Hero, Traitor, Daughter

  “That is what we thought,” Jeva said. “We are going to your Ceres’s aid. Better not to waste our efforts on lesser things.”

  His Ceres. Thanos wished it were as simple as that. That things between them hadn’t been so difficult when he left. With everything that he’d done, and everything that Stephania had managed to insinuate, Thanos wasn’t sure that they’d ever been further apart. He only hoped that he could change that by showing her how much he was prepared to do to keep her safe.

  He was prepared to bring a fleet of the most feared pirates of Felldust to attack its fleet, for one thing.

  Yet, the more he looked at the fleet the Bone Folk had assembled, the more worried he got. They would have suffered losses taking on a fragment of the fleet that Felldust could bring to bear. How would they fare against the whole thing? Thanos had seen some of the ships for that. He’d seen the vessels stretching across Port Leeward’s harbor, and those were just the ones trying to catch up. How huge would the main force be?

  More to the point, how could they ever hope to stand against it? What if they reached the fleet, attacked it, and found that it was like adding a single drop of wine to a barrel of water? They might be overwhelmed and destroyed so quickly that it was as though they weren’t there at all.

  “You’re worrying,” Jeva said.

  Thanos nodded. “I am. I’ve seen you fight. I’ve heard your reputations as pirates, and the fact that the First Stone wanted you to join the invasion says a lot about how dangerous you are as warriors…”

  “But?” Jeva prompted.

  She sounded as though she’d been waiting for this moment. Perhaps she had. Thanos was quickly learning not to underestimate the people he traveled with.

  “We might not win,” Thanos said. “I’ve brought you all this way, and I might be sending you to your deaths. Felldust’s fleet is going to be huge. So big that we might not be able to beat it even if we take it by surprise.”

  He watched as Jeva cocked her head to one side.

  “And you’re telling me this because…”

  “Because I want to be fair,” Thanos said. “I want to give you the chance to pull out of this if you want to. You and all your people.”

  Jeva nodded gravely. She turned back to the rest of the ship and started to speak in the strange dialect her people had. It seemed to bear no connection to the main tongue of Felldust, with clicks and sharp edges to the words that made it sound almost like bone scraping against bone.

  “I am telling them that we might not win,” she said. “That you wanted them to know this. That it was very important to you to say this.”

  Then she burst out laughing. So, to Thanos’s surprise, did most of the others on the ship. They treated the whole thing as if it were the best joke they’d heard in a long time. One of the sailors actually leaned against the bleached mast of the ship as though he had trouble keeping his footing, he was laughing that much.

  “We know we won’t win,” Jeva said. “I saw the fleet myself. You think I can’t count?”

  “No,” Thanos said. “I just—”

  “You just thought that you could find a way through all this without anyone dying. We’re not afraid of dying. Going to join our ancestors? For us, it means finally getting a say in how things go.”

  Thanos wasn’t sure that he could wrap his mind around that. All the other people he’d met cared whether they lived or died, even if occasionally they felt that a cause, or another person, was worth the risk.

  “We came here knowing what would happen,” Jeva went on. “The ones who speak to the dead say that it is a thing worth doing. More than that, we know it is worth doing. We have stories about the Ancient Ones. We know how important they were to the world, and how important they might still be.”

  Thanos found it strange that Ceres’s name could inspire so much, even though he knew that she was more than worth any risk in person. These people had never met her, but they were willing to die for her.

  “We will strike at their fleet,” Jeva said. “We will punch a hole through them, and perhaps in that hole, you will be able to get the Ancient One to safety. We will do what is necessary.”

  Thanos didn’t know what to say to that. Should he thank them for what they were doing, or would they see that as another joke? Worse, would they see it as an insult? Thanos was starting to realize that he didn’t know them at all, but that didn’t matter. Not when they were prepared to do this.

  Looking out, he saw land appearing on the horizon. The Empire lay ahead, with all the conflict that would follow. In the distance, Thanos thought he saw fires, and fear gripped him then. What if they were too late? What if the conflict was already over?

  “You should go back to the other boat,” Jeva said. “You do not want to be on this one when the battle starts, and we wouldn’t want to get your bones mixed up with those of our people when it is done.”

  “Thank you,” Thanos said.

  Jeva shook her head. “Do not thank us. Do what must be done. And when the time comes, remember to die well!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Irrien smiled in grim satisfaction as his flagship scraped up against Delos’s docks. With the enemy fleet in tatters, it had been an easy thing to break the harbor chain and pour into the space behind like a stain on the water. He felt the deep rightness of things going as he had planned them.

  Flaming missiles flew over his head, but Irrien didn’t duck. A leader couldn’t afford to show weakness. Especially not a First Stone. Irrien had taken his position by defeating the last holder of the seat, seizing his interests and finally slaying him. His men liked to profess their loyalty, but he knew there was always someone, somewhere, who would try to take it from him if they felt that they could.

  So he stood tall, ignoring the pain in his arm where Akila had wounded him, ignoring the flight of the fire arrows and the clay pots that hissed with oil when they struck the water. Ignoring even the thought that victory was in his grasp. A strong man did not let what was to be gained distract him from the process of seizing it.

  “Forward!” Irrien called. “Take the docks!”

  He followed the first wave of men down onto them, drawing a knife so long that for another man it would have been a short sword. He was grateful in that moment that he’d thought to leave his great sword in Akila when he’d kicked him down for the sharks to take. A blade could be replaced easily enough; a reputation was a more difficult thing.

  Irrien saw a rebel coming at him through the throng of the battle, holding an axe. He sidestepped the man’s attack, striking out with his knife at throat level. He let the attacker drop, sheathed his knife, and took up the axe with his good hand.

  “The first victory on Empire soil!” Irrien called, hefting it overhead. He didn’t raise his left arm. He wasn’t sure that he could. No doubt his healers would be able to help, but for now, he wanted that aura of invincibility.

  Around him, his men hacked and killed, spurred on by Irrien’s display. They tore into the defenders around the docks, fighting their way to the spots where two catapults continued to fling flaming pots toward Irrien’s fleet.

  Men trying to be brave. Irrien didn’t know whether to be impressed or to laugh.

  He did neither, instead settling for smashing his axe through the skull of another foe, then using it to sweep aside the head of a spear so that he could cut into its wielder.

  “Kill the men on those catapults,” Irrien called, “but do not destroy them. Inside the harbor, they can protect us.”

  His warriors hastened to obey. Irrien saw a woman in the wraps of one of the dust tribes plunge a short spear into a rebel. He watched as one of the spike-haired gang members of Port Leeward jumped in with a knife in either hand. War brought people together the way almost nothing else could.

  Away to his left, Irrien saw a collection of people with their belongings on their backs, scuttling through the streets like the rats they were as they tried to flee. Men and women, even a few children
. Irrien looked around and saw that the battle for the docks was going well.

  Well enough for him to take a detour.

  “All of you here, with me,” Irrien said, and ran in the direction of the fleeing people. He sprinted along the front of the docks, leading a small group of his warriors who bayed for blood like sand lizards.

  He saw the tripwire just in time.

  “Halt!” he yelled, skidding to a stop, but some of those with him were too slow to react, or hadn’t heard him, or were too caught up in their need for blood to listen. Whatever the reason, several sprinted past him, hitting the line of tripwires as a group.

  Bolts flew out from crossbows connected to them, thudding as they slammed into flesh. Irrien saw a muscled man with the bearskin cloak of one of the Dead Forest tribes go down, looking surprised at the thought that death might have come for him. A warrior in light chain found that it was no match for the force of the weapon coming toward her.

  Irrien had to admire the mind that had put these traps in place. A man could not live with such things around, but this was not about living with them; it was about denying the city to those who attacked, whatever the cost.

  “Careful,” Irrien said. “There will be more.”

  There were. As they advanced, he spotted wires linked to barricades holding rubble. He found deadfalls and pits, spikes and more crossbows. Every step seemed to be fraught with danger, but Irrien picked his way through it.

  Those trying to flee were still ahead, and Irrien wasn’t going to let the weak escape so easily.

  He saw them ahead and charged after them. His followers charged with him. Irrien slammed into the back of them, cutting down one of the men. Another turned, trying to draw a knife, and Irrien hacked at him with his axe. He ignored the spray of blood, looking for another foe to kill.

  There were none, though, because these folk would not fight for their lives. They just cowered there like the slaves they would soon be. Half of them were already on their knees, and Irrien found himself sorting them in his mind. The young women and the few strong men who would fetch the best price. The older women and the boys. The rest. Some they would keep for now. Some they would put on oars. One woman with dark hair, Irrien decided that he would keep for himself, until she bored him enough to sell or give to the priests for one of their sacrifices.

  He strode to her, standing over her, seeing the fear in her eyes.

  “Tell me, who set the traps in the street?” Irrien demanded.

  She looked up at him with obvious terror, and Irrien thought he might have to strike her to get her talking. But the words came blurting out, as they always did from those without the strength to fight.

  “There is a man named Berin,” the woman said. “Ceres’s father. He and his smiths came through the streets, building defenses.”

  “And did any here help him?” Irrien demanded.

  She shook her head frantically. “No. We didn’t want to be involved in their war. We wanted… we wanted to be safe.”

  The bleating of the lamb in the field, as it always was. Please don’t hurt us. As if words could do anything to stop one with strength. Perhaps this one thought that she’d done something right by admitting that she hadn’t even tried to defend what was hers.

  “And Ceres is in the castle, waiting for us?” Irrien asked.

  The woman shook her head. “No, I mean… maybe. They say that Lady Stephania took the castle back from the rebellion. That she captured Ceres.”

  Irrien considered that. It was an interesting development. He had heard of Lady Stephania, for one thing. It was said that her beauty outshone the stars, while her cunning left men dead in its wake. A woman to admire, in other words.

  Still, it made no difference who sat within the castle. Irrien intended to take it, as he would the rest of the city. His new slave’s words merely changed the nature of the prize, not what had to be done.

  “You will tell me everything you know of this Lady Stephania,” he said.

  “I might be able to help you with that,” a woman’s voice replied. She stepped from the shadows of one of the houses, moving quietly enough that even Irrien hadn’t spotted her coming. That was the kind of silence that took training.

  She was comely enough, and nobly dressed beneath a dark cloak that was no doubt designed to disguise who she was while she made her way through the city.

  “Lady Stephania sent me, my lord,” she said, with a curtsey that was probably fit for a king in this uncivilized land where the weak did not kneel before their betters. “My name is Wanale.”

  “Were you sent as a messenger, a gift, or an assassin?” Irrien demanded.

  “As a messenger, my lord,” Wanale said. “Lady Stephania wishes to offer you terms.”

  Irrien laughed at that, even as his mind considered the possibilities. He’d heard the stories of the times Lady Stephania had manipulated people into doing what she wanted. She had done a good job of seeming harmless and then striking.

  “What terms could she have that I would want?” Irrien said. “I will take the city. I will take all that I want. She has nothing to give.”

  “She told me to say that she has the potential to take from you,” Wanale said. “That the castle will remain strong, and that failing against it will make you look weak. That it is better to agree terms than to watch your forces fight among themselves when they cannot take the castle.”

  Irrien looked at the messenger until she quailed and fell to her knees. That was good. A man should have enough strength to cow lesser folk.

  “All of this assumes that I cannot take what is in front of me,” Irrien said. He took a step toward the woman. “You will find out that is not the case with my slave chains on you. Then you will tell me every weakness the castle. I will seize it, along with the rest of the city.”

  A hand touched his arm. His wounded arm. Pain shot through him, and Irrien spun.

  The woman from before was there, reaching out as though to… what? Convince him? Prevail upon him? Irrien didn’t care right then. The pain that roared through him at her touch was white hot, overwhelming all else.

  “Please, my lord, what about—”

  Irrien took her head from her shoulders with one sweep of his axe. He breathed hard as he waited for the pain to subside, but he knew he could not leave it at that. Tell his men that this captive had provoked him by touching his wound, and they would wonder how bad it was. They would start to wonder if there was a weakness there to exploit.

  “Kill them,” he ordered his men instead. “There will be plenty more captives to take, and we have no time for these.”

  They didn’t question. Instead, they fell on the prisoners like wolves, stabbing and slashing in spite of their screams. Irrien felt no grief at it, only a faint disappointment at the waste of potential slaves. A leader did what was necessary to keep himself appearing strong.

  When they stood panting in the wake of the killing, Irrien started to give commands.

  “Go through the city,” he commanded them. “Be ready for traps and for those who will fight back. Be thorough. I want you to sweep every street, find every straggler. Kill those who resist, take those who surrender. I want the slave lines to be long enough to stretch across the ocean.”

  He looked over to where the castle stood, examining it the way he might have examined the guard of a rival swordsman. His orders would slow the taking of the city, but that would give him time. Time in which to find ways into there.

  He looked at the messenger Lady Stephania had sent too, standing there in obvious shock at the violence. He grabbed her by the nape of the neck, forcing her to her knees. There would be time in which to force answers from those who had them, too. He would enjoy that part of it. The weakness of others was only confirmation of his strength.

  Lady Stephania was right in one way: he couldn’t afford to fail against the castle’s walls. He couldn’t seem that weak. But he wouldn’t. His men would force his way inside, and then… well, if the mess
enger she’d sent was anything to go by, the pickings would be rich indeed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ceres woke as she always seemed to wake now, with water thrown on her, cold and dirty enough that she gasped at it. Automatically, her tongue darted out, trying to collect some of the moisture there, because in the dungeons of the castle they gave her almost nothing.

  “Look at her,” someone called from above her. “She’s like an animal!”

  “Filthy little thing,” another jeered. “Dressed in scraps like that!”

  It didn’t seem to matter to them that it had been Stephania who had hacked her hair away; Stephania who had let her men tear Ceres’s clothes until they were little more than a few bare strips of cloth. The slaves there wore more.

  Ceres looked around her, and when she saw where she was, she shuddered. She was back in the training pit beneath the castle, the sand beneath her scratching as she rolled to her knees. That wasn’t easy, because her hands were bound behind her at her wrists and elbows, tight enough that her shoulders ached with it.

  In spite of all that they inflicted on her in the dungeons, this was the place that Ceres had come to dread. They’d taken a space that she’d once thought of as her domain, and they’d turned it into a space of humiliation. Ceres hated Stephania for that, and for so much else besides.

  She sat above, of course, looking down from her throne there with an air of faint amusement. Ceres saw other nobles beside her, with servants and handmaidens. They smiled and laughed as though they were enjoying a pleasant day in the country.

  Ceres hated all of them then.

  Stephania signaled, and Ceres felt the nick of a blade as two guards cut her ropes. She watched them hurry back while she rubbed her wrists, and one threw something into the dirt in front of her. A sword.

  Not a real one though. Not something she could hope to fight her way out of there with. This was a short, ugly, dull-looking thing with rounded edges that probably hadn’t ever been sharpened. It was the kind of training blade combatlords used when they thought wood didn’t give them the right feel.