Like death, she brought the cold with her. His candles would not light, his breath was icy clouds in the air and his wet boots hardened as if petrified by the eye of a gorgon. But it made no matter, there was a flame in the heart of Randal Dundragon that could not be dampened - not even by the touch of an Iskaal. With a swift click of his fingers, he lit a pipe of flame grass and his cabin flooded with light, light redder than his skin. He drew in a long breath, the grass glowed like a volcano, his head floated, and he blew out. Silvery strands of smoke floated in the air, coiling like the ghosts of dragons.
She lay on his bed, atop a blanket of frost, her eyes staring into his; deep black voids that could swallow a man whole – a lesser man at least. Pointy, bejewelled ears, that sparkled like the sky over his ship. Her high cheekbones, pale as a spectre, sheltered a sharp, blue smile with the cunning grace only she could portray. Her skin was stretched over the edge of her jaw, tight as a bow string, without blemish or wrinkle. Freckles the colour of frost peppered the bridge of her nose and found their way down her neck and chest, beneath his shirt. It fitted her loosely but complimented her curves like the faintest breeze through sails. And a long time it has been…
With each passing minute he found his bottle becoming lighter and with it, his head. He swished his tail like a whip and propped his boot upon the bed silks, nodding at her to unlace them. She did not so much as blink. Shaking his head, he chortled and grinned; stubborn as her father. He threw back the rest of his rum and set down the bottle, but it slid off onto the floor, rolling around as the ship bobbed on the calm waves. He gave up with his laces; his head was swimming and his fingers tingling. Instead, he elected to tug on his frost-bitten boots until his feet were free. They each met the floorboards with a light thud; a sailor who does not wish to drown wears boots light as silk – light like my bloody head. But I haven’t the time for a light head, he grinned.
Randal jumped onto the bed, eager to get closer to Lya, the flame in his heart burning with the heat of a thousand furnaces. He crawled closer. His red fingers found their way up her thighs. Her skin steamed like tempered steel. That thawed her frozen heart. Her lower lip disappeared into her mouth and her skin glowed like a sunny winter morning. On his hands and knees, he crept closer- she thrust out one pale leg to his forehead and steam rose from her toes; “and where do you think you’re going?” She whispered; her voice hissed like steam. Eyes narrowing, she returned his devilish grin with every muster of arrogance. Perhaps not. She shook her head. “Shirt.” He did as she bayed. His feet once again found the blackwood floor boards, ebony like the water outside. Smoke and steam seemed to dance in the air around his horns as he lifted his undershirt. The dark fabric blocked out the moonlight as it slid over his face and-
It was black, his head found its ground, but his eyes were blind. The world was blind. Darker than the voids Lya called eyes. For once, Randal was cold. The flame in his lantern of a heart put out with a gust of wind blown by death itself. Then, on the closest thing to a horizon in that great black abyss, a thin red line appeared. Like the dawn of a new day in the lowest, darkest hell. The red line thickened, and Randal found himself on the prow of a ship, with a thin breeze finding its way between his raven locks, under his shirt like her cool embrace. The waters were gentle; blacker and than black with flecks of red, rippling and flashing. A red sun rose- an enormous ball of crimson fire. The heart of a dragon. So large, so close he could have sailed right through the centre. A red shimmer glittered on the surface of the black ocean, so clear that he could walk over it, like a path made of rubies, toward what lay beyond the fiery light.
He walked down the prow and looked down at the rippling water; the red light blazing in his yellow eyes. A huge gust of wind blew through him and made his coat tales twist and snap behind him. Calling for him. Daring him to come closer, in a cool airy whisper. He did not think twice. Gentle, as a fox creeping on ice toward its prey, Randal stretched his foot down to the water’s shimmering surface. It was instinctual. His boot met the oceans red skin; be it the voice of the wind or the dragon’s heart in the black sky, something told him to walk upon the ruby path. His boot, dry as the day he bought them; or stole them, he did not remember, sent ripples in every direction. He stepped down and send more ripples.
Before he knew it, he was walking toward the light, now running, now sprinting. His ship was nowhere to be seen and the sun was growing larger. I can touch it. Gone was Lya’s gripping cold; Randal was bathed in fire. He shed his old coat and it flew away like a loose flag, he unbuckled his worn sword belt, and the dull cutlass sank down into the crushing darkness beneath. His legs carried him faster. And faster. Closer. And closer. Each step sent ripple after ripple spreading and warping the ruby waters.
Until… until his stamina began to dwindle like a dying flame. Until the ruby path faded. Until enormous waves rose either side of him, like vast black castle walls, looming over him, threatening. And then there was nothing once more. The waves swallowed him up like the jaws of a monstrous black kraken.
With a start, he awoke, and his cell faded into light. Grey walls stained by blood and scarred by graffiti. Empty window frames through which slithered the ocean wind. He was alone as he always seemed to be these days. And his head was caught between a hammer and an anvil.
They had taken his boots and sword but left him his coat. It was rugged after years of use; the stitching was frayed; the sleeves were torn, burned and blood stained but that did not matter. His coat had seen the world with him, even given most of its buttons, it was as comfortable as pyjamas. He wrapped it around him to shield himself from the cold, but the wind still wove its way between the gaps. I’m as good as gone now. It’s useless. They’ve cornered me. It’s like trying to light a fire in snow. He blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them together. The visitor’s waiting for me.
His memory was foggy, and that night was a blur of hail and fire; salt and smoke; thunder and thrall horns. Randal shook his head; it hurt again. They thought they had run into some privateers, hired by some lord to keep pirates off their coastal borders, like as not. They were wrong.
“That’s no privateer drum” Talion and his astute observations, Randal reflected. He conjured a flame in fist for some light, but it did not help. The only light, that night, fell in flashes, absorbed into the ocean.
Under his rugged coat, Randal closed his eyes and balled his fists to summon some semblance of heat. Even the slightest ember or cinder, but all he felt was ice. Ice that gripped his throat with skeletal hands.
He felt hail bounce off his skin, leaving goosebumps and bruises in their wake “STEP TO, LADS!” he summoned his captain voice. The visitor was not taking him today.
Only the gods know where I found the strength. In one night, I have gone from defying death to preying for it. I am a coward in a brave man’s skin. He blew into his hands once more to no avail. His fingertips, once red and burning with life, were now charred black. A coward in a burned man’s skin.
“There it is again.”
“Talion! Shut it!”
“But , sir…”
“Talion! With you in one ear and the storm in the other, I can’t hear my own thoughts!” His short fuse was lit, and his slitted eyes burned with malice. “Take the wheel. Keep her straight and true. If you sail us into oblivion and survive, I will personally drag you down to hell with me!” He growled through barred teeth with beads of blood rolling down his face like tears.
I wonder what they did with the lad. Randal had not seen Talion since, the Vyk kept him largely separated from his crew once they fell upon them. I suppose he expects to see me down there soon. Randal forced himself to his feet, the stone floor sent frozen chills up his legs. He put his coat on and wrapped it tight around him. His window looked down into a ruined courtyard. The castle had belonged to the Shaetons; an old family who made their wealth making… wealth? They imposed heavy taxes on merchants and sailors, being the port closest to the capital until the construction of Newport further down the coast. What’s this castle called again? Salt-Moat? It sounded right. To the best of Randal’s knowledge, he had never so much as seen the place. Looks like it’s been claimed by someone else now.
Towers, obviously once ordained with gothic carvings and stonework topped with black slate turrets, were now piles of grey rubble. Ornate steel railings remained running along the inner battlements but beneath were charred planks of wood. Where once a smith shaped a sword with hammer and anvil, stood a pile of cobblestone in the vague shape of a chimney. Under a layer of mud, Randal thought he could see a slab of quartz, white as teeth. Those bastards! The Shaetons were followers of the True Two, worshipping the binary gods that maintained the balance between light and darkness. The Vyk had burned their bithel and left their icons in the mud to spoil. Randal shook his head. He did not follow the True Two like most of the country but to deny a man’s religion is one thing, to destroy it is quite another.
The fuse had been lit.
A horn blew across the frothing water; the skies had calmed, but the seas had not. “Up! A deckhand was out cold under some cargo. “Can’t you hear those dragon horns? They’re bringing a new storm.” He kicked the boy. “Get up. You will not be told again!” Dundragon ran to the prow, unsheathing his sword.
His sword. Damned Divinity. What did they do with it? Probably melted it down to make arrow heads to kill his crew. He hoped it burned them. Randal started pacing his cell like a bull. He kicked up straw, balled his fists and threw a punch at the wall. Again. Again, and Again. Again. Again. Until the nerves in his knuckles were trembling. Until blood spattered over the screaming faces and wishes for death carved into the stone.
War cries and drumbeats that heralded the coming of death. A great wooden dragon clambered over rolling waves. Another. Another. A tidal wave of flaming arrows lit up the sky like the breaking of day. “Bring her about!” She did not move an inch. “Talion!” Randal turned his head to the helm. “That useless son-of-a-.” One of his men were skewered by a longsword. A woman screamed. Blood spurted from the man as if he was a fountain. He fell to the floor in a pool of black blood.
He hit the wall again.
Randal set ablaze his ruby sword and shed his cloak, a strong gust took it into the heavens and its demon face embroidery snarled as it was warped by the wind. Randal ran toward that bastard dwarf, screaming his own war cry. The world seemed to slow and blur. All he saw was a red-bearded Vyk warrior, brandishing sword and axe. His eyes were so full of blood and rage, he had not noticed the fresh rain, nor the flaming arrow in his leg.
His knuckles screamed with pain and hot blood ran down his red fingers. It looked as if he was made of blood. Randal crumbled into a corner, sobbing into his bleeding hands.
…
The black walk. The name pirates like Randal gave to their last steps. The bleak walk, more like, he reflected. Looks more red than black to me. They had clapped him in fetters and marched him down halls to the courtyard. He saw fragments of Shaeton tapestries; ships on crystal blue waves guided by a light from the heavens; family trees with twisting, contorting branches, looking more like krakens or hydra than actual trees. He saw shields bearing crossed swords and shields bearing lions; shields bearing trees and shields bearing more shields. Men fucking love their heraldry.
They brought him out to the courtyard. It was raining again; the mud on the ground was soft and squelchy, he would have lost a boot if I were wearing some. A faint mist hung in the air like ghostly curtains which obscured the faces of onlookers, of which there were many. Not all dwarves, I see. He saw a figure with thin arms and short legs, wearing a pointed hat and perched on a merlon like a raven. Randal nodded. Elle nodded back.
They walked by a cart bulging with corpses and wreaking of mothballs and shit. “We saved you ‘til last” said a dwarf at his elbow, showing half-rotten teeth. “Got a nice spot for ye on top there.” He pointed a stubby brown finger at a place obviously crafted for one man to fit without falling off, like some vile crow’s nest made of cadavers.
Finally, they had reached it. That walk was not so bad, he tried to convince himself, feeling a stone lodged in the back of his throat. He thought back to the heraldry. I’m glad that snarling demon cloak is gone. I didn’t need a flag to tell everyone the colour of my skin and what I have poking out the top of my head. It aught to have been a scarlet phoenix, breathed in flame. Something bright. Something alive with fire.
He noticed they had constructed his gallows with the mast from The Implication, his very own ship. Made of blackwood and carved with dragons. Dwarf bastards. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. The floorboards creaked as they put his head in the noose. They tightened it, and the rope chafed his neck. He swallowed. That stone was back, and it throbbed. The Kaapia nodded at one another. The world slowed down once again. He swallowed his regrets like rum and Randal felt a forceful push and a quick jerk.
For a moment, he stood on air. For a moment he was weightless.
And then… And then.
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