The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

“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 o’ darkness is a place of misery and despair, the pris/p>

re 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 hands pretending to lose something between his fingers.

“Goblin and man living so close together taint natural,” another said.

The first sailor nodded gravely. “But nothin’ in them jungles be natural. They have been linked for two long and the Sons of Maribor and the Spawn of Oberlin be warring one moment, then trading the next. Just to survive, the Calian warlords took to the ways of the goblins and, in so doing spread the cursed practices of the Ba Ran to their kin. Some of these warlords are more goblin now than men. They even worship the dark god, burning tulan leaves and making sacrifices. They live like beasts and 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 first 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 did not notice 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 gripping 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 but catching himself and clenching his teeth as if by doing so he could trap the words inside of 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 Mister 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 am 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 mixed with wild berries, did you know that? Hundreds of small ruddy-red boats line the coves and ports of their island. They know we’re hugging the coast and sailing against the wind. They’ll chase us down like wolves. 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 and the captain would have good reason to stay on course.”

“I’m not wrong.”





Chapter 11

The Hooded Man


The hooded ma n 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 Lynette described. He was looking for her. She heard the sound of his boots on the cobblestone. They slowed, hesitated, then grew louder.

He was 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 with 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, 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?”

She had left Brisbane Alley before anyone thought to ask, but what after? She had drawn too much attention, and—although she doubted anyone would connect the dots—the unabashed use of magic would cause a stir.

Removing the robe she carefully tucked it under the tavern steps and set off toward the palace. The guards ignored her as usual and she went about her tasks without incident. Throughout the day she had the good fortune to work relatively unnoticed, but by midday news of her actions the night before had reached the palace. Everyone buzzed about the disturbance on Coswell Street. A boy had been brought back to life. By evening, rumors named the Witch of Melengar as the culprit. Luckily, no one suspected the scrub girl Ella of any more wrongdoing than failing to return the borrowed tablecloth.