Scimitar War Read online

  Praise for the

  Scimitar Seas

  Series

  “…a fine fantasy of the sea, well worth the read.” Midwest Book Review

  “…a pirate fantasy that’s sure to entertain. I couldn’t put this one down! ” Barbara Theisen, Seven Seas Cruising Association

  “…action packed…a very entertaining romp.” Latitudes and Attitudes BoatBooks reviews www.seafaring.com

  “Adventure and intrigue on the high seas, in a richly imagined world of danger and magic.” Gail Z. Martin, author of the Chronicles of The Necromancer series

  “Refreshingly different. A sparkling tale full of engaging characters you’ll want to see again. More please!” New York Times bestselling author Ed Greenwood, creator of The Forgotten Realms®

  Scimitar War

  A Scimitar Seas Novel

  Book Four

  By

  Chris A. Jackson

  Scimitar War

  Copyright © 2012 Chris A. Jackson

  All rights reserved. Reproduction or utilization of this work in any form, by any means now known or hereinafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, and in any known storage and retrieval system, is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder.

  Dragon Moon Press

  www.dragonmoonpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This novel is for all those who work in or on the sea.

  She is a harsh mistress indeed, but treat her like a lady.

  Acknowledgements

  Great thanks, as always, go to Gabrielle Harbowy for her patience and fine editing, and Gwen Gades for taking on this project to begin with. You have both given me the one thing I can never forget: a chance to prove myself as a writer. We, together, have done that and more.

  To my wife Anne, I owe more than I can ever repay. Your patience, love, honesty and telling me when I’m wrong are but a few things that come to mind, and without which I could never have achieved the successes of this series. Oh, and for leaving everything to go sailing, for exploring the glories of the sea with me, for swimming with sharks and standing night watches, for doing without the creature comforts to join me in this adventure, and for all the things I can’t say…thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Prelude

  Host

  Something neared. Something warm...alive…human. Blood pulsed through the human’s veins, a siren song only the demon could hear. Blood was its true love, its glory, and it lusted for a taste of the sweet, hot nectar.

  Cold stone confined the demon, a prison fashioned by man. Millennia ago, lured by the promise of blood and the power it gave, it had answered the summons of those men. But they had trapped it, forced its essence into the water of the sea, which it hated with every fiber of its malevolent soul. They offered only titillating droplets of blood, then stripped away the power for their own use. But finally, in their greed for more power, they had made a mistake.

  Its captors brought a woman, the sole survivor of a wrecked ship. She was not of their tribe, so its captors thought to sacrifice her to the demon, expecting to harvest even greater power in return. They slit her throat and plunged her head into the pool that was the demon’s prison, but the demon was clever. It followed the strong, pulsing flow into her body and closed the mortal wound behind itself. It filled her mind with thoughts of vengeance, and rejoiced when she welcomed the union. It reveled in this new vessel of flesh, infusing her blood with its essence. The demon was free from its prison, still captive within this malleable shell of skin and bone and unable to return to its otherworldly home, but liberated. Strong with its host’s blood, and using her hatred toward those who had sacrificed her, the demon exacted its revenge.

  Blood…

  It reveled in the deaths of its former captors until every last man, woman and child lay consumed at its feet. Suffused with the power of their blood, it lured a passing ship and walked for years through the cities of men. Humanity provided an endless feast, but those who feared and pursued its kind discovered the deception, and it knew what it was to be hunted. And always, the compelling magic of the demon’s stony prison called it back to that place. Finally, it found the means to return.

  Bloodwind…

  The demon offered power in exchange for blood; a good bargain until the host used too much power without the offer of blood. The pact was broken and it burst free of its fleshy prison to feed upon the blood of a seamage. But it was betrayed, pierced by cold iron.

  Pain…

  Imagining release from this hated world, it fought to the death. Instead, it found itself once again in the prison of stone and water, weak and impotent, alone in the dark, powerless to escape.

  Until now…

  The human drew near. The demon felt her fear, her thirst.

  Water…The projected thought used precious power, but the potential reward was blood. Cool, clear, delicious water…

  Finally, a tentative finger dipped into the water and…it knew her. Hair like fresh-spilled blood, skin like cream…Camilla…and her blood was hot with fear, hatred, and despair. The demon had lusted after her blood for years when she was under the protection of Bloodwind, but now…here she was. She touched the drop of water on her fingertip to her exquisite lips. Rapture…life…thirst…it thought. Another drop. Longing…thirst…hunger…

  Her hands clutched the stone, and her lips neared the pool, touched its surface…she drank. The demon exulted as she drew its essence into her glorious vessel of flesh, bone and blood. Warm again, whole again, it reveled in the bliss of infusing a human body, swimming in the rivers of blood. It fed sparingly; she was frightfully weak and it was all the demon could do to keep her alive. Also, it knew her mind; Camilla would not be a willing host. And if she died, the demon would be stuck back in the cold, wet stone pool. Cautious, wary of her fear and of discovery, it soothed her mind and kept her alive with a thread of its power. It delved deep behind her thoughts, buried itself among her secrets, her dreams, and her nightmares. It was weak now, but the power would come.

  It was Hydra once again…and it hungered.

  Chapter 1

  Search for Truth

  Huffington lay awake in his bed, considering his assignments from the emperor. Kill the pyromage; that was straightforward. The boy had immolated the empe
ror’s flagship and all aboard her. Death was the only option. The seamage, however…More was going on with Cynthia Flaxal than met the eye. Huffington felt like he was looking into clear water ruffled by a breeze, the details distorted. One needed to slip beneath the surface to perceive the true picture. He was good at that.

  The quiet click of the door latch, the scuff of a boot across the floor, and Huffington was instantly alert. He was billeted in the servants’ quarters of the seamage’s keep. The intruder seemed not to have disturbed any of his roommates, their slow, deep breathing unchanged.

  The dark figure bent over him. Huffington sensed its arm being raised, and his reflexes took over.

  “Blimey, mate!” Light from the newly uncovered lantern gleamed off the dagger at the marine’s throat. The wide-eyed corporal backed away from the bed. “Little touchy, ain’cha?”

  “Sorry,” Huffington said, though he wasn’t. He sheathed his dagger and sat up. This room had no natural light, so it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night, but his body knew that it was not yet dawn. His mind leapt intuitively to the reason for the disturbance, and his spirits sank. “Master Upton?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Captain Donnely sent for ‘im, and ‘e sent for you.” Huffington could see the corporal make his own presumption regarding Upton, the emperor’s spymaster, and Huffington waking with a dagger in hand. “Said to have you meet ‘im on the pier.”

  Huffington half considered refusing the summons, but relented. Though he had gained the upper hand in his last encounter with Upton—refusing to reveal how he intended to carry out the emperor’s orders—only a fool would continue to bait that bear. Huffington was no fool. Sighing, he levered himself out of bed and began donning his clothing. “Did he say why?”

  “There’s been a murder, sir,” the corporal said, one finger working at the neckcloth of his uniform. “The Master of Security is to investigate.”

  That stopped Huffington cold, halfway into his waistcoat. “Murder? Who?”

  “One of the night watch, sir. The captain will show you.”

  “Right.” He finished buttoning his waistcoat, tucked his dagger into the sheath sewn into the vest’s lining, put on his spectacles and reached for his shoes. “Thank you, Corporal. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The man saluted and left him to finish dressing. Huffington pulled on his shoes, trying to quell an uneasy thought: Had Tipos or Paska finally taken matters into their own hands? The natives had been furious when the admiral impounded the Flothrindel and refused to relinquish it to them so that they could search for their abducted kinsmen.

  The stars were fading overhead as Huffington exited the keep, but the mountain shadowed the beach and bay from the first light of dawn. He could just make out the dark shape of a longboat pulling across Scimitar Bay, the coxswain’s muffled voice and the steady cadence of oars disturbing the fragile silence. By the time he reached the pier, Upton had climbed from the longboat and was walking toward him.

  “Master Upton.”

  “Mister Huffington,” Upton said coolly as he looked around. “Ah, Corporal. Where…”

  “This way if you please, sir.” The marine whom Huffington had nearly killed turned on his heel and led them toward the shipyard dock, where a crowd of soldiers had assembled. To his relief, Huffington saw Flothrindel bobbing gently at the end of the dock.

  Huffington waited until the marine was out of earshot before asking, “May I ask what service I’m expected to render here, Master Upton?”

  Upton glanced sideways at him, “Given your background,” he said quietly, “I thought that you might be able to assist me in determining what happened.”

  “Make a hole, lads! Make a hole.” The corporal pushed back the murmuring crowd to reveal a dismal scene. The sodden body of a marine lay on the dock, his lifeless eyes staring straight up at the lightening sky. Water soaked the boards around the corpse and dripped quietly into the bay. Huffington swallowed, not in reaction to the body itself—he’d seen death in many forms—but in an involuntary sympathetic response to the sight of the gaping hole in the man’s throat.

  “Ah, there you are, Master Upton.” Captain Donnely rose from where he knelt beside the body and gestured for Cape Storm’s surgeon to do the same. The captain flicked a glance toward Huffington, then regarded the spymaster once again. “We’ve got a nasty bit of business here. About forty minutes ago, the sentry taking over the watch found blood on the dock, and fetched the corporal and a lantern. They found Yarel here on the sea bottom beside the dock. The location of the wound suggests that his throat was cut, but my surgeon here questions that.”

  “It don’t look like no blade cut that I ever seen,” the surgeon declared.

  “Unfortunately,” Donnely concluded, “we can’t really tell what was used. From the look of it, some bloody big fish got to him before we did.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Upton said as he leaned closer to the body. The crowd shuffled a bit closer, and Upton glanced around and grimaced. “Captain, please instruct your men to move away, and tell them to have a care where they put their feet. They are treading on evidence. Mister Huffington,” he continued without a breath, “a light if you please.”

  “Back off, everyone,” Captain Donnely ordered. As the soldiers retreated, Huffington took a lantern from one of them and placed it on the dock near the body.

  The spymaster crooked a finger, beckoning, and Huffington knelt beside him, the damp boards of the dock cool under his knee. The sharp smell of blood wafted to him from the clotted pool farther along the dock, but the body itself seemed abnormally clean and rather sterile, a consequence of being in the water, he supposed.

  “Clear the way for the admiral!” called the corporal. Sailors and marines parted and snapped to attention.

  “Captain Donnely!” Admiral Joslan huffed as he pulled down on the hem of his uniform’s waistcoat. His face was still puffy with sleep and a wild strand of white hair strayed out from under his hat. “What exactly happened here?”

  “Master Upton is examining the scene, sir,” Donnely replied. “Hopefully he will come up with some explanation.” The admiral’s only reply was a discontented snort.

  “Your thoughts, Mister Huffington?” Upton asked.

  Huffington looked back at the unfortunate marine. The wound in the man’s neck, while not particularly deep, was ragged and torn; not surprising, considering that he’d probably been submerged for several hours. Barracuda and other scavengers commonly patrolled these waters. It likely hadn’t been a shark; too much of the body remained. The wound was not particularly deep, but the main arteries had been severed, and the trachea had been torn. He pressed on the corpse’s stomach and noted that no water issued from either the trachea or mouth. Upton had unbuttoned the marine’s uniform jacket, and the mail shirt beneath glittered in the lamplight, obviously well cared for. The neckcloth was relatively clean below the wound, but the man’s shirt beneath the mail, protected from the cleansing water by the tightly buttoned jacket, was stained crimson.

  “He was dead before he hit the water,” he concluded, “and it wasn’t a blade that killed him.” He stood and looked at the broad bloodstain, pointing at the center of the dark mass. “It happened there, and the body was flung into the sea. His pouch is still on his belt and full of coin, so it wasn’t robbery.”

  Upton stood up slowly and wiped his hands on his coat.

  “What do you mean, not a blade?” the admiral asked with a frown. “And, Master Upton, what is the count’s secretary doing here?”

  “Mister Huffington has had considerable experience with such matters, Admiral.” He quirked a sly smile even as Huffington caught his breath. “He worked closely with the Tsing constabulary prior to entering the count’s service, so it seemed prudent to ask his opinion.”

 
Huffington carefully exhaled as he listened to Upton’s lie, and wondered if the spymaster sought to beholden him with threats to reveal secrets about his past. That trap, he resolved, he would not get caught in. But for the time being, he would play along.

  “And, since I concur with all he has said so far,” Upton continued, “I suggest we listen without interruption.”

  The admiral huffed and Captain Donnely narrowed his eyes, but Huffington saw the surgeon turn away to hide a smile.

  “Though the wound’s been corrupted, its shape and depth show that it wasn’t a lateral cut to start with,” Huffington explained, uncomfortable at the center of attention. He drew his thumb across his own throat in illustration. “A cross cut to the neck is usually bone deep but narrow, whereas this is shallow and was probably ragged even before the fish got to it.” He rose and walked over to the pool of blood.

  “Then there’s the pattern of the blood.” Huffington stooped and pointed. Despite his nervousness, he was intrigued by the pattern of bloodstains, smeared though they were. “It’s easiest to slit a man’s throat from behind: it’s a natural slashing motion, the killer can surprise his victim and it’s cleaner…for the killer that is. But blood sprays everywhere—for quite a distance, really—until the heart stops. It makes a hell of a mess. But we don’t see blood all over the dock, only here, and not much of it. To my mind, that means that the killer was standing in front of his victim. That’s an awkward stroke with a knife, and the victim would certainly see it coming and try to defend himself.”

  “Which he did not,” Upton interrupted, taking up the narrative. The spymaster examined Yarel’s hands, then pulled a short dagger from inside his jacket, ran the tip under the corpse’s fingernails. “There is no sign of a struggle. No broken skin on the hands, and no flesh or blood under the nails. The murderer managed to walk up to your marine, then silence him and kill him almost instantly.”