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Taranir o’ Aurelien
Master Naug
‘Bloke from Central’
SETC | the Harpy of Hissing Corrals Cay
Part II
-Carcass of stone-
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> 2nd Era
>
> Winter of 2456 IC,
>
> City of Goras, inside the Haunted Keep,
>
> Imperial Dungeons
> ‘Your mother is a special girl,” Nevarth had said. ‘Not easy to find in these troubled times. Not with her lofty blood and her father’s high position.’
>
> Taranir examined the explorer’s face with stern eyes and Nevarth was forced to elaborate. ‘She abandoned Goras to come to Myrdiel River and live in the country, but she’s a Cydonia lass at heart, as all folk around Rain Minas are still. Creatures of certain exotic proclivities must stick together, but there are also vulnerable because of them.’
>
> Taranir said nothing but kept staring at the tanned Zilan that sported a well-groomed goatee and a golden loop on his ear. Nevarth sat confidently across from him at the dungeon cell’s small table.
>
> ‘Calamer had sent her to study in the Garden and I just happened to stand ashore when she happened to visit Rain Minas to sell her herbs. Everyone did back in the day. I would have hanged around, if I’d known about you. It was around eight years into the war around 1805, or 1806. Most folk were excited about that, or were eager to avoid it, but the open sea beckons, whispers in your ear.’
>
> ‘You came here to tell me this?’ Taranir hissed. ‘After over six centuries?’
>
> ‘Lord Calamer is a powerful man now, eager to protect his secrets and not to appear weak, or playing favoritism in the eyes of the Queen,’ Nevarth expounded. ‘Is why you’re still alive, am I wrong?’
>
> ‘Go on,’ Taranir grunted.
>
> ‘A father would shield his daughter from the worst fate a mother can endure, but another father could help his son as well in a more straightforward manner,’ Nevarth continued with a smirk.
>
> ‘I never liked you,’ Taranir retorted angrily. ‘You’re a crook that made a fortune selling tall tales to gullible aristocrats.’
>
> ‘I’m an explorer of lowly origins that leaped ahead of competition,’ Nevarth corrected him. ‘A savant detective of the past at heart and the uncanny mysteries of the unknown waters out there. Where I go, many wish to follow but they can’t because of fear. The Bank owes me and it once again needs my expertise, as much as I desire their coin.’
>
> Taranir licked his lips and pushed back on the creaking chair, the chains tying his feet clinging as they dragged over the stained stone tiles.
>
> ‘You’re your mother’s blood, pure and all, but you’re my blood as well, so you’re a survivor and skilled in your own way,’ Nevarth added and placed a large iron key on the table’s surface. ‘You’ll know what to say and how to navigate the rest. Epochs come and go, people switch professions, even habits all the time. Or just learn to better hide them.’
>
> ‘I’m free to go?’ Taranir asked his surprisingly visiting father and Nevarth nodded.
>
> ‘Director Helven has talked to the Queen.’
>
> Ah.
>
> Not Lord Calamer, or Aurelien, Taranir’s mother.
>
> A different institution.
>
> Taranir had reached for the key but paused to cast a glare in the explorer’s face. ‘What does the bank want?’
>
> ‘The harpy’s location, or her remains,’ Nevarth replied. ‘I squeezed them out a bit hah-ha. Your old man has one thing, or two, to use as leverage. I told them I’m not interested, but you would be for sure.’
>
> ‘I’m not really.’
>
> ‘But you do want to see Aurelien again? This way we can both profit.’
>
> Fucking bastard.
>
> ‘Is she still around?’ Taranir asked, well-aware of Nevarth’s tales from more than a century ago.
>
> ‘Stones never move and you’ll know from the smell. A burned egg odor most foul.’ Nevarth had replied, but Taranir couldn’t locate the creature that summer and had spent five fruitless years searching the isles for it, before giving up and taking on his mother’s profession in a sense.
-
3rd Era
Summer of 3401 IC,
Hissing Corrals Cay, Central (or Mid) Atoll
Palm forest between the lagoon and the atoll’s west coast,
Lassel’s first Expedition
Coin Route, 2nd leg
“Bring the lightstone closer,’ Taranir told Shamil, but kept walking stooped inside the cargo hull of the Mori Korka with the help of his night vision. The floor crackling, rotten in places and concealed under dirt, debris, a carpet of moss and liverworts. Plants and spider nets hanging from the timber walls, engulfed in darkness. The smell damp and heavy, weighted by silence. “Watch your feet for holes.”
“The place is creepy mister Taranir!” Sam protested following after him.
“Um. You’re right Sam.”
“So?” The Cofol asked after a while, still behind his back.
“That’s it. Keep moving.”
Taranir stopped at regular intervals, navigating the ship’s skeleton to check in broken barrels and chests. He moved aside some of them, or scrapped some of the sticky plants underfoot in order to examine the condition of the wooden floor.
“Where’s the cargo?” Shamil probed fifteen minutes later, sounding spooked and sticking close to the Zilan.
“Someone took everything,” Taranir replied and signed for Shamil to follow after him, as he moved deeper into the ship heading for its stern.
“Who did?”
Taranir paused again to test the stairs heading up to the second floor of the cargo hull. The gaping hole, where the hatch once had been, telling him the looters had already gone up there. “Climb up the ladder and check to see whether there’s something of interest upstairs,” he ordered Shamil. “It might not take my weight.”
“Eh. Probably more rotten boxes and debris mister Taranir.”
“Make certain Sam,” Taranir replied patiently.
“You’ll be alright on your own?”
Taranir raised his head. “Yes, Sam. I’ll stay right here.”
The Zilan didn’t, moving about while the teenager was searching the upper floor. The structural integrity of the large ship had taken a beating, but somehow withstood it, Taranir decided. For the most part. Hearing Shamil return hastily, he grimaced looking away from the light, whilst turned to face the young Cofol.
“Brrr. It’s hot as hell up there, but my bones are shivering,” Shamil griped. “No cargo left back, but a solid upturned foodstuff barrel and the floor has potatoes growing at a corner. Must have been the supply room.”
“We need to head towards the aft tower,” Taranir said.
“The ship is a wreck. Everyone left. We can yell loud to be sure, if you prefer.”
“I don’t think they made it far,” Taranir grimaced and gestured for the teenager to stop stalling. “They are still digging bones out of the beach. More corpses are probably buried under the returning trees.”
“Returning?”
“The ship had scraped the earth and opened a wide road through the palms from the shores to the lagoon,” Taranir replied and pushed ahead. He ducked under a partially collapsed part of the ceiling, after climbing the debris barring their way and moved deeper inside the Mori Korka’s guts.
“What manner of waves can do that?”
“It was one very big wave Sam.”
“How big?”
Taranir paused having reached a solid wall of worked timber, barring their way. The cargo hull ended there. “Thrice the height of the ship at least. A volcanic explosion caused it, back in Goras.”
“Whoa. How do you know?”
“I heard it and you’ve seen the hole it left behind. It’s the gulf facing Hardir’s port,” Taranir replied. “Where Goras center once was.”
“Where’s the volcano now?”
“Right there. Under them waters.”
“Shit. Now what?” Sam cursed and gave the wooden wall a tap. “Do we head back?”
Taranir pointed at another set of stairs to their left. The starboard side of the ship.
“We need to reach the other side of the wall,” he told Shamil. “If I’m right we’ll come out under the aft tower. The quarterdeck is above us.”
“How do you know?” Sam asked his favorite question.
“This is an old Imperial galleon. They were built similarly.”
“I wish I knew all those things,” Sam said, when he helped him through the open hatch. The air in this more enclosed space thicker and unpleasant to the lungs.
“You will in time,” Taranir murmured looking to find the way in the pitch dark. The strong light killed it but it also made his sensitive eyes hurt. Taranir closed them and then opened them again slowly with a grimace. The light had given everything about them a washed out grey and brown hue. “In a couple of centuries you’ll know as much as I know given your character.”
“I don’t think humans have that much mister Taranir.”
Taranir pursed his mouth thoughtfully.
“You’re right.” He looked at the frowned Shamil. “You’ll just have to try twice as hard Sam. I trust that you will.”
“Thanks mister Taranir,” the teenager retorted sarcastically, but the Zilan was already moving towards the broken door leading to the guts of the aft tower, he’d located in the meantime and didn’t answer.
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It took them half an hour to break into the captain’s cabin after navigating a couple of narrow corridors. The door had been broken open at some point, but part of the ceiling had collapsed and one side of the quarterdeck had been destroyed by wild vegetation and penetrating tree branches. Taranir managed to reach the broken desk and move it aside to clear a path. He searched one of the lockers next, but the looters had taken even the liquor. Everything not nailed down basically and some stuff that were.
The iron safe’s door stood open but emptied.
“Um.” Taranir murmured standing up. “You remember that corpse with the tree growing through it? It was outside the officer quarters.”
“I try not to,” Sam griped and snorted loudly. “What is this horrid smell?”
“Rotting wood, humidity and decayed flesh,” Taranir replied and started looking at the floorboards, moving his feet carefully.
“Are we finished? This looks even more looted than the cargo hull and it’s getting late,” Sam asked watching the Zilan stooping to check on the dirty, moss-covered floor with his bare hands at first. Taranir proceeded to clean some of the material using a dagger to help his fingers. He then used the sturdier clippers to strike at the exposed crackling and blackened wood. The blades sinking deep with a dull sound until they went clean through.
“No.” Taranir replied and found a safe spot to stand on in order to use his boot. Underneath them, about two meters from the stern-facing wall of the large office –where the destroyed desk and the safe were-, the captain’s hidden storeroom was located.
When the Zilan downed his boot, the trapdoor detached and collapsed into the void with a deafening sound.
“Should I go outside and spy on the soldiers some more?” Shamil asked all-serious standing over the gaping hole. A side of the cellar-like room was illuminated by faint sunlight.
“This is another part of the job,” Taranir replied and after locating the broken trapdoor underneath him, swung both legs over the edge without any hesitation. He then jumped down and managed to land next to it.
The Zilan stood up slowly in the semi-dark room, the ceiling low enough to have him stoop to avoid scrapping it, and after a quick glance about him, he beheld at the flushed face of Shamil that peeked over the edge of the trapdoor tensed. The teenager was pouring light inside the vault.
“They didn’t find it,” he told Shamil. “The darkness and the smell, drove them away.”
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The captain’s vault was four meters wide and six in length. A series of sturdy square containers setup against the walls, with a small narrow table at the opposite edge of the rectangular room and several rows of shelves above the chests on both sides.
On the table’s surface four smaller boxes caught his attention. The last of the single row smashed open and its contents spilled down its right side. Taranir took a step forward, an eye on the cracked port side wall of the hull and the tree branches sprouting from there bathed in the weakening sunlight, and the other on the corroded metal coinage pile next to the broken box.
“Ancestor Spirits,” Shamil grimed sounding strangled. “The smell is putrid!”
The foul air made Taranir’s lungs hurt, so the teenager wasn’t exaggerating at all. The odor a mixture of rotten leaves, ancient dirt, rust and burned eggs. He pursed his mouth and looked about the previously enclosed area whilst checking at the pile with his fingers.
“Are these coins?” Sam asked a little surprised and pointed the lightstone on the table.
“Pieces of twelve,” Taranir replied hoarsely and stepped back for the young human to have a look for himself. “The humidity eroded them somewhat. See if you can pry them from the wood.”
Taranir got a dagger out while Shamil worked on the spilled blackened coins that had leaked rust on the table’s surface and the floor, and then went to break open the padlock on one of the others himself.
“Didn’t you say the looters missed the cellar?” Shamil asked and then cursed. “I can’t… it smells way worse in here damn it!”
“Um.” Taranir replied and slowly opened the intact box, the glint of gold reflecting on his eyes. He stepped back, sheathed the dagger and glanced at the cracked wall from where a bit of light was still coming in.
“Is that gold? Whoa! It is!” Shamil guffawed and then started coughing violently overcome by the toxic atmosphere. “I’m gonna puke!”
“Breathe less,” Taranir advised and searched the covered in ancient dirt floorboards with keen eyes. “What’s the number written on the gold coins?”
“1996? What’s in the other boxes?” Shamil asked examining the gold coins that were in much better condition carefully.
“First Era coinage,” Taranir said and knelt to clear some of the dirt and moss from the floor with his fingers. Something foul had spilled there creating a crusty puddle and had sprouted rotting liverwort that crumbled when he touched it. “The boxes have colors. White for silver, yellow for gold, glass for diamonds and red for rubies.”
“Damn. What manner of looters left this kind of treasure behind?” Shamil asked very impressed and then dry retched almost doubling over. “Good grief… think the smell drove them away?”
“Not from the treasure,” Taranir replied and extracted a very long black and white feather that was sticking out from the crusty floor surface. Well over a foot long, and with a pink stem. The foul smell emanating from it made Taranir’s eyes water and his stomach protest, but the Zilan clamped down its mouth until the feeling of discomfort went away.
Still, he remained uneasy as he examined the exotic feather in silence.
“The corpse we left in the corridor reeked far better than this shit,” Shamil croaked at his back. “Do we count and report the treasure mister Taranir?”
“Get as much as you can in your bag Sam,” Taranir replied and stood up with a grimace. “The gold will go the office’s coffers.”
“We steal it?” Shamil asked raspingly.
“We must fund our activities,” Taranir explained. “Increase the roster. Recruiting comes with a cost.”
He checked on the shelves next, several open small boxes with vials arranged there and bolted in place with nails. Right underneath the shelves and in the bigger -not locked- larger chests, Taranir found packed leather bags with incense, ancient herbs, crumbling flower roots and a whole lot of dried up seeds.
“Won’t the company pay for their salaries?” Shamil asked emptying the gold coins inside his satchel.
“They’ll work for the company too, but the Office runs its own operations Sam. We don’t make it easy for folk to know who we are. The higher ups might know about us, but we don’t go around revealing it like fools.”
“You did.”
“I had to. But even then remember that I said as little as possible. We never offer more than what’s needed. The Office’s director has as much power as anyone else on the board.”
“Right,” Shamil said and spat down. “What’s with the darn feather?”
Taranir gave him the feather and then turned around to get one long-necked glass vial out of one of the nailed in place boxes. The liquid in it, greenish in color and the cork eroded from time. The wax seal cracked in places. He smelled the cork loudly and grimaced, Shamil grunting behind him.
“Abrakas tentacles! This thing stinks to the six heavens!” The teenager protested and tossed the feather away.
“Get it back,” Taranir ordered him turning around.
“Why? Where is it from? A plaguing white-eagle?”
“Unlikely. They prefer very tall mountains,” Taranir replied stiffly and returned the vial to its place. “This wasn’t a company transport.”
“No? Why?”
“These are potions and supplies to make more. Very common in Wetull,” Taranir replied and gave another look around the now much-darker cramped room. It would have been darker but for Shamil’s light that was though partially blocked by the teenager’s body. “Coins and gems. Hmm. It’s almost like a payment, or a gift.”
“Payment for what?” Shamil asked turning around, now holding the stinky feather.
Passage.
Shelter.
“I don’t know,” Taranir replied with a grimace. “But I’ve a strong feeling the Mori Korka wasn’t working for the company. But it was on a mission those last months of the empire.”
“Who were the looters?”
“Humans would be my guess,” Taranir said and smacked his lips. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You still want the feather?”
It’s a clue.
Could it be though?
Where are you now?
Stones don’t move, Nevarth had said. And you’ll know from the smell.
“Um.”
“That a yes? Are you sure?” Shamil griped with a grimace of distaste. “How big was this vulture?”
“Don’t think it was a vulture Sam,” Taranir replied and gestured for Shamil to climb the narrow ladder leading to the captain’s office above them. “It came in from that hole either before they arrived, or afterwards.”
“There’s a big fucking tree blocking the gap,” Shamil grunted pausing on the ladder.
“The tree wasn’t there always,” Taranir said calmly. “But you’re right. It came before the looters.”
“What was it? Why leave the treasure behind? That’s a fortune mister Taranir, we should report!”
“Eh. Just calm down and it wasn’t looking for treasure is my guess. She didn’t like silver at all.” Taranir replied and heaved the heavy bag up for Shamil to pick it up.
“She?” Sam asked curious when he leaped out of the hatch himself to join him inside the office.
“Take it with a grain of salt,” Taranir replied raspingly and ushered Shamil towards the dark corridor. “The guy that gave me the info was a known liar and a gutless crook that only thought of himself.”
“Ah. Who was he?”
“My father,” Taranir grunted with an angry clench of his jaw and Shamil frowned deciding not to ask him anything else for a while.
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They reached the quarterdeck outside and then climbed down from the engulfed by the jungle part of the ancient galleon. They used a rope Taranir had with him. Darkness had come at some point, but the moonlight was strong and it was easy for the keen-eyed Taranir to spot the humans afore they spotted them.
A pair of wiry figures, one of them wearing leather armour and the other a leather coat. They paused hearing Shamil’s gasp released when Taranir’s arm stopped the carrying the heavy bag teenager from walking up to them.
Lorians, Taranir thought and reached for a weapon. The two men had stopped behind a thick palm tree’s trunk, not three meters away.
“Heard that?” One of them asked the other.
“It’s the wind,” the other replied. “I can see the wreck.”
“That was no wind.”
“First you see lights, now this? Damn it Haggart,” the second man griped. “You’re too fucking spooked man.”
“I’ve read the fucking reports Bonavita. Your brother knows about this from the old man,” Haggart grunted very annoyed. “Freaky shit happened here I tell you.”
“Just shut up and do your fucking job ranger. Get me inside. I can’t believe we lost the light damn it,” Bonavita hissed, whilst Taranir’s hand sealed Shamil’s mouth to drown his words out.
Taranir moved to engage them unlocking the clippers blades at their joint to turn the gardening tool into a pair of identical large shortswords. Haggart’s voice ringing inside the silent copse just as he came out from behind the tree.
“Miles, Dutch. Get up there and find us a way in—”
Shit.
“Who the fuck are…?” Haggart cursed seeing Taranir appear out of nowhere seemingly and reached for a sword. Taranir chucked the heavy blade at the ranger and stopped him from finishing his words. The steel smacked the slow to react human below the nose, caved his teeth in and buried itself in his mouth to the hilt.
Taranir cursed himself for using too-much power in the throw, the bleeding mess of Haggart went down to his knees and Bonavita ducked behind two burly armed men following right after the first pair of Lorians.
Taranir pivoted on his left foot, then ducked under a sword that whistled over his head. He slashed at the man’s thigh, either Miles, or Dutch, opening the leather pants and the flesh underneath. The Lorian grunted in pain, Taranir got the flat face of an axe right under the left armpit which was lucky, but felt at least two upper ribs snap from the impact, which wasn’t.
But if you misjudge the number of opponents in a scrap by fifty fucking percent, then you can’t really complain about anything.
He coughed, the pain blinding, stumbled on shaky legs for a couple of strides and then turned around to face the charging ranger with the axe. His friend was limping trying to circle around the groaning Zilan, whilst Bonavita was legging it away as fast as he could.
“The hells are you?” The Lorian asked hoarsely hefting the axe right and left, eyeing Taranir.
“That’s a fucking Zilan Miles! Look at the fucking ears!” Dutch growled, trying to stop the bleeding with a hand over the wound. “He just killed Haggart!”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Miles admonished the unimpressed Taranir and heaved the axe to split him in half. Taranir moved out of the blade’s way lithely, but with a jolt of pain ravaging his chest and hacked the twisting with the axe ranger right on the top of his head. The steel burrowed deep splitting the bone and Taranir left it there shoving the shuddering Miles out of the way.
“Fuck!” Dutch cursed seeing his friend hitting the ground with the heavy blade still wedged in his brains. He slashed wide with the sword to keep Taranir away and then jerked twisting on his own axis, a loud moan escaping his mouth. The wounded Dutch tried to reach for the dagger Shamil had jammed in his back, but failed and with a growl tried to reach the jumping away teenager. “Fucking… who… argh!” Dutch groaned when Taranir grabbed his arm and stopped him from using the sword.
“Give up,” Taranir advised through clenched teeth and Dutch spat in his face irate.
“Plaguing fiends!” He cursed and then yelped when Taranir’s nails dug in his bicep numbing his grip on the weapon. Dutch swung a fist twisting on his torso, showing great fighting spirit, but Taranir head-butted him afore the ranger could finish his attack and sent him sprawling down to the ground.
“Who are they?” A heavy-breathing Shamil asked.
“Get after the other one!” Taranir grunted walking to the bleeding corpse of Haggart to get the ranger’s sword.
“What?”
“Move, you fool!” Taranir growled and Shamil stood back pale-faced. “Sam. There might be more.” Taranir added with a sigh in a soother tone and stooping stabbed the moaning Dutch through the neck with his friend’s sword.
“Eh,” the Zilan grunted upon seeing the shocked teenager hesitate and then went to retrieve his own weapons from the slain Lorians. “Forget about it. Go find Pathon. They are at the bow of the ship.” Taranir ordered deciding that sending Shamil after the human was a risk.
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll use a healing potion,” Taranir hissed and sat on top of Miles with a grimace.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes Sam. I’ll be alright.” Taranir replied and reached for his satchel.
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“The Pirates are here?” Pathon asked sounding bemused at the prospect. “Are they stupid?”
“No Pathon, these were not pirates,” Taranir grunted still suffering from the aftereffects of the old potion. He’d grabbed a couple of vials from the ship’s stash, but used one of his own since they didn’t look fresher. Instead of wine, I should have replenished the darn medicine cabinet, Taranir thought sourly, remembering his mother’s words.
Aurelien always carried all manner of supplies with her, even for stuff one would come against very rarely. Healing potions were a must have, the fresher they were, the better.
Taranir sighed sadly at the memory. His noble mother loved her plants.
“Are you sure?” Salamir asked examining the corpse of Dutch. “What happened to the eyes?”
Taranir used his tongue to clean some of the leftovers from his fangs, but refrained from answering.
The awkward thing with nasty habits like alcohol, drugs, or flesh-eating, is that one can easily relapse even after a prolonged abstinence.
As a matter of fact most scholars agree that the cravings might return tenfold after a period of asceticism.
“He headed to the northwest. My guess is the northern shores,” he grunted with a grimace, still dizzy from the expired potion and with his ribs nowhere near mended. “Gather your men Pathon. We are heading there.”
“Why would they moor north of the atoll?” Pathon asked whilst Henion went to alert the marines they had a problem.
“They weren’t coming from Wetull,” Taranir said trying to remain patient. “These aren’t pirates. They came from Jelin. Jelin is to the north.”
“This one has a patch stitched on his uniform,” Salamir added still knelt near the slain Dutch. “It reads L.I.T.C.”
Hmm.
-
An hour later
Morning of the 8th of Septimus 195 NC
8th Otsea Asta 3401 IC
Mid Atoll’s North facing forest rocky edges,
“They have some type of infrastructure built right under the cut of the rocks,” Pathon reported. “I can have the men deployed in twenty minutes.”
“How did you miss it?” Taranir asked tiredly.
“The forest covered the white boulders and now reaches almost to the beach,” Pathon replied tensely. “It’s just a couple of buildings Taranir covered in vegetation and out of direct sight, if you approach from the lagoon. Long abandoned.”
“Apparently it’s not,” Taranir grunted.
“You think they know our route?”
“They didn’t know we’re here,” Taranir replied.
“Then why return now?”
Everyone is making moves.
“Luvon might have gotten cocky and let something slip through, or they are smart enough to cover their rear,” Taranir said and waved for him to return to his men. Almost sixty marines had answered the call, the rest remaining with their ships on the south side of the atoll to keep an eye on the ‘friendly’ pirates.
“Who are they mister Taranir?” Shamil asked scrunching his nose, when Taranir approached. A foul odor emanated from the Zilan, who still carried the feather inside his satchel. He felt a little silly doing it, but it was the first clue he’d discovered that might give a little credence to Nevarth’s wild tales.
A bird with tits can only fly so far. Swim even less.
It was an enticing opportunity for ridiculous profit, if the old myths were wrong and the far eastern Split Isles didn’t stand as distant as they were depicted. It was also something a different society favored. A different kingdom.
Using people saturated with the habits of the previous administrations.
Less than a kilometer from the small natural harbor’s shores, right in the middle of the blackened sea waters lights appeared. They created a faint incoherent shape at first, igniting one after the other but slowly a familiar silhouette emerged. From the raised aft tower, down the main decks and across their length to the armoured bow and its own raised tower. The elongated war galleass slowly appeared standing still inside the atoll’s peaceful waters, anchored about three hundred meters inside the cove. More lights detached from the large ship and then slowly made their way for the beach, near which the South Eplas Trading Company’s employees lay in wait, lost in the darkness surrounding the silent shores.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Is that an Imperial ship?” Salamir asked Tylor in a whisper Taranir’s sensitive ears caught.
“Looks like it,” Tylor replied a little tensed.
“Things have gone to shit,” Salamir commented sounding angry and noticing Taranir watching them, gave the BGOR director a nod with his head.
“Taranir,” Pathon said running near the moving his arm up and down Zilan. Taranir was trying to test the broken ribs, still waiting for any improvement from the healing potion. All the foulness, none of the pleasure, he thought bitterly listening to Pathon’s report. “Lanthdor, wanted to move the fleet in assistance.”
“I’m not risking the fleet,” Taranir grunted. “That’s a blasted galleass over there!”
“Not pirates eh?” Pathon jested tensely. “I thought you were in the wrong. Bet some coin on it also.”
Well, technically the pirates did possess a galleass.
“You like waging Pathon?” Taranir asked changing his tone into a serene one. The marine leader frowned in alarm.
“Not really.”
“Want to earn something extra along the position you have now?” Taranir probed calmly.
“Flardryn—”
“Let me worry about him,” Taranir cut him off. “Shamil here serves the King. This new beginning, free from the past’s constraints and uncomfortable vices. Right lad?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied a little unsure.
“I really hoped to do something easier than marine work at some point Taranir,” Pathon griped. “Had Gonodir survived I would have taken a post in Ani Ta-Ne.”
“Doing what?”
“Easy stuff?”
“That’s what I’m offering.”
“Boats approaching,” a scout informed them and Pathon ushered the Zilan away.
“I’ll decline,” Pathon told Taranir, who shrugged his shoulders indifferently and watched him walking away, an eye on the group around Salamir.
“Pathon was a good candidate,” Shamil whispered in a conspiratorial manner. “Damn. Oh, well. On to the next one mister Taranir.”
“This was pure theater Sam,” Taranir explained in an even lower voice. “Don’t look so surprised. Grin stupidly. That’s it. Maintain the expression while you head back to get me another healing potion. Read the label first.”
“Another? Sure.” The grinning Sam asked over-selling the stupid grin. “Isn’t that very dangerous? It might knock a man out cold.”
Taranir sighed at the teenager’s lame attempt to create subterfuge where none was needed. “It can get you in a deadly coma. And I really need that vial Sam. For real.”
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Twelve large boats had come ashore. Almost a hundred men disembarking silently. Which wasn’t really true of course, as so many armed men can’t be silent even if their lives depend on it.
Taranir spotted the familiar figure of Bonavita, now carrying a sword and a shield, standing next to a fancy-dressed officer wearing chainmail and a conned helm. The rest of the soldiers carried spears and harpoons, and were clad in medium leather armour and pants. An army unit, probably marines.
Lorians.
“Ignite the lightstones,” Taranir ordered Pathon and stepped forward on the pebbled beach. The large host of men had marched from their boats towards the two concealed buildings near the rocky formation at the back end of the beach, where the forest started. The boulders stood between the two forces, with the sea to their north and the forest to their south.
The humans stopped advancing, and those that had coalesced near the buildings turned around the moment the marines lit up their side of the beach. It wasn’t needed but Taranir wanted to talk with the humans. The moonlight was enough for the Zilan.
“It appears you were right Dino,” the officer said. “Comes as a surprise given how hysterical you were.”
“Order the men to attack Captain Gemeli!” Dino Bonavita hissed and raised his shield to cover himself. “Do it!”
“You are on Imperial land,” Taranir announced in a clear voice in Common, minding to keep his words short and diplomatic. “Evacuate the premises, or perish.”
There.
“Oh,” Gemeli said, a wiry Lorian sporting a blond mustache that reached under his chin. “That’s’ an unexpected development Dino.”
“There are no Imperial Lands around here. The empire is dead!” Bonavita grunted. “This fiend killed Haggart and the others!” He growled getting a loud murmur from the amassing humans. They had the numbers for sure, Taranir thought with a grimace of pain.
“They were also trespassing near Imperial property. The ship wreck.” Taranir elucidated.
“What property? The wreck is ours!” Bonavita snapped angrily. “We’re what’s left from Imperial rule god’s darn it! You lot are imposters! Gemeli order the men to attack! We have carte blanche to wipe them out!”
“Who are you?” Taranir queried frostily.
“We are the Lorian branch of the Imperial Trading Company,” Bonavita snapped. “Acquired legally by the Mclean & Merck bank in 24, more than a hundred and fifty years ago! It was an open call to past investors to step forward but no one did!”
“Recently we have re-opened our intercontinental business,” Captain Gemeli added just to keep everything nicely tight.
“In that same vein we’re almost related,” Taranir replied. “These men serve the South Eplas Trading Company, also a branch of the old Imperial Trading Company, mister Bonavita. The Bank funding us is different and so is the country it appears.”
“Where’s your ship?” Bonavita asked, a tick marring his face.
“We have a fleet,” Taranir replied and Bonavita pursed his mouth not expecting the answer.
“You’re a lying fiend,” he grunted.
“Dino, you don’t have to be so insulting,” Gemeli admonished him. “These people are colleagues.”
“What about Haggart? He was a colleague of mine!” A sergeant asked from the ranks and Gemeli grimaced, his eyes on the rows of Zilan marines behind Taranir.
“He was insured from harm,” the Captain hissed sounding uncomfortable.
“Isn’t he dead?” Another human asked curious. “What good does that do him?”
“Yeah,” a third agreed distrustfully. “What good is a pension to a dead man?”
“God damn it Captain!” Bonavita growled irate. “They have claimed the bank’s property! Order the men to kick those fiends aside!”
“There are a lot of them Dino,” Gemeli snapped.
“You have more men curse you!” Bonavita roared in his face.
“Pathon,” Taranir said to get the Marine leader’s attention. “Attack them.”
“Very well,” Gemeli yielded with a sigh and raised his arm just as the first row of Marines moved forward on the beach to charge at the human lines.
-
> In the 2nd month of summer, praised be the Five, the year 195 of the New Calendar, Vice-admiral Cornelius Bonavita, Lesia's 2nd in command of the navy after Sir Patrick Lennox, tasked from the Bank of Trust with managing the nautical assets of the Lorian branch of the defunct Imperial Trading Company (L.I.T.C.) was ordered to dispatch in a ‘pathfinding mission’ one of the larger warships available in Cediorum’s naval yards the galleass Judge’s Song. After the loss of Ocean’s Harpy during the forty tons of gold affair, and the disappearance of the Crying Valkyrie after D’Orsi’s failed expedition, the Judge’s Song was the only available warship of this type owned by the Company, although six more were under construction in Cediorum. Three of them though were going to Lesia’s navy, who had funded the program and constructed the expensive facilities.
>
> Cornelius had worked the previous three years to revive the old trading company –turned into a private ship-building firm in the meantime- but faced difficulties to secure funding because of the Lesia-Regia conflict (during the period of the two Kings). The reason for this had been the Bank’s hierarchy and shareholders belief that a Lesia naval dominance was at hand. The company’s assets were used to assist the army’s and navy’s efforts during the siege of Cartagen, but after King Davenport agreed to a treaty with King Lucius, Federico Mclean asked for a different approach to ensure control of the trading routes and the distant west markets.
>
> D’Orsi’s expedition was one of the two ideas discussed, but when he failed to bring any results in a catastrophic blunder that had cost them dearly in manpower and gold, the Mclean patriarch turned to the persistent Cornelius Bonavita with a more favorable eye. Cornelius proposed what would later become the basis of the 1st Banking Act of 195, the ‘decoupling of trading disputes from the thrones, or the countries involved’. This offered the ability to solve matters quickly and move on, or change strategy in a failure, without ‘been afflicted by the paralyzing effects of years-long drawn out kingdom conflicts’. With the Kaltha-Khanate struggle entering its seventh year the whole west shoreline of Jelin, eleven duchies and baronies, twenty seven settlements/cities, numerous ports and millions of people had been affected tremendously. Trade deals had plummeted, caravans barely made it across and poverty had strangled smaller merchants.
>
> The Scalding Sea, once a risky, but quite possible alternate route to reach Eplas, was now surrendered to Elsanne’s pirates and King Garth’s Zilan. The worst of all was the Bank of Trust’s difficulty to make fresh profit without access to those west markets that were now fully controlled by Wetull. Dealing in war is profitable, if your guy is winning. The conflict had turned into a free-for-all with pirates, rebels, and even foreign Monarchs joining the two warrying kingdoms. Nothing was safe, or sacred.
>
> Cornelius tasked his brother Dino Bonavita and Captain Flavio Gemeli to prepare the newly-built warship for a voyage that would attempt to unlock ‘alternate markets’, or find a way around King Garth’s presumed meagre navy.
>
> ‘The way I see it Cornelius,’ Federico had advised the vice-admiral in a rare personal appearance at a board of directors meeting, ‘you need to avoid Wetull’s shores and the cursed wyvern. You manage to do that, then we can do our business afore the Toka negotiate a deal with the Duchess of Krakenhall. For crying out loud, our southern route must surely be faster than theirs!’
>
> Cornelius believed the Zilan wouldn’t have agreed without having ‘some assets’ available to them however unlikely and managed to secure enough manpower and gold for the expedition. Just as his brother was about to depart, Federico ordered them to head first deep into the ocean, to a place called Hissing Corrals Cay, before traveling towards Wetull to find a way through the Reefs. The mission was simple, land on the remote atolls, investigate the remnants of previous excursions there and ensure the Zilan wouldn’t attempt ‘a flanking maneuver’. In the month since Cornelius had gotten his first orders, King Lucius had agreed to join in the effort to patrol the Lorian Coast ‘for any smuggler ships and impose tariffs on their exporting goods.’
>
> The latter had inconvenienced the small Zilan transport fleet that had used Scaldingport as its unloading base for months, or their human agents’ vessels that made the runs to the Lorian ports further east. For the whole winter shipments had almost stopped, but Federico feared that the Zilan where going to try something else, or just take the bait and attempt to force their way into Jelin using their fleet.
>
> For this, or some other apocryphal reason, Cornelius was told to head towards Hissing Corrals Cay and he did.
>
> Not a month later, the Lesia mercenaries aboard Judge’s Song clashed with a force of Zilan marines on one of the many atolls in a brutal short scrap that left behind many dead, but no real winner and forced Vice-admiral Cornelius to famously report in a missive that ‘the southern route is hotly contested sire. We’re going to need a bigger fleet.’
>
> It would lead to a flood of gold coins into his company’s coffers, which realized the admiral’s dream of a private fleet and made L.I.T.C. a force to be reckoned with, but also fueled the rapid development of their direct opponent to counter him.
>
> Historically, no one had ever built bigger things than the Zilan and this fact was about to rear its ugly head again in this instance.
>
> In this stubborn battle of wits, fabled bravery and big spending -with some noteworthy plundering, the man with the biggest purse and more flexible ethos was to rise above all else. With him, the mighty South Eplas Trading Company (henceforth to be referred to as S.E.T.C.) ascended as well, far beyond what anyone could have ever predicted.
-
An hour later
Morning of the 8th of Septimus 195 NC
8th Otsea Asta 3401 IC
Mid Atoll’s North facing forest rocky edges,
Battle of the Hissing Corrals north beach
Judge’s Song bombards Pathon’s Marines with shrapnel-shot and flaming balls in order to save Gemeli’s command.
Taranir’s ears were bleeding. The ringing in his head unbearable, it came and went at regular intervals. One of the warship’s catapult flaming shots had destroyed one of the warehouses, collapsing its roof and setting the very-dry timber walls on fire. Another had ignited part of the palms forest and had caused burning coconuts to explode one after the other. Pathon who had broken right through the humans earlier, splitting their force in the process, had to pull back as the warship’s volleys spared neither friend, nor foe.
Taranir stumbled backwards in the chaos with a lot of humans and other Zilan, who had attempted to find cover near the trees, or the rocky boulders behind the buildings, to protect themselves abandoning the fight momentarily, to pick it up at a safer distance. While the battle was raging on, it was obvious Gemeli’s soldiers had been punched too hard by Pathon’s initial charge and were unable to recover.
This doesn’t mean you can’t get killed tonight, the still sporting at least two broken ribs Taranir thought, stopping to eye a Lorian that had stopped not that far from his spot. The human nodded and retreated into the thick smoke coming from the burning warehouse. Sharp screams and loud curses in different dialects, echoed on the plant-covered large rocks, while the sounds of bolts and catapults shot hitting the beach, or bringing down trees inside the forest was constant.
The rocky formation was part of a bigger basalt hill that had eroded and shattered in many smaller pieces that allowed in turn bushes and trees to grow between the gaps. The palms had engulfed the about thirty-forty meter in diameter initial single piece of rock, from both its sides.
Taranir paused there to get a sense of what was going on, wary of any human soldier venturing his way in the confusion. He had attempted to reach Bonavita at first, but had been forced to retreat, as the marines nearest to Taranir hadn’t followed after the SETC official. Soon after Taranir had been forced to abandon the futile attempt completely, after he briefly spotted the warship approach the shores probably alerted by the lights and the loud noise raised.
I should have let the humans walk away from the beach some more and then ambush them, Taranir thought sourly, but he didn’t have enough information initially to make that call.
Some centuries back Taranir wouldn’t have hesitated, but this was a still confusing period on what was truly allowed, or not, so early into Garth’s rule.
A burning human faltered out of the smoke, the latter mixing with the light mist that hovered over the copse, and then dropped to his knees trying to keep the well-boiled and melting faceskin attached with both his hands.
Taranir walked towards him intending to put the man out of his misery, but a beefy Marine walked out of the smokes next, reached the human before Taranir could and speared him through the neck from behind. Some of the spraying blood hissing when it touched the flames, the rest of it splashing all over Taranir’s boots.
“Ah,” Tylor grunted extracting the spear from the gaping wound and stared at Taranir bemused. “Guess, I just won a bit of coin Calamer’s spawn.”
Whoa, that’s an old world rebel insult right there, Taranir thought pursing his mouth.
“What for?” Taranir asked hoarsely and raised his hurting arm to wipe some of the grime from his face.
“Some suggested your aristocratic arse might have perished right at the start. Rid the realm from your stench,” Tylor replied and Eltaor, his fuck-buddy, came to stand on his left shoulder, a scowl marring his bland face. “But I knew you hadn’t.”
Oh, gods damn it, Taranir cursed and took a backwards step, as both Marines were armed with spears. A spear and a harpoon to be precise. You sneaky cunts had to act now of all fucking times, just when we are in the middle of another scrap?
Then again, what better time than this you fool? He admonished himself.
Taranir lodged his tongue behind his front teeth, trying to rid himself from the painful ringing in his ears. The chaos and the pandemonium continued no more than a dozen meters away, right in front of the burning carcass of the warehouse.
Lots of fleshier carcasses littering the grounds surrounding it. For such a remote piece of land, right in the middle of nowhere, the atolls have claimed their fair share of souls since they had been discovered.
“You think about your next action very carefully now,” Taranir warned Tylor who started chuckling, the sound carried towards the trees and the rocks, over the bigger boulders sprouting from the ground behind them, slowly turning into a shrieking cackle that quickly got lost in the general ruckus.
Tylor frowned at the strange phenomenon, but recovered immediately upon witnessing Taranir pass the second blade to his free hand.
“You don’t move that well Taranir,” Eltaor noticed walking sideways and away from Tylor to increase the front Taranir had to cover. “You hide better though don’t you?”
“Yeah? In what manner?” Taranir taunted, a sweat rivulet dripping down his forehead and stopping at his right eyebrow. Eltaor shrugged his shoulders, made to answer with a smirk and Tylor took his cue to rush Taranir with the bloody spear.
Taranir parried the spear thrust away with his shortsword –one part of his modified clippers- then hacked at the Zilan with the other, but Tylor snapped his torso away with a hiss. Taranir had to retreat as well a couple of steps, in order to keep Eltaor in front of him, grimacing from the still hurting ribs, while a pissed-off Tylor recovered his footing two meters away.
“Son a dead bitch,” Tylor cursed and Eltaor grinned at that to infuriate Taranir even more. It sort of worked, despite it being obvious, but not because Taranir had opted to charge at them blinded by fury. Taranir hadn’t. He had kept his wits about him, in spite of feeling properly angry at both of them, but failed to realize the full-extend of the ambush before it was too late.
Taranir felt the blade tearing at his light leather vest from behind, penetrating under the ribcage and narrowly missing the kidneys mainly because Taranir had somewhat twisted away from it. The tip of the spear did burst out of his right side though in an explosion of blood –so it was a joke of a blasted dodge in reality- and despite Taranir’s attempt to grab it with the left hand –dropping his shortsword- it went right out widening the wound.
Taranir jumped sideways, leaking like a cracked faucet and landed on a leg in what was a last minute pirouette. He immediately came face to face with the unimpressed Eltaor, who swung the harpoon with a grunt to take his head off, but missed the jerking away Taranir.
He faltered backwards, defending against both Marines thrusts, but got sneakily speared through the leg from the coming and going into the smokes third opponent, right below the knee and went down again.
Taranir cursed and jerked away from Tylor’s plunging spear that hit the ground he’d occupied just a second before. The sporting multiple injuries Zilan Company official rolled on the dirty ground, long leaves and small pebbles sticking on his sweaty skin and was finally stopped when he attempted to jump to his feet with a vicious kick to the chest. Taranir hit the ground with his back, a fresh splash of blood erupting from his wound, but kept fighting.
You can’t just roll up in a ball and die.
Taranir slashed low at the approaching Salamir with his shortsword. The recently-promoted officer leaped over the blade to save his ankles and came down hefting the spear with both arms to nail Taranir’s right arm on the ground.
The spear’s blade went through Taranir’s forearm cracking the bone with such force it penetrated at least a foot into the soft soil underneath the groaning in pain Zilan.
“Give me your spear,” Salamir ordered Tylor, but the marine had to defend himself against Shamil’s yelling assault, narrowly saving his leg from the teenager’s swinging axe. “For fuck’s sake, just get rid of the kid!” Salamir cursed irate and gave Taranir another kick in the face that bloodied his nose and banged the back of his head on the ground. The skin there opening up as there were plenty of rocks spattered about.
Ears ringing, head hurting, blood hissing out of multiple places and the cacophony of the nearby battle mixing with a myriad other sharp sounds –yelps, screams, groans and even incessant cackling- to create a strange buzz, or clamor.
When it rains, it fucking pours and Luthos rolls about chuckling like a mad hare.
“Run Sam!” Taranir roared hoarsely and Salamir kicked him in the chest again to force the thrashing to get up Zilan official back down.
Salamir paused to watch Tylor defend himself against the outmatched teenager, the former hitting Shamil on the head with the shaft after each failed swing and toying with him.
“It’s in our nature to hunt intelligent beings,” Salamir said hoarsely standing over Taranir and cast his silvery-purple eyes on him. “To suppress it, is unnatural. We will cower to authority for self-preservation, but won’t bow down. You know this, but you’re a hypocrite Taranir. What happened to Glavon? He was on the boat with you.”
“Didn’t make it,” Taranir grunted, gulping down blood from his leaking nose.
“Lies. The half-breed told us a different story.” Salamir dismissed his words, just as Shamil went down with another knock over the head by Tylor. Eltaor approached as well, tossing his harpoon to Salamir, who caught it deftly with one hand and then span it around to use it as a staff.
“Let the kid go. He’s no threat,” Taranir grunted through bloody teeth.
“Eh. The kid is dead,” Salamir replied with a grimace while Tylor, three meters behind him, pushed the half-senseless Shamil to his knees. “But I’ll learn what he knows first.”
“I should have killed you right away like Glavon,” Taranir grunted raspingly.
“Glavon enjoyed fucking Gish and the exotic human species,” Salamir cut him off, pointing the harpoon to Taranir’s gore-covered chest. “As everyone in the unit, he was forced to work like a lowly slave for two centuries, living inside an ancient and leaking ship, without leaves of absence, or even the opportunity to visit a pleasure house, as in a crumbling world all around us, we had the misfortune to survive alongside the navy’s commander.”
“Fuck you and your cock-sucking buddies?” Taranir taunted him, as he’d found a rock with his left hand fingers and was fixing to use it.
Salamir stood back with a grimace. “Glavon only wanted to have some fun. You killed him for nothing.”
“Does that make you sad?”
Salamir furrowed his thick washed-out blue brows. “Hah. You were always a difficult man for your enemies to corner, but Aurelien wasn’t. She never made it by the way, but she did reach the city after the Fall to help with the sick and injured.” The marine told the seething Taranir. “Yeah. It’s sad. She never left with the last of the exiles as Lord Calamer, or yourself, would have hoped, I’m sure. If it’s any consolation, they did toss her body deep in the caves under Rain Minas with the other corpses to keep them company, which was poetic justice in a sense, after all the nasty things the Lord Justice had done for the mad Queen. Good riddance to them both.”
“Ratline vermin!” The frantic Taranir cursed maniacally hefting the rock, but had no good angle to use it and Salamir was about to use the harpoon to finish him off.
“Aeson sends his regards,” Salamir rustled and grabbed the shaft with both hands to plunge it in the immobilized Taranir’s body. Eltaor grinned right behind him, Shamil stopped rocking back and forth on his knees coming about and Tylor who was standing with a smirk over the dizzy and bleeding teenager disappeared from sight.
It was as if the marine had leaped towards the sky and disappeared yelping deathly scared into the smoke cloud hovering over their heads. The sound of wings was heard fleetingly and then a shrieking, bone-chilling cackle reverberated down the misty boulders and the palms, just before Tylor’s screaming body crashed five meters away, breaking apart on as sharp boulder.
The marine’s internal organs and blood bursting out of his teared and shattered flesh like the innards of a thrashed egg.
“All hells minions!” Salamir cursed twisting about and Eltaor stumbled back flabbergasted, eyes ogled at the gruesome sight of his friend’s destroyed body.
Taranir kicked Salamir’s shin and then forced himself to roll away, while the marine faltered back a couple of steps. The sound of wings flapping was heard again and Taranir hurled the rock towards Salamir but the marine leader snapped back into action and used the harpoon to swat it away.
“Devil’s spawn!” Salamir cursed and Eltaor reached with an arm over his shoulder to unsheathe a Kopis he had there, but howled in agony and twirled around grabbing at his now shorter arm. The wound spraying blood violently and starting above the wrist. Everything after it missing.
“What is this horror?” Eltaor groaned, trying to stop the bleeding and looking about him with gawking eyes.
“Mister Taranir?” Shamil croaked trying to reach him and the injured Taranir, turned his tensed, bloody face on the teenager and roared like a wounded beast, whilst shoving with both arms the stunned Shamil away.
“Get the hell out of here Sam!”
Shamil was hurled backwards and Salamir’s harpoon missed going wide. Taranir grabbed the staff with slippery hands and they started wrestling for the weapon.
“Leave Sam! Get the others!” Taranir growled and released the grip on the shaft to use his right hand to stop Salamir from stabbing him with a dagger. The arm was slow to move and mostly useless under the elbow, so Taranir adjusted strategies mid-move realizing he couldn’t block. He heaved the harpoon’s shaft back messing with the growling Salamir’s balance.
The dagger found his padded right shoulder, angled sideways to slice him across the face, but Taranir jerked his head away and only lost the lower part of his ear.
Rotten luck!
Taranir’s fist caught Salamir on the chin and snapped his head back, forcing the marine to let go of the harpoon and retreat several steps.
Salamir coughed a bloody tooth out with a grimace and then recoiled much as Taranir did across from him, when Eltaor’s headless body landed between them. Gore, mangled internal organs, torn flesh and bones, along bloody fluids splashing over both shook opponents.
“What’s going on?” Salamir asked trying to locate the deadly foe hovering over them seemingly. The flapping of wings coming and going, sharp hoarse gasps and that otherworldly very loud shrieking cackle ripping through the normal sounds about them.
While the building was still burning, the warship had stopped firing and the sounds of battle had subsided down at the beach, which made the sounds coming from the unseen threat all the more pronounced.
Fuck it.
The scowled Taranir spat a mouthful of blood down, hoisted the harpoon up and then charged Salamir with it.
The marine leader saw the limping Taranir charging from a mile away and pivoted keeping his dagger low with the right hand, whilst reaching for a steel-shafted peleg*, a throwing axe hanging down his left thigh. Taranir angled the tip of his harpoon away from the dagger, but Salamir blocked it with the peleg and pushed it away from his chest. Taranir tried to turn the long weapon inwards with his left arm but he was too-weakened and slow to manage it. Salamir slashed with the dagger almost severing Taranir’s thumb off, forcing the groaning SETC official to let go of the harpoon and jump back with the last of his strength.
Taranir landed on buckling legs, the right sporting a leaking hole from a previous injury under the calf and collapsed to his knees with a curse.
“Ah,” Salamir rustled, eyes zipping right and left to spot the cackling crazed unseen predator. “What’s the deal Taranir?” The marine squad leader asked afore he sheathed the dagger and stooped forward to retrieve the harpoon Taranir had dropped. “Is this a nonsensical Griffin nesting about, lost in the fucking lowlands?”
“Nah,” a grimacing Taranir grunted hoarsely, too-injured to think of something clever at this junction. So he just told Salamir the truth. “Just a plaguing Harpy.”
The standing up holding the harpoon Salamir frowned in deep disbelief, completely missing two monstrous in size, very grotesque and eagle-shaped bird legs lowering over both of his shoulders. The dagger-sized, curved black talons penetrated through the marine’s shoulder armour as they closed in a steely grip, paralyzing both of the screaming Salamir’s arms.
Taranir pushed himself upright, gulping down blood and spotted a bewildered Shamil watching the female Harpy lowering herself over the desperately screaming and thrashing his legs Salamir –the legs were already a couple of feet from the ground. The still half-hidden in the thick smoke creature used its moving up and down long black and white wings –attached on her back and shoulders- to hover as she reached with claw-like fingers down to grab Salamir’s head. She then abruptly twisted it around breaking the Zilan’s neck, which silenced him, afore dropping the lifeless body to the ground like a sack of rocks.
“You need to get away lad,” Taranir said hoarsely to the retreating in panic teenager, the sound of wings flapping slowly heard again as the tall half-avian half-woman touched the ground on two muscular feathered legs that ended in twin monstrous talons.
The Harpy turned her head to behold the injured Taranir barely standing three meters away and then the stumbling away towards the beach yelping Shamil. But for her large non-spherical and inflexible black eyes, the Harpy’s round face rivaled that of the most handsome human, or Zilan. If one left aside the wire-like, wild and very dirty hair that is. Her rich black mane cascaded down her shoulders and perky breasts giving a rather favorable illusion of femaleness. Again one had to brush aside the absurdly muscular torso, arms and thighs. Claw-like, deformed legs be damned.
She was a head taller than Taranir, who considered a hasty retreat for a brief moment, afore deciding that the creature could beat him in a foot race for sure given his condition and even absent that the winged lass could always use her darn wings.
So Taranir dropped to a hurting knee to grab a discarded Kopis covered in pieces of flesh and unidentified gore, the moment the Harpy tipped her head back and let out a shrieking cackle that could get your piss flowing even after a week in the desert without any water.
Taranir grabbed the Kopis’ by the hilt with the left hand, but lost it immediately as the fast reacting Harpy half-flew half-dashed towards him in an instant, grabbed the Zilan’s neck and carried him ten meters back in the blink of an eye.
Taranir groaned when his abused and injured back hit rough-cut basalt, legs dangling underneath and almost puked feeling the Harpy’s foul breath and stench engulfing him completely. The creature’s horrifying angelic face approached his, lips parting to show large fangs and teeth, a large red, very long tongue unfurling to lick some of the blood dripping from Taranir’s nose.
Before his stunned brain could process what was happening, the Harpy’s tongue lapped at his cheeks and bleeding maimed ear making sharp and disconcerting purring sounds. Like notes. She had a nervousness about her, an animalistic aura, but it was the strong smell of carcass and burned eggs that overwhelmed everything else and almost paralyzed the injured Zilan. The Harpy paused sniffing strongly at his neck and face, afore she dropped him.
“Nusta o Lyvane,” the Harpy said standing above him, the powerful talon-equipped leg hovering over his heaving in the effort to breathe chest threateningly.
Imperial.
For ‘you reek of Lyvane.’
As absurd a phrase as one could expect to hear from such an odorous creature.
“Who is she?” Taranir croaked and the Harpy cackled in a hair-raising tone as if amused, or pleased. Moving awkwardly at first, she then leaped moving her large wings and flew away, only to land near the corpse of Salamir a brief moment later. Using her claws, the Harpy detached the head from the body and extracted a large piece of the bloody spine, under the disturbed, but remarkably under control given the circumstance Taranir’s eyes.
The reason for it simple.
Of all the things Nevarth had lied in his long life, it turned out this wasn’t one of them. Centuries after Taranir had failed to find the creature described in his father’s tale –that had made Nevarth a very famous, very rich Zilan, Taranir was now witnessing this mythical entity with his own eyes.
Foul-smelling, sure.
A bit more than that probably.
Beautiful and grotesque like the bards fantasized.
Yep.
Full of otherworldly grace and immense power.
No question about it.
Speaking in a bizarre, but understandable tongue.
Now that was a surprise.
Sucking the marrow and fluids out of Salamir’s spine.
Eh.
Forget about that, the dude was a prick.
Taranir almost half-yelped half-groaned when the Harpy landed next to him mid-evaluation. She turned her head to look about the sprawled and helpless Zilan energetically, Taranir was losing a lot of blood fast, but she appeared to be looking for something else. She moved spastically searching his things next. The Harpy had to turn her head this way and that constantly, because her eyes were bird-like and almost completely immobile. Finding what she had been looking for, still sniffing at the air, the Harpy ripped Taranir’s leather satchel with her claws trying to open it, paused to look at him awkwardly for a second and then proceeded to ransack the spilled contents, until she discovered the old feather.
Ah.
“Lyvane,” the Harpy said and placed the feather in her gracefully folding forward wing with amazing care. It should have fallen off but it didn't, which was pretty impressive. Almost as impressive as the color of her naked nipples that were in full display over Taranir’s gawking eyes. A very dark red. Like the richest wine.
She made an angry noise to get his attention and then showed him the still leaking bloody spine.
Lyvane. I’ll be damned.
Had the silver coins hurt her? Pushed her away? Poison her?
“Ahm,” he murmured unsure and she moved the dripping spine over his chest, the bones rattling at the still attached joints as if in an offering.
“You know,” Lyvane insisted with a shrieking whirr.
She wanted to trade him the leftovers of her meal for the lost feather.
In her defense, the marrow is a much-sought after culinary delight and magic ingredient with known healing properties.
Taranir did have a healing potion somewhere in the discarded pile, but he could appreciate the gesture.
“Sure,” Taranir rustled hoarsely in his most sincere voice, almost as scared as aroused, and feeling very vulnerable for the first time since forever.
Lyvane let out a singing cackle and stood up with ease. The next moment she flew away towards the mist-covered boulders starting behind them.
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Three hours later
Morning of 8th of Septimus 195 NC
Pathon stared at the heavily-bandaged, slightly poisoned and feeling sick Taranir with curious eyes. Taranir said nothing to him, but grabbed a shield to sit on with a groan.
“This was a fucked up scrap. We have twenty slain marines,” Pathon reported gruffly to the grimacing and still nowhere near recovered Taranir. “Salamir, Eltaor and Tylor are missing in action—”
“They are dead,” Taranir grunted hoarsely and signed for the deathly-pale Shamil to approach. “They were working for Aeson. Looking to reestablish his access to the fleet’s crews and convoys. Murder me, given the opportunity.”
“Aeson?” Pathon murmured with a grimace of disbelief. “Are you serious? Did you kill them?”
“I tried,” Taranir retorted, touching his maimed ear with a finger. He couldn’t move his right arm, the leg was a mess and he’d a leaking hole near his stomach.
“You… what happened?”
“The island took them,” Taranir rustled and stared at the ogling Shamil until the teenager nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, it did.” Shamil croaked in a low voice. “It’s true mister Pathon.”
Pathon rolled his eyes. “Where are they?” He asked Taranir.
“Gone,” Taranir replied. “Food for the local fauna.”
“The chicken, or the fucking birds? For gods sake Taranir!” Pathon snapped angrily, but managed to control himself and whisper. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
“Yes you did,” Taranir replied soberly and pushed himself upright. “Lanthdor let them go?”
“He wasn’t expecting a fucking angry galleass parked in the gulf. Half the crew was missing!” Pathon retorted in frustration. “At least he got them to stop bombarding us.”
“How many did they lose?”
“Over sixty. We lost eleven from the blasted catapults!”
“We move ahead early on the morrow, but the next convoy needs to be prepared to face even stronger opposition. Two warships per and the company needs to start training its own soldiers,” Taranir said and stared at the now free from the smoke and mist distant standing boulders. The peaks visible amidst the tall palm trees.
“They are going to wait for us at Turtle Isles!” Pathon grunted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is turning even worse than I have imagined!”
“The Turtle Isles are a pirate haven and controlled by a partner. They won’t risk a fight near hostile waters. They don’t have the strength yet.”
“How do you know?”
“If they had more ships they would have sent them,” Taranir retorted with a grimace of pain. His stomach was burning. He turned around to walk away with a signal for Shamil to follow him, but Pathon’s query stopped him.
“Many people reported strange songs and cries during the scrap Taranir,” the 9th Marine unit leader said measuring his words. “Some claimed to have seen a flying woman. Either a Valkyrie, or a plaguing Harpy!”
“Aren’t they the same thing in some old tales?”
“I’m serious Taranir!” Pathon grunted and then added in a lower voice. “The men are asking questions. Rumors are spreading.”
“You don’t actually believe that?”
“I’ve read Nevarth’s stories. Heard him tell it with my own ears!” Pathon argued crooking his mouth.
“Nevarth was a notorious liar and a crook,” Taranir said angrily, the burning in his stomach fierce and his soul hurting. The thought of Aurelien’s fate shoved aside, but threatening to surface and make him lose all control. “Instead of being there to protect his own family, he went about enriching himself and behaving like a cretin.”
“Isn’t this what we do?” Pathon asked him. “We don’t even do it for ourselves but follow someone else’s biding, century after century with nothing to show for.”
“Um,” Taranir grunted and limped away towards the stones.
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Taranir reached the flat top of the first row of standing rocks, each boulder separated from the next with large, or smaller chasms. You could cross, or leap over them. Some too small for a finger to go through. Others much bigger and cavernous, with narrow passages allowing someone to navigate them to the top. The peaks weren’t all the same height, or size, but the bigger ones stood like crude thick columns, resembling half-cut marble left inside a quarry.
He stood at this natural stone carved porch, about twenty meters above the surface and just over some but not all the tall palms extending underneath them. In the distance Taranir could see the waters of the small gulf where Bonavita’s warship had moored and behind him, through a vertical split in the rock, the light blue waters of the lagoon, where the atoll’s copse ended.
Taranir stared at the strange shapes the crumbling rocks had taken all about him. Some still attached to the bigger boulders, others sporting clear cracks, but still remaining upright, in groups, or by themselves. Whatever had moved and cracked the rocks eons back, wasn’t there anymore. Another earthquake might change their shape again perhaps.
The rocks won’t move, Nevarth had told him, centuries back inside the Imperial dungeons. But the smell shall guide you, if you know what to search for.
Taranir sniffed at the clear air. He did it again closing his eyes to concentrate and immediately discerned the faint smell of burned wood from the warehouse. The Lake’s aroma and the rising stench of the many corpses that had started bloating at the beach. Underneath it all the putrid odor of burned eggs. Taranir opened his eyes and followed the smell, limping to the edge of the natural porch, where the second row of boulders started.
At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but then Taranir’s eyes started making out the carved figure that had attached itself at the protruding lip of a narrow crevice, about two meters away from the edge of the porch and directly over the sharp drop underneath.
A crude effigy somehow balanced, created by weathering and erosion to resemble a cocooned figure. The smell stronger here, despite the morning breeze blasting at the east face of the rock formation.
“Mister Taranir,” Shamil said worried. “You’re standing too close to the edge.”
“And yet there are creatures standing even closer,” Taranir murmured and stepped back, afore turning to look at the sullen Shamil. “Noble blood doesn’t secure you a good life Shamil. Your deeds will. Station might appear to make it easier to your eyes, but a poor soul can carve its own path, as successful as any of them. He just needs to keep on trying stubbornly and never let go of the big picture. Yeah. A noble bloodline can be as much trouble as it is a blessing.”
“We need to tell Pathon about what happened,” Shamil said crooking his mouth and looking nervously above his head for the Harpy. She was right there, in front of him and yet he couldn’t see her.
The realm is full of mysteries.
“I don’t trust him fully yet,” Taranir replied. “We have a dilemma here Shamil. Luvon asked me to ‘have a look in the fleet for any irregularities’, knowing full well that I would find something.”
“He set you up?”
“Perhaps. Then again, I could have stayed quiet. Allow them to reveal themselves.”
Maybe Luvon wanted me to find out. This is a new administration. Nobody wants nasty surprises and Hardir is a very volatile ruler. It could be self-preservation. It could also mean that Luvon knew about Aeson all those years back and lied to Helven.
Or did he?
“Why didn’t you?”
Taranir grimaced. “I couldn’t let them go through with it. I knew how it would end. Everyone is looking for something, is guilty of one thing, or another. The weak have no one to speak for them and are eaten up. Intelligent creatures know right from wrong and can cultivate their nature, but they are also prone to lying if they can get something out of it.”
“Are there more of them?”
“Everyone is potentially involved, but the real bad apples are not as many. Crime needs trust and this takes time to build up. The Cofols,” Taranir sighed and stared at the petrified figure trying to find Lyvane’s face in the rock but failing. It was as if her wings had folded over her head and body, turning the Harpy into real stone. “And some Zilan… like having slaves. For different reasons. Economic, vanity, the need to be worshipped when your station, or deeds aren’t so noteworthy.”
“I grew up in this culture mister Taranir,” Shamil said.
“Sam of the Desert tribes,” Taranir murmured and rubbed his face. “Stay noble as much as you can lad. Sometimes you have to fight your own blood for it.”
“It’s not difficult to see right from wrong… most of the times,” Shamil said thoughtfully. “Is this ratline dealing with slaves only?”
“It deals in everything. Slaves, man hunting, a discreet provider for flesh, or weapons. Even magic potions. Where there’s a need, even if the laws forbid it, there’ll be a market. It is a big business Sam, because everyone is looking for something.”
“What are you looking for?” Shamil asked all serious.
“I have my grandfather’s blood in me. A man of law and justice that killed a lot of people following the orders of Monarchs, or stripped them from their station. My mother’s, who loved gathering herbs and watch plants grow. Spent her life cultivating, making potions and helping people. I like to pretend I’m a bit of both.”
“My father was a goat herder. One day the herd came back without him,” Shamil said nodding sadly. “But my mother grows stuff in the garden too. You can take the best from each one I guess and be the better version.”
Taranir frowned not expecting so solid an advice from the human and stared at the teenager confused. “I take after my father alas.”
“What kind of a man was he?”
“I’ve no idea, rarely met the scoundrel growing up, but always believed everything he said was a darn lie.”
“Why?”
“He lied to my mother aplenty,” Taranir replied with a nervous grimace. “But not all his stories were false. I guess not all monsters are truly evil, all the time.”
“Um. What are we doing here mister Taranir? It’ll be for the better if we returned to the ships, I think,” Shamil offered with a coy smile.
Taranir glanced a last time at the frozen in time figure of the petrified Harpy. He’d no idea how their bodies worked, if this was a hibernation of sorts disturbed by the bombardment, whether she would wake up again, or in how many years later.
Centuries. Maybe the atoll trapped her here to keep company to all the other corpses just like my mother. A carcass of stone to watch over the others.
Or maybe they just have cycles like all other beasts back on Eplas.
He cracked a bitter smile at that rather common Zilan belief.
If she’s a bloodthirsty beast, then what are we?
“I smelled of Lyvane,” Taranir said hoarsely and gave a nod to the strange creature that had saved his life, even if it was an accident. They all want to see the distant unknown and the realms exotic, ancient sown mysteries, Nevarth’s voice explained in his head. But their deep-rooted fear of what life made different won’t let them. It holds them back and makes them bitter. They’ll pay for an entertaining story, laugh at its heroes and hate its villains. Sing, talk, or criticize the creatures of the lands beyond, but they’ll never step in their shoes, or ever truly love them. “And now I know.”