Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

The Bright Star was an independent Wesbaden trader from Dagastan heading home to western Calis with a load of coffee, cane, and indigo. Despite the Storm’s timely intervention, more than a third of the small crew perished. Some passed out in the smoke while fighting the flames, and others remained trapped below deck. The captain of the Bright Star perished, struck by one of the fiery arrows the Dacca had rained on his vessel. This left only twelve men, five of whom lay in Dr. Levy’s care with burns.

Mr. Temple sized up the able-bodied survivors and added them to the ship’s complement. Royce was back at work aloft as Hadrian finished serving dinner to the crew. Hadrian’s easygoing attitude and generosity with the galley grease had won him several friends. There had been no more attempts on Royce’s life, but they still did not know why Royce had been targeted, or by whom. For the moment, it was enough that Bernie, Derning, and Staul remained at a safe distance.

“Aye, this is Calis, not Avryn,” Hadrian heard one of the new seamen say in a harsh, gravelly voice, as he brought down the last messkid. “The light of civilization grows weak like a candle in a high easterly wind. The farther east you go, the stronger the wind blows, till out she goes, and in the darkness ye stand!”

A large number of the off-watch clustered around an aft table, where three of the new sailors sat.

“Then there you are in the world of the savage,” the Calian sailor went on. “A strange place, me lads, a strange place indeed. Harsh, violent seas and jagged inlets of black-toothed rock, gripped tight by dense jungle. The netherworld of the Ba Ran Ghazel, the heart of darkness is a place of misery and despair, the prison where Novron drove the beasties to their eternal punishment. They can’t help but try to get out. They look at the coasts of Calis with hungry eyes and they find footholds. Like lichen, they slip in and grow everywhere. The Calians try to push them back, but it be like trying to swat a sky of flies or hold water in yer hands.” He cupped his palms, pretending to lose something between his fingers.

“Goblin and man living so close together ain’t natural,” another said.

The first sailor nodded gravely. “But nothing in them jungles be natural. They have been linked for too long. The sons of Maribor and the spawn of Uberlin be warring one moment, then trading the next. Just to survive, the Calian warlords took to the ways of the goblins and spread the cursed practices of the Ba Ran to their own kin. Some of them are more goblin now than men. They even worship the dark god, burning tulan leaves and making sacrifices. They live like beasts. At night, the moon makes them wild, and in the darkness their eyes glow red!”

Several of the men made sounds of disbelief.

“It’s the truth, me lads! Centuries ago, when the Old Empire fell, the eastern lords were abandoned to their fate. Left alone in the deep dark of the Calian jungles, they lost their humanity. Now the great stone fortresses along the Goblin Sea that once guarded the land from invasion be the home of Tenkin warlords—half-human, half-goblin monsters. They’ve turned their backs on the face of Maribor and embraced the ways of the Ghazel. Aye, me fellows, the state of Calis is a fearful one. So thankful we be for your daring act of kindness, for we’d be at the mercy of fate if ya hadn’t pulled us from the sea. If it wasn’t for your bravery, we’d surely be dead now … or worse.”

“Wasn’t much bravery needed,” Daniels said. “The Storm could have whipped those buggers in a dead calm with half the crew drunk and the other half sick with the fever.”

“Is that what you think?” Wyatt asked. Hadrian had not noticed him sitting silently in the gloom beyond the circle of the candle’s light. “Is that what you all think?” His tone was oddly harsh—challenging. Wyatt sighed and, with an exasperated shake of his head, got up and climbed the ladder to the deck.

Having finished with the messkids, Hadrian followed. He found the helmsman on the forecastle. His hands gripped the rail as he stared at the shimmer of the new moon rolling on the back of the black sea.

“What’s that all about?”

“We’re in trouble and—” He paused, angrily motioning at the quarterdeck. Catching himself, he clenched his teeth, as if by doing so he could trap the words inside his mouth.

“What kind of trouble?” Hadrian glanced at the quarterdeck.

“The captain doesn’t want me to say anything. He’s a damn fool who won’t listen to reason. I should disobey him and alter the ship’s course right now. I could relieve Bliden on the wheel early and take us off course. No one would know until the reckoning is taken tomorrow at noon.”

“Wesley would know.” Hadrian pointed to the young man climbing to the quarterdeck on his nightly round as officer of the first watch. “He’d have you hauled to Mr. Bishop before you could blink.”

“I could deal with Wesley if I had to. The deck is slippery, you know?”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Royce. What’s going on?”

“I suppose if I’m contemplating killing a midshipman, it hardly matters if I break captain’s orders to keep quiet.” Wyatt looked once again at the sea. “They’re coming back.”

“Who?”

“The Dacca. They didn’t run. They’re regrouping.” He looked at Hadrian. “They dye their sails with the blood of their enemies. Did you know that? Hundreds of small ruddy boats line the coves and ports of their island. They know we’re hugging the coast and sailing against the wind. Like wolves, they’ll chase us down. Ten, twenty lateen-rigged tartanes will catch the wind that we can’t. The Storm won’t stand a chance.”

“What makes you so sure? You could be wrong. The captain must have a good reason to stay on course.”

“I’m not wrong.”





CHAPTER 11





THE HOODED MAN





The hooded man walked away again. Arista cowered deeper into the shadows under the tavern steps. She wanted to disappear, to become invisible. Her robe had turned a dingy brown, blending with the dirty wood. Drawing up the hood, she waited. It was him—the same man Lynnette had described. He was looking for her. She heard the sound of his boots on the cobblestone. They slowed, hesitated, and then grew louder.

He’s coming back again!

The tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the alley for the third time. He paused. She held her breath. The streetlamps revealed a frightening figure dressed in a black hooded cloak and a thick scarf hiding his face. He wore an unseen sword— she could hear the telltale clap.

He took a tentative step toward her hiding place, then another, and then paused. The light’s glare exposed white puffs issuing from his scarf. His head turned from side to side. He stood for several seconds, then pivoted so sharply his boot heel dug a tiny depression in the gravel, and walked away. After several tense minutes, Arista carefully crept out.

He was gone.

The first light of dawn rose in the east. If only she could make it back to the palace. At least there she would be safe from the assassin and away from the inevitable questions: “Who is she? How did she do it? Is she a witch?”