Elemental Ascension, page 7
“I'm just a Salamander, damn it!” Ash roared.
Chapter Six
Lord of the Seas
Ash clawed at his face. Indecision ripped through him. Sharp flashbacks flickered across his field of vision, where he saw Deerbolt's terror and her crew dying one-by-one as they fought past foes who vastly outnumbered the Grace; a meaner, faster and more brutal enemy than Deerbolt, despite her courage and tenacity, could defeat. Ash had once killed their attackers accidentally—he'd been thrown overboard and surrendered to the ocean, offering the Tradeway his life for Deerbolt's safe passage. Against the odds he rose, reborn as a temporary water Elemental—an Undine—and lived to keep that secret for the next ten years. Since that day, Ash had not summoned Undine magic once, fearful it would replace what little Salamander skills he still owned and relied heavily upon.
“Man the cannons!” Deerbolt screeched. “Secure the cargo!”
“Captain, if she catches us—”
“Astrals rely on proximity, Sarronious,” she replied. “Let's focus on staying ahead of them.”
Through the sound of howling wind, crashing waves and distant thunder, Ash could hear Deerbolt bravely barking orders, preparing her crew for the war they were going to lose. Her long hair whipped and slapped her skin and her piercing eyes glimmered in her reflection in every flying droplet. From the pit of his stomach, Ash summoned gallantry and scrambled to his feet, leaving Kite and Reverie clinging to the only chest still secured.
“Come back! Where are you going?” Reverie cried.
Ash set off in a diagonal sprint, using the chaos as an obstacle course whenever he was thrown aside with the Grace's sway.
Sarronious ran after him, unable to keep to a straight line. He dodged Deerbolt's crew and sliding barrels.
“Ash, wait! What are you doing?”
Deerbolt scanned the deck for the unhinged Elemental, catching her most loyal friend's warnings when the wind changed direction. Her eyes found Ash charging at the ship's mascot, where he ripped off his doublet, then set to work on the buttons down his floaty white shirt.
“ASH, NO!”
Under his breath, he recited the Oracle's lyrics and closed his eyes. He blocked all other thoughts and focused only on moving forward, on stripping anything restrictive from his person, including his gloves, and kicking off his boots. The song became his mantra. His Salamander brand burned deeper into his skin.
Deerbolt pushed through her crew and vaulted over a cannon mid-fire. She emerged like a phoenix through the smoke and the Tradeway's spray, wincing in the heat of the explosion as the iron ball left the chamber and sailed towards the enemy ship.
They were gaining on the Grace too easily. She landed with an UMPH! flat on both feet and set off at full speed to catch him. His plan was simple.
He discarded everything at the base of the mast, threw away his longsword and sheathed dagger, and then launched into the air using a kneeling deckhand as an unsuspecting step. Where he was going, he wouldn't be needing possessions.
“NO, ASH! DON'T!” Deerbolt bellowed.
It was too late.
Ash outstretched his arms as he flew above the Tradeway's inky surface. He dived in head-first like a pencil. The water smacked his cheeks and forced its way up his nose, in his ears, and down his throat. Deerbolt threw her body against the ship's wooden rail, unable to slow her speed, and called his name until her voice was hoarse. Bubbles rose to the surface, but she couldn't see anything else.
Beneath, it was calming and peaceful. The battle raged on above as Ash centred his body and tread water, using his arms as fins to manoeuvre in the depths. Against his bare chest, the Tradeway felt cool and certain, allowing Ash to dig within his soul to stir his hidden Undine. His lungs burned—a familiar sensation he feared all those years ago and misunderstood as drowning. Now, he relished where it could take him, raising him above the basic Salamander existence into the leagues of the Tetrad.
With his last breath, Ash opened his eyes. Waves exploded outward from where he was floating, sending cyclones of freezing cobalt into the air and across the rolling waves, sucking more and more of the Tradeway's weight up and over the mast of the Cerulean Grace like a rainbow, pummelling the bandits on their tail. Ash kicked his feet and wound his wrists in smooth, careful movements as the Grace sailed past. A platform of water touched his bare feet, gently carrying him to freedom, casting him high enough to manipulate this new, exciting weapon from the safety of the bow.
The God of the Senses overlooked their enemy's impending doom.
From head to toe, Ash was sodden but glowing; the brewing storm ragged what remained of his clothing—some ripped and fell away—but his balance never faltered. Using what remained of his confidence, he clenched his fists, pulled his arms outward and above his head in a wide arch. As he dropped both arms to his side and allowed his chin to fall slack against his collarbones, a giant wave crushed the ship in its mouth, washing it out to sea and tumbling it in tight spirals.
From the relative safety of the ship, Deerbolt's expression glazed. Ash's response astonished her. Whatever pre-programmed Elemental magic that had previously laid dormant within him had detonated, and she was both thankful for and terrified of it.
“S-Sarronious,” Deerbolt managed in a whimper, “bring m-me a rope. We need to pull A-Ash out of the water. Quickly!”
She didn't see him go or return with the rope, only that a lasso had been tied and handed to her, which she pitched over the side. It hooked over Ash's arm and slid it over his head and waist before he fainted and careened from the Alchemic platform into the water below. The rest of his incantations failed too, like the Tradeway's seascape had been expertly wiped clean of any evidence.
If there were Undines on board that ship, their magic hadn't measured up to Ash's anarchy. He'd demolished any living beings, Alchemical and Human.
Using the ship as a brace, Deerbolt and Sarronious hauled Ash out of the water and onto the deck. The Captain pressed her ear worriedly against his chest and listened for a pulse.
“He's not breathing! Sarronious, call the Slyph deckhand. Ash needs air.”
“He never boarded, Captain.”
Deerbolt slammed her fist onto the deck. “I'll do it myself!”
She parted his lips to breathe life-saving air into his waterlogged lungs. Then she pressed firmly upon his ribcage to restart his heart. Ash convulsed, coughed, and spat up a fountain of water.
Deerbolt squealed with delight and wrapped her arms around him.
“You scared me half to death, you scoundrel!”
Ash gasped. “I'm... sorry,” he managed. “Did... it... work?”
“Aye, the ship was destroyed. Don't you remember?”
Sarronious slapped him hard on the back, forcing the remaining water out through Ash's nose and mouth. Deerbolt grabbed an arm and dragged him to rest against a discarded and damaged wooden crate so he could regain some sense of where he was.
Frantically, Ash shook his head. “Kite... Reverie...?”
Sarronious lifted his chin. “Aye, they're fine, they're safe.”
“You did it, Ash!” Deerbolt said, cupping his face in delight. “You saved us all... again!”
A searing pain on Ash's hand caused him to flinch and hiss, craning his body back. Deerbolt moved aside; he flicked his wrist relentlessly to shake off the terrible stinging sensation, then cried out in agony as it worsened. Deerbolt and Sarronious pinned him down and called for one deckhand to examine his skin, pale and wrinkled by the water. It was possible this was a new symptom of his curse, or a sea critter had pinched or nibbled Ash as he swam in the Tradeway. Below deck, they carried antidotes and medical supplies for stings and poisons, but neither was applicable once Deerbolt saw Ash's updated Elemental marking. In the centre of his existing single circular brand was a second ring with a faint vertical line adjoining the two. His Alchemic identifier had morphed from that of a Salamander Elemental to a Salamander-Undine hybrid—a never-before-seen symbol. He now bore two rings (one for each of his skills, the first of which represented his fire incantations) plus the line of the standard Undine brand.
Ash passed out again and had to be carried by three of the larger male deckhands to Deerbolt's bed. Reverie offered to watch over him whilst Deerbolt and Sarronious co-ordinated the repairs and clean-up of the Cerulean Grace; she placed a tankard of water and some bread beside him on a low table, and covered him with the blanket he wore the day before.
Ash drifted soundly and dreamlessly into a deep slumber. Meanwhile, the ship continued up the Tradeway towards the First Watchtower, passing the unnamed abandoned island on their right and many other, but thankfully distant, vessels.
◆◆◆
When Ash awoke thirty-six hours later, starving and desperate for a soothing beverage, the First Watchtower loomed above the ship's mast, leering from land as if questioning their arrival and the business they had in the north. On their left, behind a wall of trees and shrubbery (acting as the tower's only defence inland), Open Country's barren, drought-riddled landscape loomed for miles. Between the dry nothingness and the Northern Trading Post, only bandits, outlaws, thieves and risk-taking travellers rode. Reverie and Kite knew the territory well from their travels in the west between their home in Broad Wells and Blackheart Dock. Reverie kept an eye on the treeline at all times; the young couple knew better than most to stay clear of the crime-infested desert. Days before their arrival at the marketplace, they'd lost jewels and their only horse to thieves. They were forced to walk the rest of the way with only the clothes on their back and their basic provisions in tow. Muggers had not considered her pregnancy when they held her at knife-point.
As Deerbolt and her crew docked and stampeded down the wooden ramp into the harbour, the sky finally cleared. Not a single ship nor cloud accompanied them. The Order were no longer following by sea. They were completely alone to rest and recuperate.
Deerbolt couldn't have been happier to see Ash appear on the poop deck. He stood at the top of the ramp, staring at its steep decline. He swallowed hard.
I'm going to end up in the water again.
Sarronious jogged to his aid. “You're not strong enough yet. Let me help you.”
They linked arms and staggered side-by-side along the rickety wooden ramp to solid ground. Ash was careful to pick his feet up over the imperfections. He exhaled with relief and sighed aloud when his toes crinkled and caressed long blades of basil-green grass.
“Feels good,” Sarronious said.
“Aye,” Ash replied, though it hadn't been a question.
“Where are your boots?” Deerbolt asked in Ash's peripheral vision.
He turned slowly as not to lose his balance and shrugged. “At the bottom of the Tradeway, I imagine.”
She offered him a tankard of water and a handful of juicy, purple grapes. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Ash stole the tankard and glugged the icy liquid down in a few wide mouthfuls, then crammed every grape from the branch after it. He wiped the dribbles on the back of his hand and halted, scowling at the new, itchy brand he'd been sporting for almost three days.
He groaned. “That's not good.”
“We should talk.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “I wonder what about?”
Deerbolt led him barefoot across a bank to a large hexagonal-shaped rock. Other than the looming structure of the fortress, little else caught Ash's eye. She warned him to watch his step, avoiding the prickly weeds and stones poking through the dirt. Ash moaned when he lowered his weight to sit. His muscles ached. He felt twice, if not three times, his age and weight. His skin was tender to the touch, but he was no longer queasy or shivering.
From their spot on the hill, they had a 180-degree panoramic view of the harbour and the First Watchtower's grounds, offering peace of mind and reassurance they could rest safely.
A midday sun beat down on Ash's head and shoulders and he stretched as far as he could without pain, basking in the warmth and serenity it offered. Living in Open Country had tanned him, and he hoped to maintain a healthy appearance for as long as possible.
“Your brand changes everything,” Deerbolt stated firmly.
“It doesn't have to,” he was quick to add. “Nobody else needs to know.”
“My entire crew saw you summon a second Elemental ability, Ash. The secret is out.”
“Your crew already know I'm... different. I'm talking about the watchmen.” He gestured at the fortress and swallowed hard. “Would they have me killed?”
“They won't ask me for identification papers. They know me, and they're hiding secrets of their own. But, what if there were any Astral survivors?”
“There weren't.” Ash was confident. “I was going to tell you everything before the storm, I swear. When we were on deck, and you—”
“It's enough that you saved us; you don't owe me any explanations.” Deerbolt smiled and took his hand in hers. Her delicate fingers caressed his calloused, working ones, soothing him as she whispered. “Thank you.”
“No,” he began, “thank you. I suspected I could be more than a Salamander ten years ago on the crossing from Dragonborn when something unearthed in me. I thought you were in danger then; it took seeing that to conjure those forgotten skills this time. If not for you, we'd be at the bottom of the Tradeway right now.”
“We didn't sink. We're here. You protected Reverie and Kite as you promised.” She patted him. “We're alive.”
“I protected you.” Ash sighed and changed the subject. “Where are the happy couple?”
“Kite is hunting in the trees with his bow. Reverie is watching him like a hawk. Not a scratch on either,” she reassured. “Aren't you glad?”
Ash ran his tongue along his top teeth. “Sure. You'll be leaving me here, then?”
Deerbolt snorted and shook her head, then burst into laughter. Her grip tightened until Ash's eyes brightened and widened again.
“Whatever gave you that idea? You're coming with us—you're my insurance. Nobody can sink the Grace with you aboard.”
Ash met her gaze. “Is that all I am to you?”
“We're with you, Ash,” Deerbolt replied. “Whatever you decide to do with your newfound Elemental abilities, we're on your side. If your intentions were to harm us, you'd have done it by now. Even Sarronious thinks—”
“Abilities?”
“Sure!” She beamed. “Where there's a second one, there's got to be another two... right? You're a Tetrad!”
“I suppose I am.”
Ash shuffled across the rock until their thighs touched and wrapped his arm around the Captain's waist. He brushed through her long, silken hair with the other, guiding her face inches from his own. Seeing her again had been enough for him to fall back in love with this strong-willed, beautiful Velocal.
Hearing her belief in him confirmed his love was true and most likely, reciprocated. The clouds parted, showering them in a haze.
They breathed in unison.
Sarronious's booming voice broke the silence.
Deerbolt jerked her head away, releasing Ash's grip as if pretending to examine his injuries.
“All is well?”
“Aye, and Raven has agreed to your request,” he said.
Deerbolt straightened her clothing as she stood, leading Sarronious away from the rock. She tucked loose locks of hair behind her ear, glanced once over her right shoulder and offered half a smile, then followed the tradesman downhill to the base of the fortress where the First Watchtower's guardians awaited.
Sarronious's narrowed his eyes as he followed her gaze, then touched the Captain's shoulder.
“Were you two...?” he trailed.
Deerbolt frowned and shook him off. “I'll take it from here, Sarronious. You are dismissed.”
Chapter Seven
The First Watchtower
Ash staggered downhill to the First Watchtower's base. A giant timber drawbridge stretched across a moat cut into the earth approximately thirty-feet deep. Along the bridge stood armoured watchmen. The sight of their Maximilian-style armour sent shivers down Ash's spine; memories of his Dragonborn Guardsmen days flooded his mind, and he was suddenly transported back in time to the last duty he held at the island's port before his brothers had banished him. The structure of the bridge, the two gate towers and the portcullis were uncanny; its sharp, unforgiving metal, the weight of the drawbridge lowering to bar their enemies' entry, and the short courtyard stroll between barbican-topped walls. As upon the Isle of Dragonborn, every wall sported hundreds of arrow loops, especially the outer shell of their village.
The First Watchtower was a pristine work of art. Watchmen on the wall walk patrolled its inner, harmonious acres. It encircled where Ash now laid eyes upon the barracks and the stables. He'd been in many a tavern since returning from Open Country but men always reported the watchtowers had long since been abandoned; mere crumbling relics, haunted by the ghosts of their former occupants. They obviously spread rumours to stay off the Order's radar.
Ash stood with his feet together, careening at the colossal, square-based keep. He gasped, for he could not see the tatty flag on the spire—golden yellow with an embroidered numeral I on both sides—fluttering through the clouds that hid it, nor the top five or six storeys at least. He became dizzy if he stared too intensely or for too long, narrowing his eyes to count the floors and the watchmen's helms glinting in the light.
“It's something, isn't it?” Deerbolt said, taking him by surprise.
“You are everywhere and nowhere,” Ash told her, unable to look away from the fortified structure he hoped he wouldn't have to climb. “How did your meeting go?”
“As well as I'd hoped.”
He nodded. “Are those for me?”
Deerbolt offered a stack of clean linens and sparkling armour, then plonked a pair of boots at his feet. Everything looked new.
“Aye,” she said, “though I'll keep a hold of them for now. You should change on the ship.”
