Elephant Pond 5:

A Wicked End

Wooden planks etched with now depleted runes fell with Morgan and his family as they plummeted with the remains of their defeated vessel.

Tory cried out for help as she reached out in vain for her mother who fell behind her, and the wind began roaring in their ears as they gradually gained speed. Morgan looked down and the fear solidified in his gut. They were falling from the top of Typhon’s wave, high enough that Morgan could almost see the top of the Barrier-Reef surrounding Khantani, and time enough to imagine the grim result of their fall several times over.

Typhon with the last of his strength threw Tide Reaver into the wave that had been carrying them before. Morgan had no idea how he managed to throw the spear against the wind as he fell but it flew past them, darting into water. A geyser sprouted where it went into the ocean. The torrent of water hit them slowing their descent few meager seconds, just enough for Maya to grab her daughter before the geyser relented and they began falling again.

Right before they hit the water, Morgan closed his eyes and shielded his face with his arms. He felt his body hit the surface with a heavy clap and a sharp pain erupted in his left side immediately. His father might have slowed their lethal drop to an uncomfortable fall but they must have still been going too fast to land uninjured.

Blinking away the shock, Morgan tried his best to manage the pain of the awkward fall ravaging his side as he tried to right himself in the water. He was in too much pain to manifest his depth skin so he simply held his breath as he searched the water for his family, swimming awkwardly with just his right side to avoid the pain in his left.

He spotted his mother first; closest to the surface she hauling Tory up with he, accompanied by a trail of blood coming from his mother’s left leg, and then the ship-hauling eels behind them, giddily closing in.

Morgan spotted his father unconscious and sinking and Tide Reaver embedded in a piece of their boat below him. It was the very back of the boat, less than a third of the vessel, the helm rune still glowing as it landed in the sea bed. For a second Morgan considered going for the weapon. He might not be as skilled with it, but it was a better alternative to nothing. But he couldn’t swim with the spear and save his father, nor did he think he had the time to make both trips, so he swam for his father.

When he got to him, he pulled his arm around his shoulder and labored for some time to get to the surface. He had no choice but to use both legs with the added weight, and the pain in his side gradually intensified as a result.

The first two ships had already encircled them by the time they had all surfaced, surrounding the family to close off every exit. Morgan looked back at his home ahead of them, at his fellow tribesmen along the shore. Whatever argument had been transpiring earlier must have been paused either by their fall or by their imminent capture, yet none of them made for their boats. Instead they stood staring along the shore; mouths ajar, hands over their hearts or children clutched at their sides. That was until the bulkiest and final ship came and blocked off the view of Khantani entirely.

Cheering erupted from all three ships, men and women laughing and toasting bottles, as row boats were lowered from each of them via pulleys. There was nowhere to run, no tricks left to try and no one willing to save them. Morgan’s father was barely conscious and his spear, their only hope of escape was now lying in the sea bed below them with what remained of their boat. And these people were cheering around them, making merriment as they took their freedom away, right in front of their home.

The row boat from the grey ship approached first, the men smiling devilishly inside. They brandished cutlasses and daggers and wore simple garments like faded shirts and vests discolored by old stains and a layer of filth that had sat on the clothes for weeks too long. The only exception was the man standing at the head of the row boat. In place of dirty garments he wore a heavy leather black coat a size too big and enough gold and silver rings for three hands on each of his one. He had short brown hair just thick enough to cover his scalp and a childish grin embellished by gold teeth.

When the row boat stopped in front of the family, Morgan could see all of the pirates’ eyes were locked on them, a focused glossy-eyed stare; a facial expression he couldn’t quite recognize the meaning behind.

“Good evening ladies,” the man at the head of the boat said and nodded at Maya and Tory.

“Good evening gents,” he continued, nodding to Morgan and his still unconscious father, “I’m afraid your lives are mine now,” he laughed giddily.

The Bloodless

The command tent was filled with robust wooden crates and barrels that oozed exotic scents pungent enough to clog the nostrils and agitate sensitive eyes. They were filled with a frankly immoderate variety of spices, herbs and wines that none of the soldiers guarding them would ever have the luxury to touch. Ayva was seated at her desk at the end of that tent. She disliked the foreign smells and the gaudy aura they imposed on her nor the way the scents stuck to her even when she left. She'd had her hair cut, just long enough to to rest at her shoulders, to make washing the smells out that much easier. A commander that sat in a tent perfumed by lavish goods and then walked amongst their ranks smelling as such would lose respect even faster. At least that was what she thought, especially for a commander as young as she was.

“Permission to enter?” a male voice inquired from outside the tent.

From the voice and stature of the shadow cast on the tent’s entrance, Ayva could tell it was her second in command, being as punctual as ever with the morning announcements.

“Permission granted.”

Lieutenant Viccard parted the flaps and entered. He was tall with a mop of curly brown hair and build that was a little too slight to fit the generic image of a soldier.

He walked down the singular aisle made by the goods stacked up to the roof of the tent. Whenever anyone came to her here, Ayva would get flashes of her mother approaching her in their library, demanding the best. It was a constant reminder of her mother and all of the people that demanded results from her, back in Harcovia, and the price Ayva would have to pay to if she didn't produce them.

When he stood in front of her, he bowed deeply at his waist.

“Bowing is not the standard salute that you make to your commander, Lieutenant Viccard.” He was still bowed; face down to hide his grin, but Ayva could hear him stifling a laugh.

“My apologies Commander, with all these goods, I was sure that I was in the presence of a Baroness of the White Coast,” he said and a chuckle escaped.

When he glanced up at his commander and saw, her grey eyes glaring down at him, as unamused as ever, the laughter died in his throat and he stood upright.

“Keep using Leona’s jokes and soon you’ll be taking her floggings with her, Lieutenant,” Ayva warned. She couldn’t possibly care less about the joke, but letting subordinates make too many of them at their superior’s expense was often costly in unfortunate ways.

In a much more sincere tone he said, “My apologies, commander,” and gave the proper salute, a slight nod of his head with his right palm over his heart. A long time ago it was a gesture of loyalty; an earnest expression of heartfelt devotion. Ayva’s father had called it a pledge of their blade and their heart’s last beats. Despite it being reduced to an everyday salute, Viccard often did it so slowly and intently that Ayva was often reminded of its earlier significance.

Viccard produced several rolls of paper from a leather satchel at his waist and cleared his throat.

"The relief squadron has left Harcovia as scheduled, although there were quite a few changes to personnel. Originally, the agreed upon squadron mostly consisted of blades with a vanguard of twenty brutes and two blood mages. Now, we’ll be receiving mostly blades and just three brutes.”

Ayva did not comment nor did her expression change, so he continued.

“Alright then....next on the agenda are the shipments. All supplies have arrived at the port, been cleared, and your personals have been successfully sent back to Harcovia through the appropriate channels.”

“Are there any new reports on our other camps around the island?”

He flipped through a few pages before continuing: “Five of the seven other camps have only maintained their ground for the past week. Of the two camps that did change, there’s Commander York’s squadron that has been pushed back to the western jungle. Commander Dahl’s squadron has triumphed over rebel forces, gaining a significant amount of ground in the process, and entered the Central Plains. They’re the first of our forces do so in years.”

“What kind of resistance did he face?”

“The reports said his squadron took down rebel shifters that were using Slather-back and Rot Tusk shapes. The effort has gotten him promoted from brute to blood monger, and he’s been awarded a seat in the lower council,” Viccard concluded.

Commander Dahl had been the only other commander besides Ayva who hadn’t received a class promotion. Now she wasn’t just the only blade commander among brutes and blood mages but the only one who wasn’t promoted, a fact her mother would undoubtedly remind her of.

“And last night’s patrols?”

“They reported that a swarm of bugs has gotten considerably closer but are still within the vicinity of their nest. Two Knots, a woman and her younger brother were spotted a distance away from our patrol area and dealt with without issue.” Viccard said and stuffed the parchments back into his bag.

“Were they executed?” Ayva asked.

“No ma’am...they were unarmed Knots.”

“How old were they?”

He frowned as he guessed where the line of questioning was going.

“The woman was in her mid-twenties and her brother....” Viccard paused as he watched Ayva put her ink and quill away and got up from her desk. She then strapped on her iron chest plate, but none of the other pieces, she preferred to keep her agility over armor most things in The Plains tore through anyway.

“With all due respect commander, we’re almost sure they meant no harm nor had any intentions of spying. They had none of a Druid’s tattoos and when we sent them away, they returned to Cask village without meeting anyone, our scouts confirmed it.”

Ayva took out and unrolled her brown leather belt from a draw in her desk. She buckled it around her waist, slotting silver throwing daggers into its left side followed by her long sword on the right side of her hip. “There are Knots that don’t know where the enemy camps are? The woman might not remember but her brother must have known.”

Viccard was staring at Ayva suspiciously now, brown eyes searching her face, as her second in command often did when his commander gave odd orders.

“And what if you’re wrong? What if we march all the way down to that village and you have us kill some farmer’s children?”

Finally, Ayva clasped her crimson commander’s cape around her shoulders. She’d had hers tailored to cover her back and left side, keeping the daggers hidden while leaving her right side with her blade open. The tailors had openly expressed displeasure at the request, as if she was demanding heresy, but its functionality had allowed her to start and end many fights in her favor.

“If I’m wrong then they’ll be reminders to the other Knots like them, and a lesson to those that might consider trying a similar guise in the future. Prepare half of my personal guard. I’ll finish it.”