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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Forty-Five: Saviors, Pt. 1

Bobbing gently in the water, the Arona-Dahl is anchored in a modest cove. The tall, rocky cliffs shield her from view, and the desolation of the northern side of the primary island of the Empire serves to protect them. They’d sailed around the eastern face of Vaspania, using steam power to propel them away from the populated areas, always moving at full speed. Inside of Trellan’s cabin, just before dawn, they stand around a map of the premier isle. Steingar drags the claw of his index finger along a narrow blue line. The line snakes throughout much of the north eastern portion of Vaspania, signifying a modest river.

“Here.” He says, resting his fingertip along the coastline. “This is where we enter. Now, if Salman’s estimate is correct, they’ll be there within the next four days. That means we’ll be camping at the rendezvous for at least three.”

“And what if they’re not there?” Mairlynn asks.

Everyone pauses, shifting their eyes and staring at the little Falmun.

“It’s a valid question! What if we get there and they’re late? What if they never make it out at all?”

“Then we wait four more days, like we said we would.”

“And risk getting caught?! Yeah, that’s a good plan... And what’re we going to do for those four extra days, anyway? I don’t want to camp out in the woods for a week!” The elf whines.

“Then you don’t have to go!” Valan angrily yells.

“...”

“Uh-oh. The tiny woman has made the wizard angry.” Roak murmurs, shying away from the table.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just that we have to be practical, right? Don’t we need to look out for Arona and what’s left of the crew?” Mairlynn sheepishly asks.

Kirsta and Salasha both shake their heads at Mairlynn, offended by what they see as her increasing cowardice. Ever since the crew separated to carry out Salman’s admittedly risky plan, the dainty elf has become increasingly fearful of capture. As the days wear on, she grows restless.

“We are protecting what’s left of the crew... By picking them up when they arrive.” Kirsta retorts.

“Yeah! I’m not leaving my brother out there!” Salasha interjects.

“And that aside, this is what’s best for everyone. Not just us, but the whole of the Empire, and perhaps even the world. Imagine the damage a man like Vashalak could do. With the Vizheki Kingdom under his absolute control, he could cause wars, famine, and who knows what else! This is bigger than us, and it’s certainly bigger than you...” Irzain adds.

Mairlynn has nothing to say. She slithers silently away from the others, taking a seat on the large bed at the rear of Trellan’s cabin. The others return their gaze to the map, staring intently at the parchment.

“So, as I was saying, we start at the mouth of the river. We’ll have to anchor Arona somewhere around here.” Steingar continues.

“That means we’ll need to use the boat, right? Will it fit everything?” Salasha asks.

“It’s a skiff, but yeah, it’ll hold a small crew, some gear and have room for Salman’s team. We’ll pack it up with supplies and head for the rendezvous, about twenty miles inland. We’ll bring food for five days, and hope that we don’t need to ration it.” The Helngar continues.

“And what about people? Anyone we need to worry about?” Kirsta asks.

“I don’t recall there being any settlements there. Official towns need to register, and I was meticulous in my former duties.” Irzain answers.

“When I was still a soldier, they considered building a town there, to guard that river for fear of invasion, but the terrain proved to be too rough; the mouth of that river is shrouded by a valley with steep cliffs, so it wasn’t considered feasible. The last time my old ship sailed there was on a patrol mission, and it was as quiet and lifeless as a tomb. We shouldn’t see another soul for hundreds of miles.” Steingar adds.

“Well, that’s a relief.” Salasha lets out a pleased sigh.

“Souls surround us, furry man. They float on purity and dance in the fire! Can you see them dancing in the purity, as their flesh turns black?!” Roak rambles, spinning in circles.

“... He scares me, sometimes.” Steingar remarks, looking back at Roak.

“What about the teams?” Kirsta asks.

“What about them?”

“We can’t pick them up if we all go!” She explains.

“Yeah, and that’s why we’re here to discuss it.”

“... Smart ass.”

The crew debate amongst themselves for some time, eventually settling on the shore party. It’ll consist only of Steingar, Valan and Kirsta. Mairlynn refused to go, and no one wished to endanger either Irzain or Roak, considering their value to Vashalak. Salasha, being the third most capable of looking after the brain damaged human, after Lutala and Kirsta, was also forced to remain on the Arona-Dahl. With the morning sun rising, Trellan’s spirit controls the ship. By mid-day, they’ve reached a patch of shoreline that consists of steep, rocky cliffs. At about a mile away from the mouth of the river, Steingar is taking every precaution.

Climbing into the skiff after packing their supplies, the trio set a course. The skiff moves almost silently through the calm seas, the spring-powered motor ticking quietly as the waves lap at the sides of the craft. As the motor winds down, Steingar begins the process of re-winding the coil spring. Unfurling the sails, what little wind there is continues to carry them slowly toward their goal. As they pass a tiny peninsula of tall rocks, pieces that’ve fallen from the overhanging cliffside, Valan stands at the bow.

“Oh no...” He murmurs.

“What is it? What’s wrong?! ... Son of a bitch!” Steingar gasps.

The boat bobs gently, moving into view of a small hamlet that’s been constructed at the mouth of the very river they need to traverse. People stand on rickety docks and fish with makeshift rods, while craftsmen work on the hulls of large but simple boats, coating the wood with resin and patching the sails. Still others wander about in simple, filthy clothes, moving into and out of various shanties they’ve constructed. The women carry baskets and buckets, while the men wield tools and building materials.

“So much for ‘no people for hundreds of miles’...” Kirsta lets out a frustrated sigh, glaring at Steingar.

“When was the last time you were here?” Valan asks.

“I didn’t think it was that long ago... Time flies, I guess...” Steingar replies.

Still winding the spring, Steingar stares at the villagers, who quickly notice the little craft. They stare and point, speaking amongst themselves. Steingar cannot hear them from so far away. He continues to wind, acting on muscle memory. Suddenly, the crank snags and a hideous snap is heard.

“Oh, shit...”

“What?!” Kirsta turns to Steingar.

He turns the crank. It spins freely. He tries to engage the motor, but nothing happens.

“I think I broke it.” The Helngar replies.

“Well, that’s great!” Valan sarcastically chirps. “What a lovely start to our journey!”

“We’ll have to row ashore. Maybe they won’t recognize us...” Steingar speaks softly as he slowly lifts the hood of his cloak.

“I hope Sal’s team aren’t having these kinds of problems...” Kirsta murmurs.

Sailing into the harbor on that very same morning, Captain Kristoff Mayweather and a detachment of his few remaining crew follow him ashore. Marching swiftly, they make their way toward the palace, where the young Captain insists upon entry.

“Halt! State your business!” The gate guards demand.

“I’m Kristoff Mayweather, Captain of the Kieran-Dahl and loyal servant to the Great King, Vashalak. I’ve been away on an important mission for the Crown, and I must have an audience with the Great King at once!”

Startled by the young Captain’s sternness, the gate guards usher him inside. Without delay, he heads for the grand hall, the throne room where the King is likely already waiting. As the blond-haired human approaches, he can hear the faint voices coming from within. A man chuckles. Passing through the archway and emerging in the grand hall, King Vashalak sits atop his throne, speaking to Einyr Icefang. His lips are curled in amusement as he speaks to his Chief-General. The Jaliscan servant girl appears, her King eying her up and down with visible lust as she serves him breakfast on a silver platter.

Rising from his throne, he heads for a table at a far corner of the room. As he sits to eat his breakfast, he finally notices the human Captain, his men and the gate guards who follow them.

“Ahh, we were just talking about you! Quite the tenacious young Captain we have here, eh, Einyr?” Vashalak chirps.

“Yes, Great King. I admit, Captain, that I underestimated you.” Icefang says, approaching Mayweather and violently shaking his hand.

“Er... You did?” A perplexed Mayweather raises and eyebrow.

“Indeed, I did. When word of your exploits reached us, I must admit to being thoroughly impressed.” Icefang continues.

“Word of my exploits?! What do you mean? What’s going on?!”

“We had a visitor, Captain. A Lord named Salman Donogew.” Vashalak speaks with his mouth full.

Mayweather’s eyes grow wide. The King takes a large bite out of a piece of chicken, before popping a few grapes into his mouth and washing them down with a swig of mild wine.

“Normally, when people defy their orders, they aren’t so successful, and then we’re forced to punish them. Not you, though! You know, they were actually in the back room of Salman’s castle when you questioned him!” Vashalak giggles. “Oh, if only you caught them then...” He sighs.

“I’m terribly confused, Great King. I only came here to share what I learned about the mysterious ship and your prize.”

“Yes, yes. Hebron and his magnificent, steam powered craft. They’ll be ours soon enough!” Vashalak chirps.

“...”

“He doesn’t look pleased, Einyr... Explain to him how I won...” Vashalak growls.

Icefang pulls Captain Mayweather aside, revealing Salman’s visit only a day earlier and sharing with him all that the Lord had offered them.

“WHAT?!” Mayweather gasps.

Vashalak chuckles, his smile growing ever wider as he picks at his luxurious meal. Icefang continues, sharing the King’s acceptance of the arrangement and even the fact that Salman is sleeping in a room on the east wing.

“No do you understand, Captain?”

“I suppose... How did they arrive here so fast?” Mayweather finally asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is that ship really so fast?! Is steam so powerful?!” Mayweather adds.

Icefang furls his brow and turns toward his King, shrugging his shoulders. Growing concerned, Vashalak waves Mayweather toward him.

“What do you mean ‘how did they arrive here so fast’? Speak.”

“I just wondered how that ship could beat me here... I’d been chasing them for weeks.”

Vashalak and Icefang share confused looks, and Mayweather can see that they’re not comprehending what he’s saying. Clearing his throat, he prepares himself.

“Great King, I regret to inform you that I did indeed follow that mysterious ship to Mishgan, as Salman had said. However, after he forced me to leave, I circled around and gave chase. I followed them all the way to the Grand Athenaeum. My navigator was very careful in mapping its location. When we went ashore, they were there. We fought them throughout the Grand Athenaeum... Hebron, Steingar, their various compatriots... And Salman.”

“WHAT?!” Vashalak jumps to his feet.

“I saw Salman, with his twin brother. They fled straight back to Vaspania as fast as they could move, which is why I’m even here right now.”

“So, you’re saying that...” Icefang pauses, his glowing, blue eyes as wide as saucers.

“All of them are here, right now.”

“That son of a whore lied to me! Fetch me Salman, this instant!” Vashalak demands.

His guards swiftly depart, racing toward the Lord’s designated room to drag him before their King.

“But why would he do that?! What is he after?!” Icefang thinks aloud.

“He did it to make a fool of me!” Vashalak roars.

“Whatever the reason, it must be deeper than that, Great King. They were looking for something at the Grand Athenaeum, and it made them come directly back here. As dangerous a decision as that is, it must be worth the effort.” Mayweather reasons.

Vashalak’s eyes grow wide and he whirls around, turning toward another group of guards.

“Fetch my future wife! Bring her to me this instant!”

“Yes, Great King!” They bow their heads before racing away.

Within a matter of minutes, the first set of guards return to the grand hall. The frightened looking soldiers are empty handed.

“Great King, he’s... That is, Lord Donogew is...”

“Well?!” Vashalak impatiently demands.

“He’s gone, Great King...” They sheepishly reply.

“...”

“Great King! We’ve searched for Lapira but... Well, you need to hear this.” More guards emerge from another corridor.

The nervous men approach, visibly trembling in their armor as they look back and forth at one another.

“Speak!” Vashalak roars.

“The Princess isn’t here, Great King.” The first begins.

“We saw her entering the garden last night... With you.” The other adds.

“... WHAT?!?!?!”

“It’s true, Great King...” The Jaliscan servant girl approaches. “I saw you with the Princess, and Lord Donogew’s Jaliscan servant. You looked like you were... About to enjoy them.”

“By the Seraphs... This isn’t happening... I’m going to wake up at any moment.” Vashalak speaks to himself as he sits atop the chair, staring blankly at his meal. “That was it, then... They came here for her, not to give me my prize...”

“Great King?” Icefang steps closer.

“Don’t you see, Einyr? They used my generosity as a ruse, and with the aid of some dark magic, they impersonated me and stole my future wife!” He roars.

Icefang bows to his King, dropping to a knee and staring intently at the floor.

“What are your orders, Great King.”

“It’s over, Einyr... There’s nothing to do but go on to the next phase of my plan...”

“Great King, do you mean...?” Icefang lifts his head, looking up at Vashalak.

“Round up the dissidents. Take whoever you can and kill everyone who resists... They’ll be the first slaves in the new order.”

“Slaves, Great King? But slavery was abolished centuries ago.” Mayweather remarks.

“Yes, but I am the Great King, and I think it’s time to bring back some old customs... The inferiors don’t deserve rights, not when superiors such as my kin and the Helngar can command them. Lucky for you, Captain, that you’re already such a loyal servant. As for the thieves, search this entire island and all of our shores... Find them AND KILL THEM!!!” He screams, balling his fists and slamming them angrily atop the table.

As dawn approaches, Salman and his companions sleep peacefully, all except for Lutala. They’ve camped roughly ten miles from the palace. Lying quietly and tucked in her bedroll, she looks toward Salman and Lapira. The elven Princess claims a space beside the human, her arm draped over him as she holds him close. When they lay down to sleep, Salman was not so close to her, but the Vizhek slithered her way toward him during the night. Lutala’s heart stings from the sight, a jealousy growing within her. It unnerves her, as the code of her faith requires her to avoid covetousness. It was never such a challenge before, but Salman has awoken something within her.

As she stares at the man, who doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s being held like a doll by the Princess, a noise draws her attention. Someone climbs carefully out of their bedroll, shifting the canvas and crunching blades of grass. The urge to look is overwhelming, but she hesitates as soon as she hears their voice.

“Thinking they can make me stay, do they? Thinking I’ll obey? I’m nobody’s whore; I’m not letting these people get me killed.” The coachmen murmurs quietly to himself.

She can hear the older human as he pets his horses, checking the reins and making sure they’re ready to travel. Realizing that he’s preparing to leave them in the dead of night, Lutala acts fast. She feigns a yawn and slowly sits upright, causing the coachman to freeze. She climbs out of her bedroll and stumbles over Naemen, kicking him in the shin but concealing it with a stumble. The half breed groans, but he doesn’t rise. Lutala glances at Naemen. Perhaps she should make more noise?

“I’m sorry Nae-mmm!”

The coachman suddenly lunges, grabbing her from behind and covering her mouth with a hand. His fingers clutch at her snout, holding her jaw shut.

“Shhh... Don’t wake them. I don’t want to have to kill you, but I will, if you force my hand...”

The coachman whispers into her hearing port, located on the sides of her head, where the other races ears typically are. He pulls a dagger, the metal shimmering in the fading moonlight. He takes the spine of the single-edged blade and rests it beneath her large breasts.

“Mmm-mm-mmm!”

“Ah-ah-ah! Don’t wriggle, sweetheart. I could saw you in half with this knife, but I don’t want to do that. I just want to get on with my life, priestess, just like you do. There’s still too many women I’d like to bed.” He continues, gently bouncing one of her breasts with the side of the blade. “So, don’t make any noises or I’ll-”

The coachman freezes as Salman and Naemen both sit up, awakened by the pair. Lapira’s arm falls away from Salman, also rousing the Princess from her slumber.

“What in the world is going on?!” Naemen demands.

“Stay back!” The coachman points his knife at the others.

“What is the matter with you?!” Lapira gasps.

“I don’t want anything more to do with you people. You’re going to get me killed. I just want to leave! That’s all!”

“You know these back roads. Do you really think you’re going to run into anyone way the hell out here?! Don’t be stupid!” Naemen argues with the coachman.

“I’m not taking that chance. They often patrol at random, and we aren’t so far into the hills yet that all we’ll see are beasts! Since I doubt you’re going to let me ride out of here, I’m taking this tasty bitch and leaving! I promise not to hurt her or rape her; I’ll leave her a few miles down the road, once you let me go.”

“You’re not taking her.” Salman growls.

“... Or maybe you want me to rape her? If you don’t give me a wide berth in the next ten seconds, I’ll have to punish your tight little friend.” The coachman snickers, dragging the side of his blade over one of Lutala’s plump, womanly mounds.

With that, Lutala panics. The fear of being violated by the foul, aging human causes her body to react. Closing her eyes tightly, she bends an arm at the elbow and lifts a palm. A brilliant flash of light, as bright as the noonday sun, blinds everyone but the Lahnyt, who then promptly elbows her assailant. As he drops the blade and stumbles back, she swings her long, tapering tail, hitting him in the chest and knocking him down with a powerful strike. Landing near his blade, the coachman grabs the weapon and slashes wildly at the air as he rises to his feet.

“Ahh! I can’t see!” Naemen exclaims.

“Get away from me, you vile sorceress! All of you! Stay back!” The blinded coachman yells.

“Where is he?!” Jarae asks in a panic, rubbing her eyes.

Lutala tries to time a lunge, preparing to tackle the coachman, but as she waits for him to stop slashing at the air with his exceptionally large knife, she’s pushed over by someone slamming into her back. Jarae and Lutala fall to the ground, landing in a heap at the coachman’s feet.

“Ah-ha! There you are!”

The coachman lunges toward the two women, grabbing Jarae by the shirt collar and yanking her to her feet. She screams as she fights with the man. Swinging a hand, she brushes the side of the blade and quickly latches onto his arm. Doing her very best, the blind Jaliscan desperately wrestles with the coachman for control of his knife, hoping to steal it from the more powerful being. Reaching out a hand, he grabs her throat, squeezing and choking the Jaliscan. Lutala jumps up from the grass and joins in, grasping at arm that strangles her friend.

“Get off of me, you whores!” The coachman yells.

“Sal! Naemen!” Lutala yells.

“Where are you?!”

“I can’t see anything!”

As they wrestle with the coachman, the human headbutts Jarae. As she loses her grip, he plunges the knife into her stomach, driving it deep. She grunts in pain and stumbles backward before falling in a heap on the grass.

“NO!” Lutala screams in horror.

Losing her senses to fear and guilt, Lutala is quickly overpowered by the coachman, who falls over her. Lying on her back and pinned into the grass, the coachman holds her down as he brings the knife to her throat, moving only by feel.

“Thought you could beat me, eh?! Even blind and crippled I could have my way with you, blue bitch!”

The edge of the knife tickles her throat, and Lutala struggles to hold the strong man’s arm, keeping him from pressing the razor-sharp edge onto her blue flesh. With his senses slowly coming back, Naemen lunges, tackling the blurry coachman and shoving him off of the Lahnyt priestess. They fall in a heap beside Lutala, who rolls away from them and scrambles on hands and knees toward Jarae. The Jaliscan clutches her belly, blood oozing from her wound and seeping between her fingers. The wound is deep, and Jarae is already growing weaker. Blood runs from the side of her mouth and trickles from the nostrils of her feline nose, cascading over her short snout. She’s knocking on death’s door.

With her hands aglow, Lutala quickly tends to her companion, easing her pain and gradually sealing her wounds with her powerful Halcyon magic. Meanwhile, Naemen wrestles with the coachman. He holds his arm that bears the blade, lifting his entire torso and slamming him down onto the ground, again and again. As soon as the coachman’s arms weaken, Naemen pulls them away and smashes the blade of his hand into the wrist of his clenched fist. This sends the coachman’s only weapon flying many feet away. Salman stumbles, his vision finally returning to him. The coachman punches Naemen near the throat, but misses his mark.

The glancing blow succeeds in forcing him backward, however. Rising to their feet, Naemen draws his sword, just as the coachman rushes him, screaming like a wild man. The half blind human impales himself on the half breed’s blade, but still has the strength to reach out and grasp his throat with both hands. Adrenaline is all that fuels the coachman, as he throttles the life out of Naemen, who grasps the handle of his sword with both hands. He tries to twist and turn the blade, hoping to cause enough agony that the coachman will be forced to release him. As he stumbles back, struggling with the weight of the surprisingly strong human, Salman races up to the pair.

Using Jarae’s own pistol, which she’d dropped during her fight with the coachman, he cocks the hammer, puts the weapon against the coachman’s temple and fires. BANG! Red mist splatters over Naemen’s face and the coachman’s body instantly falls limp. With his dead weight pushing Naemen over, who falls onto his back. The coachman’s corpse rolls, lying on his side next to Naemen, the sword’s blade driven clean through his body.

“By the Seraphs...” Naemen chokes out, gasping for breath. “You saved me again, Sal.”

The horses neigh and rear up, frightened by the gunshot.

“Come on. We need to make sure they don’t run off.” Salman urges, pulling Naemen to his feet.

As the pair race toward the skittish beasts, they pause at two horrific sights. Lapira lay on the ground, clutching her eyes and writhing. Why is she still blinded? Nearby, Lutala’s hands glow brightly as she tends to Jarae, who appears to be dying. A massive pool of blood has formed beneath the Jaliscan.

“Stay with me, Jarae! We’re almost there!” Lutala pleads.

Using all of her strength, Lutala manages to seal Jarae’s wounds. Her liver, which had been punctured, required considerable care and magical power to repair, and the Jaliscan has lost a great deal of blood. The Lahnyt’s tense muscles relax and she slumps back, kneeling beside Jarae and showing her exhaustion. Salman also kneels beside Jarae, resting a hand on Lutala’s shoulder as another softly pets Jarae’s head.

“Is she going to be alright?” He looks to Lutala.

“I... I don’t know... She’s already bled so much, Sal. I’ve fixed her wounds but I cannot replace what’s she’s lost; all we can do now is sit, wait, and pray that she’s strong enough.” Lutala replies.

“Sal? Sal, where are you?” Lapira cries out.

“Oh no...”

Racing to the Princess’s side, Lutala watches on as the human checks on the Vizheki woman.

“It’s me.” He says, gently grabbing Lapira’s extended arms. “It’s alright, my blue lotus.”

“Sal! I can’t see you! I can’t see anything!” She whimpers.

“Open your eyes. Let me look.”

Obeying the human, the Princess reveals her damaged eyes. More sensitive than the other races, Lutala’s flash of light has burned them, turning her shimmering silver eyes a light shade of red.

“Oh, my blue lotus!” He says, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

Lutala feels a tinge of jealousy growing within her, which is immediately followed by shame. Why, in this very moment, and after all that’s just occurred, is she thinking about her status in Salman’s heart?! She doesn’t know, but she is. As the pain in her chest grows, she looks away, returning her attention to the weakened Jarae. Her guilt over what’s transpired washes away her jealousy, as she looks down at the wounded Jaliscan. Had she not panicked and blinded everyone in an attempt to force the coachman to release her, none of this would’ve happened. She reaches out a hand, softly petting Jarae’s head as she lay still, driven unconscious by the pain.

“I’m sorry...” She whispers to the Jaliscan. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Lutala! Come here! Quick!” Salman calls out.

“Coming...” She murmurs, still petting Jarae’s head.

Joining Salman and kneeling by his side, she’s horrified to see the damage she’s caused Princess Lapira’s eyes.

“Will she be able to see again, Lutala?” He asks her.

“I-I, uhm...” Lutala hesitates to answer.

“They hurt so much, Sal.” Lapira whimpers.

“I know, my blue lotus. We’ll fix them. Right, Lutala?” He turns to her.

Seeing the fear on Salman’s face, Lutala’s jealousy returns. However, her guilt and her desire to heal override her own emotions, and the priestess flashes the human a little smile, albeit forced.

“I’ll do everything within my power. I give you my word.”

As Lutala begins to treat the Princess’s eyes with her Halcyon magic, Naemen manages to calm the horses. He turns toward the corpse of the coachman and races toward him. Rolling him onto his back, he plants a foot on his chest and grabs the handle of his sword. Grunting as he yanks, he gradually pulls the blade from the man’s body. The sky turns lighter as the sun slowly creeps over the horizon. Naemen glances back. His bright yellow eyes scan the scene; Jarae lay unconscious in a pool of her own blood, Lapira lay blinded in the grass, both of them being treated by Lutala, and the coachman’s corpse subtly twitches in the grass at his feet, the gray ooze of his brains seeping through a hole in his head.

“I hope no one was nearby to hear that shot...” He thinks aloud.