now, Fallu, show me what to do next.” His will silently beseeched the father of his people as he hovered a dozen Mayters below the surface. “What task do you have for me next?”

  Something brushed past his fingertips in the dark. Makan knew a moment’s fear as he considered the possibility that it was a predator of some sort, but it was only a fleeting moment. Fallu would not have betrayed him to death like that, so when something slid across his hands again, he grabbed on. He was off with a tug. The water was a rushing torrent past his ears and his heart leapt in wonder.

  He surfaced several Mynettes later riding on the back of an Orca. He took in another deep breath and they dove again. Makan smiled as they raced beneath the waves. The Orca had known when to surface for him and when to dive back in. He knew she would carry him to Anthea, if that were the will of Fallu. If not, it was a joyous ride, nonetheless. He only worried that he did not know of Anthea’s escape from Norsjalde. He had done his part, but could they get free of the city without being noticed?

  Perhaps he would have worried more if he had known that Marceaupo and Tulis were warring once more, and that he was about to enter the middle of it. Racing underneath the waves there was no way for him to know that a fierce storm brewed overhead.