Chương 11: 10 Steam Pillar

"Twenty seconds," Felipe called, glancing at the watch in his palm. Blades clashed, sending a familiar shock down my arm. I pressed in and flowed into a windmill combo. Feint, moulinet, feint, moulinet—slash, slash, slash. Stripped to the waist, sweat slicked my skin as I pressed my attack. Lieutenant Stormsong fell back, brow knitted in focus as she studied my rhythm. Dressed in fitted trousers, a red sash around the waist, and a cotton chest wrap, she skirted away barefoot.

I gave her no less scrutiny, focusing on her footwork, her preferred parries, and her technique when she dodged. If I weren't mistaken, any moment she'd— —counterattack. Her foil snapped out with speed and precision, darting at an opening I'd been presenting on my shoulder. Perfect. I ducked low—a boxing technique, slipping under her blade. I unwound, snapping back like a spring. Steel met steel as she countered with a center-outside parry. My gaze snapped up, and she met it with a grin.

Sweat slicked her olive-green skin. She'd anticipated the trap? How? My chest heaved, my heart pounding as I redirected into an overhead chop. We didn't wear protective masks, and even with a training foil, my strike could have split skin. That's what we fencers called 'a reef-rat move'—at least in the schoolhouse. The only difference was that Lieutenant Stormsong was a real swordswoman. Changing the rules to make the exchange club legal would be an insult to both of us.

She caught it on a high hanging guard, then rolled right into a counter. I mirrored her, catching it on a high hanging guard of my own before riposting at her head. She caught it high again, face tightening as her wrist flicked, sending her foil at my head. Back and forth, we caught each other's strikes before countering. High hanging guard, riposte, high hanging guard, riposte… We got through the cycle five times before breaking engagement, both panting. The Lieutenant chuckled, wiping her brow.

My forearm and shoulder burned. Sore spots ached beneath my calluses. Six bold white lines marked my sun-tanned skin where angry welts rose, evidence of solid hits.

"Ten seconds!" Felipe shouted, his own training foil tucked under his armpit. My eyes narrowed as I searched for vulnerabilities. Five stripes of swollen flesh marked Lieutenant Stormsong's green skin where I'd claimed points of my own. Time was out; if I could land one more hit, I'd tie up the score. My eyes flicked to the <<Open Terminal>> input, which ghosted my vision. I didn't even need to open it to use my feats. All thirty mana for the day waited untouched. I itched to activate Empowered Windmill Form.

I was a cousin now; these feats were mine, and yet— Lieutenant Stormsong shifted her guard to inverted Narwhal, arm crossed her body, pommel by her opposite temple, point forward. —No, it would feel like cheating. I couldn't disrespect a fellow swordsman like that. Not that I wasn't already cheating in a way. My system's plus-one-to-strength had played a big part in my performance, but that wasn't something I could turn off.

"Five seconds!" I lunged, springing off my front leg and coming down from a high angle. She beat the blade away and sprang in. Her shoulder impacted my gut like a hammer. Her toned arm wrapped around my midsection like a python curling around its prey. Caught in the air, she stole my leverage. She exhaled sharply as she hurled me toward the deck. I flailed as I slammed to the planks; the abrasive deck scraped my side and forearm. Teeth clenched, I pivoted. Grappling in a fencing match—also a reef-rat move.

But this wasn't a sword school. It was the field. I whipped my sword around, but froze as I found the tip of her foil hovering between my eyes.

"Time!" Felipe called, and a spattering of applause sounded from around the deck.

"Seven-Five. Match." My jaw tightened, eyes darkening for a moment. The skin on my cheek prickled. I shook my head, banishing my frustration. I'd been so close to tying up the round, only to lose to a dirty trick. My cheeks burned.

"No shame, Antonio," Felipe called.

"The Lieutenant isn't exactly an amateur." Stormsong's blade tip dropped, and her open hand replaced it. I forced a tight smile and accepted the hand. She pulled me to my feet, and the sailors who had stopped to watch the match returned to their duties. The Silver Zephyr swayed underfoot, sunlight catching the waves of open ocean. More than a day into our journey, we had finally entered neutral waters.

"That was your best match yet," Lieutenant Stormsong said, clapping me roughly on the shoulder—a pat of affection coming from an Orc. I accepted a towel from Felipe and wicked sweat from my face. My flinch surprised me when I inadvertently touched a welt. With the adrenaline during the match, I barely felt them.

"You overextended yourself at the end," Felipe said.

"Too eager for the kill."

"I know," I sighed, gingerly drying a stripe on my side. I was better than Felipe. That didn't mean he couldn't offer a valuable outside perspective. Felipe was Lieutenant Stormsong's next best duelist. I had beaten him five to four. A human like me, he wore a loose vest and double belts that crossed at his side. He fought rapier in the Needle Rain style and wasn't half bad. His messy hair swept back and to the side, all dark except a patch of white. I wondered if he colored it or if it was natural.

"Your biggest mistake was ever offering to take on the Lieutenant in the first place," Roland said, stepping forward. A bald marine with a silver loop dangling from his left ear, a tuft of hair sprouted from his chin. I'd beaten him seven to three. A cutlass fighter like me, his fundamentals had been there; he just needed more reps. The final participant in our little competition nodded encouragingly.

"I don't know if I've ever seen anyone have her on the ropes for so long." I glanced at him. Delrid Tidebreaker's feykin features spoke to his Submerged Rock heritage—frosty yellow skin, a shock of red hair, and red eyes. Gill lines slit his neck on either side, and fins sprouted from his pointed ears. He braced his trident across his shoulders, hands dangling over the shaft. He'd been harder to beat, simply because of his less conventional weapon.

My mentor, Lance, preferred the trident himself, so it hadn't been my first time dealing with one.

"Any pointers for me, Lieutenant?" I asked. She threw a vest over her bare shoulders.

"Elara, please. Any man who can score on me this many times gets to call me by my first name." Felipe whistled, low and amused.

"Black tides, Kid, you've really made it." I shrugged.

"I try. I feel better knowing we have so many skilled fencers." Roland picked at the leather of his fingerless gloves.

"I'm honestly more of a gun guy myself. I've got to show you my rifle. Extra-long barrel, proper rifling. Given a clear shot, I could drop an entire squad of raiders before they could board." Delrid handed me a waterskin, and I drank deep. We five would make an excellent fire team. I'd scanned them all with my terminal; none of them had official levels, but the system marked Elara as a Martial Level Six equivalent. The other three would all be fives. I caught my breath after drinking deeply and wiped my mouth.

"You guys ever fought Deep Folk?" I asked.

"A couple of times, Ripjaws tried to board a scoop we were escorting just last month," Elara said, leaning back against the bulwark.

"The worst thing about them is they can rip your hull apart from beneath the waterline, and trust me, you don't want to face them under the ship." If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"We deal with them all the time in Submerged Rock," Delrid said, running his webbed fingers through his hair.

"Sometimes, we'll run into Marrows in south-downward waters." I nodded thoughtfully, trying to piece together answers about the dockside raid. More than that, I wondered about these new mutations. Mutations—I grazed the back of my hand where the skin had already gone dry—a possible solution to my problem.

"You fought Ripjaws last month?" I asked Elara.

"Were they larger than usual? Maybe with strange fusions from other sea life?" She shook her head.

"No, not that I noticed." Beside her, Delrid straightened, his aquatic brow creasing.

"What about psionics? Did they have a psychic?"

"Black Trench," Delrid said, shifting his trident.

"Second time I've heard about them recently," I said.

"What can you tell me about them and their god Dathurul?" Delrid withdrew into himself.

"On the edges of Submar waters, we look over our shoulders for Ripjaws or Razorfins. When our children go to sleep, they check under their beds for Dathurul."

"So—some sort of bogeyman?" Delrid shook his head.

"Not quite. Sure, the bigger tribes may pose the greater threat to our society, but the Trench? The horrors the Black Trench is responsible for make a Ripjaw look like a pygmy seahorse."

"Really?" Elara asked.

"I'm surprised I've never heard of them before." Delrid traced the tip of his trident with a finger.

"Secretive cult, the Trench. It's said they capture Merfolk and Primords who swim too close to their territory. Once captured, their psionic priests wipe our minds. As empty shells, they repurpose their victims to serve Dathurul. These sleeper agents then come home, reintegrating into our society." He sighed and shrugged.

"So the skeptics say. I'm not one for conspiracies."

"Hmm," I hummed.

"Did—""Smoke on the water!" a sailor hollered, pointing.

"Starboard side!" I spun, searching the horizon till my gaze singled out the white stack rising from the water. Sailors and marines rushed to investigate.

"Stand to! Hands to stations!" Captain Thalendris barked before catching a stay rope and riding it down to the main deck. He landed and drew a spyglass from a leather sheath on his belt. Naomi emerged from the hold, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"Captain, what's happening?"

"Smoke, ma'am," he said, squinting through the optic.

"No," he adjusted the focus.

"Steam." I discarded my training foil for my sword belt and quickly buckled it on.

"Muskets, gents!" Elara called, but her men were already rushing to arm themselves. I pulled my shirt on, picking up my knit cap. I hesitated. The weight was wrong. I peeked into the wool hat. Two eggs were nestled inside. My glare snapped toward Grixx. The Goblin made every effort not to look my way. Less than two days at sea and already, a bucket of water tipped onto my head—not to mention the eggs-in-boots instance. The Goblin had me literally treading on eggshells.

I discarded the eggs and donned my hat before heading over to the others.

"What do you think?" Naomi asked Captain Thalendris.

"Steam or smoke, on these seas, that means heat," I said as I fell in line.

"Dragons or Efreet, heat means Bloodwake." Ingred and Bianca joined us.

"I agree with Tony," Captain Thalendris said, lowering his spyglass.

"Heat is never good news."

"There's a wreckage," Bianca said. We all shifted to her in surprise; her eye had changed into a black orb ringed in amber.

"Eagle eye?" I guessed.

"My own concoction," she said.

"Eighty percent eagle, fifteen percent falcon, and five percent hawk." Her eyes flickered as she focused.

"Yes, there's the mast."

"What do we do?" I asked. Captain Thalendris folded his arms.

"Well, I suppose that would be her call." He nodded to Naomi. The Shad-feykin pursed her lips as she leaned over the bulwark.

"Leave it," I said.

"That's nothing but trouble." Ingred folded her arms.

"If there's wreckage, there could be survivors." Naomi nodded.

"If there are survivors, there's intel." She turned.

"Divert course. Let's investigate."

"Naomi," I said shortly, "We should get as far away from that as possible." She turned to me, eyes narrowing.

"When I make a call, I need you to back me." I shut my mouth. She was right, of course, but this was idiotic. I bit my tongue hard, but I nodded.

"Starboard twenty!" Captain Thalendris called.

"Starboard twenty, aye, cap'n," the helmsman called, and the ship turned. I hurried below deck, grabbed a musket and powder, and shot before returning to the top. Stepping back into the sun, my stomach knotted as I observed how many people were fixated on the rising column of steam. If it was a distraction, it was doing its job. I climbed the mast to the forward fighting deck and did a three-hundred-sixty-degree scan of the horizon.

I searched for the ripple of illusion magic or anything that might conceal a threat. Nothing. I leaned over the rail, half expecting to see a raiding party of Deep Folk climbing up the side of our ship. Beside me, Ingred threw the secret doors open on the arcane deck before situating herself. We made eye contact, and she nodded once. Good. Something bad was going to happen, and we would be ready. Captain Thalendris wasn't jesting about the Silver Zephyr's speed; the steaming water rapidly grew as we approached.

I checked the water for disturbances; the memory of Tethyra's shadow in the security briefing made me feel suddenly small. What if she had somehow gotten ahead of projections, or if our reports were somehow horribly out of date? My palms went dry as I imagined thick tentacles snaking up the side of the ship, large enough to crack the Zephyr in half with ease. I shook my head, banishing the thought. I slung my musket and climbed back down to the main deck.

"It's cooling," Naomi said. I squinted. She was right. Already, the pillar of steam was fading. By the time we drew near, vapors wafted off the water rather than billowing in a cloud. Heat clung to the air, growing heavy and dense. I felt like I had stepped into a wet sauna. This would be nothing compared to the extreme temperatures we would face on Scorched Rock. Naomi whipped sweat from her brow, and Elara and her men braced their muskets on the rail. Barrels and sections of planking drifted by.

A sweet smell like broiled pork filled the hot air. Two forms drifted in the steaming water—a man, then a Fowl-kin. I gagged as I placed the broiled pork smell. It wasn't some chemical reaction, but cooked flesh.

"Captain," Felipe called, blinking hard in the heat. He gestured. We followed his gesture to a mast bobbing in the waves, a black cloth spread out over it depicting a white skull with tusks.

"Pirates," Elara said as more bodies and drifting debris floated around us. The steam thinned. The majority of the corpses were brutes who had to be at least a head taller than me, and nearly twice as wide. Almost all of them had green skin and tattoos, but not all were Orcs. A human drifted face down, a Vulcan with a black crust over his orange skin slipped beneath the waves.

"Well," Roland said, covering his mouth with the bandana tied around his neck.

"I don't think these pirates are going to give us any problems anytime soon."

"What do you think?" I whispered, afraid of what a raised voice might draw.

"Scorched Fleet weapon?"

"Weapon, no," Captain Thalendris said.

"An Efreet, perhaps. Possibly a Dragon." Silence fell, and several sailors shielded their eyes from the steam. I'd always been a bit more heat-tolerant than my peers. Naomi shut her eyes and listened. My heart hammered against the back of my ribs. The sooner we finished there and could get back, the better off we'd be.

"Anything worth looting?" Roland asked.

"We need the space for our cargo," Captain Thalendris whispered back. Naomi's violet eyes flashed open.

"There's someone out there," she said. I strained my ears.

"I don't hear anything," I said in a low voice.

"Probably because you can't hear neural activity," she whispered back.

"Oh," I said, biting my tongue. Psionic, right. Supporting herself with a line, Naomi stepped onto the bulwark.

"Hullo!" she called. I flinched, gripping the musket and searching the steam. Nothing surviving out there was anything we wanted to meet. A barrel bumped off our hull and drifted away.

"H—help!" a voice in the steam croaked back.

"Starboard side ten degrees!" Captain Thalendris called.

"Starboard side ten degrees," the helmsman echoed.

"Where are you?" Captain Thalendris called. Naomi's hand lifted, finger extended. A figure clinging to a floating hatch bobbed into view.

"Ropes!" Captain Thalendris called, and the sweating sailors rushed into motion.

"Let's get a longboat down there," Elara said.

"I don't want to risk cooking any of my men."

"I'll go," I said, my fire resistance bracer winking into existence in my hand. I slipped it onto my arm.

"I don't cook easily."

"Me too," Bianca said, thick scales forming on her skin. She took a step over the rail and plunged into the scalding water.

"Bianca!" I called in alarm.

"She's fine," Naomi said with her eyes closed and a finger pressed to her temple.

"A little warm, but she's hearty." I accepted a tied-off line from a sailor and looped it over my shoulder. The crew threw another line over the side. I took a deep breath before catching it and swinging myself over the side. I'd expected my descent to be awkward, but with that single point stat bump in my Might, my body felt lighter. Bianca reappeared from the murky depths, towing the hatch. Her familiar features showed through her leathery scales. I shrugged off the coiled tow rope and caught it.

"Here!" I tossed it to her. She pulled at the hatch to reach him. Searing water rolled over it, making the barely conscious pirate flinch.

"Don't tie him," I called, stopping her.

"Tie the hatch. We'll haul the whole thing up." She nodded and lashed the driftwood with unpracticed fingers. Hanging from the line and sweating freely, I offered a few verbal points of adjustment before I was satisfied he wouldn't slide off his improvised raft.

"Good," I called as she tied her last knot, then I banged the hull twice.

"Take 'er up!" I called.

"Heave!" several voices called in unison, and the pirate's platform lifted out of the water.

"Heave!" He rose another arm span and then stopped. Four more solid pulls brought him parallel to me on the hull, and I got my first good look at our new guest. His tan-yellow skin and face marked him a mutt—half-breed between Orc and Hobgoblin, with probably a sprinkle of human ancestry some generations ago. He groaned as the line hauled him another span upward. Pirates, the scum that made the sea of the archipelago a chaotic seascape, and now we were bringing one aboard willingly.

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