By Blood Hunted: Kingsblood Chronicles Part Two (The Kingsblood Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “Better once we get away from the shore, Mr. Alan,” the helmsman replied, “but I’ve got ‘er.” Had the wave frequency been higher, they wouldn’t have been able to take this course, as the ship would have pitched and rolled too much to run with full sails, but these rollers were easily twenty yards apart and the ship gracefully skated over them as they came, another thing the big square-riggers couldn’t have done without magical assistance.

  Alan turned his attention back to the two captains, finding they had stopped their conversation to watch him give orders.

  “Arden and I are just rehashing things, Alan,” Cedrick said, “and you’ve been on watch all day. Go ahead and go below; I’ve got the watch.”

  “You’ve got the watch, aye, Captain,” Alan said. Although he enjoyed the two captains’ company, he was several hours over the standard eight-hour watch that he, Cedrick, and Olaf, the first mate, kept. Cedrick normally relieved him right at the eight-hour mark, but given the possibility of a battle leaving port, he’d let Alan know he’d be late. Alan could have stayed longer—he was young, after all, far younger than he appeared—but he was just as glad to turn the watch over to the captain.

  Chapter Two

  Lo! Beauteous Vedelta! She passes and flowers bloom!

  Darkness does her presence disperse; it cannot stand.

  Burned by the Shieldmaid’s splendor, shadows die.

  Evil ever flees where she stands.

  Her daughters hound the dark.

  Kindly goddess,

  Save me.

  -- Excerpt from “The Passionate Flower,” epic poem to honor Vedelta the Shield Goddess by the Poet-King Larieth

  Alan paused to check the aft ballista, ensuring it was locked in position and not free to swing in the pitch and roll brought on by the heavy seas, then nodded to the helmsman and went forward to the spray-drenched fo’c’sle. “Grab a meal, Mr. Kess, then relieve Snog,” Alan ordered. Kess had only been on watch for an hour or so and would be the only engineer on watch through the evening, known as the jib watch. Snog was on tower only because of the potential danger of Varshan attack; since he could see in the dark as well as the light, the goblin was on the late night watch, called the mizzen watch. Alan—who could also see in the dark when carrying Gem—had the main watch, which began a few hours before dawn.

  Kess had likely broken his fast only a few hours ago, but the young man, Alan had noted, was nearly always ravenous. He eagerly thanked Alan and jogged aft toward the cookhouse, sure-footed despite the water on the deck.

  Alan took a few minutes to check on the belaying of the jib sails, and finding everything in order, sat down with Snog on the circular platform the goblin used to work his ballista. By this time, the waves hitting Searcher’s starboard quarter were diminishing and the warship was riding more smoothly. With a wary eye on the waves, Snog had already packed his pipe with the mushroom-scented tobacco he carried and lit it with his enchanted coalstone. The two were alone in the fo’c’sle, a rarity on Searcher, but not surprising given the spray that had been sheeting over the railing.

  The goblin was a little under four feet tall, but his muscles were like cordwood and he was stronger than most men. His gray skin blended with the darkness well, and his dark scraggly hair was tied back out of his face. In the glow of the pipe bowl, his yellow eyes took on a slightly sinister cast, but Alan was long used to his friend’s appearance.

  “Fire bolts or no, milord,” Snog began without preamble, “it’s risky to be firin’ on them big ships. Those spriggans they carry have quite a punch.” The goblin was already aware of their orders, an advantage of being in his lord’s service.

  Spriggan, Alan and Snog had learned, was what a naval onager was called in the Island Kingdoms. Wound up with a powerful torsion mechanism, a spriggan propelled its projectiles straight away from the ship’s beam and could deliver anything from solid shot to incendiary bombs to sail- and mast-wrecking chains. As they could not be significantly elevated, their maximum range was maybe three hundred yards given the height of their placement, but any ship facing the broadside of the weapons within that range was likely to be hit hard.

  Islander ships’ spriggans were a special design the Kingdoms had developed, designed to break the arm off shorter than the stop beam so that the torsion would unwind—explosively fast—without tossing the engine across the deck with catastrophic results. Dunshor’s own onagers incorporated this design improvement as well, and as a result, they lost fewer siege crews than those in the western kingdoms, where the technology had yet to spread.

  The big four-masted capital ships of the Varshan fleet carried four spriggans port and starboard, whereas the three-masted ones only had room for two. Both classes carried a pair of scorpions, a type of small ballista, on both the fo’c’sle and poop decks, but they were sniper weapons, intended to kill enemy crew members. Alan knew that although the spriggans were dangerous to Searcher, the scorpions were potentially even more dangerous to the crew, especially the officers. He also suspected that the presence of the onagers between the ratlines of the main masts probably made the ships harder to rig and slower to react to changing weather conditions than if their deckwales were clear.

  “Only if we let them turn broadside to us when we’re in range, Snog,” Alan replied. “And I hope to the gods they don’t have enough picket ships to box us in so they can do just that. I’m more worried about the snipers.”

  As am I, thought Gem to herself. She had spells that could misdirect arrows and crossbow bolts, although they weren’t completely effective, but nothing in her repertoire could stop a bolt from a weapon such as the Islander warships carried.

  “Seems ‘ta me, them scorpions’d be a nice place to put a fire bolt, milord,” Snog said with a grin, smoke pouring out from between his fangs. Like Alan, Snog knew the secret of the Searcher’s ballistae. Each of them housed a hidden compartment containing an enchanted firestone that could be mounted on the siege engine. Once it was in place, the center of the gem showed the exact location the weapon targeted—Alan had confirmed that this included windage and elevation—and the flame that was the core of the firestone transformed the ballista’s shot into a fiery, searing bolt of great power.

  Alan found them, in fact, eerily similar to the enchanted crossbow that had so narrowly missed killing him the night of the coup.

  Firestones were highly prized by fire mages, for they could focus and amplify fire spells. The gems were found in the hearts of particular fire elemental spirits—demons of flame who were tremendously destructive—and it was dangerous, to say the least, to acquire them. Searcher’s firestones were the size of rhea eggs, very large indeed for such objects, and although Alan had inquired as to where Arden had acquired them, the answer had not been forthcoming.

  Their weakness was that they yielded a limited number of shots—two of the ones on board were good for five shots, one for seven or eight—and they could only be recharged after the battle using a ritual known to the ship’s mage, Reidar, and Arden himself. Although the mercenary captain had a fair amount of magical potential, he couldn’t perform the ritual himself, for he was tone deaf. Still, he was capable of a few monotonal mantras that helped him lend magical power to other casters, and he’d once used one, to Alan and Gem’s amazement, to help unfoul the ship.

  Kess returned with a turkey leg in hand and a length of hard bread tucked in his shirt. “Turkey tonight, Mr. Alan!” he said excitedly. The young engineer’s mate loved turkey almost as much as tales of bravery and battle and had been excited to learn that Varsha was home to large flocks of the things. He’d grown his hair out, the long blonde locks tied back out of his way, and he and the equally fair-haired healer, Mari Suris, could almost have been siblings given their pale complexions and sun-kissed hair.

  Kess, Alan knew, had approached Mari—along with half the crew—to seek her companionship, but she’d zeroed in on the dark-skinned, green-eyed bosun’s mate Alo almost immediately. The two of them had become
quite close in the two months since Arden and Cedrick hired her, and although a few of the crew were jealous of Alo’s good fortune, it hadn’t caused any problems as of yet. As Mari was a sorceress, albeit a fairly weak one, Alan didn’t think it would lead to problems; no one wanted to cross Witchbreed, even one sworn to Asha’s healing arts.

  Alan had briefly attracted the attention of Nanavi, the dark-haired barbarian who served as the mercenary company’s horsemistress and sometime master sergeant (the few times Arden needed heads clubbed, she was typically the one to do it). The passionate woman had moved from bed to bed in the ship’s company when Alan had first joined the Searcher’s crew, but that had stopped in Seagate when she met Olaf.

  To Nan’s people, the Rodan, battle scars were badges of honor, and the tall first mate bore a tapestry of scars, some of which he could not possibly have survived without magical healing. A veteran of many boarding actions, the soft-spoken Olaf was slow to anger; he’d seen enough killing not to crave more, he told Alan once. Olaf’s extensive scars kept most women at bay, but for Nan, it was as a moth to a flame, and she’d bunked with him from the beginning.

  That had been quite a relief for Alan, who at the time had been apprehensive about her interest in him. At a mere fourteen years of age, he’d found the Rodan woman with the piercing blue eyes and intricate bright orange tribal markings powerfully compelling and more than a little frightening. He was quite certain he’d have failed to resist her advances had she directed her overpowering affections toward him. That the affair would have been brief and meant nothing to Nan somehow made it seem worse to Alan, who had a young man’s romantic ideas about how love should be.

  He wasn’t a fool and had been well trained in what men did with women as something a field commander should take into account, but he lacked experience in such matters and they embarrassed him. He didn’t really understand what to do beyond a certain point, and although Gem’s spirit was a portion of his mother’s soul—a fact that made her all the more precious to him—she hadn’t inherited any of Adrienne’s earthier knowledge.

  He’d decided that this was something he had to tend to, sooner rather than later, because neither chastity nor virginity fit his persona as a twenty-four-year-old mercenary soldier. Snog had suggested, taking more than a little glee at Alan’s discomfiture, that he find a high-priced prostitute to help him cross into manhood. “Such women, milord, an’ this be no doubt true o’ humans ‘s well ‘s goblins, they’re patient-like wi’ the first-timers,” he’d said at the time.

  Alan knew that Gem didn’t like the idea of her charge lying with anyone, much less a prostitute in some port city, but she very carefully kept her opinion out of her thoughts (though she could not completely hide her feelings about the matter). He was more concerned with the possibility that the woman might become pregnant because of the danger such an event would represent for the woman and prince both. When his enemies had taken Dunshor City they gained access to items necessary for sympathetic magic: Alan’s hair, skin, even nail clippings. Although his powerful protections shielded him from such spells used to trace or harm him—so far, at least—he knew that a child of his blood would not be so protected.

  Snog had come up with an answer for that, as well. “Find ye a woman who’s in her older years,” he’d said, mercilessly teasing Alan, who was bright red by that time. “Got ye several advantages there, milord, if ye ask me: she’ll be experienced and ye’ll learn much; she’ll be past the moonblood time so ye don’ hav’ ta’ worry ‘bout gettin’ ‘er with child; and she’ll be glad o’ yer custom and more eager ta’ please ya.” Although the scout was enjoying Alan’s embarrassment, his advice was fairly sound on all points.

  Kess happily munched on his turkey leg and mumbled that he had the watch around a mouthful. Snog and Alan acknowledged him and went below to the cabin they shared with Garvel. Cedrick had declared the sergeant-at-arms would bunk with the quartermaster so that Snog could remain with Alan, in deference to Alan’s desire to keep Snog close (and out of potential troubles with the much larger goblins in the mercenary company, the brothers Kar and Sar). The sergeant-at-arms, Joleth, had come aboard in Seagate after Alan and Snog were already billeted, so he was unaware that Snog was sleeping in what would have been “his” bunk.

  As Joleth was Dunshorian, he was already predisposed against Snog’s race, so Alan was glad Cedrick had handled it beforehand. For a variety of reasons, including friendship, Alan wanted Snog close at hand. So far—Alan suspected because of the sheer size of the brothers—Joleth had kept his prejudice under control, but the prince worried about the man’s attitude.

  Once the door was closed, a rich, deep voice spoke. Although it emanated from the thick leather sack Alan always wore opposite Gem on his belt, it wasn’t muffled in the slightest. “I share Snog’s misgivings about engaging the Varshans, Alan,” the voice said. “Searcher’s engineers will be primary targets of their snipers as well as any shipboard wizards, especially if the full capabilities of the ballistae are employed.”

  “And I agree with Lord Grey and Snog,” Gem said aloud, glad for once not to have to remain silent. The necromancer they knew as Lord Grey had warded the small cabin such that it was soundproof when the door was closed. They all worried that the bosun would discover the enchantment eventually, but the ability for the four of them to talk unheard was too valuable not to take the risk.

  The risk of discovery was mitigated by the fact that Garvel came to the cabin only to sleep for his habitual six hours, preferring to be abovedecks as much as possible. He would enter, drop into his hammock, and fall asleep almost instantly, awakening after hearing the correct watch bell. The ward was one-way only, and sounds outside the cabin could be clearly heard by those inside.

  “And I agree with all three of you,” Alan replied. “I have to hope that the captains have taken those dangers into account and have a plan for them, as well as how to handle the warships themselves. The commando raid probably won’t be as much of a problem as the naval situation, but that’s assuming the Varshans haven’t reinforced the garrison.”

  He held up a hand before anyone could interject a comment. “I know, we dare not rely on someone else’s plan, but we’ve tied our fates to Searcher’s for the moment and we’re stuck with the contract Arden’s agreed to.” He began to undress, pulling off the dark brown tunic he wore over his fine lashthirin scale mail.

  “I’m not suggestin’ we abandon the ship, milord,” Snog said as he changed his own clothing, most of his normal pidgin absent, for his command of Dunshorian was actually better than many natives’. “But we need to convince the captains to take out the Varshans’ scorpions or it’s going to get pretty damned ugly on deck, especially with the height advantage those big ships have.”

  Lord Grey was trapped by an ancient, powerful curse in the blackened form of his own skull, its lower jaw and teeth fused to the upper. Although the jaw could not move, he could speak—and sing—quite well indeed. He said, “This is something the captains must be aware of, given their nautical and battle experience. It would surprise me greatly if they haven’t taken this into consideration and don’t have a plan to deal with it.

  “What does surprise me is that they haven’t informed the chief engineer what that plan might be,” he continued dryly, meaning Alan. “I’m much more worried about Mageborn on the Varshan side, because while Reidar’s competent enough, his singing’s simply not up to Masterclass spellwork and his personal reserve of power is journeyman at best, as well.”

  It was the first time the necromancer had directly commented on Reidar’s talent and skill, but it didn’t surprise Alan at all. He’d lived among mages all his life, both members of his immediate family and not, and had a pretty good feel for Reidar’s capabilities. He agreed with Lord Grey’s assessment that they would come up short against a truly competent battle mage.

  “Maybe they’re waiting for me to bring it up,” Alan said, as he worked the armor’s straps loose. “They
trust me to handle the bolt-throwers and they’ve seen me fight, but they’re still not completely confident of my ability to command. I’ll bring it up at tomorrow’s crossover and see where the discussion takes us.” He took off both swordbelts and placed the one holding his enchanted shortsword in Snog’s bunk where the goblin could reach it.

  After removing the soft leather below the armor and then the coarse cloth undershirt, he carefully folded the precious Truesilver armor and slid it into the leather sack, climbing into the hammock bare-chested along with his main swordbelt and its dual passengers. Initially worried that the impossibly strong Truesilver scales might scratch or hurt Lord Grey’s skull, he was later chagrined to realize that if mere lashthirin could damage the skull, it wouldn’t have been an effective prison for as long as it had been.

  Once upon a time, he had slept with Gem prominently displayed on the wall in her scabbard, but on the night of the coup, she’d been out of reach as the assassin had advanced upon him. Since, he had taken to sleeping with the enchanted sword. It was a little uncomfortable, especially with the hard lump that represented Lord Grey, but he wanted her at hand.

  “The captains haven’t confirmed it, Snog, but I think we’ll head south after this,” Alan said. “Southern charts have certainly been consulted lately.” Alan’s excellent skill with mathematics had made him the obvious appointee to apprentice navigator along with his other duties, so he had access to Cedrick’s cabin practically any time of day when he wasn’t on active watch.

  With a deep sigh, he continued, “As soon as we make landfall in a southern port, I think we need to say farewell to Searcher and her crew. As much as I love this ship and respect the captains, I can’t afford to be obliged to anyone. Arden chooses where we go and what dangers we face, and he could decide to sail clear to the desert lands instead of south if he chooses.”