Captain Ramsey was having a short, meager supper of stale cigarettes and a bit of leftover bread from lunch.
It was one of those days.
He was at his desk, in his office, the stone room where he had spent more time than he would have liked. Never mind the fact that there were whispers of the eln meia – that entire debate in the Grand Commons had shaken the entire Militia, and Ramsey found himself going over paperwork of people wanting to leave, or people complaining about the politics of it all, or people wanting to follow Rithmound's advice and start funneling more money into the force. No complaints on that last one, as Ramsey bit into the last ghostly crust of bread.
No, what concerned Ramsey more was that the election was hitting a fever pitch. Bodies had hit the floor – two elves, both of them White Feathers, had been found dead, one by stabbing, another by plasma fire. Which meant Fedtek.
Which meant guildfolk. Myron Becenti sat across Ramsey's desk, the old metahuman wearing his usual business suit, his graying hair tied back to reveal a stone face, calm and bitter. Ramsey had always liked Becenti – he wore clothing he was more familiar with, spoke with the cadence of an old veteran, and knew where the scope of things lay.
“You don't smoke, do you?” Ramsey asked, offering a cigarette.
Becenti shook his head. Ramsey nodded, putting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting the tip. He took a puff, unsure of how to start. Becenti stood still as a statue, waiting. He gave off no tells, none that Ramsey could see.
Well, better to just go for it, then.
“The White Feathers,” he said, “That you?”
“Not personally,” Becenti said.
“But it was your guild.”
“They were threatening a client,” Becenti said, “We've already written up the necessary reports to the High Federation.”
Ramsey nodded.
“Who was the client?” he asked.
“I'm afraid we're not at liberty to say,” Becenti said, “They are choosing to remain anonymous at this time, until our contract runs its course.”
“Right,” Ramsey said, “And it wouldn't happen to be a Federation official, would it?”
The metahuman remained silent. He gave a shrug. Ramsey sighed, rubbed his temples, rose from his seat. He had developed a headache, these last few weeks. Ever since the assassination attempt at Moonstone on the Len, if he was being honest.
“And the agents you sent out to investigate Like Shadow,” he said, “They're still not back yet?”
“No,” Becenti said, “We haven't had contact with them for a while now.”
“You think they'll return?”
“No doubt,” Becenti said, and Ramsey found himself impressed at the metahuman's false confidence, “Give it time. You'll have your killer yet.”
“I already have our killer,” Ramsey said, “I need to know who hired them.”
“Semantics,” Becenti said, “What is an assassin, if not a tool for someone else? There's someone in your city who's willing to play with blood.”
“You don't have to tell me twice,” Ramsey said, “Considering the state your guild left those White Feathers in.”
His hand patted his desk, looking for his flask. He took it and gulped down a shot, grimacing as hard whiskey burned its way down.
“What's happening to this city, eh?” Ramsey said, “Assassins in the streets, in the noble Houses. The last election was never like this.”
“It's a crossroads, Captain,” Becenti said, “The future of the city is at stake, nothing major.”
“Ha,” he said, “I've got folks freaked out after all that sabre-rattling on the debate's first day. Rithmound's really trying to hammer home his importance.”
“Be careful, now,” Becenti said, “Rithmound sees the way the wind is turning. He fears the elves. The eln meia, too.”
“Do you?” Ramsey asked.
Becenti was quiet as he considered the question, scratching at his chin. His frown deepened.
“The eln meia, no,” he said, “I've fought in wars, and while that brings fear of the future, it is the fear that I am familiar with. But the elves? You see how Sunala has Busciver under her thumb. I'm concerned for the elves, Captain. I've heard their rhetoric before.”
“Their imperialism.”
“The words they call us,” Becenti said, “I heard hatred like that all the time back home, as a child, even before I found I was metahuman. I'm just a Mutt, to people like Sunala.”
Ramsey nodded. He took another drag of the cigarette.
“Your guild,” he said, “They're protecting your client. They have something to do with the election?”
Again, Becenti shrugged.
“Right,” Ramsey said, and he knew that silence was just as much an answer as speaking, “Well, keep yourselves ready. City might have another contract with you.”
“Of course,” Becenti said, and he gave a polite smile.
They shook hands. Becenti left.
Ramsey sunk back into his seat, cigarette hanging limp from his lips. Worry pounded through his heart like blood.
***
The Guttersnipe took off after seeing to repairs, rising up out of the dense jungles and high into the sky. The crew kept an eye out for the Gil-Galad and other dangers. A few of them were watching the floating mountains in the distance, wary and ready.
The journey across Yuradal was one of tense silence. Hands always massaged the handles of swords, daggers, the flat tops of boarding axes. Their one remaining cannon was loaded up and ready to fire, their best bombardier always nearby, a thin ogre who was sweating up a storm. Ora looked at Rosemary, noted how she never let go of the sceptre in her hand. Same with Meleko, who kept checking and re-checking his plasma rifle, the pistol at his side, what seemed to be grenades on his belt that he occasionally removed and gave a once-over.
The Nelnuthan was unsure of what to do. He had no weapon of his own. He could only watch, his fate well and truly out of his hands, as the Guttersnipe crested across the sky.
At one point, Meleko perked up, as did a few crewmates. They beckoned him over to look over the side of the ship. Ora watched as the Jugdran planted a boot on the ship's rail, leaning down and pointing his rifle down.
He didn't think he would ever get used to the dull thuds that came with plasmafire. He jumped at each jolt as Meleko fired down on whatever was accosting them. The crew jeered and laughed, one of them gave Meleko a high-five. He swaggered back to the Federation official with a vicious grin on his face.
“One of the mosquitoes,” he said, “Not bad, right?”
“I... see,” Ora said.
“What's wrong?” Meleko asked, “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“It's nothing,” Ora said, but he could not hide the flickering of his eyes, from Meleko to his rifle. The Jugdran took note, and the grin became an amused smile.
“What?” he said, “You've never fired one of these?”
Ora shook his head. Meleko chuckled.
“I forget how coddled your folk can be, sometimes,” he said, “You don't see the Federation's bad side ever, do you?”
“I suppose not,” Ora said, and he was surprised at his frankness. Only a few days before, he would have gotten… defensive.
But then, it had been an eventful few days.
“Here,” Meleko said, and he pulled free his pistol, “Start small, right?”
“I...” Ora looked down at the weapon, “What do you expect me to do with it?”
“You wanna get used to plasmafire, you'd better learn how to use one of these,” Meleko said, “Now, this here is a Glomnius 87. This here's the trigger, you click it, a plasma bolt fires off. The gas canisters are located up top here, and...”
So they spent their time learning about the pistol, its ins and outs, how to practice good gun safety. Finally, Meleko set up a target on an empty crate. The crew gathered 'round as Ora held the pistol in hand. There was a weight to it that he was unused to, a certain electric tingle in his hands. He held, for the first time, something that could easily kill another being. He was both nervous and excited, something deep and primal bubbling up from the pit in his stomach to his chest. He pointed the pistol at the crate, taking a deep breath.
“That's it,” Meleko said. The Jugdran was standing just behind him, “Two hands, like that. Breathe in, breathe out. Fire.”
He fired. The plasma bolt thundered out of its cartridge with a thud that shivered teeth and bucked the pistol upwards. A white-hot, green-tinged slab of plasma rushed into the crate, burned a hole through its center.
Relief flooded through Ora's system. He lowered the pistol, and he allowed himself a laugh that was perhaps a pitch too high.
“Awesome,” Meleko said, “Fire it again.”
“W-What?” Ora said, “Again?”
“Still got nineteen shots in there, guy,” Meleko said, “Why don't you fire off a couple more, get used to it.”
The Nelnuthan looked down at the pistol. All of that, again?
All of the build-up, the breathing, the steeling, the will to actually pull the trigger.
But yes, Meleko was right. He had to get used to it, didn't he? Because...
Because he knew what their plan was, and it was a violent one. He could not afford to be the weak link of the crew.
He raised the pistol. Fired again. And again. A fourth time. The second and third shots burned true. The fourth whizzed off the ship, arcing down as it lost momentum and fizzling as it neared the treeline.
“Not bad,” Meleko said, “Not bad at all.”
He glanced over at Ora. The Nelnuthan's fur had become matted down with sweat. He was breathing heavily. But he gave the Jugdran a vicious grin. Meleko returned it.
“Good,” he said, “You keep that pistol with you now.”
He reached into a pocket, pulling out a few clips. He handed them over.
“Things are going to get nasty,” Meleko said, “Fortunately you should be away from the worst of it, but I can't promise anything. You keep that gun, and use it when you have to, got it?”
Ora nodded.
“Good,” Meleko said, “I've got a feeling they'll find us soon.”
***
Indeed, the Gil-Galad did. A few hours later, just after Ora had forced down a meager lunch of salted pork and a cup of water. He had holstered the pistol to his side, and it felt like a growth, the way it weighed him down.
He was standing out on a railing, looking out to see the vast expanse of jungle below, when he heard shouts come from the crow's nest. Trudy, one of the crew, was pointing out, the goblin's high-pitched shrieking demanding everyone's attention.
The Gil-Galad was a white dot on a blue horizon. She was swanning across the sky, beautiful and terrible, the gashes on her hull having been patched over by the crew’s repairmen. Ora, if he squinted, could just barely make out figures moving on the deck. Something off-white was being moved on the deck, a strange device. Its main cannon, he realized.
Orvisan drew up beside him.
“Best you get below deck,” he said.
Ora nodded. He began making his way down, glancing up to see Rosemary climbing the Guttersnipe's rigging towards the crow's nest. Was she going to be fighting, too? Ora supposed she would be.
Meleko was waiting for him downstairs.
“Get yourself inside,” the Jugdran, “I'll be outside your door.”
Ora complied. He wanted to say something to Meleko. Ask him why he wasn't going inside with him, like before. But the easygoing, relaxed look that Meleko had been giving him was gone, replaced by a harder edge. This skirmish would not be like the one before. They were getting closer to the Gil-Galad. Boarding action had been discussed.
It would be a bumpy ride to Entheos.
***
Rosemary perched herself next to Trudy. The goblin was busy sharpening a knife, a vile smile on her face. She glanced up to Rosemary.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“'Bout time,” she said, “You ready?”
Rosemary gripped her sceptre, looking down at it, trying to keep her mind off of the sceptre's crack. She had been charging it up all day, and it was ready to unleash light upon the Gil-Galad. She pushed down the guilty feeling that was cropping up as she stared out at Sunala's ship. The Gil-Galad was keeping pace with the Guttersnipe, neither ship getting within firing range.
“Hell,” Rosemary said, “They're guarding the Traveling Point.”
“I don't see it,” Trudy said, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Rosemary said, “See that island in the distance?”
She pointed. Trudy squinted. Indeed, there was a patch of green floating several stories over the jungle.
“Traveling Point's there,” Rosemary said, “Looks like your Captain was right. They went past us and waited for us.”
“Must've gone through, realized we weren't there,” Trudy said. She flipped her knife into her belt, took out another, began to sharpen once more, scraping it against a whetstone.
“Mmm,” Rosemary said.
The two ships continued their game of chicken for another twenty minutes. The crew sat with bated breath, weapons drawn, cannon ready to fire, as Orvisan steered the Guttersnipe, prodding at the Gil-Galad's range.
He got just a bit too close.
The Gil-Galad fired just a hair too soon.
The cannon rushed past the Guttersnipe, missed by just a few yards.
“Fire up the engines!” Orvisan ordered, “They fucked up!”
And the Guttersnipe plunged full throttle towards the island. The Gil-Galad followed after it, dipping down the sky, the two ships descending down in such a way that Rosemary and Trudy had to secure their arms around the ropes lining the crow's nest.
Then, suddenly, the Guttersnipe leveled out, now on the same plane as the island. The ogre bombardier aimed the cannon up at the approaching Gil-Galad. She took a deep breath. Lit the fuse-
And the cannon fired, chainshot thrumming through the sky. It struck the Gil-Galad true, gouging across her hull.
Trudy's screech ran ragged as she screamed out with the crew. Rosemary gave her a smile, before turning her attention back to the Elven vessel. Despite the rent in her hull, the Gil-Galad was holding true. She hadn't slowed down. Her size alone was what had saved her – a hit like that on a ship like the Guttersnipe would have hit the engine, would have downed her.
As it stood, the Gil-Galad was on an intercept course with the Guttersnipe, moving perpendicular to the caravel. Both crews were loading up.
“Now, Rosemary,” she whispered to herself. She took aim, pointing her sceptre at the distant galleon. The rose’s head began to glow, a ball of light emanating from its tip, one that she began to shape into something sharper, arrow-like.
She fired it off. The construct shot across the sky, tearing through one of the galleon's sails. Elves onboard began to climb up the rigging towards the torn cloth, and she took aim at them, too.
A net. That would catch them. They were close enough now that Rosemary could make them out more easily, figures in dark clothing, holding curved blades, spears, a few knocking arrows to heavy bows made from trees across the multiverse.
For a heart-splitting second, she hesitated.
Then, she fired off a ball of light, one that shot forwards, opening into a net halfway over. It caught like a large hand over one of the elves, throwing them off the riggings, ensnaring them. They missed the Gil-Galad's rail, and fell past the ship, screaming towards the ground far below.
Rosemary had been holding her breath. She let it out, her head swimming with panic and guilt. Trudy was letting out another war whoop beside her, as was the rest of the Guttersnipe's crew.
But she didn't hear them. She was lost in her own thoughts.
For the crew of the Gil-Galad had been kind to her.
Part of her, thankfully small, painfully naive, asked if this is how she repaid their kindness.
But the rest of her rejected that. These people wanted to hurt her friends. Her guild. Given the chance, they would kill her.
So she shoved the guilt down. And returned her attention to the Gil-Galad.
***
“Rosemary's on that ship,” Draz said.
“Sunala's toy?” Urya said, “Would explain the light there.”
She nodded at the rigging, where Aethlindiril had been only a moment before. Draz grimaced.
“Never liked her,” the sea elf said, “Sunala always favored her, and for what? For living in that guildhall? With all the rest of those freaks?”
“Calm yourself, Draz,” Urya said.
“She just killed one of her own,” Draz said, “And I am supposed to be calm?”
Urya raised an eyebrow. She had heard rumors about Rosemary. About how she wasn't an elf, and how Sunala knew that, but kept her around. Her little plaything, her little…
If someone like Adonal Adaya found out...
Well, she was doing Adaya's work for him. She'd ask for additional payment.
“Get the cannon ready,” she said, “Prepare boarding parties. This ends now.”
***
The Gil-Galad drew ever closer. As did the island, which by now they could make out the top of. It was abandoned. Once upon a time a Federation outpost had been set up here, when Entheos had been in forecast with several other planes and been a major nexus. But now the World of the Dead curved alongside more obscure squalls, had been projected to leave the Mellow-Diriad Paradigm entirely. The Federation had left the outpost decades ago, and all that was on the island was a lonely, silverish tower. If one squinted, and knew where to look, one could see the slight wavering in the air that was the Traveling Point.
But the Gil-Galad was still on its course, would still cut the Guttersnipe off. The two ships rushed towards the island, one directly forward, one at an angle. Rosemary braced herself as the Gil-Galad fired, two of its cannons slamming directly into the Guttersnipe, one tearing through the hull, the other burning a hole through her sail.
The Guttersnipe started to lag, trailing like a wounded animal as it crawled toward the island. Rosemary prepared herself, keeping low on the crow's nest so the White Feathers wouldn't be able to see her or Trudy. A few of the crew were down below as well, to give an illusion that the ship was running on a skeleton crew after the last battle.
The Gil-Galad took advantage of the Guttersnipe's drop in speed. She bore down upon the caravel-
And Rosemary stood up, pointing at the Gil-Galad's central mast. Fired. A drill, like back on Chliofrond, and it pierced through the white wood, a solid gash that made the mast start to sway...
At the same moment, the Guttersnipe's crew began to throw sealed pots at the Gil-Galad. Those that managed to hit the ship's deck exploded, shattering and burning to life as a green flame that chewed through wood, through rigging…
Through flesh, as a few unlucky elves were set ablaze. Emerald fire devoured their bodies as they screamed, a few of them leaping down towards the jungle below.
But the Gil-Galad was not one to go down easy. Elves jumped down-
A sea elf leaped from the deck of the Gil-Galad, landing neatly on the crow's nest, twin blades flashing to his hands. Rosemary recognized him. Draz, one of the White Feathers that Sunala had been keeping around. He sneered at her.
“Freak,” he growled. And he swung his swords down like pincers. Rosemary brought up her sceptre, parrying the strikes, ducking as he slashed at her, but he had her on the defensive, was driving her back-
Trudy dove around, drawing a dagger that she stabbed deep into the sea elf's leg. Draz let out a gasp of pain. Rosemary rose and swung her sceptre, aiming clear for his head, but Draz was not so distracted as to give her a killing blow. One blade clashed with the sceptre's head, the other drove towards her belly. Rosemary twisted around, feeling the blade slide across her side, piercing through her leather and citing into her hip. She watched as Trudy pulled out another knife, slicing viciously at Draz, who broke off his attack on Rosemary to deal with her. He favored his good leg, keeping himself stationary as his arms became a blur.
Trudy swung at him, diving past what she thought was his guard.
But he reared up his good leg, driving his knee into her chin, somehow standing on his wounded leg. Trudy bit her own tongue, her head racketing upwards-
The sea elf's blade flashed again, and her head flew down to the deck below.
“No!” Rosemary yelled, and she was swinging at Draz. At the last moment, she dipped back, letting his blades fly over her head, clipping a few curls of her hair, as she fired off a beam of light, point-blank, at him. It stabbed through his side, carried him up, released him to fall to the ground below.
But she didn't care about that. She looked at the headless corpse of Trudy for a moment, grimaced, and then looked over the crow's nest-
The Guttersnipe had blunted the assault. Bodies of both elves and Scuttlers littered the deck. But she was moving again, moving past the Gil-Galad, which bled green flame. Their magicians would be able to put it out yet, but for now she was dead in the sky.
The Guttersnipe continued on towards the Traveling Point. Limped, more like, after that spat. The Gil-Galad lurched, did not follow.
The island was green. It was beautiful, in its way. Rosemary would have liked to visit it.
But as it stood, there were screams coming from the deck. A corpse beside her in the crow's nest. She held Trudy down as she wrapped an arm around the rope on the crow's nest, fastening herself tight as the Guttersnipe entered the Traveling Point.
Rainbows flew above her. Around her. Within. Becenti called the in-between place Imagination. Or, at least, this place bled of it. Often when she was traveling on her own, simply walking through the Traveling Point, the miasma was just a rush of color.
But stationary, like this? It was a mosaic. A kaleidoscope. Possibility flooded above her, raw and untamed and powerful. She remembered Becenti telling her that, in older days, latent metahumans would first walk through a Traveling Point to awaken their abilities, a rite of passage that they took at the age of five.
She could see why.
And all too soon, they drifted out to the other side. For a moment, Rosemary wondered if they'd somehow returned to Londoa, the way the world shivered. But no, Entheos was in its ice age, far colder than Londoa could ever be. The clouds drooped heavy, swollen with snow. The land below was grayscale.
She peeked over the crow's nest. The crew were tending to their wounded, wrapping up open cuts and bringing their comrades down belowdecks, to the infirmary.
There were wounded elves, too, White Feathers that hadn't gotten a chance to return to the Gil-Galad. Those, the Scuttlers finished off, running them through with sabres, slitting throats with daggers, cleaving their heads with boarding axes. The bodies were looted, then pitched over the side. Almost professional, their efficiency. Rosemary shuddered.
***
When Ora was allowed to walk the deck again, he found the entire place a warzone. A boarding party had hit the Guttersnipe, and the wooden floorboards of the ship were stained red with, Ora realized later, blood. A hint of iron tinged the air, and the sight of so many dead bodies almost made him want to retch. But he didn't.
He had promised himself that he would be strong.
Captain Orvisan had taken a nasty bash to the temple from the pommel of an elf's broadsword. A medical mage was looking at it now, wrapping a bandage around his head as he steered the Guttersnipe. Rosemary had taken a vicious cut to the side, though she had managed to bind the wound with gauze, wincing a bit as she waved at Ora and Meleko.
“Was more of a fight than we expected,” Rosemary said, “Crew held on, though.”
“Certainly seemed to be a battle,” Ora murmured. His gaze was on a line of bodies, those of the Guttersnipe who hadn't been so lucky. Seven bodies.
Nine Scuttlers dead, overall, and Ora couldn't count the number of elves they had killed. A lot of death, for this investigation.
“Have to make it count,” he said to himself.
“What was that?” Meleko asked.
“N-Nothing,” Ora said, turning around, “Ah, Rosemary, are you alright?”
She shrugged, giving him a smile that didn't quite match the ones she had given him before.
“Eh,” she said, “I've had worse.”
Shouts came up from the lookout. Those crewmembers still able to fight were pointing out towards the Traveling Point, which hung in the sky like a gossamer. For a moment, the air shuddered, seemed about to shatter.
Then the Gil-Galad poured out of the Traveling Point, the entire ship pitching forwards, a few elves holding on before the galleon righted itself.
“Hell,” Rosemary said.
“They recover fast,” Meleko said, “They're not even on fire anymore.”
Orvisan, too, had noted the Gil-Galad's reappearance. He waved off the medical mage, gave control of the ship over to the usual helmsman, and swaggered over to the three of them.
“Worse than we thought,” he said, “I underestimated them.”
“The majority of the battle was going to be here, wasn't it?” Rosemary said, “A running battle to the Traveling Point to Redenia.”
“Aye,” Orvisan said, “But I thought there'd be a chance for us to lick our wounds, recover without them looking down at us from the horizon line.”
He looked out at the Gil-Galad, his brow furrowed. He was lost in thought, and barely concealed worry, for a few moments.
“Best you all get ready,” he said, “This fight's going to get bloody. We might need to try and sink them here, and now.”
“What about Elzan Chi?” Rosemary asked.
“We deal with that when we get to Redenia,” Orvisan said, “But, the way things are going, I'm not sure if we will get there.”
***
They dodged past the comings and goings of the rain elemental, keeping low and keeping ever-anxious watch over the horizon. One side of the world was always covered in a wall of gray. The plains became suffocated with water, free of the rain elemental's influence, pooling in small lakes that, at some points, went up to their knees.
“If we aren't careful,” Rorshin said, “We'll be caught in a flash flood.”
With that in mind, they kept moving forward. The Traveling Point to Hanbusan was in the distance, an outcropping of stone that drew upwards in a ring. Some sort of language had been scrawled at the ring's top – Epochian, or some variation. Or, at least, that was Ichabod's guess. If Becenti were here, he'd be able to translate it easily.
They stopped just at a nearby ditch, newly funneled by the ceaseless rain. They waited, looking towards the other horizon.
The rain elemental was coming in fast.
“No doubt it's seen us,” Ichabod said.
“Or it senses something near the Traveling Point,” Rorshin noted, “Elementals, they're tied to the in-between places deep.”
“So it could be tracking us no matter where we go?” Contort said, “Is it like Phineas, with eyes on the outside?”
“Hnng,” Rorshin sneered, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Our plan remains the same.”
“We'd better run,” Ichabod said, “The storm, it's started to sprint.”
Indeed, the rain elemental was rushing forward, far faster than its meandering plod across the Quiet. Of the three of them, only Rorshin could sense the gales ripping up plains grass, the whistling roar of the storm.
He was the first to break into full flight, running as fast as he could to the Traveling Point. The other two followed suit, and three figures broke into dead sprints across the field. Thunder roared in the distance, and as Ichabod, the slowest of the three, rushed into the Traveling Point, droplets had splattered against the mud where he had just stepped.
They arrived to an abandoned town. A mere fifteen years ago, Hanbusan had been in forecast with the CITY, and this Traveling Point had led directly to one of the most profitable districts there.
Now, however, it led to the Quiet. Business had dried up. People had left. All that was left in the stone buildings were rats, overgrown plantlife, and a couple of lonely squatters.
All was silent as the three figures appeared out of the Traveling Point, immediately booking down the primary road, dodging past abandoned car shells and looted buildings.
An hour later, the Traveling Point conflated, shivering as though caught in an earthquake. Rain began to petal out, big, globular raindrops that splattered against old stone.
Then, the bulk of the storm broke through, a dark gray cloud that hung in the plaza for a moment before rising up towards the sky. It billowed out of the Traveling Point like a serpent, pooling high above, mixing with native weathers, forcing the world to expel its rain.
Each raindrop was an eye.
And it continued its hunt.