The Aeolus rested on the placid surface of Zaeafran’s protected harbor. Her lines clean and beautiful with only a few scratches where arrowheads and stones had skipped off her hull. The small and agile sail used to pull her from her confines lay slack and uninspired. Around her, the world was chaos. Zaeafran’s lethal ballistae launched their stout shafts toward a distant Horde fleet, which was using its oars to push out of range.
Drago looked around the deck. “Gonna hit the rack for as long as I can.” Before anyone could answer, he descended into the cabin.
Stefan and Vlad sat near single oarlocks on each side of the twin hulls and each pulled a single, long-handled oar in unison to Jenna’s cadence from the wheelhouse. Batal sat on top of the cabin, near the mast, with a thick line gripped in both hands. The main sail waited on the deck like a coiled snake, waiting to spring toward the sky and capture the wind.
“If she blows west, we have a good chance,” stated Amira, as she watched the Horde fleet from the deck.
“A west wind carries us east, toward the Akiro Clan,” Batal said as he kept an eye on the flag on top of the mast. It raised, spun, and drooped. “But an east wind just means we tack our way west while the Horde brightens our nights with fireballs and flaming shit-filled sacs.” His eyes fell hard on his mother. “Or do you have another torture excursion planned?” He regretted the jab before he finished it. Sorry, Mother. To her credit, she let it pass. She was as much to blame for the Trials as Batal was for agreeing to begin them. Both knew it simply had to be done.
The swirling breeze grew to a gust and was gone. A small fleet with drooping yellow-and-orange sails appeared from the east, rowing their way toward the harbor. The sky filled with streaking flame and half the fleet of Zaeafranian clippers exploded and were taken by the sea.
Shenebs trumpeted from the wall and the gate opened. Muscled men dragging small ballistae, ceramic spheres, and bundled shafts grunted as they went to the dock to refit and reload the boats.
Amira sat on the bench next to the cabin door and continued to focus on the horizon and the waiting Horde fleet. “We have until the wind decides our fate.” She then glanced up at her son. “And to answer your question, yes, I needed to know how deep your strength runs. I needed to know if you carry your father’s spirit, Batal, his fearlessness, his courage, and most of all his compassion.”
The oars slapped at the sea a final time, then Vlad and Stefan pulled them in on Jenna’s order and waited for her next command. The flag fluttered at the top of the mast and fell slack once more.
“After a month of being beaten, starved, and forced to fight with my hands, feet, and even my teeth, your son butchered Zaeafran’s three greatest warriors.” Batal fell silent, the images rushing in. “All I know, Mother, is I once fished for the people of Skye Stone. Now I am a murderer, a butcher, and a Guardian.” He swallowed hard. I will not cry, I will not give in to the boy I was, Batal admonished himself. “Oh and, Mother, I am not ‘untouched.’ I found my first lesion on my back before the rogue wave hit Skye Stone.”
Amira stood, faced her son. “I love you. You will come to understand your path in time.” She moved through the door and stopped. “You do not have a lesion on your back. It’s a tiny birthmark tucked under your shoulder blade. Your father had one just like it, and it grows darker with age. You are the first to be free of the radiation’s effects, and Kaminari Akiro of the Hiroshima Archipelago is the second. The wind is here. I’ll wake Drago.” She disappeared into the cabin as the flag at the top of the mast pointed east.
Danu popped her head out from below, assessed the situation, and padded back down the steps following Amira.
Not long after, Drago stumbled up from below. “What’s the plan, captain?
Jenna followed the flag atop the mast. “If the west wind holds, we row out of the harbor, wait for the siege ships to fire”—her eyes fell to Batal at the base of the mast still holding the line—“and we raise the main.”
“Fucking brilliant.” Drago folded his arms. “The plan is to raise the sail?”
The wind died down.
“Ever been aboard the Aeolus when she catches a full sail from a standstill?”
“No.”
“You soon will. Now reset the sail while Batal climbs the mast. We’re gonna need a faster method to raise the main.” Jenna turned the wheel. “Stephan, Vlad, on me. Pull…pull…pull.”
“You want me”—with his eyes, Batal followed the thick base to its lean point forty meters above, a resting crossbar big enough for a leg on each side stood a meter from the point—“to go up there?”
In between cadence calls, Jenna hollered while pointing at the deck. “Hatch—pull!—gloves—pull!—thigh bands—pull!—now!”
Black sails grew in the distance.
Batal threw open a small hatch near the base of the mast, put on the waxed-palmed gloves he found inside, then wrapped and snapped a resin-soaked cloth around each thigh. It felt strange to be wearing his leather pants again, no armor or loincloth; he could be fishing. You can do this. He then took a deep breath and up he went.
“By the gods, boy, you’ve gained a few stone of muscle!” Drago growled as he refolded the sail to ensure a quick rise. “I’d give you a proper beating, if I thought I could. Still much to teach you.”
“I’m still hoping you’ll try, Uncle.” Batal smiled from above, hearing the relief in his uncle’s words and still a fading guilt. He feels it, too, he thought. Just like mother. Batal’s arms burned, and the skin on his hands stretched and pulled under the sticky gloves. He timed each lunge, reaching up with his hands until the stick of wax on wood held, then he released his thighs and pulled himself upward, over and over, the line dangling from the top of the mast playing off his back. He eventually reached the short crossbar, wrapped a leg around one side, then the other, and grabbed the line, giving it a quick tug.
“He’s in position,” Drago called out from the deck.
More words muffled by the wind rose from below as the flag above Batal’s head whipped and snapped due east. The mast rolled starboard, and he tightened his grip on the line and locked his legs. His ass hurt and muscles burned, but Batal was not afraid of the height nor what was about to happen, it felt good to be alive, free of combat rings and cells.
“I am a Guardian,” he whispered, “like my father, my uncle, my mother,” while his head followed the arc of dozens of flaming spheres streaming tar-like smoke across the sky.
“Hold, Batal!” Jenna yelled from behind the wheel.
“Be bold,” he spoke to the rushing wind. “Just a little fear keeping me focused.” The image of blurred stone while riding the screamers to the top of Skye Stone filled him with confidence. Somewhat. Nice try, Batal. Just don’t piss yourself or worse. Uncle Drago would never let up.
The Aeolus moved beyond the calm waters and rocky walls of the breakwater and into the swell of the sea. Fireballs splashed off her port side, with one sphere striking the water meters from the hull. Queen Zasar and her warriors launched a barrage from their ballistae in response.
“Vlad, pull, pull, pull!”
The Aeolus spun starboard and aligned with the wind. She sat rolling with the sea as the sun, unaware of the coming destruction, lit her hull.
Jenna turned her head, locking on to the Horde fleet to the northwest. “Oars up!”
Batal’s heart drummed. Another volley from Zaeafran sliced overhead. The Horde’s fleet began its charge. Control your breath, he thought as he looked down at the sail resting near Drago’s feet. He looks terrified. For me. Batal then subtracted the distance from the deck to where the sail attached to the mast and adjusted his grip on the line. A gust ripped the flag overhead. Batal flew backward, dangling upside-down, his legs losing their grip.
More balls of fire filled the sky.
Jenna leaned into the wheel. “Brace yourselves. Now, Batal!”
Blood rushing to his head, he straightened his legs. The deck rushed to meet him. Screams sounded, or maybe it was the wind. The golden planks. The tight grain—
WOOMP! SNAP!
Batal skidded on his side, cartwheeling each time the resin on his legs or the palm of his hand caught the deck. His stomach dropped and rose into a darkening sky. Carried on the wings of a…my wings. Heat and…hells! Tar and smoke. Cold, rushing cold, down into the abyss.
“Hold on, Batal!”
“Tie it down!”
So cold. Ice formed around his feet and filled his veins, crawling up and up. Hold on to what, gods of the darkness? Is this hell? Tar and smoke and a sucking cold, so cold. Screams turned to whispers. His arm stretched, ached, he was back in the Trials. His shoulder clicked and snapped. Cold attacked, was inside of him, flowing and freezing. His skin fell loose and something wet and heavy slid down his chest and legs. Sorry, Mother.
“I’m losing him! By the gods, boy, help me!”
Even here, my uncle’s voice follows.
A silver-haired girl appeared, extending a hand toward a beaten and bloodied boy. Green eyes and pale skin with the grin of a wicked kindness. Other boys lay sprawled or heaped in pairs. Her leg flashed backward, another boy rolled away, groaning. And still the outreached hand remained as her leg returned to the ground.
“Not this time!” Drago yelled. “You can’t take him!”
Naked, Batal rose out of the water, the wind lifting him off a cresting wave. A vise-like ebony hand was attached to his. A black sail followed, an hourglass within a circle emblazoned upon it. The shimmer of steel flashed and tore into the water near Batal’s chest.
“Take the wheel!”
Jenna hooked her foot on a cleat. “Reach up, Batal. Do it now or we die with you!”
Another harpoon hit the water near Batal’s feet. He reached up with what he hoped was his other arm. Nothing worked, just numb—
Barking cut through the fog. He was on the deck looking up at Danu and, behind her, the head of a giant deerhound on the biggest sail he had ever seen. Jenna and Drago, sat on each side of him, huffing, disheveled, staring at the Horde ship as it lost ground behind them.
Batal raised his head and turned to Jenna. “I’m naked.”
“And freezing by the looks of it.” She pushed up to stand and returned to the wheel where Vlad and Stefan kept the Aeolus on course.
Batal attempted a smile. “Thank you. All of you. I will not forget.”
A blanket spread out and Amira tucked the edges underneath him. “Do it now, before he feels it.”
“Do what? Fuck!”
The snap and pop was followed by relief. Batal reached up to his right shoulder.
Drago patted his chest and stood up. “Won’t be the last time your shoulder gets dislocated, I’m sure.”
The Aeolus tilted to the starboard, her sail stretching to hold the wind. “They’re falling farther back,” Batal said, no longer able to make out the symbols on the larger black sails. There were so many of them. The smaller boats continued the chase as the siege ships dropped their sails.
“There’re going to try one last volley!” Jenna hollered over the wind. “Can’t do it under sail with any accuracy.”
Flaming spheres launched into the sky from the bobbing siege ships and plunked behind the Aeolus.
“Mother?”
“Let’s get you to the cabin to rest.” Amira offered her hand. “We can talk later.”
“I saw her,” Batal continued. “Kaminari. At least a vision of when we first met.” He sat up and rearranged the blanket around his waist, held it with his right hand, and grimaced. “We were children. Why would she ask for me now after so many years? Does she want to kill me or love me? I was just a boy she knew while he was being bullied.” Batal took his mother’s hand and stood.
Her eyes softened. “Some see immediately what others take a lifetime to understand.”
They eased down the steps and ducked into the cabin.
Drago joined Jenna at the pilot’s wheel.
“Those harpoons didn’t have points,” he stated, staring back at the fading Horde fleet. “Just blunt hooks on a line. They wanted to capture him, just like his fath—”
“I know,” Jenna replied. “Batal has enough to worry about.” Her biceps flexed, fingers gripping then releasing the wheel. “We must get him to the Archipelago and the Akiro Clan, even if we forfeit our lives.”
“Not today, though.” Drago ran a hand across jaw. “Maybe tomorrow?”