24
Milardin’s grand hall had collapsed, like the rest of that once lovely oceanside city; brought to ruin by Arvendahl’s magically triggered earthquake and flood. Where once had bloomed flowers, now there was rubble. Where once had been laughter and song, now only screams, keening wind and the ragged tolling of Milardin’s last war-bell. All of it threaded with clouds of screeching, quarreling gannets, fighting for shreds of torn flesh.
The mud-and-blood tainted tide had begun to recede, drawn away by the sea-elves’ great power… And that was a threat in itself, for Queen Shanella demanded Lord Arvendahl’s head by way of were-gild, else she’d take revenge in her own time and fashion. Nalderick had been sent off on the dreadnought Majesty, along with Lady Solara and Captain Prentiss. Told to prevent open war between Karellon and Averna by any means necessary; left hand protocol given.
Now, having snared a clue to Arvendahl’s possible whereabouts, Prince Nalderick shifted most of his crew’s activity to the crushed and still-settling council hall. Its bottom floors were flooded with rank, muddy water. Anyone down there would probably keep (being sea-elven stock, part selkie, or dead) so the hunters concentrated on the shattered and leaning top stories.
There were others around, as well. People who scrambled across the wreckage with shining image globes over their heads, portraying the ones they were looking for.
“Please, have you seen…?!” rang out over and over, as desperate, hopeful rescuers struggled to reach their trapped loved ones. Nalderick was meant to focus on locating Arvendahl. Couldn’t help himself, though. Under cover of questioning possible witnesses, he pulled Solara and Scander over and pitched in, himself. Learned nothing much new at first, but did score the crown plenty of lifelong gratitude.
Then, having aided a wisp of an elf in a torn, bloodied uniform… leaning in as Lady Solara raised tons of massive stone blocks… he struck mithral and manna.
“Two more alive, over here!” the prince shouted, signaling Scander. The healer came bustling forward, rattling vials as he hopped over gaps and slid along tottering slabs.
“Here, your highness!” puffed the halfling, looking grubby, gentle and mild. “Right here!”
Their find was a half-elven woman wearing the bloodstained shreds of a navy officer’s uniform. She cradled a badly injured marine with one of her arms, using the opposite hand to shield his face from trickling rubble and sand.
They were lifted up into the air by Solara’s spell, then sprayed down with potion by Scander (who’d switched to a brass tank and hose). Nalderick’s frantic guide reached for the victims, crying out,
“Karlo! Karlo, it’s me! I’m here! We’ve got you Karlo, you’re safe!” The spell globe that hovered above showed a pair of proud young marines, standing side by side in full uniform, just barely not quite holding hands.
The healer went straight to work on ‘Karlo’, as the unconscious half-elf seemed to have taken most of the damage. Nalderick focused instead on the naval officer, who blinked and coughed, looking stunned.
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“What is your name and rank, Aerrior?” he demanded, conjuring healing-spring water. Had to hold her head while she drank a bit through cracked lips and chipped, bloody teeth. Then, with a bubbling gasp, the woman said,
“I am Leftenant… Sera Cliffwatch, Your Highness… acting c- captain of Vancora.”
And Vancora was High Lord Arvendahl’s flagship, reputedly the only one of Milardin’s great fleet to return from attacking Averna. Score.
“I see,” the prince nodded, spotting a blood-stained logbook under the leftenant’s shoulder. “To the point, Leftenant: I am seeking Lord Arvendahl,” he said, extracting that critical book with a flick of his finger. “Where is he?!”
The half-elven woman was healing, but shocked. Seemed to have trouble forming a response. Then somebody coughed as they made their way over, slipping on tilted stone and splintery beams. It was a beautiful black-haired elf-maid with very blue eyes and a terribly icy expression.
“She knows nothing, Your Highness,” rasped the newcomer, in a low and raw-throated voice. “Cliffwatch hadn’t the rank to speak with my uncle directly, nor to sit at his privy council.”
Nalderick turned his head and upper body to better regard the girl. Then he got to his feet, leaving Leftenant Cliffwatch to the care of Majesty’s skilled halfling leech.
Supported by a sorrowing, dark-skinned elf-lord, Lady Sheraza approached. She’d cleansed herself with magic, pulling a green velvet cloak from her faerie pockets to wrap up and hide her own wounds. Too proud to display weakness or fear, Sheraza leaned only slightly on her escort (Lord Dawnwending, if memory served).
“Milady,” said Nalderick, inclining his head politely.
She sketched a slightly tremulous bow, as did Esten Dawnwending. He, too, was injured. Possibly more in his heart than his body, though, for there was no shining globe over him; none left alive to search for. Nalderick cleared his throat, pretending not to notice the other elf’s silent tears.
“What news of High Lord Arvendahl?” he asked, as though they were met for tea in the palace garden.
Sheraza lifted her head, keeping an equally ruthless clamp on emotion.
“My uncle will likely have gone to his northern hunting lodge, Sea Haven. He maintains a menagerie and a work sanctum there, said to have belonged to Sherazedan the Great.” Then, glancing aside, the girl added, “Cliffwatch and all of her crew are innocent, Your Highness… as are the council and surviving folk of Milardin. Blame them not, for they have done nothing at all to deserve imperial wrath.”
Lord Dawnwending turned his head to regard Sheraza. Speaking as one trapped in a nightmare, he murmured,
“My Lady…”
The girl shook her head, cutting him off and pulling away to stand free.
“No, Lord Esten,” she told him. “This is my burden, alone. As my uncle acted without consulting his council or officers, so none of you share in his guilt.” Next, turning to look at the prince once again, Sheraza said, “I offer myself in Lord Arvendahl’s place, should he prove untraceable, Your Highness. I will accept whatever judgment the emperor sees fit to mete out… on myself, not on Milardin or the people and realm of Alandriel.”
Nalderick had a fresh lead to follow, now. He was impatient to go; to close this whole awful business forever. Signaling Captain Prentiss forward, he ordered,
“Place her under arrest, Captain, and bring her aboard the Majesty. She is to be healed and attended, then bound up with iron and sigil and word… but with all the respect due to her courage and rank.”
Prentiss bowed low.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she said to the weary, dark-haired young prince. “At once. Shall I recall the crew, and make ready to voyage north?”
Nalderick hesitated, clearly torn. Then,
“We shall proceed to this hunting lodge,” he decided, “with a skeleton crew, taking only those absolutely required to manage the airship. The rest will stop here in Milardin. There… may be more… witnesses… more news or traces of Arvendahl’s doings to learn,” he finished awkwardly.
Captain Prentiss did not smile, but her gaze softened. His Highness did not have to excuse his own mercy… and someday, she thought, he would make a very fine monarch, indeed.