Of Kings and Killers (Elder Empire Sea #3) - WIll Wight Page 0,42
think raised an entire island?” she asked. “Do you think it was one of the…”
She didn’t even mention the Great Elders by title, which Calder thought was only prudent. Naming them directly would have been foolish—there were all sorts of superstitions about Elder names, most of which had been disproved by the Blackwatch, but the circumstances merited some extra caution.
“It’s impossible to guess,” Calder said. “Anyone in the world could be after this cargo, and far too many powerful Soulbound are capable of raising an island from bare sea.”
Andel knelt and ran his fingers along the deck. “Spilled powder.”
Urzaia checked a nearby crate. “Empty. And the lid…cracked. They packed themselves in a hurry.”
Since there was only one possible course of action, Calder’s orders came easily.
They stuck together as four and explored the ship.
As they searched, evidence mounted that the crew had been able to make a coordinated escape. Personal chests had been thrown open and emptied, the containers abandoned. Most of the food was missing, the rest tossed overboard or left to spoil. All the quicklamps had been taken away or switched off.
Finally, the safe in the captain’s quarters had been opened and left empty. Either the crew had abandoned ship with plenty of time to pack or the ship had been systematically robbed.
“So they left,” Calder said at last. “Where did they go?”
Andel peered through the trees using his own spyglass, surveying the horizon. “I can’t speak for them, but if I were in their situation, I’d have gone to that watchtower.”
Calder took a look himself. Sure enough, over the green horizon of the island, a crenellated tower of yellowish stone scraped the sky.
He handed the spyglass to Jerri, who took it eagerly.
“You don’t need this, do you, Urzaia?” Calder asked.
The Champion’s blue eyes were fixed on the undergrowth, tracking something that Calder couldn’t see.
“…Urzaia?”
Sudden as a striking snake, Urzaia hurled his hatchet.
The dark gray weapon spun end-over-end, slamming into a tree with a thunderclap so loud that it sent a distant flock of birds fluttering into the sky. He sprung after it, clearing the tilted deck with a mighty leap and landing dozens of yards away in a spray of sand.
“Am I the only one who lives in constant jealousy of him?” Calder asked.
The other two shook their heads.
A moment later, Urzaia emerged from the woods, holding his hatchet away from his body with one hand.
Something wriggled on the end of it.
It was the size of a large dog, but flattened like a centipede, with at least a dozen webbed amphibian legs. It had bright green skin across its whole length, and three yellow eyes bugged out of either side of its head. At the end of its body waved a long red-tipped stinger.
The hatchet’s blade had blown a huge hole in its midsection, but it still writhed in death, whipping its stinger in the air, gnashing jaws that looked like a cross between a fish’s teeth and a spider’s mandibles.
Calder’s breath caught. He didn’t need his Reader’s senses to know that this creature was wrong, twisted, the creation of a distant world.
“Othaghor,” Urzaia announced.
The spawn of the Hordefather were here, on the islands. So the Great Elders were involved after all.
He should have known.
Chapter Eight
Reading the Emperor’s Intent is an exercise in folly.
Many Readers have touched lesser Imperial Relics. A doorknob he opened, perhaps. A pair of his socks that escaped incineration.
I myself had the privilege of Reading the crown itself, with his permission. I came away with an even deeper respect for the skill, wisdom, and power of the original Reader.
But I would not do so again.
Each time you Read the Emperor’s Intent, you are toying with a force that is stronger than you are. You are petting a sleeping tiger.
If you do so enough, one day that tiger will wake.
—Head of the Magister’s Guild, Mekendi Maxeus
(Seven years before his death)
present day
Another freelance alchemist strode out of Teach’s recovery room, looking confident.
Calder had learned that such confidence meant nothing.
This man wore a mask with a long beak that had been painted with green and purple symbols of no meaning Calder could determine. Sprigs of holly hung from the mask, and vials filled with brightly colored fluids clinked together with his every step.
Calder had learned that, when the Guild exiled alchemists, it wasn’t necessarily for their lack of skill. It usually had to do with personality.
“My infusion will have twice the efficacy when it is inhaled in her sleep,” the alchemist said, his voice somewhat muffled by