Legacy's Edge

Alaric peered down the wooden steps. A solitary oil lantern hung from the ceiling at the bottom, swinging gently with the movement of the ship. It provided a poor but serviceable light. Glancing over at Thorne and sword held ready, he began his descent, his steps measured and cautious, scanning the way ahead.

Thorne was close on his heels, both of them illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of the lantern that cast elongated and shifting shadows along their path. The dim light carved out the way forward and through the darkness of the ship’s interior, which smelled fetid and sour, of sweat and unwashed bodies, not to mention human waste.

At the bottom of the stairs, they were greeted by a short, seemingly deserted corridor with several doors to either side. The stillness of the passage was deceptive. Alaric reminded himself of the potential dangers lurking in the shadows and hidden spaces of the ship, one he did not know. He knew better than to let his guard down. The possibility of an enemy hiding within the gloom was a threat he could not afford to overlook, not if he valued his life.

To his right, a door stood ajar, swinging gently with the ship’s sway. The room beyond was clearly the captain’s cabin. Meanwhile, another staircase beckoned them deeper into the bowels, where another dim light glimmered below.

Alaric glanced into the captain’s cabin, a space that mirrored the familiar comfort and utility of Bramwell’s own quarters. The muffled echoes of the battle raging above was distant here, almost another world away, as he took in the room’s features.

Large aft-facing windows stood open, inviting the cool night air and the soft murmur of the sea into the cabin. The furnishings, though sparse, spoke of a captain’s pragmatic needs and personal tastes: a cot for rest with blankets and a pillow; a desk likely used for planning, accounting, and correspondence; and several locked, iron-bound chests that were essentially strongboxes for valuable possessions, loot, or sensitive documents.

The cabin’s centerpiece, a central table, was scattered over with several maps, a sextant, and a crude compass. Two chairs were overturned, and a pitcher along with several mugs lay shattered upon the floor, the planks stained with a dark liquid—red wine, likely all the result of when Magerie rammed Mysteeri. ­­

“Empty,” Thorne said, peering over Alaric’s shoulder.

Alaric started for the short corridor. Most of the doors were open. He glanced into the first two cabins, rapidly scanning. They were empty, small, cramped spaces. There were two bunks in each, a chest, and a small table. Unlit lanterns hung from the ceiling of each. Studying the bunks, complete with blankets and pillows, Alaric supposed these were officer quarters.

Moving forward to the next set, he discovered nearly identical rooms. These too were empty of anyone hiding. Alaric checked the last two cabins, having to open only one door.

“No one home,” Thorne said and then glanced meaningfully at the end of the corridor. The door was closed. Alaric stepped forward and, lifting the latch, opened it partially and cautiously peered into the room. No one was there. Beyond was open space.

“The ship’s kitchen,” Thorne remarked as Alaric fully opened the door.

“Bramwell’s people call it the cook room,” Alaric said as he stepped into the galley’s kitchen, a confined room where the air hung thick with the scent of salt and smoke. To his left was a large, crudely constructed hearth, its flames dancing wildly as they licked the bottom of a blackened cauldron. The liquid inside was bubbling.

Above the hearth, an assortment of dried herbs and salted meats hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the ship’s movements. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with clay pots and wooden bowls, each filled with different provisions: likely grains, dried fruits, and roots. A couple of flickering oil lamps provided the only light.

Alaric noted the cramped quarters allowed for little movement. The cook would have maneuvered between the central hearth and a sturdy wooden table that bore the marks of countless meals prepared upon its surface. This table was currently laden with a motley assortment of vegetables and a large, partially butchered fish, its scales glinting under the low light.

Despite the simplicity of the surroundings, there was an undeniable efficiency to the setup. Hooks and pegs protruded from every available space, holding utensils and cooking implements within easy reach. The air, though smoky, was underpinned by the tantalizing aroma of stewing meat and herbs cooking. From the smell alone, Alaric decided the enemy’s cook was better than Bramwell’s.

Moving through the cook room, he peered into the vast space beyond, the galley’s rowing deck, now silent and transformed under the cloak of night. The oars, once the ship’s relentless heartbeat, lay dormant or partially deployed, their shafts resting in the shadows, most parallel to the deck. In the dimness, the long, narrow space seemed to stretch endlessly, a cavern of wood and rope suspended in time.

The rowing benches, which by day bore the weight of the ship’s rowers, their sweat and toil etching stories into the grain, were now unoccupied. In their place, hammocks had been strung between the stationary oars and the hull’s ribs, creating a web of sleeping quarters that hovered above the deck. These makeshift beds swayed gently, cradling their occupants in a fragile peace. It was clear they had fully caught the enemy unprepared.

This quiet was abruptly shattered by a chilling interruption—a woman’s scream, piercing the relative silence and snapping Alaric’s attention back the way they had come. Together, they hastily moved back through the cook room and to the stairs.

“Where did it come from?” Alaric asked in a low tone. “Below?”

“I think so,” Thorne said, glancing at the stairs that led downward. The ship gave a heavy groan, as if protesting in pain at the damage that had been inflicted upon her. “Do you believe Fina really captured a lumina? A real lumina? I thought they were all gone.”

“We’ll find out,” Alaric said, starting for the stairs, holding his sword ready.

Thorne followed. “I once encountered a woman pretending to be one. She was a charlatan, nothing more, a hoaxer in search of the gullible and selling fake love potions. The church officials, when they got their hands on her, tortured her to death.”

Alaric came to a stop before the next landing. He saw two feet of dark and dirty water lapping against the last steps. Things floated in the water, including a boot, a towel, and a small wooden box.

“That’s not good,” Thorne said, eyeing the water warily.

“Help me!” the woman screamed in the common tongue, much closer this time. “Please help!”

Upon hearing the woman’s desperate cries for help, Alaric’s resolve hardened. The knowledge that the ship was taking on water, her eventual sinking inevitable due to the extensive damage to the hull, added a serious sense of urgency. She must be terrified of being trapped, likely locked in a cabin as the sea flooded in and the water level rose. He climbed the rest of the way down the stairs and into the frigid seawater at the bottom. His boots immediately became soaked through.

Another corridor ahead like the one above stretched out before him, dimly lit by several lamps, with doors lining either side. Bramwell’s words gave him pause. Though he doubted it, there could still be an enemy or two lurking below. He had to be cautious.

“Watch it,” Thorne cautioned, pointing with his sword at a railing that descended into the water. “There’s another deck below this one.”

Alaric glanced back at Thorne and met the other’s gaze as he too stepped down the ladder and into the murky water. Sword held at the ready, Thorne gave a nod for him to proceed, his gaze shifting ahead and scanning the dimly lit corridor. Beyond, it seemed a much larger space, but it was eclipsed in darkness. Alaric could hear what sounded like the distant bleating of goats. He supposed, like Bramwell’s ship, Fina’s kept animals too.

“Help me!” the woman’s voice, fraught with terror, echoed once more through the hull, urging him along. With Thorne close behind, Alaric moved cautiously forward, the water around his legs a chilling reminder of the ship’s grave condition. He glanced into each cabin as he passed, searching for the source of the screams or any hidden threat, but found no one. These rooms were mainly used for storage. They were filled with crates, amphorae, and sacks.

Then, a slap, the sound sharp and clear, followed by another scream from the woman and an unintelligible utterance from a man. There was yet another scream, this one filled with rage. It was followed by a curse, then by the sound of another harsh slap. Alaric’s heart hardened as he understood what must be happening. The sounds were close now too—just ahead. He approached an open door on his right and looked in.

A man stood naked, his intentions clear as he forced a woman, face down, over a rough wooden bunk. He had hiked up her dress, revealing her naked backside.

“I am going to give you what you deserve, bitch,” the man said in heavily accented and rough common. “What you’ve been asking for all along.”

“That is an uncommonly bad idea.” Alaric’s voice was firm and cold as he moved into the cabin. The assailant released the woman and turned to face Alaric, his expression morphing into one of surprise, shock, and sudden fear as he took in first the man confronting him, and then the sword.

Alaric exploded forward. He plunged his blade into the man’s stomach with a force that drove him violently backward and up against the cabin wall. The unmistakable sound and feeling of the tip of the blade striking the wood of the wall resonated in the cramped cabin as a solid thunk. Alaric’s grip tightened as the assailant’s blood flowed outward in a gush, warming his hand and sword arm. He had pierced the man’s bowels, ripping them open, and could smell the foul and rank stench of waste suddenly exposed to the air. He yanked out his sword, and as his did, the man collapsed into the water. Alaric stabbed down, ending his life.

Turning from the grim task, his attention shifted to the woman, who had managed to roll over on the bunk. The dim light revealed her features: long black hair framing a face marked by beauty and resilience. Her dark eyes, striking even in the face of trauma, met Alaric’s with an intensity that spoke of the recent terror, gratitude, and the shock of sudden rescue and deliverance. Her left cheek was red from being slapped. There were marks about her throat, as if she’d been choked as well. Come morning, Alaric knew she would have a series of terrible bruises.

Her once fine dress, now marred by her ordeal, hung in tatters. She was also dirty and had not bathed in some time. Yet, despite the disarray and degradation, her dignity and spirit remained unbroken, underscored by the defiant lift of her chin and the clarity in her gaze. Her eyes flicked to Thorne then narrowed as she looked back at Alaric intently. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, then she blinked.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a hard voice, one accustomed to command. “Tell me.”

“Lord Alaric, at your service, my lady,” Alaric said with a slight bow. “I take it you are the lumina?”

Instead of answering, she shifted slightly, rolling onto her side to better expose her hands, which had been bound behind her back. “You will free me—now.”

Alaric responded to her order with the immediacy it demanded. He sheathed his sword and drew his dagger. With precise and cautious movements, he cut through the bindings that held her wrists captive. The ropes fell away and onto the bunk, revealing raw sores and chafed skin beneath. She rubbed at them, as if trying to work the feeling back into her hands.

“My lord,” Thorne said, speaking up and glancing down at their feet. “The water is rising. I think we should go. The sooner the better, if you take my meaning.”

Sheathing his dagger, Alaric nodded and held out a hand to the woman. “You are safe now. We are going to take you to our ship. What is your name?”

“Rikka,” she said, with a firmness that Alaric found remarkable, especially given what she’d been through. Her gaze was piercing and resolute as she took his hand. He was surprised to feel an unexpected warmth radiating from her, as if a hot fire burned within. He wondered if she was slightly feverish.

With a gentle, yet firm tug, he hoisted her to her feet. The top of her head came up to his chin. She stared up at him, as if looking for something, her eyes searching his face. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable, though why he could not say.

“We had best be going, my lord,” Thorne said.

Rikka started toward the door as Thorne stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. Almost instantly, a whirlwind of motion and shadow collided with him. Thorne was hit as a form barreled into him, knocking him down the corridor and out of sight with a great splash.

A man, wielding a crude cudgel, pivoted to face the cabin’s entrance. His eyes fixed on them. “I kill you,” he said in rough and barely intelligible common.

Reaching for his sword hilt, Alaric made to shove Rikka aside, for she was before him and at risk. However, she resisted and stood firm. Before he could force the issue or this new enemy could marshal his thoughts into action, Rikka, with her fingers stretched wide, raised her hand toward the man. As she did, his eyes widened, and under the dim lamplight, Alaric could read the naked fear in his gaze. The man took a sloshing step backward.

She moved her fingers in a rapid and intricate pattern, then spoke a single word, a language not bound to the confines of their mortal world; it was ethereal, transcending the mere vibrations of air to form sound. To Alaric, the word was as fleeting as an indistinct whisper, nothing more, rapidly evading the grasp of memory, as if it had never dared to exist, slipping away upon the air like the grains in an hourglass.

A surge of brilliant, blinding light erupted from Rikka’s palm. Hissing, it streaked through the air, striking the man squarely in the chest with a deep cracking sound. An explosive gust blasted by Alaric as the man was sent hurtling violently backward with such force that he collided with the corridor wall, smashing some of the planking. For a fleeting moment, his form was ensnared in a dazzling display of white light, a spectacle of power that starkly illuminated the darkened corridor and cabin. Alaric’s skin tingled and the small hairs on his arms stood on end as the air seemed to crackle.

Then, as quickly as it had manifested, the light extinguished itself, leaving behind only the echoes of its existence as Alaric blinked away the spots. The man’s body, devoid of the life force that inhabited it moments before, toppled into the dirty seawater with a splash.

As the echoes of the confrontation faded, she turned to look at him, her eyes impossibly deep, once more searching his face.

“I came—for—I came—I came—you…” She blinked several times, then her eyes closed, and Rikka’s strength waned, her legs betraying her. In a graceful descent, she began to crumple into the water, but Alaric, despite his shock at what he had just witnessed, reacted instinctively. His arms enveloped Rikka in a secure embrace, catching her.

Concern etched deeply into his features as he studied her face, finding it serene, beautiful, exotic, yet unnaturally still—the toll of her ordeal and magical exertion having clearly drawn her into unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, Thorne, still grappling with the abruptness of the attack, had regained his footing. He stood, dripping wet, a cut on his temple bleeding slightly and mixing with the water. He tried to shake off the seawater from his attire, a futile attempt at best.

“Are you all right?” Alaric asked.

“I am…” Thorne looked up and eyed Rikka warily. “That was something.”

Nodding, Alaric hoisted Rikka with a gentle yet resolute grip, picking her up and into his arms. She weighed almost nothing. Her head settled into and rested against his shoulder, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“I think we found the lumina,” Thorne commented as he retrieved his sword from the water. Looking back, he shook his head as he warily regarded the woman in Alaric’s arms. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Have you?”

“I’d say she’s the real thing, no hoaxer.”

Thorne could only nod.

The ship groaned deeply, the boards creaking and popping loudly. Alaric began sloshing forward, out and into the corridor and around the body of the man Rikka had just killed. The water was almost up to his knees and clearly rising steadily. “Now, let’s get out of here before the ship sinks around us.”