Chapter 8 - Assault on Qalydon

  There was no end to the creaking of The Virulence's old wood boards. Each conquered wave brought on a new set of groans from every corner of the ship. The winds were strong this night and the waters unsettled —Jack could hear it.

  He hid in the depths of the ship's bowels, a storage room where extra armaments and food were kept. The occasional rat scuttled about between torn burlap sacks filled with grain and dried goods. None approached him despite his utter silence. Perhaps some animal instinct that kept them from approaching a predator.

  Not that Jack had any interest in harming one. He had no interest in violence this night. None at all.

  Liar Jahck said.

  “It's not a lie,” Jack insisted. “Not tonight.” His thoughts were strewn in the web of vitriol Eksa had spat at him. She didn’t mean it, surely. But that dagger plunged into his back had been enough pain for him to flee. He'd long since been searching for an excuse after all. Eksa feared him. He'd make a poor friend if he didn't distance himself from her. Aaron doesn't fear me though. He wouldn't betray me like this.

  But he's already left you Jahck taunted.

  “No. He left because he had to.”

  Yes. Left you with a responsibility you failed in. How do you think he'll react? He’ll hate you. He'll throw you out. You're alone Jackrin. Alone with me.

  “Aaron will not abandon me,” Jack said. “He left to build a better world for me. For everyone.”

  Is that the lie you tell yourself before you sleep? Poor Jack. Poor, poor Jack. You just but have to put on the mask. Let me take over. I know what it is you want, what you truly desire. Give me control and together we'll lay waste to the world.

  Jack clutched his ears, as if doing so would silence his other half. He tucked his knees in closer, scraping his boots along the dust marred wood floor. Scampering rats paused at the sound, their beady eyes turned his way. A light trailed in from the space beneath the storeroom's door, voices and footsteps accompanying. The door slammed open and a burly sailor with a bandana over his head stepped in, cutlass at his waist and orange luminite sphere in hand.

  The rats scattered.

  Crow hobbled in afterwards, his face twisted into a frown. Jack had worn his mask, sitting in plain view of the newcomers but conjuring an illusion to make it seem he weren't there at all. But with the mask came Jahck's inclinations toward macabre arts. It took a great deal of willpower to prevent from pouncing on Crow's exposed neck just then.

  It'll be a parting gift to Eksa, Jahck said. Come. Let's kill him. You'll give her the island and help Aaron at the same time. Come!

  But no. This was not a night for making masterworks. Not a night for murder.

  “Flaming rats,” Crow spat. “Have the lads haul the bolts above deck ere dawn.” Then the door shut and both men were gone, leaving the unseen jester alone in the dark.

  Jack sighed. No night was for murder. It was only when his need grew nigh unbearable did he kill in cold blood.

  But we enjoy it all the same.

  “No,” Jack said. “We might enjoy the act, but you relish in the thought of it afterwards. I despise it.”

  Oh, my dear Jackrin. And is that any different?

  The ship lurched as it conquered what must've been a particularly rough patch of water, throwing Jack against the wall. His other half fell silent, leaving him to contemplate the future. Aaron said he was a Caranel. From the information Jack had gathered, High House Caranel held dominion over the northernmost region of Xenaria. A lengthy trip for certain, but traveling at night, should he have a steady supply of human blood, he'd make the journey faster than a desert mare traveling without burden.

  But before all of that came his parting gift to Eksa. Jack had been there, tucked away in the shadows when Crow and Aki had conversed. Qalydon was doomed to suffer, of that Jack could do little —least of all with the battle planned just before dawn. His enhanced physical abilities would not last long. But he would not let the city fall. Crow would not get the overwhelming victory he sought to satiate his men's desires. But he would likely not return a loser either. At most, he'd make a great showing of force and make those flocking to Eksa's side reconsider.

  Holding their loyalty now became her task alone.

  That left Jack with but one burning question —would there ever come a day when she might truly acknowledge him as a friend?

  ***

  Thump, thump, thump!

  “Mistress! Mistress Coraine, the city!”

  Tilda was awake even without her lady in waiting's urgent cries. Dawn was nigh but little Trauvel had fallen asleep just, his small form huddled beneath a soft white blanket. He was a slow learner, only beginning to take his first steps and utter his first words a few months prior. Darkness was the boy's bane, and he did not sleep until sunrise was but a mere hour away, giving Tilda no end of pain and exhaustion.

  She dressed herself hurriedly, pulling down her shift and tossing out clothes from a thick, mahogany wardrobe until she found the appropriate bodice, and her fencing coat hanging at the end of over a dozen different dresses. Qalydon's warning bells chimed with a flurry —an announcement that meant an assault.

  The door to her chambers burst open and her maid stepped inside, face wrought with fear. “Mistress, the pirates have—”

  Trauvel began to wail.

  Tilda shot her woman a glare before moving to the bed and resting her hand on her dear child's head. “Hush, hush little one. I am here. There's nothing to fear.” She carefully slipped out a small bead of white luminite from the bedside drawer, holding it before him. “Look, there is light. Nothing to fear, go back to sleep.”

  There was a pause in the child's cries, but they renewed shortly after. The bells continued to ring and the windows were open, each ding like a hammer upon a gong in the dead of night.

  “Shutter the windows and then help me dress,” Tilda snapped. Flames, but her eyes stung from a lack of sleep. Her joints begged to be lain upon the soft mattress, but she pressed off of them, cursing while reaching behind her back to tie the laces of her bodice. Mara, the handmaid —the longest lasting one, hastily tied them for Tilda before helping her put on the coat.

  Trauvel screamed for seemingly no reason and Tilda rushed to his side again. “For Flames sake, shutter the windows already!” she cried as the maid moved to do just that. The dinging still pierced the walls and windows.

  “Mistress,” Mara gasped, “your eyes are black. You need rest.”

  “I know that,” Tilda growled. She pulled on her high boots and strapped on a belt holding her needle like blade, kissing her son before storming out of the chamber, pausing just beyond the doorway. “Do not leave his side until he's fallen asleep. And do not open the door unless you hear me behind it!” she ordered, closing the door behind her.

  The manor was a storm with maids awake and muttering in fear. Sir Rodden, the butler urged them back to their quarters. He held in his hands an old shortsword and shield from his days fighting beneath the Silver Eagle banner. These days, his hair was white and his back ailments gave him a slight hunch, but he clutched those arms with the poise of a man with experience.

  The doors to the manor were open, cool night air billowing past. Messengers came in and out, reporting to Sir Rodden, who visibly paled upon receiving the latest word.

  Tilda came down the stairs, the needle blade in her hand. She bit back her rage upon hearing the distant screams of terror and pain come from within the city. Despite the manor's somewhat distant proximity to the city itself, the cries of her people still reached her. Beyond the doors stood a dozen guards in a dark courtyard. Budding flowers surrounded them, but their presence was as ill a comfort as the grey light of a creeping dawn. The warning bells made sure of that.

  Abruptly, the dinging came to a halt. An eerie void took its place and every eye in the manor turned to Tilda. She grit her teeth. “Sir Rodden, what's the report?”

  The old soldier sunk his head. “Not well, my lady. The docks are overrun. The ramparts we built beyond them have been taken, their ballistae turned to the city itself. They're oiling the bolts and lighting them aflame before firing them into the city.”

  “The warships?” Tilda asked hesitantly. Four of six were out on escort missions. The majority of Qalydon's defence forces were on those ships. The city itself was ill prepared for an attack. She'd long since known this, but the new Queen had drawn back the Whitecoats that Sir Aegis had left behind two years ago, and had since declined any pleas for aid. What Tilda had received instead had been a scathing critique of her husband's utter failure to reclaim Kovar, and an absolute denial of aid as some twisted form of retribution.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Our two ships are still off the coast, fighting against many boarders. They cannot come to land.”

  Another messenger burst through the open doorway. “The pirates,” he cried through laborious breaths. “They've broken through the defense line. They're storming the refugee holds.”

  'Defense line' was a loose term for the few soldiers watching the mouths of wide open streets. This was expected, but horrible nonetheless. Worse yet, to target the refugee holds from those that had fled Kovar two years ago?

  “I'm going out there,” Tilda said.

  “My lady, you mustn't,” Rodden said, but Tilda was already at the door, ready to bark orders to her guards when the first of them fell to a bolt in the chest. Then fell the second, and a third cried out as one took him in the arm.

  Rodden swiftly pulled Tilda back inside the manor and shut the doors, locking them. “Move furniture before the gates!” he demanded.

  It was futile. The windows at the side would be easily shattered even if the door could not be breached. Tilda hadn't even finished the thought before rocks smashed into the windows, letting in the sounds of her dying men's struggles. Then all went still in the courtyard outside, the only sounds that of an ominous whistling wind and the distant wails of a city ablaze.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Rodden and the maids had barely gotten a table to the doors before the hinges broke apart and the wood shattered at the strike of whatever ram the invaders had brought to the manor. The table was shoved aside with a screech from its dragging legs before it tipped over just before Tilda's feet, revealing a group of about twenty burly and armed men standing in the greyness that was early dawn.

  ***

  Aki stood before the stone fence surrounding Coraine Manor's front courtyard. She'd done her part as Crow had asked, taking a secret team through the city. Once before she'd been here long ago, as a friend and guest of High Lord Theodore Coraine. Now, she was here as an enemy come to kill.

  She held in her arms her trusted spear, its blade untainted this night. Her back was to the stone, and her eyes turned down to the green grasses and budding flowers planted before the courtyard. Some had been crushed by the fallen bodies. Others were splattered with dark blood. The smell of death and smoke mixed with the scent of their sweetness.

  All of it entirely horrible.

  Aki had not the heart to step inside and witness what it is those men would do to Lady Coraine and her maids. She felt more ashamed to show her face to the lady more than she felt ashamed of her actions this night.

  I've no choice. Again those words despite her earlier convictions.

  This time, she actually found herself believing them, and it only felt worse.

  Dear Flames across the twilight

  I ask for but a chance

  Aki swung around at the softly sung lines. There, approaching down the path from among the haze and anguish far behind him, was Eksa's madman, the jester who'd earned Aki a fortune at her bar. For once, the boy was not laughing maniacally, and Aki got a good look at his too pretty a face as the sun cracked past the eastern horizon. Somewhere in some far corner of the world, there were a dozen girls weeping for the hideousness given them by the heavens, for what should have been theirs was taken and given to this boy instead.

  Dear Flames across the twilight

  I ask to stand again

  Aki flexed her arms and took a stance, leveling her spear against the jester. His eyes, distant, turned to meet hers. “Not you,” he said.

  In a blur of motion, Aki found herself standing but two feet apart from this man. He'd closed the range of her spear in a blink. She but caught a glimpse of his boot arcing toward her, his pose nonchalant, the kick having no power behind it. But a force like a sledgehammer was driven into her gut and she was slammed against the stone wall behind her, head snapping back. Her vision fuzzed and she felt the spear leave her sweaty palms.

  Sweat? My palms? I was afraid?

  She groaned as she pushed up, wondering when the next attack would come. It did not. The blond boy kept singing, walking past her, conjuring knives from among his pockets like magic, approaching Crow's merry squad of sneaking bastards with that maniacal grin.

  Aki stopped rising, realizing that she did not, in that instant, want to stop him at all. Both because of fear, and because she knew he'd cleanse her of the stain marring her treacherous soul.

  ***

  Tilda felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of her head. The assailers entered, some wearing vests, others open shirts, and two with proper leather armor. It was a mix of people from every corner of Illusterra, their only shared similarity being their thick muscles and ill-fitting faces with scars and crooked noses.

  These men were not here to pillage and burn. They were careful in their steps, coming inside one by one and spreading out, each armed with a proper blade and knife. Two at the rear held up crossbows. Seventeen in total, now that Tilda had a better chance to count. No, there was another one outside wearing all white. Their leader?

  With a howl, Sir Rodden stepped forward, shield first and shortsword raised. He kept the table between him and his enemy, stabbing forward. The pirate danced back, unprovoked. A crossbow bolt slammed into Rodden's shield, piercing through and cutting the man's cheek.

  Tilda faced the first of those that came to her. She hopped forward, jabbing. The grunt sidestepped, but Tilda swept the needle-like blade back, aiming to take an eye but only cutting through the man's lip instead. That angered her assailer enough to charge, but she hopped back, heart thumping, and jabbed innumerable amount of times. Twice she hit, but not vitals. Her weapon and skills were not suited to this kind of assault.

  The attacker lunged in and she hopped away, but from her side came another, running straight for her. She jabbed forward, aiming at his exposed chest. His leather top took the brunt of the attack, and he twisted to deflect the sword away, slamming into Tilda and toppling her before the steps of the manor's grand stair.

  “My lady,” Rodden cried. The butler was standing, but bleeding from many places. He rushed to her aid, turning Tilda's assailer from her. She used the chance to stab into his nape, and Rodden, thinking quick, attacked the first man that had beset Tilda, cutting him down swiftly.

  Two of the eighteen were down. We can do this, Tilda thought, letting out a low groan as she picked herself up and felt several aches across many bones. And then two crossbow bolts found Rodden's exposed back, and the man fell over. Any confidence Tilda had just acquired bled out like the gates of a dam given way. Still she stood tall before the stair, tears forming in her eyes. Her assailers broke into assured grins. Several stole toward the right, to go to the servant's quarters. The maids…

  Tilda found herself missing Theodore greatly in that moment. Her arms began to tremble and her mouth dried.

  Dear Flames across the twilight

  Will you extend a hand?

  The two men wielding crossbows collapsed without a word, their napes slashed through.

  The seven that remained on the foyer turned, while the six running towards the side paused. “It's him!” one cried. “Dhorjun's killer!”

  “The madman,” snarled one pirate. He stepped forward, but slumped, then fell, a knife buried to the hilt in his chest. Before him stood the blond man in white Tilda had seen before, thin sprays of blood staining his clothes.

  Is that a man at all, she wondered. This man wore the word 'beautiful' better than any woman in a wedding gown. Dhorjun's killer, they said. Then Dhorjun is not the one attacking?

  Dear Flames across the twilight

  I wish for but a friend

  This newcomer's singing voice was enough to shroud the sounds of distant screams with an illusory dust. His presence changed the atmosphere of the manor. Where Tilda had been despairing but a second before, she felt almost invigorated, excited even, as if she were witnessing a deeply engrossing play.

  The beauty from the man vanished as a smile spread across his lips that quickly turned into a grin too wide. Insanity twinkled in his eyes. The pirates beset him, but he danced back, keeping himself inside the doorway to limit his attackers to but two at a time. He worked blindingly fast, slashing at throats with a knife in one hand and a twisted, ominous looking red-bladed dagger in the other.

  In a flash, four more had fallen and the enemy count was down to nine. The man in white cackled loud. The spell of captivation cast upon his entrance shattered. Tilda sucked in air and ran into the fray with renewed faith in victory. The clacks of her boots served as a warning, but too late. Tilda's needle found a throat. She pulled out swiftly, taking a guarded stance.

  The remaining enemies spread out, four to each side. The cackling madman stepped back indoors and threw a knife. It found the second leather wearer, harming him little, but the madman lunged forward to the left, stabbing furiously before his opponent could mount any counter.

  Tilda was left facing the enemies to the right. “Oh what the hell,” she said, turning her back on them and attacking the pirates on the left side as well. If she was going to survive, her odds were better with this laughing stranger at her side. So she thought when she stabbed at her first foe, but he deflected her blade with his own, bringing up a fist curled around a knife hilt, and slamming his knuckles into her throat. Tilda fell on her rear, inhaling and coughing at nearly the same time. Her weapon clattered at her side, and the shadow of a pirate loomed over her. She felt the cold edge of a blade pressed against her throat as someone hauled her up by the armpit.

  “Stop!” her captor cried. “Stop or we kill her.”

  The madman thrust his knife into the neck of the fourth pirate on the right side, somehow having taken down the rest within the breathless seconds that'd passed.

  Dear Flames across the twilight

  Am I to never mend?

  He sung the verse with the poise of an unfazed performer, letting the last word come out in a whisper that left the place feeling more somber than the deaths plaguing it already had. Then he grinned and rent out his knife, slashing through the throat with unneeded violence, letting flow a scarlet fountain.

  The blade at Tilda's throat dug deeper. A warm bead roll down and caught at her collarbone.

  The madman did not care. He killed everyone but the man who'd taken Tilda hostage within seconds, pulling knives from within what must have been deep pockets and throwing them into three pairs of eyes. One per man would have done, but the madman expended six knives per three. The last remaining pirate found his hostage useless. He shoved Tilda to the ground and turned to flee, but the twisted dagger found his back.

  Tilda watched with horror as that final pirate turned into a dry sack of skin and bone, his blood sucked out by that red-bladed dagger. The singing saviour pulled his dagger out, and the corpse fell almost like a deflated coat.

  This stranger then approached Tilda, his grin gone, but the twinkle of insanity still glowing in his bright blue eyes. He was both beautiful and terrible, that once spotless face tainted by hundreds of tiny red dots. He pressed his dagger to the bead of blood on her collarbone and it disappeared in a blink.

  “This is but all I can do,” he said, speaking to a floor tile beside Tilda than directly at her.

  “Who —what are you?” Tilda asked. Apparently, changing the question to 'what' did not go well. A look of anguish overcame this young man and for a hair's breadth, Tilda thought she was going to die.

  The stranger then stood. “I am a person,” he said, nodding to himself as if the fact needed any confirmation. “A person no different from any other. That is how he thinks of me.”

  “He?”

  “Lord Zz'tai,” the man said with what appeared a smile of genuine mirth. Then he turned to leave. It was only then Tilda noticed the white mask tied to the back of his head. He brought it to the front, bowed low as might a performer before the gates, and said “The name's Jack. Jackrin the Jester. Let it be known to all who it was that saved Qalydon this day.”

  And then he was gone. Sunlight from a new day bled through the windows.