She found the magazine easily—a large brass lined room at the stern full of wooden barrels—she wrapped her arms around one, black powder spilling slightly as she hauled it out of the room and headed for the main deck.
With each step up the stairs, the shouting and cannon fire grew louder until she finally made it to the top. Just as she set foot on the deck, a high pitched hiss made her ears ring as a metal ball whizzed less than a foot in front of her. She squealed and dropped the barrel, gun powder scattering across the deck. “Blazing stars!” she screamed, bending to right the barrel before it poured out anymore of the flammable substance.
As soon as she gathered the powder, she surveyed the deck before her. It was utter chaos. Orders were bellowed left and right. Smoke filled the air and blood was splattered across the deck with no clue as to whom it had come from. She spotted what looked like a severed finger just a few paces in front of her, cracked bone jutting out through ripped flesh. Kamira turned sharply, gagging uncontrollably as she brought a hand up over her mouth, dropping the gunpowder beside her. One of the crew jumped from the smog, ran over to her, and handed her a pistol before picking up the barrel she had so carelessly dropped. “Use it,” he instructed before disappearing into the smoke.
This was warfare, she realized. That ship was no ordinary cargo vessel—it was a militia. TheCursed Soulwas caught in the middle of a battle. The crew on the other ship were men in green uniforms with a golden sun embellished on their chests. Her eyes widened. She had seen that symbol many times before, in her northern hometown of Torheim. “The Emerald King,” she whispered.
It seemed a lot had changed in the two years since she had been forced to leave her childhood home for Aksahri. From the looks of it, this self-proclaimed King had developed a full blown navy. Before she left, the King had configured a small group of rebels whose only goal was to kill and torture the Emperor’s men in the smaller northern cities. There had not been any naval units. How had he even accomplished such a feat? This so-called King in the North was said to reside in Sumaaria, which was completely surrounded by the perilous Emerald Peaks. They didn’t have any ways to access the sea.
Rumors of the King’s ambition to gain full control over the large city of Sumaaria had spread like wildfire before she moved south. Had he finally taken the city? How else had he amassed a mighty force like this one?
If that was true, then it was only a matter of time before word of his power spread and the entirety of the North fell to him. Once that happened, he would come for the Emperor and conquer the South. Civil war was hovering just on the edge of the horizon.
Her brother’s parting words to her sprang to the forefront of her mind. “The Emerald King seeks revenge. When the first signs of war begin, you need to find a way to survive. Flee if you need to. Be smart and play the game of war and fate.”
She watched from the top of the steps, just out of reach of the bullets soaring across the deck, wood chips flying as they embedded themselves into theCursed Soul. They were losing. The crew could not keep up with the onslaught of the Emerald King’s attack. They were severely outnumbered and they would all die if something wasn’t done.
They needed help. They needed a Sorceress.
Kamira closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders back, standing tall. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath, cracked her knuckles, and walked into the fray of war.
12
Doraan
Blackbloodyfuckingsails. Was he bad luck? Was he some kind of bad omen? This was the second ship in the past eight months that looked like nothing more than a merchant ship on the outside, yet housed a full company of soldiers. This one looked even more unassuming than the last. It was a simple brigantine vessel, one of hundreds he had seen before. Who were they? They weren’t Aksahrian men. They wore colors he had never seen before, and they were strong.
A well trained militia.
The cannon fire barely ceased as they were bombarded with blast after bloody blast. That kind of ship shouldn’t have had more than seven, maybe eight guns. Yet this one had double that, if not more. How had it even been constructed to hold so many? Doraan had never seen anything like it. It was absurd—a vessel created specifically for decimation—any ship that went up against it wasn’t meant to sail away.
To make things worse, it had begun to piss down buckets of rain so heavily that he could hardly see his own limbs.
Waves crashed into the ship causing just as much damage to theCursed Soulas the bloody cannon fire. The only reprieve was that the storm had slowed the attack of their green and gold foes down considerably. Doraan could just see their ship through the haze, taking on more damage as the onslaught of crashing waves pummeled them with a vengeance. It was almost as if the sea itself was angry with them for attacking theCursed Soul.
Doraan glanced across the deck. Jorne lay unconscious, blood gushing from his head. Flashes of his own mangled leg, blood pouring from it and splintered bone jutting through the skin flew through his mind.No, not again.His chest constricted, making it hard to breathe.No one will die, not in this crew.
Doraan rubbed at the spot just above his heart and was about to call out the command to cease the attack and flee when he noticed a small figure standing on the railing of the ship’s broadside, hands raised into the air.
Zev.Any breath he had left in his lungs vanished.
“Zev! Get down from there!” What in the bloody seas was the boy doing? He was standing like a target for the enemy to practice their aim. Doraan could make out more than one pistol aimed directly at the boy.
Doraan tried to get to him, tripping over debris and his own limbs. “Zev!” he yelled again, just as Cormac locked his eyes on the lad and sprinted toward him, but neither were fast enough. A deafening blast echoed through the mist and rain. Doraan froze, watching in horror as Zev was thrown backwards by the force, hitting the deck of theCursed Soulwith a thud that Doraan felt in his bones.
Doraan didn’t take a second to think as he clambered back up to the helm and spun the wheel, yelling out commands to his crew as they fled, sailing further into the storm. His mind reeled.Zev would be alright. He wouldn't die, not on his watch. He couldn’t.Doraan’s head pounded, his heart racing as he clutched at his chest.No one else could die.
The further they got away from the ship, the more the storm eased and faded like a ghost, disappearing as if it had never existed. The clouds opened overhead, revealing clear blue skies and the bright morning sun as it shone down on the cerulean sea.
Doraan ignored the strangeness of the storm, waiting until they were far away from the ship before he stumbled down the steps to join the rest of the crew huddled around Zev.
The cabin boy lay in a crumpled heap upon the bridge, blood seeping into his linen shirt, spreading out like spilled wine. Jorne was pressing his hands to the wound in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding. Doraan rushed to the lad and knelt before him. The boy’s face was drained of its color, the life slowly seeping out of him only to be replaced by the pale tinge of death.
Doraan pushed Jorne’s hands away and tore the lad’s shirt down its center for a better look at the wound. A cloth was wrapped around the boy’s chest, wet and sticky with his lifeblood.Was he already injured before?
It looked as if the bullet had pierced the right side of the boy’s chest, but the cloth binding was so saturated with blood it was hiding the wound from view. He pushed Zev onto his side, Cormac’s hands came into view as he helped to hold the boy still while Doraan looked for an exit wound, tearing through the cloth binding.
The crew gathered around, watching as Doraan revealed the bleeding hole where the bullet had exited and they loosened a collective sigh of relief. Another crew member hadn’t been lost today.
