16 Aboard the Atlas

THE SHIP’S PROW broke the ocean swells spurting spray over the deck. Threadfin clung to the port gunnel staring ahead. The crew of the Atlas had raised all three triangular sails and the strange ship was making good time against the wind.

Threadfin had never seen anything like it. No such ship existed in the imperial fleet or anywhere else for that matter. No oars or rowers needed, just a small crew with sails and a rudder. It was the strangest vessel he’d heard of. Ships always sailed with the coast in sight, some from Eladaldor kingdoms having to beach at night. The Atlas left land far behind without a care.

Podral Pole was within the dank confines of the ship’s hold, feeling unwell. Threadfin was certain it had a lot to do with his ex-wife rather than motion. Had to admit, it wasn’t the worst excuse. The ocean was choppy, but the Atlas handled it with ease.

The Atlantian vessel had a deep hold for cargo, with several cabins on deck, which offered some comfort. After he had convinced his sister of the necessity of Dessa’s presence on this voyage, the Atlantian had spent two days in the palace fiddling with her device. She called it an astrolabe, but would venture nothing else on the subject. In fact, she’d insisted on a guard outside the small chamber, which Aiyana had allowed. In fact, his sister had been far too agreeable. It was then he’d realised something else was bothering Aiyana. Something bad.

Threadfin had begun to worry about his sister, but she had kept herself busy and unavailable. He’d tried cornering the imperial marshal. Scatter had refused to discuss it. Something was wrong, but he believed Aiyana could manage without him. She was stronger and far more intelligent than he.

Mounted at the prow of the Atlas was the sculpture of a woman, whose eyes glowed blue. Within the head of that bronze woman, Dessa had fitted her contraption. Also of bronze, and twice the size of a man’s head, it consisted of numerous gears and inner workings. It also had an eyepiece and strangest of all, fitted into slots, three white crystals. Blue-white lightning crackled over the metal, telling Threadfin magic was involved. He itched to get at it and take it apart. He had so many ideas for such devices but with viralic magic instead.

Dessa stood at the prow and stared into the eyepiece from time to time, fiddling with levers. The ship responded each time and Threadfin realised she was able to control their course using the astrolabe. It occurred to him such magical devices might be useful to someone with no talent, albeit with the correct knowledge. No wonder Atlantians fiercely protected their inventions. Those devices could transform the world and render Atlantis obsolete, not to mention mages.

According to Dessa, the astrolabe would lead them straight to the island. When Threadfin inquired as to how it worked, she remained tight-lipped. He fought back the urge to crack the sculpture open when she wasn’t on deck.

Presently, she joined him, her body leaning with the sway of the ship. The crew were busy with their duties, eating or sleeping, and there was just Vilt at the stern carving something. Being an Atlantian, Dessa was born to the water. ‘Do you like her?’ she asked. ‘My Atlas?’

Threadfin shot her a cold look. ‘I think you were lying to me.’

She had to raise her voice over the roar of the waves. ‘Atlantis cannot be reached any other way. Including your magic. If you had tried, we would’ve found ourselves in the middle of the Adalcis, underwater. This has kept unwanted visitors from our island for centuries.

‘All ships allowed to arrive at Atlantis had to have an Atlantian harbour pilot who boarded at the ship’s origin point. Expensive, yes, and necessary. Once near the island, the captain and his crew were blindfolded or the pilot would refuse to guide the ship in. Every harbour pilot possessed an astrolabe. Besides, if I’m going to help you, I’d best keep you dry.’

‘You call this dry?’

‘You could join your companions below deck. Makes no difference to me.’

‘You should talk to him, Dess.’

She turned and walked away. He looked out to starboard, and then to port, or was it the other way round? Nothing save leagues of ocean either way. He’d never been so far over open water. He felt an urge to pray and clutched at the crucifix. Though not the one his sister had given him having gifted it to Astra. Still, it always eased his mind a little.

Almost three thousand nautical miles to Atlantis from Icarthya, a good three and a half weeks thereabouts. And that was being optimistic, although Dessa claimed they could make it in less time. Considering her ship was sailing by magic he supposed it was possible. He didn’t like the look of the horizon, though, where dark clouds gathered.

They were two weeks into the voyage and the day had dawned brighter. Dessa had managed to avoid three storms, skirting them all. It had proven rough, with Pole and Grudge spending most of their time retching, but they’d avoided the worst. The others came out on deck although his Darken made a point of keeping out of the captain’s way. He looked better, if nervous. For her part, she appeared not to notice her ex-husband existed.

Stood at the stern, Dessa held a long metal tube with glass disks at either end up to her eye. Atlantian make and narrowing at one end she claimed it allowed her to see further. Magical too no doubt. She didn’t let him use the tube when he asked. Secretive bastards those Atlantians.

‘We have a problem,’ she announced.

Grudge was also staring at the horizon, squinting. ‘A ship’s following us, one with square sails. My Ma never liked squares, just triangles, like the one she carved in my Da’s chest. Nice work too. Could’ve been an artist, my Ma.’

‘I thought she cut his throat and stabbed him in the eye?’ said Pole.

‘She did,’ the scout answered with an enthusiastic nod, ‘and she carved his chest after. Didn’t do things by half, my Ma. Liked to make a point.’

Dessa lowered the tube and stared at the soldier. The surprise in her face wasn’t the same as everyone else’s. They were accustomed to Grudge’s oddities at this stage. ‘It’s too far behind us,’ noted the captain, ‘for anyone here to see it. I mean, without this.’ She tapped the tube. ‘You have magical talent, Grudge?’

Threadfin stared at the scout. He had to admit Grudge’s eyes couldn’t be that good, but then he was their best scout. Maybe he was hiding something or didn’t know. It wasn’t impossible, he surmised. The thought of Grudge with magic at his disposal, however, was concerning. I’ll have nightmares about this.

‘How do you know it’s following us anyhow?’ asked Vilt. ‘Could be just another ship with nothing to do with us. Lots of ships sail beyond Valtar, don’t they?’ Dessa had earlier indicated Valtar lay due west of their position.

Dessa raised the looking glass again. ‘Well, because no ships sail this particular route. They can’t, you see. Not without an astrolabe. Still, we will reach Atlantis before they do.’

‘Can you lose them?’ asked Vilt.

Dessa shook her head. ‘I noticed it two days ago. I’ve been trying and that last storm should’ve done the trick. The one conclusion I can reach is they have an astrolabe of their own. Whoever they are.’

‘Other Atlantians,’ suggested Vilt. ‘Maybe they’re just going home.’

Dessa turned and frowned at the archer. ‘No one goes to Atlantis, not without dire need. It is not the place it once was.’

‘Whatever it is we’re going there to retrieve,’ said Threadfin, feeling uneasy, ‘we’ll have to be quick. Is it a map, or directions in a book? Do you know what it is or where it is? We may need to get in and out fast.’

Dessa considered him with a deep frown, and then resumed her examination of the ship. Beneath the looking glass, a sly smile formed. ‘I never said it was a what, Todder, now did I?’

‘Huh?’

‘What we need in Atlantis, is a person. Someone who will lead you to Babel. It is also the man who destroyed Atlantis.’

‘And who would that be?’ asked Threadfin.

‘Haven Tone, the king of Atlantis and my father.’

‡

THE NEPHILIM CAMP WAS situated in the mountains north of Icarthya. The warmth of summer did not reach this high and though the snows had retreated, the ground remained frozen.

Some giants had fled south and west with rumours of Nephilim securing work as guards in towns and cities. Feared though they might be in numbers, humans often tolerated one or two in their midst, when it suited.

Muscle, height, and above all reputation meant finding work in militias, town garrisons or as bodyguards wasn’t difficult. Who didn’t want their own Nephilim bodyguard if they had the coin?

The invasion it seemed was all but forgotten by those willing to look away. Humans were nothing if not short-sighted. It was also rumoured the primes had begun hiring as they formed small armies, trying to establish bases of power in various cities, including Byrsa.

Desool strode into the camp, ignoring the sneers and dark glances of kin. Until someone stepped into his path.

The long-necked Anakim planted a wide six-fingered hand to Desool’s chest and shoved him back a step. A contemptuous gesture, as though Desool wasn’t worth challenging, one made towards beggars or non-warriors. He had to concede it wasn’t just humans who could be short-sighted. ‘Where do you think you are going?’ the Anakim demanded.

Desool gritted his teeth, staring at the frozen earth. Meeting another’s eyes was a challenge and he had not come to fight. ‘Volar, this isn’t the time. I have business to discuss with my brother. It has nothing to do with you. Move aside.’

Volar spat at him, a universal gesture with one meaning. ‘You might be his brother, but we are not humans. We don’t care about bloodlines. You served the humans like those pet mongrels. You are not Nephilim. Go back to your human masters, mongrel.’

Others had gathered to watch, abandoning campfires. ‘You’re right,’ said Desool, ‘we don’t care about bloodlines.’ He raised his gaze to meet Volar’s. ‘We do care about clan though and I’m of the Rephaim clan. The ruling clan. I don’t like your tone, Anakim.’ His arm swung, the backhanded blow catching Volar off-guard. The Anakim landed off to the side, clearing Desool’s path. Yes, he was growing stronger. Soon, the likes of Volar would not dare challenge him without a small army. Size and strength were everything in Nephilim society. Belonging to the largest of his kind, he still had growing to do.

He continued onward and up, others stepping aside to let him by, averting their eyes.

He heard Volar get to his feet, heard him draw a dagger from a sheath strapped to his hide leggings. Desool halted and turning he eyed the Nephilim. ‘Vol, I will kill you this day if you force me. I am asking you, let this go until another time. We can still resolve this as warriors if you insist, but right now my business is urgent. Well, make your decision.’

The Anakim uttered a few foul curses before sheathing the blade and storming off. Several hapless and not to mention shorter Horim flew from his path, eating dirt for their trouble.

The broad grolg-hide tent fluttered in the wind while grey clouds threatened rain. Most Nephilim in the camp slept outside under the sky enduring cold and wet. It made for short-tempers and not a few illnesses. How long would they remain in these mountains? Gog had abandoned many when he’d fled, taking all the ships he could, and not just longships. Gog had taken many of the imperial ones too.

The Rephaim warriors guarding the entrance recognised him, and let him through. Desool let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His brother’s moods were often erratic and he had no idea how he might be received. Anak was second in line for the throne and the likeliest to kill Gog and take power, if chance presented. The fact he had not succeeded thus far made for an irritable older brother.

Within the tent, a central fire in a shallow pit ringed with stones lit the interior. Wreathed in smoke, his brother lounged on a plethora of cushions looted from Byrsa. Born a bastard to an Anakim mother whom Og had raped, Anak had taken charge of his mother’s clan by the age of ten. His mother had named him and the imp had taken the name to heart. He had fought battle after battle, earning his father’s respect and eventually recognition as Og’s second son.

The prince drank from a wooden cup, a brew made of some local roots in the surrounding foothills. They looked like a root found in their homeland of Raddhon.

‘The wayward imp returns,’ shouted the prince, waving one thick arm in Desool’s direction. ‘Take a seat little brother, and a cup of ... what is this piss again?’

‘Baya root my lord,’ said a Horim attendant. There were two others in the tent but no guards. Did his brother think he was invincible? Anak’s half-brothers wouldn’t agree. Only Desool ever got this close. None of the brothers saw their youngest as a threat. None saw him as a Nephilim most of the time but rather as a joke.

‘Like I said, piss. Well, what do you have for me, little brother?’

Desool approached and took a seat opposite, the smoke and flames between them. He accepted a cup from the attendant and sniffed it. It was not similar at all to the Molv root of their homeland, no matter what it looked like. He set it aside.

His older brother laughed slapping his thick knee. ‘I will not take offence at your refusal to drink. Yes, it is that bad. It is you who should be offended that I offered it.’ He drained his cup and held it out to be refilled. His gaze found Desool’s and it was clear-eyed and calculating. ‘I will be offended if you do not answer my question.’

Desool stared through the smoke at his brother’s distorted features so reminiscent of recent events. Gog had been a fool yet he was to be king. He was regent in all but name since their father was now incapable of ruling. The formality of wiping out his brothers was all that remained.

Anak was no fool, and he was dangerous. Gog had become something else at Byrsa, as magic had taken his soul. A dark magic not born of the undead but of something fouler. And, Desool thought, he did it all to himself. He left himself open to the Stone’s power and allowed a harpy to conquer his soul. Was Anak, who plotted murder, any better or smarter or less hungry for power?

‘I need your ship,’ said Desool after a long pause.

Anak stared at him for equally as long. ‘Instead of a gift, you come with a demand. For my ship. The ship, which is going to bring us home. The one ship not yet repaired. Is that the ship you mean? Would you have us march south and assault the humans at the Gulley instead? A march that far south under arms will see us assailed by every human army in existence. They may be smaller, but they are numerous and they have proven themselves worthy opponents. We would win, I don’t doubt. We are Nephilim. Yet many of my brave warriors would fall and I promised to bring them all home. Yet, here you sit without a gift asking for my ship.’

Desool took a sip of the drink, buying time. He gagged and this time his brother didn’t laugh. ‘It is of greatest importance to our people. To this world. I must journey to retrieve the Shathra Stone. I know where it is.’

Anak did not look impressed. ‘Our eldest brother, having gifted our army a defeat never seen in Nephilim history, takes all but one of my ships and flees. He left me and mine stranded. Now, our youngest brother comes and demands that ship. Why, of course you should have it. How remiss of me not to have offered it to you. I expect you are fine sailing it alone. I imagine you won’t need a crew?’

‘Actually,’ said Desool, ‘I won’t. Just the ship.’

Anak hurled the cup at Desool’s head, who ducked. It struck an attendant. ‘How dare you enter my tent and ask for anything?’

‘I must retrieve the Shathra Stone.’ 

‘Piss on the bloody Stone. I’m sick of hearing about it. Sacred to our people, the heart of our culture, of who we are, blah, blah. Look at what it brought us? To our knees is what. It can stay wherever it is.’

‘You abandoned him.’

Anak’s eyes bulged. ‘What did you say?’ Those words came out in a whisper.

‘You remained here in your little tent,’ said Desool, ‘while our eldest brother was usurped by a Fallen One. You watched him deteriorate before your eyes and did nothing. Oh, you lent him several hundred fighters, but they had no heart in it, and you didn’t lead them as you’ve always done. You let him march on the human city knowing it would be to his death, and you held the best of your Anakim back.’

‘Don’t you dare—’

‘Yet Gog didn’t die, did he? You had planned to sail home, report his failure and death, and become the new king once father died. Likely you had plans to speed that along too.’ Desool laughed, and without thinking took the cup and took another swig of the brew. His laughter turned to choking, but it didn’t stop him.

‘Instead,’ Desool went on, ‘he abandoned you here with the dregs of your army, and now with our father at death’s gate he will become king. What happens to you then, brother? To me? What are you sailing home to? Do you think our brother will let any of us live? We all witnessed his shame. Likely his assassins are already in this camp.’

Anak rose to his feet, and crossed the distance between them in a blur, bare feet stomping the fire to smouldering ash, sparks flying. He gripped Desool, who had also risen, by the throat.

The younger twisted in the older’s grip, breaking the hold. He swung his elbow into Anak’s face, staggering him. The guards hearing the commotion had entered with scarap blades bared.

Anak, however, was laughing with blood bubbling from his nose. He pointed a shaky finger at Desool. ‘You know, this was Gog and me once. Scrapping in the dirt, trying to impress our father. Well, I was trying. Gog never needed to. If I wasn’t so drunk ... well, never mind. I am.’ His gaze shifted to the guards as he wiped blood from his face. ‘What are you doing in here? Get out, you dullards!’ The guards didn’t waste time obeying.

‘The Seraphim Council,’ said Desool, ‘have requested me to go and get the Stone back. I would not ask for your ship for just any reason. I will bring it back to you in one piece, I swear. Think of it, brother, returning home with the Shathra Stone. Think of how that will compare to Gog’s manner of return. You want to be king? This is how.’

Anak turned his back on him for a moment taking another cup from one of the Horim. It appeared all the baya root they’d discovered was for him. Likely, no one else wanted to touch it. ‘Those meddling bastards. Our people may be descended from angels, brother, and we may have their blood in our veins, diluted though it may be, but I tell you that listening to them has brought us nothing except grief. Where is the Stone now?’

‘They swore me to silence.’

Anak whirled and staggered. ‘Then, why should I believe you? Why should I help you?’

Desool shrugged. ‘We are brothers.’

‘Who will stab each other in the back given a chance. You know I have a dagger with Gog’s name on it. He would not respect me if I didn’t. I’ve had to fight all my life for respect.’

‘I am not Gog.’

‘No, you’re not. I don’t know what you are.’

Desool grunted. ‘I have nothing to gain. Must I murder all my brothers to reach the dizzying heights of the throne? Tell, me Anak, do you see such murderous intent in my eyes? Am I such a threat to any of you? Come with me if you do not trust me. Another adventure though this time working together. I will be your standard bearer, and I will relinquish my position as your brother if you deem it necessary. What I do is not for my own gain.’

Anak glared at him. ‘I supported Gog and his bloody campaign as far as I dared, you know. I committed many Anakim to his idiotic cause and too many died. Where did it get us? Half of my forces destroyed or missing. Survivors strewn across this useless human imperium. You know, I’ve heard disgusting rumours some of my people are now working for the humans.’

‘Then why are you still here? You claim your ship needs repairs, but I found it anchored off the coast with a compliment of guards on deck. Your ship could carry you and most of your warriors home today. You could send another back for the rest. What is going on?’

Anak collapsed onto the cushions spilling most of his drink. ‘Home, you say, but what home is there for me? You are correct. Gog will rule and he will not tolerate my presence. Yes, we witnessed his shame. He cannot allow us to live. I wouldn’t.

‘You are also right that I gambled on his death, and lost. Another reason he will not greet me on my return. Why do you think he left me here? That ship was a taunt, daring me to return with a handful of warriors. True, I may have more than a handful but not enough. Go on, take the bloody ship. I have no need of it, though you cannot have my guards.’ Anak grunted, waving a hand in dismissal.

Desool turned to go and paused. ‘Whether I succeed or fail, a war is coming, brother. You will need to pick a side.’

‘The side I’ve always chosen is my own.’

Desool left the tent, and stepped out into the cold mountain air.

Anak just didn’t understand. There would be no neutral ground in the war to come. In the fight to exist, there never was.