The watch fire built, Emel was hesitant to leave its warmth. Returning with Ebony Lightning to unsheltered skies seemed an unpleasant proposition and he did so with quick regret. Almost immediately, cold rain drenched any part of him that had been partially dry.

  An easterly wind blown from the direction of the distant sea made the rain feel that much colder. He knew, even on an evening such as this, the red glow of the watch fire from the darkened wood cutting into the darkened land could be seen from a long distance. He needn’t wait here on the trail for the others, for they could have easily followed the building light to its source. Here he felt safer, safer because he was away from the young princess and the desires of his own young heart.

  Safer? he asked himself, immediate alarms sounding in his mind. He had just left Princess Adrina alone in the woods. He had not checked for signs of other passersby. Nor had he checked for signs of other creatures seeking shelter from the rain.

  He mounted Ebony and charged into the thick woods, passed the watch fire, ducking low hanging branches as he went. Dark silhouettes of trees passed by in blurs as he raced for the red of the base fire. Reaching the base fire, he found the hollow under the canopy empty.

  “A-dri-na, Adrina?” he screamed, his mind filling with dread.

  Hastily, Emel dismounted. Panic mandating his every move, he began a frantic search.

  “Adrina, where are you?”

  For an instant, he felt a breath of air on his neck—perhaps the wind from beyond the forest. Then a hand clasped firmly to his mouth.

  “Do not scream. I will not harm you,” whispered a dark figure, whirling him around so he was left staring into heavy gray eyes. “We bring word from the land.”

  The figure then led Emel deeper into the forest. Emel counted the figures in the shadows as he was led past them, twelve in all. He soon found himself in a large circle of dark-robed figures. All save one had the hoods secured, masking their faces. Princess Adrina sat in the middle of the circle beside a tall light-haired woman. Dark skin said the woman was surely a southerner, but the light blonde hair seemed out of place.

  “Who is your friend?” asked the woman of Adrina, not turning to look at Emel.

  “He is the son of the captain of the Imtal guard.”

  “Sit, Emel Brodstson,” said the woman, beckoning with her hand. Then to Adrina she said, “We do not have long, I can hear the column approaching. I must speak fast.”

  Emel heard nothing save soft rain and perhaps wind.

  “Travel not to Alderan by the sea. The ship you seek from Wellison will not arrive. You are in grave danger, princess. A great evil has put its mark upon you. It is good you have a friend who cares for your welfare. You would be wise to care as much for yourself.”

  Adrina glanced at Emel, then asked, “Why me?”

  “The struggle is long and many are its participants. The journey you have embarked upon is but the first step along the path. The evil has chosen you because of your position of influence and because of the emptiness within you.”

  “Can I not rid myself of this mark?”

  The woman began speaking more swiftly now. “Look to two strangers for aid, for fate brings them to you. Beware those that are not what they seem and the traitor. A traitor among you will insist you continue to Alderan when it seems you should not. Remember, only death awaits in Alderan.” Adrina regarded the woman and started to say something but Emel cut her off. “What is so important about this ship from Wellison? Why should we even listen to you? You should flee before the garrison soldiers find you and run you through.”

  “Speak not words in haste, oft you may regret the reply. Yet if this is what you truly wish to know, I will tell you. Know there is a heavy price. Once a thing is known, you may not so easily turn away.” The woman paused and stared into Emel’s eyes, seemingly pleased with what she saw, she continued. “The ship from Wellison has a most precious cargo, the heir to the throne of Sever. At this very moment, King Charles lies dying in his bed. An assassin’s poison is slowly eating away at him. Alas there is no cure, a terrible poison.

  “The evil uses King Jarom’s lust for power just as it uses you and many others. He sees himself seated in the throne room of Imtal Palace. He means to plunge the kingdoms into war. To be sure, he will use the death of Charles and the fears of the heir to his own ends.”

  “Can I not rid myself of this evil?” repeated Adrina.

  “Please leave us now,” said the woman to Emel, “go to your watch fire. The soldiers are near. I would speak to Adrina alone.”

  Emel hesitantly turned away, his pace just slow enough to hear their continued whispers.

  “The evil brings the change you so wished for. It has found a home in the emptiness of your heart. You care too little for those around you. You see not the servants who toil for you, workers in the fields on their hands and knees with the whip at their backs, drudges scouring the kitchen floors—”

  “I am not heartless,” protested Adrina.

  “Did I say heartless?” asked the woman. “Tell me, what is the name of the servant girl who cares so much for you that she remains awake through the night to re-stoke your hearth only to feel the lashings of a whip at her back the next day for laziness?”

  Adrina fumbled for a name. “She is a servant girl, nothing more.”

  “Myrial,” whispered Emel.

  “Queen Alexandria, your mother, would have shed tears at the hearing. Your position has made you forget there are others in the land that suffer. Your father is not the strong and caring king he once was. Fault him not; there are those who use his grief to their own ends. You must open your eyes.”

  Adrina tried to raise an objection. The lady continued. “Go now. Look for the two strangers, find the son of Charles, beware the traitor and those that are not what they seem. Say nothing of our conversation to anyone.”

  “But what can I do? I cannot rouse the southern garrisons to arms.”

  “I did not say to rouse the garrisons. Would you so foolishly provoke war?” The woman paused and stared into the shadows. “And Emel Brodstson, if you have heard enough, continue on your way. Remember, there is always a heavy price.”

  Chapter Nine:

  Ambush

  What do we do now Brother?

  We die, Brother Galan, Seth said coldly, simply, but not until we fight honorably and die honorably.

  All eyes keyed to the hulking masses of multi-sailed vessels that hungrily approached.

  Cagan? Seth directed the thought to the mind of the ship’s captain. We must get through. We cannot fight them all at once. Can we make it to open water?

  “Perhaps, if we use the escort ships as decoys while we break through—a hard strike to the right side of the blockade should do it. We can try to circle them and make for open seas. Once there, with the wind in our sails, this ship can outrun anything they can throw at us.” Cagan spoke aloud as was his chosen fashion.

  Running is pointless, Br’yan said. It would only show that we are cowards. We should strike the enemy head on, with our eyes wide open.

  I agree, Galan said.

  After a tug at his grizzled beard and a scratch at his large rounded head, Sailmaster Cagan said, “We are not running, but surviving.”

  You are wrong, Br’yan said.

  Cagan’s open thoughts streamed to Seth who stood beside him. Seth had passed more than a few nights sailing the canals of Kapital with the kind sailmaster. They knew each other well, he knew no one whose love and respect for the sea was greater. It was Cagan’s life. He also knew the venerable captain would not let them down, would not let him down, would not let Queen Mother down. No, Seth said, Sailmaster Cagan is not wrong. Go ahead with your plan. I trust your judgment.

  Sailmaster Cagan passed instructions to the ship’s broadcaster who in turn relayed them to the escort ships. A maneuver was dealt out to their small, honest fleet—one that would cost them greatly. The escort ships turned sail from their current position, and headed directly into the enemy blockade. They struck hard and to the right side as instructed and in a few terrible, fate-filled minutes, they were overswept. A heavy toll would be brought for their fall, Seth knew this.

  Sailors from both sides were washed over the decks. Tiny specks leaping from tiny ships, images that floated farther and farther away. Seth looked down to the deck of the Lady L. Those of the Red were lost in silent meditation, a thing Seth did not presently allow for himself. He knew well why they closed their minds to the screams they perceived—screams of pain, anguish and demise. He knew they were preparing for battle, a battle they must win.

  Dark pillars of smoke and flames rose into the air far behind them. Seth saw tiny white sails engulfed in those deadly, dark flames and dark shapes, the broken hulls of fallen ships, sinking into the waiting, black waters. They found open seas, but at what cost?

  Of the many enemy ships that had formed the blockade, only two were able to raise full sails and remain in proximity to them. The chase was on.

  A master at the helm, Cagan turned sails to catch maximum benefit from the winds. He guided the ship into the head of the gull, a maneuver that would eventually steal the draft from the sails of the pursuers as they closed in, and force them to scramble to catch a fresh breeze.

  Clever, Sailmaster Cagan, very clever, said Seth.

  Cagan’s retort was swift and his eyes never broke away from the sails or the wheel. “I had some help did I not?”

  The forces of the Mother are at the call of all who know how— A peculiar sight caught Seth’s eye and for an instant his thoughts broke off. —who know how to use them.

  The wind ebbed on the fore-and-aft rigged vessel, which forced them to lose some much-needed speed. Meanwhile, the enemy cutters had finally found their sails and were gaining.

  “They will not catch us, they cannot catch us,” said Cagan as much to himself as to Seth, “not a chance, not a chance.”

  “Bo’s’n!” he yelled, “Tighten that riggin’, attend to that rope, check the trim.”

  The boatswain’s response was loud and shrill. In brief, precise thoughts, he spit out the orders and, in short order, the swift craft lurched forward under proper sails.

  Cagan, to the east, look!

  A single ship grew from a speck along the horizon in front of them to a dot on the water. They could not afford an engagement now. The pursuers were too close behind.

  “It is over, my friend,” Cagan said, “one way or another, we must move to engage, either to the rear or front…” The wily sea captain paused. “Yet, perhaps—Yes, if we tack directly toward them we will surely catch them off guard.”

  Yes, maybe we can gain the upper hand before the others join the match, said Seth with twisted hope.

  Cagan ordered the vessel turned against the wind, their nimble sloop could cut well in the tack. The cutters behind them, on the other hand, were much slower in the turns.

  Cross-winded the Lady L rapidly approached the ship that a short time ago had been but a mere, distant speck. All on board readied for the inevitable. Silent prayers were sent to Father and Mother to protect and watch over them and to keep them.

  Seth looked down at his small group of dedicated followers. He knew that each prepared their mind and spirit for the end. Death was not a fear, but failure was. To pass in such a way would mean dishonor and disgrace. Therefore, they must succeed.

  Readily their nimble sloop approached the oncoming vessel with expectant hopes that its captain would not expect a direct assault.

  “Captain, she has square foremasts and two lateen rears,” yelled the lookout from his perch.

  An expression of dismay and fear passed over Cagan’s face. He had not expected so great an adversary. The speed with which the vessel had moved through the water had led him to believe it was another cutter. He had not expected a full-sized galleon. His fears permeated the air, and flowed to Seth.

  Seth was also worried. King Mark was better prepared than they had thought. He only wished he could contact Brother Liyan and warn him—galleons were not quickly or easily built. Many skilled craftsmen had labored long on such a vessel as they now faced, which, as they drew closer, loomed larger and larger against the pale blue backdrop of the waning day. There could be no turning back now. Fate was locked in.

  The two ships, galleon and sloop, were nearly within striking distance of each other. They were dead on course for the galleon, with the other enemy ships reduced to unseen dots along the horizon to the distant rear. For now, it would be just a one-on-one engagement.

  Seth was proud of Cagan’s sailors. They held no fear in their thoughts, only determination which was strong and growing with each passing moment. They followed Cagan’s orders and kept the sails perfectly trim and rallied for the coming fight.

  A questioning voice came into Seth’s mind, Brother Seth?

  Yes, Everrelle, responded Seth curtly. He was angry at the untimely interruption.

  Do you mark any of our kind on board their ship?

  … I do… not. Seth paused then gasped.

  Nor do I, said Galan.

  Yes, that is it, my Brothers! There may yet be hope. The enemy may be well prepared but they may also have underestimated the lengths Queen Mother would go through to ensure success. Mere numbers are no match for the power of the Brotherhood.

  What if they are merely shielding their thoughts? Br’yan said. We should probe to make sure.

  Seth agreed. Br’yan cast his will into the wind. Cagan continued on a direct course for the galleon.

  There is no trickery, Br’yan said.

  Seth smiled, thinking that perhaps the day was not lost.

  The galleon captain began to scramble to turn the large ship. He barked out orders, which carried across the darkening waters even above the sound of rising frenzy from both sides. He tried gallantly to fill sails for maneuvering speed though it was a useless effort.

  Cleverly, Cagan turned toward the galleon’s broadside, the bow of his ship locked straight on the exposed side. With a resonant rending, sloop and galleon collided. The air filled with the cacophony of crunching timbers and shrill screams as the battle was joined.

  The galleon had received a potentially lethal blow and was gaining water fast. Still, her sailors would not go down alone. Grapples were swiftly set and tied off tight. The two ships would go down together if the sea had its way.

  Cut lines were cast back relentlessly, yet this alone was not enough. Over the bow the enemy forces swept with blades readied in angry hands.

  “They do not stand a chance against us!” cried Cagan to his sailors as he swung across to the galleon’s low side on a rope tied to the upper rigging.

  With a cheer, his men returned his chant and charged, their blades clashed with the enemy, and drew crimson blood.

  Still one small group had not moved nor did it seem they had registered the attack. They were the members of the Red and they waited until the mournful screams in their minds reached a crescendo. Then Seth took charge of his fellows and as one they screamed in fury their chant of war, the chant of their ancient brethren.

  Blood bathed in rage, they raced forward to the bow, pouring forth like a deadly red rain. A blur of brutal force, they dropped the enemy, each where they stood, with but a single precise touch. Such was their evident anger and the might of their invoked will.

  Yet with a cry of ironic agony, their charge ended. Feet no longer tread solely upon enemy dead. Seth felt vivid torment in his soul. The first of the Brotherhood fell, a blow from behind piercing the brother’s heart.

  Seth vowed to spare no suffering on the one who had delivered the deadly blow. With a jump and a kick, the guilty was knocked stunned to the deck, his demise not instantaneous like the others before him. He would be forced to lie and watch with eyes that were purposefully allowed to move as life slowly dripped away. Seth’s blow struck the spinal cord just below the neck on the right side.

  Nine and one trudged onward toward the high deck where Cagan now battled the enemy captain. Three sailors were all that remained of his once proud group and they protected his rear as he struggled against the galleon’s surly captain. Although thick lines of evident fatigue held to his countenance, Cagan persisted. For now his determination could not be extinguished. Yet the numbers were not on his side and soon the enemy would overwhelm Cagan and the last of his sailors.

  Desperately, Seth continued the assault. The enemy was strong and skillfully wielded their weapons. Two more brothers fell.

  Seth pushed onward with regained ferocity, as did his companions. He and seven others reached the stairs to the high deck and surpassed them. Only Cagan remained standing, all around him were the dead and the dying, and his sword lay deep in the enemy captain’s chest. With the heel of his boot, Cagan smashed downward, and retrieved his cold steel blade. In disgust, he spit into the dead man’s face.

  Drained, Cagan stumbled. Seth rushed to his aid, and cradled him in still strong arms. “It is only us at the last.” Cagan choked on his own blood and weakly added, “… my friend.” His clothes blood splattered and shredded revealed multiple lacerations beneath.

  There was no time to attend to Cagan’s wounds, Seth knew this. The two remaining ships were near, and within minutes their ranks would sweep over the decks toward the place where the last few survivors stood. The middle decks of the sinking galleon were already being claimed by the yearning sea and their own small ship was beginning to founder under the yearning weight. The end was surely near.

  Seth spoke to the seven yet fated to remain, words that exited his mind with powerful intent, words that he truly meant. They are what stand in the way of our victory. We cannot fail! We will not fail! Do not still your fervor, nor your fury. We shall make them pay well beyond their expectations. Eight against the many shall be triumphant!

  “There are… nine!” shouted Cagan.