Prologue

  Vengeance Is Good Company

  It seemed an eternity since he had been put into that dark cell at Port Victor. The sun was barely a memory, his name all but forgotten. Had it been only months since his imprisonment, a year, or a lifetime? At first, there had been daily beatings. Then weekly. Then they had forgotten him. Finally, he had forgotten himself down there in the dark. His only friends were the occasional rat that scurried across the floor and whoever it was that occasionally came by to fill his bowl with gruel. Sometimes there were sounds, the scraping of metal, a key in a lock, a scream echoing up from some hellish chamber even deeper in the maze that was the jail at Port Victor. It was a rare treat when the light from a passing torch illuminated the dark, wet rocks of his cell. Sometimes he lay on the hard, wooden cot, trying to remember why they had put him there, trying to hold onto a glimmer of sanity. Other times, he raved madly, banging the walls until someone came and threatened to beat him again. He hoped they would. It would be some human contact, a break from the loneliness and the dark. It was a wonderful surprise, then, when the torchlight shone from around the door, it was opened, and a man was unceremoniously thrown in with him. Then the door was shut once more, the light receded, and the world was silent, save for the man’s laboured breathing.

  He heard the man pull himself up, then stop, “Hello, is someone here?” The man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, praise all the gods below,” The man managed to gasp out, “Who are you?”

  “A prisoner,” He replied.

  “What is your name?” The man asked.

  He thought for a moment, trying to remember who he was. He was silent for a time, thinking back, “I was called Chatham,” He answered.

  “I’m Ashton,” The man replied.

  “It is splendid to meet you,” Chatham said, “It has been a very long time since I have spoken to anyone.”

  “How long have you been here?” Ashton asked.

  “What is the year?” He replied.

  “It is the year 1851, in the Vastrum reckoning.”

  It was not nearly so long as Chatham had feared. Only a year. It had felt an eternity, “Only a year. It has felt much longer,” He answered.

  “Why are you here?” Ashton asked.

  “My family rebelled against Vastrum,” He answered matter-of-factly. He found no reason to obfuscate, “You?”

  “My uncle tried to have the king killed.”

  “We are in good company, then, a pair of rebels against the crown,” He laughed, “Who was your uncle?” Chatham said his spirits had started to lift.

  “Governor Samuel Hood,” Ashton said.

  Chatham went silent, “You are a Hood?”

  “I am,” He said.

  Chatham laughed. He could not help it, the laugh burst forth unbidden from his chest. It was a mad laugh, full of hatred and pain. The humour of this predicament, the odds of this meeting, that the two of them would be placed in the same dark cell, was too much.

  “What?” Ashton demanded, “What is funny?”

  “I am your uncle,” Chatham laughed again.

  “You’re as mad as a hatter,” Ashton said.

  There was no need to hide or sugarcoat anything. “Your great uncle raped my mother, who was a princess of the An-Beya clan. I am his bastard. Your uncle was my half-brother, albeit two decades older than I.”

  Ashton was silent for a time, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Nor am I mad,” Chatham replied, “It was my half-brother and sister who slaughtered Blackwater.”

  There was silence again.

  “Tell me, nephew, what has happened since they threw me in here?” Chatham said, sliding over to where Ashton Hood was sitting.

  Hood paused for a few moments, “We fought a war with Rhakan. It ended in a stalemate. I was found out and arrested. Oh, and half the subcontinent has rebelled. Samuel is likely dead. Haddock rescued Bankut from the siege and now prepares to invade Ayodh, Kathalamanyr, and the rest. More than that, I do not know, for they threw me in here.”

  “What of the Bloody 13th?” Chatham asked.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “What of them?” Hood’s voice was full of acid at the name, “My capture and incarceration were their doing.”

  “As was mine,” Chatham said, chuckling.

  “I do not find it humorous,” Hood replied, “I am bound for the hangman.”

  “A mercy,” Chatham said.

  There was a distant sound, a clang, like the clashing of steel. Chatham sat up at the noise.

  “I do not find…” Hood began to protest.

  “Quiet!” Chatham snapped. He held up a hand as though Hood could see him in the dark.

  “Eh?” He said.

  “Shh,” He hissed, “Something’s coming.”

  Hood went silent. Something crashed further off. He knew the sound at once. Swords. Someone was fighting. A whisper of distant shouts echoed down the stone halls. Then closer. Another shout echoed. Cries of pain and defiance. Clashing swords and swearing now, the curses just audible. Then a moment of quiet, followed by footsteps. Chatham’s heart beat loudly as he dared to hope just this once for escape. Was someone coming to rescue them? The footsteps drew closer, followed by the sound of keys at the door, and the lamp's light visible under the door and through the keyhole. The door opened.

  “Ashton?” A voice whispered.

  Hood leapt to his feet, “Eh?”

  “Sir, by all the gods below, thank the devils you're safe!” The voice hissed, “We need to go now.”

  Chatham stood, licking his lips, looking hungrily at the open door, blocked only by a few men. Chatham noted that the men held swords, blood dripping from them. They looked like raiders or bandits more than soldiers. He wondered if that was who they were. He did know, though, that these men wore the garb of company men.

  “You’ve a ship?” Hood asked the man.

  “A ship? No. We’ve a fleet here to rescue you, Sir.”

  Ashton Hood grinned maliciously at the reply, “Excellent.” Then he turned back to Chatham, his eyes reflecting the light of the small flame, ”Coming, uncle?” He asked, reaching out his hand.

  Chatham licked his lips again, nodded, then followed his nephew out. He did not need to be asked twice.

  “Uncle?” One of the other men asked, perplexed.

  “Long story,” Ashton chuckled, “I’ll tell you if we live.”

  The man nodded, “Let us away.”

  They were not harassed leaving the prison. It was night, and at first, Chatham did not know they were outside until he saw gleaming stars above him. They passed several dead guards on the way out. They went quickly down to the beach, boarded a rowboat, and went out to a ship of the line that awaited them. He climbed the ladder, each rung a painful reminder that his body had lost all strength. He nearly slipped several times, but he refused to let himself fall after coming so far. Finally, he found himself aboard the ship, and he collapsed. The hard wooden deck of the vessel swayed beneath him, and he wept. He did not know how long he lay there, but eventually he was helped to his feet. He was not a sailor, had spent most of his life in a landlocked country, and the roll felt unfamiliar. He held onto a railing to keep from falling. The first time he had seen the sea was when he had been brought to Port Victor. He soon came to realise that the ship had already set sail while he lay upon the deck, and it was slipping through the gentle waves back out into the dark sea. The shapes of several more ships followed him as the boats slipped away and the prison disappeared behind them. Only when the dark silhouette of the island had vanished did he turn away. Hood was just nearby, also leaning against the railing.

  “Are you truly my uncle?” Ashton laughed, “Or was that a story you made up?”

  “Every word is true,” Chatham answered. It was, too, at least insofar as he knew it. The senior Hood had been his rapist, bastard of a father. Samuel Hood, his son, and Chatham’s half-brother had been the same, abusing Aisa. That great crime, the shocking cruelty of it, had been the impetus for his family’s rebellion. He wondered if all the Hoods were the same. Was this Ashton Hood a different sort of man? It was a question for a different time. He was utterly at the man’s mercy.

  Ashton chuckled and nodded in the dark, “They say there are twice as many bastards of my uncles as there are legitimate sons. I always assumed it was idle chatter.” Waves swept past the ship, and the moon lit up the waves like jewels that sparkled in the night. He breathed deeply of the salt air. It smelled like freedom to him.

  “Those men that were killed, they were Vastrum,” He said. The question was implied. Why? Why were they killing their own people?

  “The V.A.C. protects its own,” Was all Ashton said on the matter.

  “They will hunt you, no?”

  “They have larger problems. The whole subcontinent is at war. That should keep them busy for a time. The V.A.C. rules all the seas of the world.”

  “Where will you take me?” Chatham asked.

  “Where do you want to go? Durzan? Jirmanji? Ashroke? The Free Cities?” He went on, as if listing places they could sail were meant to impress Chatham.

  “Anywhere away from there,” He answered, meaning Port Victor.

  “Never mind all that, then. What is it you want?” Ashton asked.

  “Revenge,” He said suddenly. He had not thought about vengeance. He knew that it would haunt him in that dark prison. He had stayed away from longing for it. Now he was free. They had killed his brother and sister. They had taken everything. His family, his sanity, his freedom. Everything but his soul. He would pay it all back tenfold. Vastrum would pay. The Bloody 13th would pay, but most of all, John Dryden. Dryden would die.

  Ashton nodded, smirking, “Very good. Vengeance we can do. Vengeance is easy, light as a feather.”

  His tone was so sure, so arrogant, that Chatham almost believed him.

  “With whom will you have satisfaction?” Ashton asked, his manner easy.

  “Dryden,” Chatham answered.

  Ashton’s face darkened, “Anyone but him.”

  “There is no one else,” Chatham answered.

  “Are you friends?”

  Ashton shook his head, “Not anymore, I think.”

  “Then why?”

  “It is suicide, Chatham, to try. He is a man of fury and fire. He alone survived Vurun. He rode into the black city of Dau and came out. Men say he fought demons there. He came down through the jungles of Rhakan and fought the serpents of Ammamaha, and the dragons of the tiger king. He slew them all. His sabre is made from the shard of a dead god, a god of blood and war. What manner of great warrior are you that you think you can slay such a man? No, he is someone from whom you fly as far and as fast as your ship can carry you.”

  “I was there,” Chatham replied.

  “What?”

  “In Dau. When he fought the demon. I know the sword he bears. I, too, survived Vurun. I know Dryden. I have seen his weakness. He is a man like any other. Dryden will die if only you turn this ship and sail towards him instead of away.”

  Ashton leaned in towards the railing and sighed heavily, “Very well, uncle, as you wish. But do not say you were not warned.”