Chapter Five: The Merfolk

Dericht swung his silver sword, forcing several Tier-Two Silver Wolves to retreat, blocking each attack with nimble steps that leapt over rocks and roots. Yet those eerie blue eyes never left his foes. Beset by relentless assault, Dericht’s company of knights, who had broken out alongside him, had all perished or fallen; now, in this wasteland of snow and night, death hung over his own head. Even after years of solitary wandering in the wild, he knew all too well what it meant to face a wolf pack in the biting cold.

Gritting his teeth, he reined in his exhausted warhorse, resolved to take his chances in a final stand.

Overhead, a two-headed dragon swooped through the sky, wings whipping up cold winds as it plunged toward him.

Elsewhere, Carlos found his movements sluggish, his eyelids so heavy he could scarcely open them. His entire body was trussed up with ropes and tossed into a carriage, which raced through the icy wind outside.

Inside the carriage with him sat the alchemist Dubuy, while Grant drove the horses. The Order of Apprentice Knights, led by the dwarf Maclin, rode close behind, thundering eastward with the carriage.

Carlos longed to break the spell of drowsy sorcery, but no matter how he struggled, his eyelids weighed like lead. Damn it—his men were traitors, devoid of loyalty, cowed by a few words from his teacher Dubuy. Now, they meant to bind him and deliver him, their own master, to Swordmaster Port.

Yet his own heart burned with the need to journey north and rescue his father and elder brother.

“My father has died in battle,” Carlos rasped bitterly to Dubuy. “I will never forgive you.”

“If you die,” Dubuy replied gently, “your father’s spirit would never forgive me either.”

After three days and nights of relentless travel, the caravan drew steadily farther from Blackstone Fortress in the north. At last, they halted at the southeastern border of Cyprus, before the wide natural barrier of the Xiling Strait.

Carlos sat silently on a rock by the shore, lost in thought.

He had endured despair and struggle along the way, but when news arrived that Blackstone Fortress had fallen to enemies on both sides and its mercenaries had all perished, a deep and unsettling calm settled over him.

Grant approached, as if to speak.

Carlos silenced the old coachman, about to send him for paper. Clinging to a last hope, he needed to write to the Iron Dwarves. His father, Mori, was not only a scion of the Pioneers but a duke—perhaps the captors would ransom such an illustrious noble, using him as a bargaining chip. And as for his brother Dericht, Charles, and Malt—even if he did not believe there was more than a one percent chance they were alive, he still wished to learn the truth and put his own heart at rest.

Just as Carlos was about to order the melancholy old coachman about, a strange sight unfolded.

A mighty waterfall suddenly surged before his eyes, plunging straight down from the sea’s surface as if drawn up by an invisible hand, forming a ribbon of water.

Waves, wild as untamed beasts, crashed toward them, drenching Carlos and Grant to the bone.

Carlos wiped the water from his face, unconcerned with the soaking, his gaze fixed on the spectacle at the heart of the waterfall. As the towering cascade crashed down and vanished, a figure appeared in the water, standing atop a massive fish.

In his hand the figure held a trident, and he looked down at the bedraggled Carlos on the shore with imperious disdain.

Bestowing this stunning display as a warning to the Stevenson heir, he said not a word. As the last droplets fell and the water calmed, Carlos could see the man’s nose turned arrogantly skyward, as if the entire act had been staged just for him.

Despite being the target, Carlos could not help but admire the artistry of the entrance.

The Order of Apprentice Knights, resting nearby as they awaited the ferry, now crowded around Carlos, eyeing the trident-wielding, fish-riding figure in the water with open hostility.

Did this fellow not know their master was in a foul mood lately? If it weren’t for the icy water and their poor swimming skills, they might have dragged the show-off out and taught him a lesson. Fond of spraying water, was he? They could always seal him in an iron barrel and soak him in the river for a fortnight—see if he still dared to act so high and mighty.

Yet, unbeknownst to them, the fishfolk could live in water for months so long as they had food; soaking was hardly a punishment.

The old alchemist Dubuy arrived, looked out at the water, and said, “It’s the fishfolk. They’re allies of the Empire of Light. Perhaps we can ask them to help us cross the strait, which would save us much time.”

Carlos, bewildered, glared at Grant, who hastened to explain, “It was your father, sir. The year he was demoted to Saltwell, he passed this way during spawning season and netted two whole cartloads of young fish to nourish your pregnant mother. That’s how he offended the fishfolk here.”

Carlos immediately lost his temper. “So what if we ate a few young fish? It was my mother who ate them, not me. Do these petty fishfolk expect me to cough them back up?”

Grant rolled his eyes. The fishfolk were not a major race; if they dared mistreat the son of a duke who had just died in service to the Empire, half the fishfolk in the Xiling Strait would vanish within days.

“I don’t want to take a boat. I want to ride a fish. Teacher, would you negotiate for us?” Carlos turned to Dubuy, earnest now, then sent Grant to fetch writing paper.

Dubuy, seeing his student finally break his silence, pinched his nose and prepared to indulge the emotionally battered Carlos, as was his duty to Duke Mori’s promise.

His method of negotiation was simple.

Before the swaggering fishfolk rider, he tossed a bottle of inky-black alchemical potion into the water. Instantly, a gaping maw opened beneath the giant fish, as if the sea itself had caved in—a massive vortex formed under the trident-bearing fishman and his steed, dragging them both down to the bottom.

It was a long while before the fishman resurfaced, terror written on his face, spitting water and curses at Dubuy.

The alchemist wasted no words, producing several more identical bottles from his robe. The fishman immediately fell silent.

The apprentice knights, even Maclin the dwarf instructor, stared in utter shock and dread.

Carlos nudged the equally dumbstruck Grant.

“What are you waiting for? Go gather up those fish that washed ashore and make a pot of fish stew. As for that big fish under the fishman—tie it to the rocks for me. After lunch, we’ll cross the strait.”

Only Carlos remained unruffled; he knew exactly what was in those potion bottles, and, more importantly, he knew how to make them. A wry smile crept onto his lips—so the potion worked wonders against aquatic folk? He almost wished he’d thought of it sooner.