Kellan

“There has been no word from the monster-hunter, my Lord-Supreme.”

Lysandra kneels in front of Malachai. If the boy shows any sign of surprise, Kellan does not notice it.

“It doesn’t matter. Soon the troll will be but a thorn in my side rather than any actual threat.”

He looks over the coastline; over the harbour known as Drakon’s Haven. It stretches out for a mile and a half — a sprawling sanctuary for ships of all sizes.

Beyond it, the blue ocean stretches… and the entire world beyond that.

Out there… somewhere… is the City of Moons. Kellan looks up. It could be right here.

Despite the cold, sunlight glints on the water’s surface, cerulean hue mixing with flashes of bright light.

Two cliffs guard the entrance, rocky faces adorned with near-ancient watchtowers.

Cliff-clinging beetles hide within it’s shaggy moss-beard, evading the various species of birds — including shikes — that prey upon them.

The docks crush the natural beauty like a rock between a hammer and an anvil.

The sea takes a toll to cross its waters. A seventh of his company, in his case. The 3rd crossbow division… taken by either Kasarb or Kiberi as tribute.

Malachai adjusts his grip on the sword at his hip — left hand still firmly placed.

Kellan doesn’t know why they have come. Neither does Lysandra, it would seem.

That said, he can infer. Malachai had asked questions of Roland’s people — the Tyrnn — and had then instructed Caspian to leave on a mission.

A diplomatic envoy, then.

Lysandra stands, scuttling to Malachai’s left. All is silent for a few minutes… until the Lord-Supreme speaks.

“Tell me, Kellan, what do you think of ships?”

Kellan looks at Malachai. “Of ships?”

“Yes. What use do they have? In war… in peace?”

“They are—“ Lysandra speaks, but Malachai holds up his right hand and she silences herself. “I ask Kellan.”

“Transport? There is no other way to cross the ocean… or fight on the seas.”

He nods. “At least, none we know of.” He concludes, then looks out onto the horizon. “I have lingered in stalemate for too long. It is time to take a risk.”

“A risk, Lord?”

“I was seven. My father grew to hate the uncertainty of trade on the seas. Ships would disappear, like nothing. It strained his efforts.”

Kellan looks at the churning waves. “The sea takes what it wills.”

Malachai shakes his head. “Absolutely not. The issue was not the sea — it was the Tyrnn. Roland’s people of birth. Raid, plunder, ravage, murder, slaughter. He grew tired of it.”

A ship pulls into the harbour, and the boatswain orders dockmen to secure it.

Upon its flag, a thousand coins are stuck fast to one another — then threaded with rick silks into a small, reflective flag.

A pirate would me more than happy with that alone.

“What is your point?” he asks, then ignores the sharp glance from Lysandra. “You intend to mobilise the fleet? To do what? Fish?”

There is a moment of silence, then Malachai chuckles. “Were it so simple. My brothers have no significant naval presence. If not for Roland, neither would we.”

“Ships with nothing to use them for isn’t a very useful advantage.” Kellan remarks.

“You are right. Completely and utterly. Blockade? Who? Lucian, in his fortress specifically designed to be unblockadable? Sylvan? Why would he care? Isabella and the half-giants only deal in inland routes.”

“The twins?” Lysandra asks, a bristle of anger coming from her.

He pauses. “I could… but I cannot. I will destroy my other siblings with any method.” He stops. “I will massacre the twins — and no less.”

Caspian rises up the hill, climbing the ancient stone steps that lead down to the harbour. He’s out of breath by the time he arrives.

“I have… done it, Lord…”

“Then it is time.” He speaks, and everything shakes. A hush descends upon the harbour. Kellan freezes.

As do any who have eyes able to behold.

A shimmer appears on the horizon. A massive object looms in the sunlight, as though the sun were hiding a blazing sword.

Tall, spiral-shaped buildings adorn a rock surface that glides across the surface of the water.

It is like nothing he has ever seen…

Barring one, singular, horrific thing.

His hands tighten and go to his blade. Images flash.

Broken streets. Barely-living corpses. Stolen dreams. The honour of surviving.

The City of Moons. Towering priestesses spreading their poison mist through icy lanterns.

Malachai has sold him to the Lunar Cult.

That must be it.

The young lord puts a hand on Kellan’s shoulder, and he flinches.

“Before you attempt to run me through—“ he whispers, then pulls Kellan closer. “—watch.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

The shape comes into sharp view. Where once had been rocks, there is steel. Buildings become cannons, reaching into the sky.

The hull is enamoured with them, too, like studded leather, popping through portholes. Towering masts carry billowed, ink-black sails.

Dread tears through him… and then it is gone. A shield comes between it and him. The same embrace as before.

The harbours works, merchants and various shipmasters are not granted the same mercy.

Some faint; others cower and quiver. All feel the fear, in their own way.

The ship tears through the ocean’s surface, shoving water aside as though it were less than nothing.

It devours the sun, casting an eclipse on the harbour. A deep, heavy mist of steam pours from the sea and creeps up the coast.

“I will not betray you, Kellan. It was your hatred of the Lunar Cult that placed the final piece in my mind. To the Worldship.”

He points. “You see, you are kin in wrath. Here, you will find allies in your goal. The Tyrnn despise the moons.”

He releases the grip on Kellan’s shoulder, and turns to Lysandra. “When I ask you, I would not expect Kellan to interrupt. Grant him the same courtesy.”

Caspain stands, bows, and smiles. It is an easy smile. “My ship is of the utmost comfort. The Worldship cannot fit in the harbour, so it might take an hour to get there. I suggest— respectfully — that we leave soon.”

So they do. The ship is pristine, it is nice… and it has every amenity one could hope for.

None of that registers in his mind for more than a fleeting second.

Instead, he takes refuge on the deck, hands braced against the wood.

Staring at the worldship.

Every instinct demands he stop. That he get away.

Yet a violin’s string is his heart, and the ship is the bow, playing it in full.

Eventually, they get so close to the worldship that perspective is lost; that there is no way to look in which you cannot see it.

His breath is steam, the sun blocked out. How does the ship not sink?

It is steel, and steel alone.

Malachai appears next to him. His eyes are wide, staring up at it. His right hand quivers — his left does not.

A single tear drops from his eye.

“I am… terrfied, Kellan.” He releases. “I am sorrow and I am fear. Am I such a fool to gamble with everything? I grasp at my only lifeline; as always. Yet I fear, soon, there will be only myself to rely on.”

Kellan reaches out a hand… to place upon Malachai’s back.

Why?

He is the son of an emperor… a contender for the empire.

He will have a home that is grander than the grandest city.

He will have power beyond reckoning.

So why does Kellan feel as though he must treat him as one of his men?

The ones woken from the living nightmares in their mind, weeping for their long-dead mother and streaming cold tears down his back as he holds them?

As he had done so many times.

Malachai looks to him. “You are my advisor, no? Advise me. How do you be self-sufficient? How did you build yourself back up from nothing?”

Kellan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

Malachai turns back to the ship. “I should have known. Experiences are so often difficult to coalesce into words.”

He sighs, then stands upright. His face hardens, his shoulders pull back… and suddenly he is not a crying boy.

He is an Emperor.

His hand stops shaking.

“Were it that I could read it in a book, I would be the lord of all. Were it so easy.”

The ship is grasped by an invisible hand. They stop near-instantly, and Kellan only remains standing for the his grip on the side.

The hand wraps around them… and guides them towards the maw of the leviathan-ship.

Two figures land harsh on the deck of the ship, stabbing the wood. Caspian rips open the door and marches with more vigour and purpose than he had ever seen in the merchant-lord.

He speaks, unintelligible gibberish to him — but the Tyrnn speak it back. They look much like Roland, if it were not for their skin.

It is a near-constant schema of slightly-iridescent scales that overlap in perfect harmony. They glint as though the sun is high in the sky.

Armour plates like shells cover their shoulders, then fade into their skin.

Another layer of armour rests upon their frames — as if their skin being enough to stop a sword’s cut wasn’t enough.

When Caspian is done, one of them raises a brutal-looking spear. A tongue drops down to the sloop, then wraps itself around the mast.

Malachai moves forward… and Kellan is like a dog to heel. The tongue squishes underneath them… but soon they arrive on steel.

Endless passageways. Cold, hard metal. Ascension, further and further.

It’s too much. Something isn’t right.

It feels like a death march.

Sunlight glides down the last set of stairs, reflecting into his eyes. The Tyrnn seem unbothered.

The deck is nearly barren. Seven masts ascend up into the sky — holding giant black furls.

Beyond that, the only detail lies in two things.

Small masses, black as deep sea, hang from the support beams of the sails. Mirrors surround them — all directing streams of thick, nearly tangible sunlight onto the masses.

One of the Tyrnn reaches up, drags it down — then it cracks like an egg.

A sudden, violent burst of movement sees the cocoon explode with a birth — of a smaller Tyrnn bathed in orange-gold scales.

Each scale reflects the light; and where other’s scales stay on their body, hers drap down from her waist and hover just barely above the ground.

So too does this repeat upon her shoulders.

It must be impossibly heavy.

Fire erupts from them, spreading down to the rest of her body. Two bronze eyes stare — and lock onto his for the briefest second.

“Greetings, Malachai, Son of the Despoiler. So very nice of you to come here. It saves me the trouble of hunting you down myself.”

A staff appears in her hand, and when she holds it aloft a second sun blazes in the sky.

It casts beams of radiant death along the deck, and waves of intense heat pour from it in droves and banish the cold air.

His skin threatens to sear.

Then time freezes. Malachai holds up a hand. He can’t move. Nobody can.

Sound reaches him.

The sound of Malachai begging.

“If you do not aid me, I will die. Let me play my cards, and I will give you what I have promised. All I require is for you to dispel the solar energy… give me a chance!”

Time resumes. The second sun is gone.

He saw nothing.

He felt nothing.

There isn’t even an absence left in its wake.

It simply never existed.

Where everyone else is frozen in confusion; Malachai steps forward.

“Know this: I am not my father. I do not inherit his sins. I come with an offer, one that will see Clan Arg’ari returned to the greatness you once had. You may fight me… you may very well win. However…”

Malachai releases his left hand from the hilt, then unclips the lock. His hand shakes.

“You should understand what that will cost you.”

He pulls the blade. The air crackles. Grey steel, dripping with red blood, emerges.

[ Last Sight has been unleashed ]

????????????????

?????????????

?????????

It screams like a rabid-dog shoved into a flaying-pit; waves of bloodthrist pound like a beating heart. A crimson mist stains the air.

Only when the young lord’s entire arm-span has been used does he release the scabbard.

The blade shoves it off like it were a shackle, it grows to full length.

It towers over the Tyrnn’s honour-guards, and rages against Malachai’s grip.

Kellan can feel it beg to be driven into the nearest bag of flesh. The Tyrnn mage stares at it unmoving.

A second later, the blade is at her neck. It hovers, barely restrained.

It wants to rip into her. To cut the artery open and suck on the sweet, sweet nectar.

After that, it’ll do the same to everyone else. This is known to him.

“This is Last Sight. An application of Legend — my father’s creation. For every execution in the empire, it has been drawn. Those who have witnessed it have done only as it sung for their neck; they have seen only a cold, remorseless, impossible sentence of death. That is what the blade has become.”

He places a second hand on the blade, and brings it up over his head.

“To most, that is. To you, to the Tyrnn, it will grant a fate worse than death. You know this truth. You know that you are at my mercy.”

Kellan is trapped between two absolutes. Fear and bloodlust.

He wants nothing more than to rip and tear. Destroy. Massacre — sing the rain of blood he can cause.

Yet instead his eyes are locked to the blade, a child face-to-face with a lion.

Instincts betray him. If he stays still, it might not see. Yet upon his neck, he feels it.

Ready to sever.

A meek voice breaks the silence left in the wake of Malachai’s words.

“Please, put it away.”

Her eyes are fear. They are remorse, hatred, shame, loss, disgrace, failure and sorrow.

A thousand distant, violent memories distilled down into a single moment.

Malachai sighs… and the blade swings.

Caspian’s head rolls from his shoulder.

The man barely even seems to register it until his head unnaturally reverses to look at Malachai.

Even then… there is no betrayal. No disappointment… no anger.

Just pure confusion.

He doesn’t even get a chance to understand before the light fades. The fresh corpse drops.

Kellan can’t rip his eyes away from the blood leaking from Caspian’s neck.

Then the sword is sheathed. The oppressive thrum of the heartbeat stops. The sky returns to blue; the sun begins to shine again.

Nobody moves.

Nobody thinks.

Except Malachai.

“Now.” He says, then takes a deep, calming breath. “We discuss — rationally. As friends.”