Waterfire Saga (4 Book Series) Page 7

  She knew another young merman who carved. He’d made a tiny octopus for her once. In the gardens of Cerulea’s royal palace. As she watched Enzo work, she missed Mahdi so badly, it hurt.

  Snøfte suddenly elbowed Sera, startling her out of her reverie. The goblin held out a bowl woven of scrubgrass. It contained clumps of plump, juicy squid eggs. “Help yourself. We found them under some rocks.”

  Sera took a clump and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, briny eggs burst as she chewed them. “Mmm,” she said through a mouthful. “Wow, are those good. Thank you.”

  “A whole lot better than conger eel stew,” Salvatore commented. He was sitting by the fire now, too.

  “I swear to Vaeldig, if I have to eat another bowl of that swill, I’ll throw up,” Snøfte complained.

  Vaeldig, Sera knew, was the goblin god of war. Inwardly she winced, feeling guilty that she couldn’t provide her troops with better food.

  Snøfte shook her head. “I came here because Guldemar ordered it,” she said. “You three”—she nodded at Salvatore, Enzo, and Sera—“volunteered.” She laughed. “Skøre tåber,” she said in her own language. Crazy fools.

  “Yeah, I did volunteer,” Salvatore said wryly. “At the time, I thought there were things worth dying for—my realm, my city, my ruler. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Sera’s despondency deepened as she listened to Salvatore and Snøfte. She’d been unable to face sending loyal soldiers to their deaths, soldiers who believed in the fight. The idea of sending soldiers to die for a cause they no longer believed in was even worse.

  “We sit here day after day, getting by on conger eel, barely, and all the while, the death riders are coming closer,” Snøfte said. “We need to ambush them. Kill them all and put their heads on stakes. Right outside the camp’s gates.”

  “Too right,” Salvatore said, spitting a gob of chewing seaweed into the waterfire. “Serafina will never do it, though. She’s too weak. Too inexperienced. She’s nothing more than a pawn in her uncle’s game.”

  Sera felt like she’d been slapped. Instinctively, she spoke up for herself. “Serafina’s not all bad,” she protested, unable to keep a twinge of defensiveness out of her voice. “I hear she loves her subjects very much.”

  Salvatore snorted. His bushy eyebrows shot up. “Love? Who cares about love? I’m hungry. I’m cold. I need food and arrows, not love,” he said contemptuously. “Love means nothing to me.”

  Enzo, who hadn’t spoken one word the entire time, looked up from his carving. “It means something to me,” he said quietly. “It’s the reason I’m here.”

  Salvatore flapped a hand at him and spat another gob of seaweed into the fire.

  Enzo turned to Sera. “I come from Cerulea, too. From the fabra.”

  Sera nodded. She knew the district well. It was where the city’s artisans lived.

  “My family, we’re woodworkers,” Enzo continued, giving her a smile both proud and sad. “We salvage beams from shipwrecks, comb the shores for driftwood. We carve it into beautiful things—statues, tables, frames.” His smile faded. “We don’t make beautiful things anymore, though. Now we make stocks for crossbows and handles for daggers. My grandfather, my father…they don’t want to do this work, but they don’t have a choice: Vallerio commands it. My uncle refused…” Enzo paused for a few seconds, overcome by emotion, then continued, “…and they took him away.”

  “I’m sorry, Enzo,” Sera said, her heart hurting for him. “I’m guessing you’re here because you didn’t want to do Vallerio’s bidding, either.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Enzo said, defiance in his voice. “I snuck out of the city gates one night when a guard’s back was turned. My grandfather and father cannot fight. They’re too old. My little sons are too young. But I can. And I will. That’s why I’m here. Because I’d rather die fighting for them than live and watch them suffer.”

  Salvatore crossed his arms over his chest. He stared into the waterfire. “Maybe there are some things worth dying for,” he said gruffly.

  “No, Salvatore,” Enzo said. “Not some things. One thing: family.”

  As the words left Enzo’s lips, the pain finally stopped—the pain in Sera’s head, and her heart.

  Earlier, she’d asked her brother, and her friends, to tell her how to send her people into battle. How can I give the command? Will somebody tell me? she’d begged.

  Now somebody had.

  Thank you, she said silently to the woodcarver. I owe you more than you’ll ever know.

  She rose, ready for a rest, ready to start again tomorrow. She was just about to bid the others good night when a wailing blare rose over the camp. It dipped, then rose again.

  Snøfte swore. “The alarm siren!” she shouted, jumping to her feet.

  Enzo leapt up and jammed his knife into the sheath on his hip.

  No, Sera thought. It can’t be.

  “Grab your weapons, kids,” Salvatore said grimly. “It looks like we’re under attack.”

  SERA SWAM FASTER than she ever had in her life.

  Back through the boulders and scrubgrass she raced, back to the center of camp. Salvatore, Enzo, and Snøfte were right on her tail.

  As Sera swam, she undid her illusio spell.

  “Is that—” she heard Salvatore call out.

  “Yeah!” Snøfte shouted back to him. “It is! It’s her, Serafina!”

  At the edges of camp, a lethal chaos reigned, and the death riders used it. Mer and goblin soldiers rushed out from under the thorn thicket, searching the darkness for foes. As they did, arrows sliced through the water from above. Frightened civilians, their tails thrashing, were hurrying for the safety of the thorns. Sera heard the screams of terrified mothers, the wails of children. The lights from illuminatas, hastily cast, flashed all around her—to her left, her right, and sometimes directly in her face, blinding her. She swooped down low, blinking the light out of her eyes, dodging rocks, tents, other Black Fins. She needed a weapon; she was useless without one.

  “Get everyone under the Devil’s Tail! Hurry!” a voice shouted.

  “Civilians into the caves!” another yelled. “Songcasters to the gates!”

  “Medics to the south court! We’ve got fighters down!”

  “Des, Yaz…where are you?” Sera shouted. “Neela! Ling! Becca!” But none of them answered her.

  An arrow buried itself in the chest of a Black Fin next to her. He was dead before he hit the seafloor.

  Sera dove down to the body. There would be time to honor the fighter later. Right now, she needed a weapon. She tugged the ammo belt free of his waist, buckled it around her own, then took the crossbow from his lifeless hands.

  The attackers are shooting from above, and from the camp’s perimeter. They’re everywhere! she thought. Panic threatened to overwhelm her.

  Stop, Sera, she told herself. Think. Figure this out. She closed her eyes. Listened hard. Turned in a circle. Her ears told her that most of the noise was coming from behind her, toward the south side of the camp. She spun around and shot off that way. Seconds later, she heard her brother’s voice. “Crossbows to the south gate!” he was yelling. “Speargunners, defend the roof!”

  “Desiderio, what’s happening?” Sera shouted, swimming up to him.

  “Death riders! They ambushed Sophia and her troops in the Darktide Shallows!” he shouted back. “The Black Fins fought their way free and bolted for camp, but the death riders followed them.”

  “How many?”

  “At least a hundred. Most of them are at the south gate.”

  Hope surged in Sera’s heart. The Black Fins vastly outnumbered the death riders.

  As if reading his sister’s thoughts, Des said, “We can beat them off, but we need light.” Then he was racing off, yelling, “Songcasters! Get the lights on! Now!”

  Sera bolted for the south gate, crossbow raised. A horrible sight met her eyes when she reached it. The bodies of at least two dozen Black Fins were strewn across the court. Dead hip
pokamps lay among them. In the mouth of the gate itself, death riders, protected by shields, were firing upon the Black Fins trying to defend it.

  Some of the Black Fins were down on their bellies, elbows planted in the silt to brace their weapons. Others shot from behind rocks. Sera saw that a few more had positioned themselves behind wagons, some upright, some overturned.

  The wagons! she thought. Sophia got them back to camp!

  Sera did a quick count. There were nine. That meant the death riders had only gotten one wagonload of their weapons. Thank the gods!

  An arrow whizzed by Sera, missing her head by mere inches. She ducked behind a rock. Breathless, her heart slamming in her chest, she loaded her weapon, then peered out and started firing.

  An instant later, light rose over the court. The songcasters had succeeded in casting an enormous illuminata.

  More Black Fins, able to see their foes now, joined the fray. As they did, a shrill whistle pierced the water, and the death riders fell back. Moving with the speed of sharks, they swam out of the gateway, launched themselves onto the backs of their hippokamps, and rode off into the night.

  As quickly as it had started, the attack was over.

  A pair of guards hurried to the gates, pushed them closed, and locked them. A group of speargunners swam up behind the guards and angrily demanded that they reopen the gates. They wanted to chase the attackers. Sera swam out from her cover and stopped them.

  “It could be a trap,” she said. “There might be more death riders out there, waiting for us. Put your weapons down. Help the wounded. Collect the dead.”

  At that moment, a shout for help came from one of the overturned wagons. The speargunners swam to it. Working together, they lifted the wagon off the seafloor and set it upright.

  As they did, a bruised and bloodied mermaid swam out from underneath. She was dazed and moved crookedly; her eyes were glassy.

  “Sophia!” Sera cried, rushing to her. She took hold of her friend’s arms. “Look at me, Soph. Focus.”

  Sophia’s eyes met Sera’s. She shook her head as if to clear it. The glassy look receded. “Came in fast,” she murmured. “Got to the gates, but a death rider shot my hippokamp. She went wild….She bolted. We made it into the court, but the wagon tipped over. I don’t…I can’t remember….” Her eyes widened. “Oh, gods, Sera. Totschläger.”

  At that instant, a medic—Henri—swam up. He immediately started to treat the wound on Sophia’s forehead, but she shook him off. “Find Totschläger, please,” she begged. “He’s been shot. I’m fine! I’m fine! Go find Totschläger!”

  Sera realized her friend was in shock and edging toward hysteria. She tried to calm her. “It’s okay, Soph. We’ll find him. He’s here. The medics will help him.”

  Sera slung one of Sophia’s arms over her shoulder. The two mermaids swam through the court. “Has anyone seen Totschläger?” Sera called out.

  There were bodies everywhere. Plumes of blood drifted through the water. The cries of the injured echoed off rocks and boulders. Medics rushed to and fro with bandages and stretchers.

  Sera kept searching, hoping to spot Totschläger’s face among the living, not the dead, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She was about to give up when she heard someone shouting for her. It was Henri.

  “He’s here!” He waved Sera over.

  Sera and Sophia rushed to him. They found Totschläger lying on his back. His eyes were closed. A wound gaped across his chest, ugly and red. Dread knotted Sera’s stomach. No one can survive an injury like that, she thought.

  The fearsome goblin was barely breathing. Henri was kneeling in the silt next to him. Other goblins, and some mer, had crowded around.

  “Is he…” Sera started to say, hoping against hope.

  Henri shook his head. Sophia’s face crumpled. “He fought so hard, Sera. We only got away because of him. This is my fault!” she sobbed. “It’s all my fault!”

  Sera pulled Sophia close. “It’s not your fault, Soph,” she hissed. “Do you hear me? It’s Vallerio’s fault. It’s his fault!”

  Suddenly a goblin pushed his way through the crowd, shoving everyone else out of the way. It was Garstig, a goblin commander.

  “Din dumme, dumme fjols,” he said gruffly as he knelt down beside Totschläger. “Kun et ryk som du kunne få sig selv skudt.”

  Sera translated his words in her head. You stupid, stupid fool. Only a jerk like you could get himself shot.

  Garstig took his comrade’s hand, not caring that it was covered with blood.

  Totschläger opened his eyes. “Garstig, you big oaf. Is your face the last one I’ll ever see? Gods help me. You’re uglier than a blobfish, and you smell worse than rotten walrus-milk cheese.”

  Garstig chuckled. “Always one for sweet words, even when I first met you, back in military school.”

  “We had some good times, old friend. Didn’t we?” Totschläger said, trying to smile.

  Garstig nodded. “Remember when we raced hippokamps through the market in Scaghaufen? I fell off and landed headfirst in a bucket of marsh melons. I still have the scar,” he added proudly, pointing to a jagged mark on his temple. “And a few on my backside, too, from the farmer’s pitchfork.”

  Totschläger’s smile broadened.

  “Remember our first battle?” Garstig asked. “We fought those stinking Feuerkumpel who’d snuck across the border. Sent them off with some nice, juicy wounds. We celebrated that night. Who drank too much räkä? And threw up for three days straight?”

  Totschläger laughed, but the laugh turned into a painful, racking cough. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. His chest started to hitch.

  “Garstig, speak…” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Speak for me…please.”

  Garstig tightened his grip on Totschläger’s hand. “Of course I will. And Vaeldig will hear me, don’t you worry. You’ll be in Fyr before the stars fade,” he said.

  Tears sprang to Sera’s eyes. Fyr, she knew, was the goblin word for the underworld. All goblins, no matter what tribe they belonged to, believed that when they died, Vaeldig, their war god, took the bravest among them to his grand hall in Fyr to fight and feast for all eternity.

  Blood was dripping off Totschläger’s chin now. He could no longer talk. His breath came quick and shallow. For a few seconds, the light in his eyes burned as brightly as the fire in a goblin forge; then it dulled and faded away.

  Gently, Garstig closed those eyes. Tears, as black and thick as oil, streamed down his cheeks. With a roar of grief, he threw his head back and cried out to his god.

  “Hear me, great Vaeldig!” he shouted. “I, Garstig, speak for Totschläger of the Meerteufel! He was a fierce warrior, brave and loyal! He was an honor to his chieftain, an honor to his tribe! Reward his courage! Carry his spirit to Fyr and seat him at your table!”

  As Garstig’s words rang out, Totschläger’s face, which had been contorted by pain, softened into a peaceful expression.

  Garstig looked down at him. “He’s gone,” he said brokenly. “My best friend…he’s gone.”

  His voice broke on the last word, and Sera felt as if someone had thrust a knife into her heart. Garstig’s terrible grief brought back all the losses she’d suffered—her parents, Vrăja, Thalassa, Fossegrim, Duca Armando, so many. She thought of the losses her merfolk had endured, and merfolk throughout all the water realms. All because of Vallerio.

  “Henri,” she said, “take Sophia to the infirmary.”

  “No, Sera, I don’t need to go,” Sophia protested. “I want to stay. I want to help.”

  “Later, Soph. After the medics stitch up your head.” She kissed her friend’s cheek. “You saved a great many lives tonight, and our weapons. Thank you.”

  As Henri led Sophia away, Ling rushed by. Sera called her over.

  “The others?” Sera asked.

  “All alive.”

  “Thank the gods,” Sera said. “I need you to gather them and get them to HQ.”

/>   “Now, Sera? We have wounded to attend to and bodies to bury.”

  “I know, but this can’t wait.”

  As Sera swam toward the headquarters cave, past crying children and injured parents, anger swelled inside her like a deadly rogue wave. She was the rightful ruler of Miromara, and yet her vicious uncle was always the one in charge. He pushed her all around the board. All she could ever do was try to stay one stroke ahead of him.

  Until now.

  Vallerio had made a mistake tonight, with this cowardly attack. He had handed her a move.

  And she was going to take it.

  SERA’S INNER CIRCLE STRAGGLED into the cave one by one. They were in shock and hollowed out by fighting, by seeing their fellow Black Fins wounded or killed. Yazeed had taken an arrow wound to the tail. Des had a cut across his forehead. Neela had a nasty bruise spreading across her cheek.

  Sera looked at them and her heart hurt for all they’d been through, and for all that they had yet to face. She was about to make a critical move, and once she did, there’d be no turning back.

  She waited until they were all seated, then—without any preliminaries—she spoke.

  “Vallerio’s been using his spy to his advantage. Tonight is yet another example of this. The spy told him where Sophia and Totschläger would be and when. I’ve had enough. It’s my turn now. I’m going to use his spy to my advantage.”

  “How?” Ling asked.

  “I’ve decided that we’re going to the Southern Sea first, to kill Abbadon. Des, I respect your position, but I agree with Yazeed’s reasoning. Without the monster, Orfeo can be bested. Without Orfeo, Vallerio can be bested.” Sera paused to let her words sink in, then continued. “So what I want is for all of you to tell the entire camp that we’re going to attack Cerulea. Tell everyone that I was so enraged by my uncle’s ambush, I immediately vowed revenge.”

  “Wait, Cerulea?” Becca said, confused. “Didn’t you just say that we’re heading to the Southern Sea?”

  “Becs, dude…it’s a fake-out move!” Yazeed crowed.