The Red Hand stormed into the admiral’s office, hand on his sword. The Greanewash port defense fleet crest clacked against the door.
“No visitors for a half-hour, and even then, I’ll need you to check in with my aide…” the admiral droned.
“Not an option.”
The admiral looked up from his desk. When his eyes fell on the Hand, he leapt to his feet, nearly spilling his mid-morning tea. “Who—Hand? The Red Hand? Oh, by the Eane, you don’t look good…and you reek of horse. What…are you doing here?”
The admiral’s office was a room in high up in Greanewash’s administration castle, overlooking the harbour from the top of the keep. A pair of lattice windows granted the office’s residents a view of the port—both the military ports and the cargo ports.
The Red Hand walked across the room and slammed his hands down on the admiral’s desk. The candle shook precariously. “I need a ship.”
“I’m afraid your authority is limited, Hand,” the admiral said, puffing out his chest and considerable bulk. He was an ostal, and his bulbous belly barely fit in his white greatcoat. He was just as old as the Hand, though the meagre line of glass rank-rings just above his breast pocket told the Hand everything he needed to know: this admiral hadn’t done enough in his life to warrant a better posting. But he was minor nobility, and that was enough to warrant a posting in a lowly port across the sea.
“These are Dominion warships,” the admiral continued, “and they will not be commanded by the Emperor’s exiled dog.”
The Hand inhaled slowly, then looked down at the name plaque at the end of the table. Admiral Kichet. The Hand narrowed his eyes, mentally sifting through the admirals he knew. Kichet was stubborn as ever, and worse, verifiably dim-witted—if the battle at Silver Sea was any indicator.
Another reason for a dismal posting like this.
“If we’re discussing authority, then you are truly just an advisor to the Greanewash naval command.” The Hand pressed his finger down on the admiral’s hat, a white peaked cap designed to sit between his horns. “And I should speak with the Aerdian Commodore…”
“Who answers to me, whether publicly or not,” Admiral Kichet snapped. “My warships aren’t on loan to the Aerdian navy.”
“And there’s absolutely nothing you can lend me?”
“Nothing.”
The Hand stepped back and wrapped his gloved fingers around the hilt of his sword. “Think very carefully about your answer. It would be a shame if one of your elven tea-servers had enough of your bluster and decided to take some well-deserved revenge.” He slid his sword an inch out of its sheath.
Kitchet pursed his lips, then clicked his tongue. “We have a third-rate ship currently restocking at pier seven. The Teramine. I’ll send word. Take it—do whatever you want—and get out of my horns.” He shook his head. “And if you’re here to deal with the problem of that sprite, keep it quiet. Don’t need anyone getting too afraid, now, do we?”
“You are very wise, admiral,” the Hand said. Before he left, plucked a set of windstones off the table without so much as asking, then marched out of the office.
In the hallway outside, his two disciples waited with their Familiars. He told them, “I’ll need you two on the wharf. Do not let the black-haired elf onto a ship. Watch the passenger liners especially.”
“And what about you, sir?” Khara asked. She ran her hand through her boar’s hair, knotting and unknotting it.
“I’ll be watching from offshore, aboard a third-rate destroyer,” the Hand stated. He gave Nael one of the windstones. Judging by the surface etching, they had calibrated it for long range. “I will make sure that he is dead. If I spot him, I will alert you and come to assist. If he manages to get on a ship, we will sink it in the harbour, and I will pull his head out of the flotsam.”
Both of his disciples nodded.
“And find something to cover your eyes.”
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When Pirin and Gray neared the center of the city, they stepped up onto an ancient terrace. It had been repurposed over the years, and now buildings climbed up its front edge like vines. At the top of the terrace was a simple gravel plaza. He ran over to the ancient rampart and leaned out as far as he could, and Gray hopped along behind him. From here, he could nearly see the entire city.
“Now…where to find Myraden…” he muttered under his breath. It was a big city, and he had no idea where to even start. To search everywhere in the city would be impossible, even if he spent his whole life looking.
But she’d been causing trouble here, hadn’t she? She’d been terrorizing the local garrison.
There was no unusual smoke rising over the city—nothing that didn’t pour out of chimneys and hearths in the street. There were no shattered wagons or sinking ships in the harbour, either.
Shutting his eyes, he tried to recall the image Hir Venias had shown him. She had been fighting in the streets, using her spear to cut down swaths of Aerdian and Dominion soldiers.
She couldn’t still be fighting, and Pirin didn’t even know if the image he had seen was accurate, but any soldier in the city would have to know something.
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Pirin pushed away from the terrace’s ramparts, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. No eavesdroppers. He turned back to Gray. “We need to go spy on some soldiers,” he told her, forcing intent and concentration into each word. “Hopefully, they know where she is.”
These…soldiers, they aren’t your friends, right? Gray asked. Right? Right? Oh, this is kinda cool! We’re on an undercover mission!
“The Aerdian soldiers do not like me, and the Dominion even less,” Pirin replied. “But they don’t have to. I’m not going to ask them to their faces.”
He turned around. On the other side of the gravel plaza, standing outside a shop, stood a cluster of Aerdian soldiers. There was no better place to start.
“Stay apart,” Pirin told Gray. “You go one way, and I’ll go the other. We’ll be less suspicious if we’re apart.”
Pirin walked around the plaza on the west edge, and Gray on the east. Once they drew more than twenty paces apart, he couldn’t reach her with his Essence anymore. He could still draw on the Eane for Essence, but without Gray’s core to help him, his magic destabilized and his Essence channels fell out of order.
Without Gray, he was exposed. There was no other way of putting it out. He glanced around, wary of every shadow and crunch he heard.
When he reached the opposite side of the plaza, he slipped into an alleyway and navigated around the back of the buildings until he reached another alley with a clear view of the soldiers. He strained his ears, listening.
But the soldiers said nothing important. They made small talk, discussing what they planned to do after they returned to the barracks for the night, or where they were from—they certainly weren’t born in Greanewash. They had been brought in from hundreds of other Aerdian hamlets and villages and towns across the continent.
Pirin swallowed, but his throat was dry. These soldiers had no love of this place, and it made them perfect candidates to exact a controlling will on the citizens—they wouldn’t be hurting anyone they knew.
He blinked quickly and tightened his fists. Find Myraden, get out of this place.
Even though eavesdropping turned up nothing, these soldiers still knew about Myraden. They had to. If she was causing problems, the soldiers must have been briefed.
The soft flutter of Gray’s wings thrummed in the air above, and a few seconds later, she landed on a nearby rooftop. When he cycled his Essence, she was just close enough to include her in the loop again.
He held out his hand and tried to peer into one of the nearest soldiers’ minds—one of the few soldiers whose eyes he could see. He conjured a small orb of mist in his hand, but the man’s will was too strong, and the orb was completely sealed to Pirin.
He moved on to the next soldier, and bumped into a similar problem.
There was one more soldier whose eyes Pirin could see. Pirin held out his hand and activated the Whisper Hitch. His bond with Gray allowed the technique to activate on the first try.
With a push of concentration, he overcame the elf’s will. He listened closely to any thought he could catch. But the elf wasn’t thinking about anything important. He was daydreaming about the sea and the ships in the harbour.
Pirin scowled. He dropped a single, hopefully unobtrusive thought into the elf’s mind.
What about the sprite? Maybe we should be more vigilant…
The thought was met with a swell of confusion. Pirin winced—he’d pushed too hard. But the elf, instead of whirling about and panicking, shook his head. The soldier’s thoughts continued: What am I thinking? The sprite is all the way in the east end, tearing up the cargo harbour routes. Sure, she attacks almost daily, but never here.
Pirin severed the connection immediately and ducked deeper into the shadows. He had what he needed. Looking up at Gray, he whispered, “Time to go.” It didn’t matter how quiet he spoke, he figured, as long as he pushed the intent across to her.
Fly? Gray asked. Are we going to fly? Oh, I’ve never flown with you before! Well, I have, but not like this!
“I’ll need you to fly. Be my eyes in the sky, as long as you stay high up. But if I rode you, we’d draw too much attention.”
I can do that. If I see trouble, I’ll come right back!
“You know what trouble looks like?”
The orange elves? The ostals with silver armour?
“You got it.”
With a flap of her wings, Gray took off. Pirin navigated out the alleys the way he came, then he ran down the steps of the walled terrace and onto the main level of the city. He walked as fast as he could through the streets. Crossing through the center of the city, he stuck to the sides of the road, where people were more interested in the lumawhale oil signs and moving smoke statues than pedestrians.
By the time he reached the east side of the city, it was late afternoon, and the sun glared down on the city. The light might not have reached the street, but the heat still radiated down. He unbuttoned his coat, but kept his hood up over his head and his mask tight to his face.
When he crossed a footbridge over a small saltwater canal, he scrunched his eyes. Here, the streets were much less crowded, and civilians went about their business quickly and cautiously before disappearing inside and staying put.
It wasn’t long before Gray swooped down and perched on a rooftop. She peered down at him and chirped.
“What is it?” he asked, his breaths tight and controlled. “See anything?”
I saw ten or so elven soldiers running down the street just north of you, Gray said. They all had swords and shields, and they were running very quickly. What’s that called? Is it sprinting?
Pirin nodded. “It’s sprinting. And thanks.” He turned, searching for an alleyway to take him to the street to the north, but he looked back at Gray for a moment. “Let’s stick together, now.”
She hopped down off the rooftop and fluttered down past five storeys of hovels and stacked storefronts before landing at his side.
They ducked into the nearest alley, and, navigating around the cluttered boxes, barrels, and other unidentifiable debris, they approached the next street over. Gray’s assessment had been entirely correct—ten Aerdian soldiers ran down the street, followed by a mounted rider.
They were heading somewhere, and if Pirin had to guess, they were running to respond to Myraden.
He increased his pace to match the soldiers, but he kept his distance. Gray’s talons clicked on the stones beside him; she followed close behind.
The soldiers turned a corner, then descended down a slowly sloping street—into a small plaza that had long since been overshadowed by dilapidated gables and dim lumawhale oil signs. At its center, a chipped elven statue overlooked a small pond. Bodies littered the ground around the pond, armoured in ambersteel and silver.
The elven reinforcements spread out into a fan at the mouth of the plaza. First, Pirin only saw a flash of light turquoise fabric and a silver spearhead. He blinked, and two soldiers fell.
Myraden.
Ducking into an alcove, Pirin drew his sword and prepared to charge in and help her. He looked at Gray and started a combat-focussed breathing technique, then stepped out into the center of the street.
And suddenly, he felt superfluous. The silver spearhead danced around the plaza as if on its own whim, swishing back and forth like a kite bound to a turquoise streamer. It slit throats and dove through the chests of the elves, shattering their armour like it was a thin sheet of wood. When it needed to, the streamer of fabric coiled back up, and in a half-second, the weapon formed into a solid spear perfectly capable of blocking the elven swords.
By the time Pirin reached the center of the plaza, the spearhead had slain all of the elven soldiers. He held his sword ahead of him, and stepped cautiously around their bodies. “Myraden? Myraden Leursyn? Are you here?”