Bowhunter – Chapter 6

The Mane, The Unclaimed Waters between Fohalin and Nauberta – Typhon Resurgence, Day 17

“I’ve never seen anything that size in the ocean that wasn’t a land mass,” Rena breathed shakily, eyes wide, brow furrowed at the sight of the floating place.

This wasn’t a mere vessel, or even a gallon, it was a structure built on an artificial island. Rena wasn’t one for getting estimations of height and distance right, however even she knew the domed palace was at least one hundred and fifty metres tall, and its platform twice that in width and length.

It was frightening frankly.

“Must have originated from one of the wealthier states in the Sigel,” Fredricka said, ponderingly beside her.

With the mention of The Sigel, Rena was feeling all eyes fell upon her.

“Everywhere is wealthy in the Sigel,” Rena replied, not taking her eyes off of the gargantuan afront to the ocean. “And it’s still a big place, even if it is the smallest of the continents.”

“I’d say it’s only big to those who live there,” Zane said, his cheeky grin wide enough to break into Rena’s periphery.

“How can it float?” Rena continued, with a grunt of confusion, pulling her blanket over her tighter.

The Daemon Flamingo had been steered close to the floating palace’s port side – which Fredricka had informed Rena was its left side – and anchored a hundred yards off. There had been a call from Gabrijel to man the guns, and ‘be ready’, an order that made Rena’s gut churn. The crew ran hither and tither, making ready their personal weapons, assembling in various groups and positions across the deck.

Yet, it was Egil’s sudden, uncharacteristic solemness which assuaged Rena somewhat. For all his gallant charm, he was a studious fellow, and whilst hands scrambled, he remained stoic.

“Not a sound,” Gabrijel was saying as he studied the structure. “No alarm bells, not even the sound of drunken revellers.”

“I’ve seen ghost ships before, but a whole floating palace?” Zane said, pensively, his brow following his tone of voice. “There would be hundreds of people upon such a vessel. We’d be hearing something.”

“You know as well as I do, Zane, what caused this,” Egil’s gassy voice broke over the group as he approached, shaking out his magnificent wings.

“It’s not impossible for a fleet to subjugate such a structure – it’s too big to capture and hold, but an enticing size for any miscreant looking loot.” There seemed to be a slight edge to Zane’s voice, something defensive, Rena noted as she looked between the siren and the sphinx.

“It’d be burning or show signs of damage if that were the case, I’m afraid,” Egil replied, kindly.

Unable to help herself, Rena asked, “What are you taking about?”

Zane was silent, but after a glance in his direction, Egil answered sombrely, “Feral sirens.”

Despite her ignorance to such information, Rena felt a chill, and the cooler air about her drew in with a sudden bitterness.

“When’s the last time we had any of those up here?” Fredricka then asked. “A few hundred years ago?” She grunted, almost mournfully. “It has to be an environmental response to the Typhon…”

“Lesser predators, scavengers, and parasites follow in the wake of great beasts. We can’t assume that the Typhon is the only threat in these waters,” Egil said.

“Well, at least it’ll curb the abandon of our peers,” Gabrijel added quietly, looking back to the floating palace, his eyes alert and searching.

“I still don’t understand,” Rena said then, looking back to the vast, unnatural structure as well. “What would feral sirens what with such an afront, exactly? I know I’m from Poet’s Sea, but we don’t have them, or at least not a significant presence of them. Please assume I know nothing about them.”

“It sounds like we don’t need to assume,” Gabrijel said in jest.

“They’re oceanic predators,” Fredricka answered, hands sitting over the fat round bases of a couple of the pistols belted to her chest. “Somewhere between sentient like us, and mindless beasts. Enough intelligence in those black eyes to be far more dangerous than a mere hydra. They assail ships, kill everyone on board, and take the bodies back to their nests.”

“Always at night, and usually during moonlit periods – the light gets them excited,” Zane added.

“Why take the bodies?” Rena asked, wanting and not wanting to hear an answer.

“Food,” Fredricka answered, grimly. “They like their meat gamey, so hang on to it for a bit before eating. If you ever find a nest, you’d see bodies strung up, heaps of limbs, and troughs of blood, rotting.”

Morbid as that was, enough to make Rena’s gut lurch into her throat, a worse thought came to her, a thought everyone was already burdened with. “So how many of the friggin’ things would it take to snatch a whole palace worth of people?”

“Assuming it was feral sirens,” Zane quickly added, though there was no conviction to his statement.

Egil patted the siren on the shoulder with a prickly, taloned paw in leu of an honest answer.

“I like to think most people are more enlightened than they were a couple of hundred years ago,” Gabrijel then said.

Laughter caused Rena to start, as Egil and Zane could not help themselves.

“You naïve thing you,” Egil replied. “You fight with centuries of experience, but otherwise you are a child.”

He moved off to the balcony overlooking the main deck.

“Two hundred years ago, we viciously persecuted siren communities out of Maytoni,” Rena said, avoiding Zane’s eye, a weight in her chest.

“There isn’t a corner in all the world where sirens haven’t face persecution for one reason or another,” Zane said. “But out here, the terra-races don’t see any difference between me and the feral beasts.”

“Most don’t want to,” Fredricka added with a deep sigh.

“More conflict,” Rena said, running a hand through her short hair.

“All hands!” Egil roared, his voice throaty and sharp like that of a jaguar. “I want two boarding parties. One to search the perimeter, and another to enter the palace! I’ll lead the latter; Quartermaster van der Veer the former.”

“We’re going aboard? I thought we were certain about what happened to the vessel?” Rena stammered. Accusingly she turned to Egil as he returned to the group, adding sharply, “Are you seriously going over there to pilfer that husk?” She couldn’t help but seethe, standing directly in Egil’s path, overshadowed by the seven-foot sphinx. “This is tantamount to grave robbing!”

The giant recoiled, though a tad too theatrically for Rena, and through his muscled arms up, placatingly.

“My dear Pastoral! Though we may be such vulturous brigands, this is merely a venture to gather information to confirm what we already know. I want material evidence, so there is no room for that wicked, potent little beast we know as doubt.”

Rena wasn’t about to admit she had been wrong and thus retained her best angry-teacher’s-glare whilst meeting Egil’s eyes. “Okay then. There will be no looting. We’ll find evidence, and then…”

“Extract back to the Flamingo and be one our way to our meeting with the Siren Lords,” Egil finished, suggesting, rather than telling, Rena noted.

“We?” Zane said from behind her. “The temporal scarring left in every inch of that beast will be a risk to everyone, Rena. You’ve hardly recovered from…”

“I’m going. I need to learn as much as I can about these feral sirens.”

“I can educate you on the subject.” There was concern in the siren’s voice, a foundation for the stricter tone, a doctor giving orders.

“I know,” Rena replied, turning to face Zane. She looked grimly certain at the truth surfacing in her mind. “But frankly, I believe I need to start getting acquainted with such horrors.”

Since applying magic healing to a dying man, Rena had not felt such dread. She was aware, clearly, that this was a bad idea… No stupid idea. Earlier thoughts of strengthening her resolve through exposure to the horrors happening in this region had wilted and dispersed to the point where she was questioning the validity of the sudden wisdom.

With every push of the boat against the lapping waters, came a rush of trepidation, unsettling Rena further as she attempted to keep herself composed. The chill in the oncoming breeze took on a coarse form, rubbing her face and arms harshly. Throwing her stomach into further discomfort, the tang of salt in the air cut into her nose and poured down into her like sour vinegar. Rena had never found the appeal in the smell of salt in the air.

Shadowy sapphire waves clashed around the boat, and Rena had fretted that the sights of what happened at Gorjin would be reflected upon the surface of the water. Instead, today it seemed, her trauma was attempting another strategy: flagellating her mind with the sounds of the disaster.

In all her life, Rena had never heard or suffered from such screaming. She had tended to the dying, though they in their emaciated and exhausted forms could hardly utter a sigh, had been in a strange state of peace about their circumstances. It had been the relatives and friends who bawled and wailed. But no. At Gorjin, as people in their hundreds tumbled into the bay like a fleshy bleeding landslide, each shriek was a new outburst of terrors never before known. Each of wail a new spectre of true despair, clawing and burrowing into Rena’s soul.

Being a Pastoral was the hardest thing she could have imagined doing, ministering to those emotional and spiritual pain, the dying, hoping that the Gods would provide answers, even miracles, but in recent weeks it had suddenly become unbearable.

It wasn’t lost on her that at Gorjin her Gods stood by and just watched the disaster. She had placed herself there to help, had refused to flee when that wretched Chasm born beast assaulted the fort. Surely her bravery, desire to help meant something to the Gods, did it not? Yet, all she managed was to flick a stick across one of its fangs before plunging into the shore of the bay, branches breaking as they met her body in freefall.

As she had fallen, before she had blacked out, Rena could recall call out, “Just give me something!”

Now those soul-striking cries of the dead fell upon Rena, attempting to overwhelm the roar of the waves.

At the prow was Fredricka, a stalwart exemplar of bravery – at least to Rena. And a heavily armed exemplar at that, given the pistols, daggers, and her cutlass. As the wind whipped fruitlessly at Fredricka’s braids, Rena decided she would do well to emulate the Quartermaster and learn from her example.

Over the past two years, plenty of the denizens of Nauberta had accepted her as a moral figure, authority even. Rena knew if she wanted to continue this path, she would need to set an example in terms of courage, not just in ethics.

And she was after all wearing clothes donated by Fredricka.

After announcing she too was going over to investigate the floating palace, Rena scrubbed down her face and body and quickly threw on a more practical outfit; black hoes with opaque, twirling patterns of silk, and an ivory corset customised with leather pouches fixed over a pick tunic. The latter did not seem so odd to Rena, as she had spent so long feeling manky that she needed something semi-formal to make her feel somewhat presentable again.

Behind her the boarding party had the oars, slashing through the foamy waters in unison and with great strength. Mercifully it was not long before the boat was expertly navigated into a small port constructed into one side of the floating palace.

It was, however, a while before they managed to dock with the beast, as every jetty had been occupied by large, ostentatious pleasure crafts, aimlessly nodding along with the currents, abandoned. In the end, the boat was tied up to the far end of the dock, with several hands hammering stakes into the rich wood as a makeshift fixture.

Rena was committed now and held her breath as she stepped from the boat onto the surface of this aberration. Defying the Gods, building monoliths to exercise might, and creating pockets of shadow in which to carryout debauchery unchecked were tales as old as time. Rena just never assumed she would see anything that was such an overbearing example.

Despite her feelings towards the structure, her heart felt heavy as it panged with hope against hope, that somehow, the revellers would still be alive and well.

The bulbous dome of the central structure loamed like a gigantic rotten fruit, as the bright light of the afternoon picked out its grime and filth. Supporting girders running over its surface sprouted all manner of elaborate metal work in various patterns, which Rena supposed was there to look elegant, but merely took on the thorny visage of decrepit stems strangling a flowering bulb.

Beneath the dome was the main body of the palace, a pyramidal structure, layered with pomades and balconies jutting out like sores or boils. Shadows ordained every facet of the side upon which Rena looked, like puncture wounds over crusted puss.

This place was truly grotesque in her eyes.

“Zane, stay with my group,” Egil’s dark voice pulled Rena away from the horror, and she turned to face the group disembarking from the boat. “We’ll be indoors, so pistols and daggers, people.”

“Are we expecting any sirens still to be here?” Rena said, a quiver to her voice that she instantly felt ashamed of.

“Always best to carry something big and sharp when going into unknown territory, isn’t it?” Egil replied, a reassuring look in his eyes.

Rena had brought with her, her bow and arrows of course, though the thought of having to use them never occurred to her. Unknowingly she had pulled the device from its sheath and gazed upon the inscribed poetry woven into the front of the limbs; all mindful verses of Maytoni writ, taken from the Tomes of Peace, scripture in which the many Seers and Presences of Maytoni had recorded their prayers and experiences in holding onto hope in the Gods. Each of the pale letters glowed, their meanings once encouraging, but now inert.

Rena had called the bow Pathfinder, as her meditations in using it would often allow her mind to search out the answers Rena needed to various problems, academic and pastoral.

Before confronting the Typhon again, Rena decided she would need to infuse plenty of magic into the wood and other organic materials – anything, whatever her mind could manage, and much of what it couldn’t.

“Let’s be quick,” Egil continued, addressing the group, a paw upon the hilt of his magnificent sabre. “No pilfering or wandering off. Find sign of the beasts, and we’ll meet back here in an hour.”

Everyone replied in the affirmative, boldly, and Egil’s wings wafted as a grin sharpened his face.

Before she knew it, Rena was in step with Fredricka as the quartermaster’s team moved off to the left and began clambering over sets of wooden steps.

Her gut compressed into a tight ball, her legs ached, but Rena strode on, knowing she would need to face whatever horrors lay ahead if she was going to accomplish her mission, and rid this part of the world of the Vainglory Typhon.

“Everyone behave yourselves, and do as the captain said,” Fredricka was shouting. “No stopping to loot, and as much I know that that is a great big boot to your often exaggerated parts, we won’t do anything to show ourselves up in the company of the Pastoral!”

Rena’s cheeks bristled as the attention was clattered upon her.

“The Gods are watchin’ boys and gals,” one of the crew shouted, and everyone barked with laughter.

“If we’re with the lady Pastoral, I’d say we’re safe as anything,” another said.

“Nah, mate, it just means if anyone takes a shot at ‘er, the Gods are shoving you in ‘er way!” Came the reply, with another clatter of laughter.

“If it gets me into Paradise, I won’t be bothered.”

There were eight of them in total, including Rena. And for all their bawdiness, their inability to speak without profanity, and eagerness to boast about the size of their reproductive parts – even the women – everyone held a tight air of comradery. Rena could tell these men and women wouldn’t shirk their duty to one and other, even if the Chasm itself suddenly open up beneath them.

Whilst Rena’s only frame of reference to a paramilitary force such as pirates were the few soldiers she had encountered back in Maytoni, these men and women did not wear uniforms. In fact, there wasn’t anything really uniform about them, other than the need to boast of their prowess in the bedroom – or outhouse, back ally, closet, stable, sewer drain, and Rena had even overheard one story involving the speaker being up a tree. Each of these pirates wore their own choice of attire, and jewellery, and piercings, and carried their own choice of weapons; daggers and hatchets aplenty, with pistols tucked into anywhere a belt or strap allowed, and blunderbusses over shoulders, with arquebuses and muskets with shorted barrels for close quarters shooting.

Every thread and weapon ranged from the commonplace to the exotic and covered everything in between.

“Alright, everyone shut up, and at least pretend to take this seriously,” Fredricka then shouted as they came to the top of the steps. “Spread out, stay in pairs, and don’t touch a thing. Look for sign. And again, don’t touch anything!”

“Aye, boss. You missed yer callin’ as mother,” one crewman replied, cocking the firing pin of his musket.

“If I’d been your ma, I’d have crossed my legs and smothered you on the way out. Move off!”

Such jovialness was perplexing to Rena. She had seen and heard similar with soldiers back in Maytoni, but not under such potential threats as feral sirens and predatory sea beasts.

Before her was a vast garden, great lawns and flowery hedgerows, and numerous trees. This was far removed from the deck of a boat, and the endless stretches of ocean beyond the floating palace were soon lost as she and Fredricka moved forward along a flagstone path. Between the exotic flowers and towering hedge rows, Rena felt more in land than she had ever before. A canopy wove itself into a natural ceiling, with branches from rainbow eucalyptus trees and dragon blood trees to her left and right respectively crossing over one and other in a gentle caress. The sight of each produced an eerie flutter in Rena, as both were native to Maytoni. Something akin to familiarity washed over her, like an outside attempt to soothe her.

Along the path sprouted black bat flowers, unsettling serpentine flora that resembled a demonic snake ready to strike. In contrast, the stary heads of blue passion flowers were interspersed alongside these wicked flowers.

Fredricka skipped over several broken stones like a sprite, in a simple childish manner. For a moment Rena felt the jovialness to follow, yet the grim weight of her circumstances tied her boots to the ground.

“Remember not to touch anything,” Fredricka said, stopping, turning and looking back. Shadows from the branches above wrapped the pirate in a predatory guise.

Her words forced Rena to a halt, and she frowned, dropping her jaw. “I’m not a pirate. You don’t need to order me to keep my hands to myself. I’m not here to pillage anything,” she hissed, incredulous.

There was silence for a moment, then Fredricka rolled her eyes. “I was speaking about the effects of the sirens, left behind…”

Hesitation trapped Rena’s jaw and she retained her look of perplexity.

“Feral sirens use their vocal cords to produce all manner of weaponised sounds, and at all levels of hearing too,” Fredricka continued. “They can even manipulate the air around us. Often the residual effects of their songs, cries, and what they do to the air around us lingers in solid surfaces, like invisible bear traps.”

Abashed, Rena meekly apologised. “Ah… Sorry. I didn’t know that. Don’t worry though.” She paused, then asked, “So their cries or whatever, they can linger, attach themselves to solid objects?”

“Just like lichen, or some such, only invisible – and lethal. Some will send reverberations through your body and overwhelm your mind with obscene melodies until your brain melts through our nose and eyes and ears. Some just make you go insane, and others have such strong vibrations that they shatter your bones and mash your skin and organs.”

Without realising it, Rena tucked her hands away under her arms, bunching up as if still cold. “I know so little about these creatures,” was all she could think to say against the onslaught of such horrific information. “What’s the connection with other sirens, like Zane? They can’t be so alike.”

“They’re not. Ferals are to Zane like chimpanzees are to us. They may as well be animals, intelligent animals, very intelligent, but animals nonetheless with only the most superficial of things in common with the likes of Zane and his people.”

“As dangerous as they sound, the persecution of sirens a couple of hundred years ago, back in Maytoni, was largely due to fear mongering, that they could warp our thoughts with their songs, and whispers. It was a veiled attempt at getting rid of a race of pansexual people. Sadly same-sex attraction is still something the Church isn’t completely comfortable with.”

“Really? I see gender equality, racial equality, and even species equality in modern Maytoni… I’d have assumed that same-sex attraction was also grand with your lot.” Fredricka was surprisingly comfortable as they strolled through this glorious garden, an odd image given the guns and blades strapped to her body.

“Well, it isn’t, sadly. Despite the evidence of course. But that’s religion for you: take the bits you like and ignore what you don’t. It’s funny,” Rena continued, sighing and looking up through the shadow wrapped branches, into the pockets of daylight. “Gender equality largely comes from the fact that Pastorals have women among them – that is, the Gods choose women, not just men like in other religions. Yet, I know more than a few of my brothers and sisters in faith are not attracted the opposite gender. Chasm, some are even attracted to both! Imagine that!”

“So why don’t they speak out? If the Church was so accepting of seeing the equality of women because the gods chose them as their vessels, then surely choosing a someone with same-sex attraction means just the same?”

Rena sighed once more. “If only it was that simple. It’s still acknowledged that we Pastorals are as flawed as anyone, and such attraction is viewed as a failing, a sickness, like someone being temperamental, or lazy, or a lair. Again, it comes back to that most religious of practises: follow the bits you like and ignore the rest… But look at me talking. I took vows, all of which I was happy with until one day I couldn’t bare it… Then I was learning basic healing spells, hidden under my bedsheets like a child staying up past their bedtime to read.”

“Well, you get to be as free in your proclivities as you want on Nauberta, so don’t fret,” Fredricka replied, nudging her with an elbow as they walked, a clear attempt to bring Rena back from the stupor she was threatening to topple into.

“I’m grand with what remains of my vows. Though I do envy those attracted to both genders, I have to say. I mean, I can look at another woman and see beauty in her.”

“Thank you for saying so,” said Fredricka with another nudge.

“But…” Rena continued. “That recognition only runs so deep. If I was attracted to her, I’d see so much more, every wonderful facet of her beauty. People like us, Fredricka, we miss out I think.”

“Well, I bet you’ve been well trained in keeping your hands to yourself. Nothing like religious indoctrination to keep one well behaved.” A cheeky grin worked its way across Fredricka’s face, the dark scar on her cheek lost to the shadows.

Rena snorted, chuckling. “Among Pastorals, we’re taught to call each other brother, or sister. It’s to encourage a familial bond, so as to help you fit in, but it’s also there to discourage any wanton notions between us.”

“Oh, that is just tragic!” Fredricka practically howled, spinning about. “How can you, a Pastoral, expect to experience the full extent of emotions and spirituality in the world, like the gods intended for us?”

It wasn’t a new question for Rena, and she replied easily. “We’re bound to the Gods. Married in a way.”

“That’s sounds very close to polygamy.”

“In a way,” Rena reiterated, though with a smirk on her face. “Our commitment to our vows, set down by the Seers in centuries past, build in us the spiritual strength required to serve the people. We rely on wisdom, misted down into our minds and souls, from the Gods to help us minister to those who need it. By upholding our vows and resisting temptation, our spiritual strength grows and so can see and hear with great clarity what the Gods are telling us and doing in our lives. What the Gods speak is beyond the wisdom of anything I could come up with anyhow, regardless of how much I could relate to whomever I am ministering to.”

“Still, though… It sounds aggravating.”

Rena shrugged and moved forward along the path. “It can be. We are still as flawed as anyone, and still feel rage, despair, lust.”

“Don’t see how those are flaws but continue.”

“We even experience love but can’t do anything about it.”

“That sounds unnatural to me. If you are in love, the most natural thing in the world is to express it! You’d go mad surely?”

The candour of pirates made every conversation easy for Rena, removing the frustrations of trying to mine through words for the proper context and what is really being said. When any of her brother or sister Pastorals had needed to confide in her the issues of love, or attraction, or feeling rage at a slight, or anxiety, their words had often been as cryptic as military jargon, or ancient riddles.

“We need to be strong spiritually, to receive power and wisdom from the Gods. That’s all I can think to say.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“I don’t believe so. It’s possible, as I have had intense romantic feelings towards others in the past, but when I see the good that can flow through me and wash away the bitterness of the world, I receive a greater feeling of purpose and contentment.”

The trouble now, was that Rena knew she had set herself up for what was coming next.

“How about when the gods just don’t show up?” Though to Rena’s surprise, Fredricka was suddenly abashed by the question, and quickly, and poorly, attempted to disguise the inquiry. “I mean, you must have faced difficult questions, and your mind just goes blank… Right?”

A sigh fell from Rena, and she gave Fredricka a reassuring glance from beneath the shadows of the canopy. “Well, yes, there is that. It’s like I said, we’re not immune to the extremes of emotion. I used to reassure myself in times when nothing came to me, that a hug was all that was needed in the moment. But… When you have a connection to such power, as to even resurrect the dead, and the Gods are absent, it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” Grief clutched at Rena as the memories assailed her once more; emaciated flesh, like brittle tissue thin webbing, hollowed eyes, blind from hunger, corpses in every way save the fact that a soul was still trapped in the failing body, tortured by endless agony.

“I think you did the right thing. You’ve probably heard that many times, and I’ve got too much spiritual detritus between me and anything godly to find anything to say, but you did the right thing.”

“That’s the funny thing about being a vessel for the Gods’ power and wisdom… The more They use you, the greater the miracles They preform, the greater the despair when for whatever reason, they remain silent. My whole life has been a constant of emotional and spiritual extremes, either loving the Gods, or hating Them.”

“Doesn’t sound too healthy to me.”

“No. I’m pathological about answers, finding them. And I’ve never heard anything form sentient or God to justify why there are times when the Gods just don’t act or speak. It’s hateful because the answers are there, in the mouths of the Gods, or in their power. Someone is dying, so heal them. Someone is distraught with their life, so give them the wisdom to know which path to take.” A heated strain was working its way around Rena’s thumping heart, and she took a deep breath to curb her anger.

They moved on in silence for a moment, following the splendour of the path and its artful foliage. Rena had almost forgotten why they were aboard this artificial island.

“You know, pirates are not that dissimilar to us,” Rena spoke, hoping Fredricka wasn’t feeling as if she had overstepped in their conversation.

“I beg your pardon?” Came the sudden exclamation as Fredricka turned, blankness upon her face. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“Maytoni dogma, at its core is about equality and equity – we’re all the same. No gender, race, or species is greater or lesser than another. I noticed that among the pirates and citizens of Nauberta, the same ideals are held. You’re island nation is free of prejudice, more so than Maytoni is… Of course, the difference is that you lot are closer to an anarchistic society.”

“And that’s brought things back to reality for me. You had me worried for a moment, Rena,” Fredricka replied, smirking.

“At least, equality and equity are what we try for, anyway,” Rena added. She leaned over and passed her hand over the low-hanging leaves, their touch tingling her skin. “What were you, before you became a pirate? I mean, where are you from?”

“Oh, I’ve always been a pirate. I’m one of the few who has been with the Flamingo the longest, before Egil became the captain.”

Rena cast her eyes over Fredricka once more, her soft skin, thick air. She couldn’t be any older than forty.

“How long then?”

“Since I was five. I was an orphan, growing up in the Venom State. Captain Kairos Lazorov,” she said the name, almost with an air of reverence. “He took me on, when he saw me scrounging for crumbs in the port quarter of Lajo. I’d take on the pistols and guns of the sailors coming in, and clean and reload them for manes, copper ones usually. He’d seen me working before and had said to himself if I was still there the next time, he was present in the capital he’d make sure to recruit me. I spent seven years as a loader, maintaining everyone’s personal guns and some of the cannons. And then Captain Lazorov promoted me to be his personal armaments squire.”

“And what did the ship think of you, when you first stepped foot upon it?” Rena asked.

“You believe in the will of the ship? Most everyone thinks that aspect to the legend is myth – apart from the crew of course,” Fredricka replied.

“I’m not sure I do. I just know that it is part of its legend.”

“Captain Lazorov told me that the Flamingo became emboldened, a firmer, and surer version of itself.” There was no boasting to the words, they were stated matter-of-factly. And given Fredricka’s studious nature and fastidiousness for the technical and administrative, Rena believed it – or at least figured she would agree with the ship’s assessment.

“And you’ve served since you were five?”

“I could clean an arquebus, strip it down, repair it, load it, and didn’t even know how to count, or read. I knew measurements of powder, and appropriate shot size by instinct, look, and feel. Of course, I couldn’t see how badly the merchants and sailors were ripping me off by paying me in copper manes.” Fredricka laughed, a breezy chuckle. “There’s little else I’d have ever dreamed of doing had I the capacity back then. Even Huzkenian lore speaks of the Flamingo; our creation stories speak of a bejewelled pink and abyssal black ship that will prowl the oceans of the world for all time.”

“Your creation stories? That would mean the ship is older than, well, any of the myths say.”

“Could be – assuming it’s the same ship. The story goes that when the God Slaev was spurned by his father, Daneso, the Father of Creation and Destruction, for control of the waters, He, out of spite poised Huzken with his toxic breath because it was chosen to be his father’s Throne State. But before all of the flora and fauna became infected with Slaev’s ire, a demi-god, of unknown name or origin liberated some of the timber and built a great ship to resemble a tropical bird. Since then, the flamingo has been a symbol of defiance in the Venom State. That’s one interpretation of the Deamon Flamingo’s origin.”

“A demi-god?” Rena said to herself. “In Maytoni we have the Divined, the chosen who were the vanguard for sentient kind to receive greater powers gifted from the Gods. In the end many of them rebelled, trying to cut us all off from the Gods, and keep the power for themselves, and govern under the illusion of being gods, or something else. Many civilisations have their own interpretations of them and their rebellious events.”

“As do we,” Fredricka eagerly added. “The Sons and Daughters of the Gods apparently, against the wishes of Their parents, took on mortal lovers, giving the world demi-gods. One even caused the Wrathfire when they learned they could never ascend to true Godhood.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? We all have the same foundational beliefs, but somewhere, it all got confused,” Rena couldn’t help but add.

“I mean, I get why people believe in gods, even if it’s in a generalised, undefined way. Some civilisation has to have it right. Or at least be closer to the truth than anyone else.”

The pair moved on, the stone path widening, with Fredricka still hopping over the larger breaks in the set stones. Ahead the trees thinned, and an expanse of small wooden buildings opened up. Each was carved in straight angles, open balconies under pointed turrets, no building any greater than several stories tall. It was like a hamlet sitting in a forest, though abandoned, clearly.

“There’s one thing that has been bothering me,” Rena said as she and Fredricka stopped to survey things.

“What’s that?” Fredricka asked, squinted in the light and carefully looking over the buildings.

“Animal life is vacant here, apart from a few buzzing insects. I’d expect birds, or foxes, or anything.”

“It’s possible they were here too, brought on board by whoever owned this palace. If so, then they fell to the same fate as the inhabitants.”

Something heavy squirmed in Rena’s stomach, and she bunched up her lips, putting the thought out of her head.

“Stay behind me, and I mean right behind me. There are no reasons sirens should still be here, and they hate sunlight, but I don’t want you touching anything out of habit,” Fredricka said, not with any intensity, but a desire not to see Rena hurt.

Rena understood and kept her hands tucked under her arms. She nodded and they moved into the little hamlet.

Thoughts assailed Rena as to what went on here. The scents of cooking food, or the sounds of hammers and industry were vacant. No music graced her ears, and no children were squealing and laughing.

It grew cold again.

And the evidence of commotion began to fall upon Rena; splintered doorframes, scars cut into the otherwise pristine panelling; streaks of dirt cut along the stone pathways as people ran; shattered glass sparkled in the overhead sun, strewn across paths; items, such as daggers, or pieces of cloth began to litter the paths as well.

Then came the most obvious sign of trouble – blood.

From one window, about the jagged remains of glass, glinted a ruby redness, causing Rena to start. So captivated by the brightness of it on the glass, it took her a moment to see the streaks slashed into the wooden wall of the house beneath the window.

Hesitantly, compelled by her Pastoral nature to see if anyone needed help, Rena took a tentative step towards the shattered window. A burst of fright rattled through her as Fredricka grabbed her by the shoulder.

“What did I tell you? Stay on me like a falcon on his master’s arm,” she said looking over the bloodied sill. “And anyway, there won’t be anything left. Sirens take everyone, and leave nothing behind… Other than the blood they can’t lap up.”

Rena forced herself to look away from the streaks of blood. Only when she did, her eyes landed on many greater streaks of red fluid across the path they were on; bright splotches dashed over the stone, shaped into lanes as bodies were dragged through here. Between the cobbles, dirty red crust festered, and Rena felt something swirl inside her stomach, something slimly.

A greater copperish scent found Rena like a ghastly spectre, tugging at the back of her throat, making her wish for the salty scent of the ocean.

If it wasn’t for Fredricka, so gingerly making her way forward, Rena would have stayed frozen in place. She wanted to keep up, to avoid looking so timid.

“There,” Fredricka said, pointing to gash cut into the corner frame of one building. Jagged wooded splinters peeked out from the impact, a few coated black.

Naturally, Rena did not know what she was indicating and waited for the explanation as her head filled with air, and her stomach rose.

“If I went at that with a dagger, I’d bet good silver on it there’s a deformed lead ball in there – that’s a sign of fighting.”

Once Fredricka had pointed out the structural wound, Rena began to see these gashes and pock marks more frequently across wooden walls, and upon doors and window frames. There was even obvious scoring from blades, chunks of timber hacked away as someone’s sword missed its opponent.

Soon there wasn’t a surface without these brutal scars. But these were superficial…

You’ve seen blood before. You’ve seen death before, bodies… She told herself. This is only blood, nothing more…

It became impossible for Rena to place her feet upon any stone unblemished by blood, and every step felt deeply contaminated, and as she was treading upon some unfortunate’s body. Sharp tingles nipped at her ankles and calves, with a deep feeling of uncleanliness and disrespect.

From inside her fragile mind, Rena couldn’t help imagining bodies draped upon the bloodied stones, within the bloodied doorways, hanging over the balconies and windows.

Great was the pungency of metallic scents choaking Rena, stinging deep into her nose and drying out her mouth.

“Quartermaster!” From ahead came a cry which took hold of Rena, stole her attention from the sinister imaginings. “You need to see this!”

Sympathetically, Fredricka snatched up Rena’s hand and pulled her through the rest of the charnel trail. Through a fear of stumbling and collapsing into the gore, Rena managed to clatter along, keeping up with Fredricka until they had emerged into a more open gardened area.

A wash of flowery, sweet, scents enveloped Rena, and she inhaled gratefully as Fredricka came to a halt. An idyllic tingle, like that of a small metal instrument in the hands of a child, soothed her thumping heart, and roiling stomach. It was a fountain, sculpted in a manner depicting a water nymph levitating over a wide stone basin in which the five continents of Anordaithe had been set in marble. From the supple form of the nymph, from countless pores, spurted crystalline water.

Fredricka clapped Rena on the shoulder, starting her.

“Kihdant!” She declared. “Most southern nation in The Sigel, and they believe that nymphs purify the elements for us. I’m sure there’s a pool back in the Flamingo, and that someone is going to be somewhat richer.” Fredricka smirked, cunningly. “At least for a day, until they lose it all on another game.”

Rena had heard of the nation, though knew little about it, and have never visited it.

“Quartermaster,” the same voice caught their attention again.

A dark-skinned pirate, an elf, approached from an archway twisted from a strawberry tree, its mouthwatering fruit glimmering, wet and inviting.

“Who couldn’t help themselves, then?” Fredricka replied with a disgruntled sigh. “Was it a flesh explosion, or has the stupid pillock been driven mad?”

The elf sputtered laughter, grinning, though it didn’t last. “No, ma’am. Nothing like that… Well, no causalities that is. But we found our evidence.”

Fredricka spread her arms out. “There’s evidence all around us. This whole residence saw fighting, and more blood than what goes through a leviathan’s heart.”

“I’d wager that’s nothing…” His voice dropped, and he paused to emphasise his point.

“Gods help us,” Fredricka muttered under her breath. “Show me.”

The trio moved off along a soil trail, dwarf cherry trees forming gracious paths to follow, though at their pace, Rena hardly had the time to appreciate the colours and sweet scents. Then again, the darkening whirlpool in her stomach would have been too intrusive to let her.

Through the branches of the olive and cork oak trees flitted images of the pyramidal palace. It became malevolently colder, but Rena continued to match the rapid walking pace until they came to towering corner stone, twisted into a guard post of sorts.

Acrid tangs ambushed Rena as she panted hard, and she spat and spluttered, wiping her mouth.

The roof was missing, shattered, blackened beams rotting as the vivid daylight seemed to avoid them. It wasn’t fire that brought ruination to this post; however, Rena knew. For one thing there were no embers, and the blackening was more indicative of rot.

“They ripped the very life from the wood here,” Fredricka stated, almost with a sense of awe.

It took a moment for Rena to realise she was speaking directly to her, and she was quick to bring her head around.

“Their sour song turned the fibres of the wood into putrid decay,” Fredricka continued, her eyes stuck to the edifice as they moved past it. It was obvious Fredricka was equal parts impressed and horrified, though for Rena she could only feel the constricting, numbing terror of it.

She could find no words to reply.

Coming around, the trail widened into another pleasure garden, with a maze far off on their left. It reminded Rena of the old garden maze in the Lecky Gardens back in Maytoni’s capital, in which children delighted in getting lost – as she had too, before the Gods decided to change things.

It was a flutter of extasy, a reprieve powerful enough to cast back the murky despair that was washing through her. These light, yet poignant memories manifested with no effort, and Rena felt the comforting touch of the Gods upon her spirit – specifically Wesper the God of purifying lights and Garmaff the God of comfort.

Such a boon uplifted her spirit, reasserted Rena’s resolve that she was right where she needed to be, and unforsaken.

It also helped to steel her for what she saw next.

The trio regrouped with the remaining pirates and walked through the pleasure garden alongside what was obviously the front side of the vast palace, until they came to the gargantuanly tall steps leading to its bulbous peak.

“Here we are,” their guided said, lowly, as if not to offend any lingering spirts.

Rena could have fainted, but something beyond her halted the overwhelming panic and horror.

Every wooden step, every fibre, for a hundred and fifty odd metres was slickened, sticky, and drenched in blood.

Views: 9