Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

Looking around, Tyranny found Scars on the deck’s port side, helping to bandage a wounded warrior. She quickly called him over.

“I want a damage report on each of the four surviving vessels,” she said, “and I want it fast. Take one of the skiffs. I need to know where we stand.” Scars hurried away.

Tyranny turned to look forward. If the other ships had suffered no more damage than theTammerland, the situation was salvageable, but it would take time. Two of her flagship’s masts were cracked but still standing, and from where she stood she could see at least four broken spars and much torn rigging. The sails had been furled, so they should have been unharmed. Tousling her hair, she bristled at the notion of again being delayed to effect repairs. She produced one of her dark cigarillos, lit it, then luxuriously exhaled some bluish smoke into the air.

From the throng of wounded warriors, an exhausted Minion officer approached Shailiha. His dark wings drooped so badly that they dragged along the bloody deck. Standing before her, he did his best to come to attention.

“Yes?” Shailiha asked.

“Begging your pardon, mistress,” he said. “Some of us officers request permission to burn our dead.”

Shailiha thought for a moment. She knew full well that Minion funeral rites involved cremation. She also knew that she could never allow funeral pyres to be built and used aboard the ship-especially in the sizes and numbers that would be needed. She gave the officer a questioning look.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“We will place our fallen onto the sea with their brothers,” he said. “We ask that the adepts set the bodies alight. In that way the fires will be contained, and be of no danger to the ships.”

Shailiha looked at Wigg. “Can you set fire to the dead without endangering the fleet?”

Taking a step closer, Wigg clasped his hands before him. “Yes,” he answered. “But with all due respect I believe that we should be tending to the living.”

The princess looked over the ship’s side. Bloated and mangled bodies-ally and foe alike-littered the waves. As she turned back to look into the officer’s eyes, she found herself disagreeing with the First Wizard. To the Minions, the culture of death was easily as important as that dealing with life, and she would honor it.

“Permission granted,” she said. “The mystics will see to your needs.”

Immensely grateful, the officer went to one knee and bowed his head. “Thank you, mistress,” he said, “from both our living and our dead.”

Shailiha walked to the starboard gunwale and tiredly leaned up against it. After a time she heard bodies splashing into the sea. To her great discouragement, the sounds went on for far longer than she might have guessed.

After a time she saw a broad azure beam extend from theTammerland and streak into the night. Its gentle embrace washed over the sea to collect the bodies together then slowly push them east, a safe distance from the ship.

Almost at once the dead burst into flames. Shailiha turned to see that every warrior who could stand had silently come to attention. Those who were conscious but too severely wounded to stand were being held upright by their fellow warriors. At that moment Shailiha realized she had done the right thing.

Tyranny came to join her at the rail. For a time they watched the corpses burn in silence. As the privateer saw the sun slowly start creeping up over the horizon, she tossed her spent cigarillo into the sea.

“We have survived, but our losses have been great,” she said softly. “You are faced with a difficult choice.”

“I know,” Shailiha answered. “To continue on to the Citadel, or to lick our wounds and go home.”

Shailiha cast her gaze farther out to sea. The burning bodies were fewer now, and their roaring flames were starting to ebb.

“But first we must search for Traax,” she said.

Turning away from the railing, the two women tiredly went to help with the wounded.

CLOSING HIS EYES, TRISTAN RUBBED HIS TEMPLES WITHhis fingertips. He was exhausted. Worse, he was deeply concerned over the news he had recently gotten. After taking another sip of wine he looked worriedly into his friends’ faces.

He was in Faegan’s chambers in the depths of the Redoubt. It was the day following his visit to the highlander camp, and the hour was late. Abbey, Aeolus, and a Minion warrior of new acquaintance sat at the table with him. As the prince considered his options, the remains of an ashen log crumbled to its death in the fireplace grate, its sound the only break in the gloomy silence.

While viewing Tristan’s medallion yesterday, the prince and Abbey had seen some of the mayhem overtaking the Conclave fleet. Mad with worry, they had wanted to watch longer, but Tristan reluctantly followed the Crysenium Envoys’ advice and ended the spell. After that he had paced the palace like a caged animal, fearing for his friends and warriors who were so far out to sea.

Three hours later, Faegan’s azure portal had unexpectedly appeared on the palace grounds. As its whirling vortex coalesced, a terrible sight formed. Wounded warriors emerged in droves to collapse on the grass. Some died where they fell.

Tristan had been quickly summoned from his bed. Surmising that the Conclave had sent the wounded home because of their overwhelming numbers, he had immediately summoned Aeolus, Abbey, and every acolyte and Minion healer. Even Mallory, Martha, Ariana, and the palace gnomes were working feverishly, doing what they could to help tend the wounded.

A few hours later the entire palace and its surrounding areas were overflowing with Minion wounded and dying. As Tristan frantically directed the emergency efforts, an unknown warrior approached him, bearing a letter. After telling Tristan he had just arrived through the portal, he went to one knee and humbly handed the correspondence to hisJin’Sai.

The letter was addressed to Abbey. But the warrior had been given orders that if theJin’Sai had returned, it should be given to him instead. Tristan recognized the red wax seal immediately. Its imprint bore the lion, the broadsword, and the letters “SG.”

He tore the envelope open and read its contents quickly, then looked at the warrior who had brought it. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“Kratos,” the warrior answered.

“You were part of the recent fighting that took place over the Sea of Whispers?” Tristan asked.

“Yes, my lord. I killed six of the beasts. I had never seen anything like them.”

Tristan’s response was immediate. “Are you familiar with the herbmistress named Abbey?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Go to her,” he said. “She is in the Chamber of Supplication, tending to the wounded. I want her and the man named Aeolus to immediately join me in Faegan’s quarters, in the Redoubt. I want you there too.”

Kratos clicked his heels together. “I live to serve,” he said. Tristan watched him hurry off.

That had been one hour ago. As he again looked down at Shailiha’s letter, he sensed the burden of command that would be weighing so heavily across his sister’s shoulders. Before allowing Kratos into the room, he had shown the letter to Abbey and Aeolus. Picking it up, he silently read it again:

Dearest Abbey,

As I write this, we are doing all we can to tend to the thousands of warriors wounded in a recent air battle with Serena’s forces. It is plain that there will be far too many for us to treat. We have therefore activated Faegan’s portal, so that they can be sent home. We pray that you, the acolytes, and the Minion healers will save as many as you can. Know too that for the next several days, Faegan’s portal will reappear at midday, and stay open each time for as long as he can sustain it.