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    Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6)
    Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6)
    Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6)
    Ebook366 pages

    Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6)

    By Thomas K. Carpenter

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    About this ebook

    For thousands of years, myths have told the stories of the beasts at the edge of civilization: krakens, cyclops, even the fearsome dragon.

    Now, Heron of Alexandria must confront those myths aboard Hoth the Black's iron ship, the Jörmungandr, as they flee the remnants of the Roman navy bent on revenge. As she struggles to recover from her horrific injuries, and the repercussions of what happened in the Roman Senate, she must decide - once and forever - what she truly believes in.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThomas Carpenter
    Release dateJun 18, 2014
    ISBN9781310307775
    Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6)
    Author

    Thomas K. Carpenter

    Thomas K. Carpenter resides in Colorado with his wife Rachel. When he’s not busy writing his next book, he's out hiking or skiing or getting beat by his wife at cards. Visit him online at www.thomaskcarpenter.com, or sign up for his newsletter at https://www.subscribepage.com/trialsofmagic.

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      Voyage of Alexandria (Alexandrian Saga #6) - Thomas K. Carpenter

      Chapter One

      Behold! Humans living in an underground cave, which has a mouth open toward the light which reaches all along the cave; here, they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning their heads. Above and behind them, a fire blazes at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners is a raised way; and you will see, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets.

      — Plato, The Allegory of the Cave

      Heron clung to the burnt timber as the waves washed over her back. The salt burned her eyes and nose. Her throat was raw from the sea water she'd already swallowed.

      Cleansed in the waters of creation. The words raced through her head like a steam chariot. Another wave slapped her in the face, leaving her sputtering, daring her to unclamp her arm to wipe the salt from her swollen eyes.

      And though the wind chopped the water into frothing curls as long as the Coliseum, the sky to the northwest was as clear and bright as a tiled pool. Heron's mind resisted what she first saw in that fathomless space as it had to be a trick of the light, but when the vision persisted, she grew to accept it. Hovering in the blue, like a temple to the sky, was...

      —she heaved awake into the darkness of the cabin. A faint orange glow like the dawn reflected against the porthole. As the ship rolled, so did her stomach, and the clenching brought with it a spike of pain so great, it turned her words to spittle. The muscles of her side split with effort until she flopped over and vomited onto the cabin floor.

      The urge came three times in quick succession, and each one was like a vise on her broken ribs. By the third, she was sure the ribs would snap and poke from her flesh. Afterwards, she lay sobbing in the darkness.

      She would have been content with just sobbing, but awake, she keenly felt the myriad of wounds across her body. Heron was littered with burns, salved and bandaged, but beneath the bound cloth, the raw skin throbbed.

      A shaking hand explored her face, feeling the burn on the neck, the cut on her tongue, the tenderness of her ear and jaw. She vaguely recalled her near immolation on the bonfire of the Brethren, her flight to the Iron Road, and the impact at the docks. With trembling fingers, she tugged on her hair only to come away with a clump that she let fall from her fingertips.

      Dear Sepharia! Treasured Plutarch! Stalwart Punt! Her heart beat upon the anvil of her chest at their remembrance. Agog, my friend. All of them lost. A city lost. Rome, destroyed. She couldn't even grasp the destruction she'd wrought on the city. Archimedes had been wise to keep his inventions hidden, but she had foolishly unleashed them on the world.

      Yet, as she lay amid the blankets, it was not her friends or the city that she mourned. No, to her great shame it was her mechanical limbs. Without them she was a cripple. And that shame was a reflection of her pride, her hubris, that had brought down a great Empire. They would remember her as a destroyer of worlds, not as the builder she had wanted. She knew all too well that her gender would be blamed on the destruction of the city. And how could they not wonder at the automatas detonating as the fire reached them and not say that it had been done for spite? The name Michanikos would fade into time while Heron the Destroyer would become the moniker she was remembered by.

      Hubris. She'd been warned time and time again. Hubris had drove her to discover the gifts of Archimedes, regardless of the cost. Could it be that there were gods that watched over mankind and interfered in their lives? All her experiences in the temples providing miracles had taught her otherwise, but here was an example so powerful, so immutable, like a mathematical proof, that she found it hard not to believe.

      A wave of nausea passed through her again, but there was nothing left in her stomach, and each heave was like a horse kicking her in the chest. When it was over, she was left crying, snot and vomit hanging from her lips and nose. She tried to wipe them from her face, only to miss with her stump.

      A mad laugh bubbled to her lips, but not too much, as each shaking of her chest brought with it pain. The priest. Lysimachus. He would tell her this was the work of Sobek. Of He Who Dwelleth Amid Terrors. And she would find it hard to disagree. For what was a god, but an idea—an idea in mankind's collective mind made physical by their hands.

      The priest, the priest, the priest. Somehow, she knew that at the end of all this, that she would see him again. But she hoped not soon, for in the darkness, she knew she was weak. Her injuries and losses and the destruction of the city had done to her what many months in the pit of Sobek had failed to accomplish.

      She continued the exploration of her injuries by pushing on the loose tooth at the back of her jaw. That looseness extended to her bones and skin and hair. She felt like a machine dropped from a great height and all the gears and pistons were unconnected and the machine useless.

      Shivering in the darkness, a sudden thirst consumed her, like a tidal wave crashing over. Her lips smacked against her teeth, tugging at them in their dryness. She tried to form spit, but swore her mouth was a wasteland of dust.

      In the faded orangish light, which she'd come to accept as the great fire of Rome still burning, she spied a mug of water on a table across the room. The distance seemed like a valley a hundred leagues long.

      With great effort, she pushed away the thin blankets, that could have been steel plates, for all her strength. Like an infant making its first weak scrambles, Heron clawed her way to the edge of the bed over the course of what seemed like an hour. An exploration of the edge of the bed, in hopes of a gentle disembark, turned to brief terror as she slid over the side, fooled by the mass of blankets.

      Thump.

      She landed like a sack of wheat and lay there like one, reeling in the agony of her broken ribs. The wooden floor was cold and her breath formed into white mist before her lips.

      The table appeared to be a cliff, high above her.

      Too far, she decided. But so was the bed.

      Without the blankets to keep warm, her shivering roared back like a hurricane until her teeth were chattering.

      I can't, she whispered, and then feeling her shame, Sepharia, forgive me.

      Lying on her side with her cracked, pink stump held against her chest like a babe, Heron watched the flickering glow against the window. She quickly found it was not stationary, and seemed to push against the window - part reflected flame, part shadow - taunting her with its warmth and destruction.

      All gone, she whispered through cracked lips. All gone.

      And though thirst wracked her burnt and broken body, she could not move even one muscle closer to the table, so she stayed on the hard wooden floor—cold and alone and awake.

      Chapter Two

      The air smelled like death.

      Hoth was no stranger to it, but never at this scale. The fires of Rome raged beyond the bounds of the city. Even as the Jörmungandr churned towards the rendezvous, they couldn't escape the red glow on the horizon, a false dawn that could last weeks, judging by the fires burning unchecked.

      As they left Rome, the eye of the wind shifted, bringing a choking darkness. Coughing echoed across the deck as his sailors hurried to their duties with shoulders hunched as if that could save them from the ashy smoke.

      Hoth had not yet gotten used to the silence of the iron boats. Sails required tending, lines and sheets to be adjusted. Normally, the deck would be alive with shouts and the joyful thump of footfalls. The iron boat required none of this, only dutiful feeding of the hungry maw of the furnace and the pumping of the bellows. The ever-present vibration made his teeth chatter when he stood on the rear of the boat, but otherwise made him feel like he'd tamed a great beast. This had not bothered him before, but the smoke made him feel like he was the boatman on the River Styx, steering them into the Underworld.

      Since the stars were hidden by smoke, Hoth used the light from the burning coast to keep his direction. When the real dawn came, he would turn towards deeper waters, but for now, it was enough to travel south.

      Hoth glanced to the guide lanterns they'd placed on the rear of the ship. The Freyja traveled in his wake along with the Cleopatra and the Archimedes. When they reached the rendezvous, their numbers would grow to a dozen and then he would decide what he wanted to do against the Roman fleet.

      The presence of the fleet confirmed that Rome had been preparing its betrayal since before its surrender. Hoth wished he knew what had happened. Heron was the only survivor that he knew of and she was too injured to speak. It could be days before he knew anything, not that news would change his plans. Once he'd gathered his ships, they'd come back to the coast and pick up survivors, if there were any, before heading to Alexandria.

      Admiral, said a voice directly behind him.

      By the jarl, Quadi, take care not to surprise me. I might've put a knife in your belly on reflex alone, said Hoth. And it's Captain, for now.

      Quadi shuffled into view with an odd cast to his expression, made even more severe by the shaved sides of his head, and the pale hair on top, pulled not into a Suebian knot, but braided into a rope hanging down his back. The priest of Loptr, along with his brother, Grimm, had come south with Agog, but when their captain started paying homage to the southern gods, Quadi and his brother joined Hoth's ship. Hoth never had any reason to mistrust them, his sailors loved them both, and they performed their assigned tasks with ruthless efficiency, but Hoth always felt like Quadi was looking right through him when they spoke.

      The shapeshifter has fallen out of her bed, said Quadi, tugging on the frayed ends of bark rope that cinched his robes tight around his lanky middle. His robes were the color of gray skies and his shoulders speckled with ash from the fires.

      Hoth turned to move toward his cabin, but when he saw Quadi staring at him, he stopped.

      You put her back? asked Hoth.

      Quadi gave a slow, solemn nod. My brother helped.

      Hmmm, said Hoth, eyeing Quadi suspiciously. Is she well?

      Quadi's eyes reflected the fire glow, giving him a chthonic appearance. She may not live another night.

      Hoth squeezed the steerage as a black cloud passed low enough to sting his eyes. What's wrong? Is there some injury we cannot see? Can't you fix her?

      The priest of Loptr's thoughtful pose was brief, before he frowned. "Her munr is weak. Draining away to nothing."

      Your god is of the air, can't you do something for her? growled Hoth, feeling hopeless.

      She has wrought Ragnarök from her loins, said Quadi.

      This is not Ragnarök.

      The twitch of a smile formed at the corner of Quadi's lips. Are these not the flames of Surtr foretold?

      He knew there was little point of arguing. Even if it is, we still live, and so must she, unless you want me to throw you overboard.

      I can do nothing for her, said Quadi. Swirls of gray dust, fallen from the cloud, danced on the deck behind the priest of Loptr.

      Hoth slapped the steerage with his palm. Cannot or will not?

      Quadi stared back and Hoth wasn't sure the priest would answer until he said with a grin, How would you feel if your efforts had destroyed an Empire and killed millions?

      It wasn’t her, it was the betrayal of the Romans, said Hoth, though his heart wasn't in it. Quadi was right. Hoth knew Heron would feel responsible for the destruction, the loss of so many, including her daughter. And he realized he didn't know how anyone could live after that.

      It doesn't matter, said Hoth, placing a finger against Quadi's chest. The priest didn't flinch. If she dies, I'm holding you responsible. I don't care if you sit in the room and make sure she doesn't fall out of bed again, that she's given water when she thirsts, and food when she can eat again. Hoth listed about in furious thought. "Keep her company, read to her. Tell her tales to make her forget. Keep her mind, her hugr, occupied. Let her munr rebuild itself with time. The world still needs her."

      Yes, Admiral, said Quadi, adding a slight bow.

      When Quadi didn't move, Hoth lunged forward. Go! Now!

      The priest shuffled in the direction of Heron's quarters, which had formally been his. Hoth wasn't sure he'd done the right thing, but it was better than nothing. Even if Quadi only kept her from falling out of bed again, he would be of help.

      But as the Jörmungandr parted the darkness, churning beneath the death cloud of an Empire, Hoth's thoughts ran back to Heron. Try as he might, he could not disagree with Quadi's assessment of the inventor. Heron's desire for life, her munr, had been severely damaged by the destruction of Rome and the loss of her friends and family, and these wounds were more grievous than the physical ones that plagued her frail body. When they'd carried her to his cabin, she'd been as light as a reed. Hoth could have easily lifted her, but didn't want to further aggravate the injuries littered across her limbs. So like a corpse to a burial, they had brought her to his quarters.

      Heron needed time to heal and that would happen best in Alexandria, though Hoth wished one of her friends would be there to greet her, but they'd all perished in Rome. A truth that, when finally realized, might do more damage than all the wounds on her tired flesh. And then, only the city itself, her City of Wonders, would have to heal her. Give her reason to live again, as they rebuilt the Empire. Or, at least, carved out a safe place in the absence of one.

      But first she had to survive the night.

      Chapter Three

      Heron heard the steam catapults fire in her dreams. She stood on the hill above Antioch, brightly colored walls shining in the sun, as death rained down upon them. Sparkpowder ripped great holes into the earth as if it were a ferocious wolverine. Men fell dead from the impact like wheat cut by a scythe. All the while, she stood high above them, pulling the threads of fate, snipping them from the great tapestry.

      She was the Queen of Death. The Lady of Destruction. And she did not weep as men died for daring to oppose her. When she glanced to her left and right, she did not see her friends by her side in battle. The steam catapults were not attended by Northmen, or loyal Alexandrians. Instead, deathless metal eyes gazed back at her as they loaded the tubes with sparkpowder. Her army of automatas tended the destruction.

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      A row of catapults fired, sending iron balls to arc high over the battlefield. Looking into the valley, she expected to see the colors of the Roman Empire, but instead she saw lines of Northmen, and Alexandrians, and Egyptians, and Parthians, and even Romans. All waiting to die.

      She tried to yell, Stop! But the automatas took her motion for a signal to fire again.

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      Stop! she yelled to no avail.

      Stop!

      She found herself sitting up in bed, daylight creeping through the windows, but shadows blanketing any perceived warmth. A candle flickered on a table and behind it sat the Northman priest Quadi, his pale hair a shock of whiteness in the dim room. He had been reading from a scroll.

      Awake is the shapeshifter, he said looking over the parchment.

      Heron couldn't tell if it was dawn or dusk and before she could open her mouth, three noises in rapid succession startled her.

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      She heard shouts on the deck and the Jörmungandr leaned. The vibration in the walls increased and the iron groaned with import.

      Who are we fighting? she asked, feeling groggy.

      The Romans.

      He was still staring at her. The thin line of his lips judging her harshly.

      She tried to sit up, to get a better look at the Northman priest, but found herself weak and she could only prop herself on one elbow. When is this?

      Evening, he replied.

      His gaze gave her no confidence. Why was it always the priests that she had to deal with?

      But when? Rome? she asked.

      Seven days ago, said Quadi.

      Seven days? It can't be.

      He shrugged. It can.

      How?

      He soured. Care for the shapeshifter, he said. Feed her and give water to her and keep her clean, he said. If the shapeshifter dies then you and your brother go overboard, he said. Shall I explain further?

      No, she said. But why are you calling me shapeshifter?

      Disappointment was her answer as Quadi sighed and looked away.

      Seven days, she whispered.

      Then realizing that she'd been unconscious and that he'd bathed her, she glared at him with whatever spite she could muster.

      You need not worry, he replied. You're not at all my type.

      Heron was confused. Did he mean like Plutarch, or something else? She thought the latter, but that was no help at all.

      How many Roman ships? she asked.

      Twenty, maybe more, he replied. The Romans raced ahead their fastest ships to harry us.

      But why? Rome is gone. The Empire over.

      He turned away, revealing the side of his shorn head, so smooth that he must scrape it with a sharp knife each day.

      A viper can bite even when the body is cut off, said Quadi with half-lidded eyes. Some say it is spite from beyond the grave, others that it's the echo of the creature giving its last death spasm, and then there are the mystics from the eastern steppes that believe that all life is a dream and the snake is merely waking up and we are in the dream. He smiled briefly. But does any of that matter while the poison courses through our veins?

      Then are we winning? she asked.

      "Hoth the Black and his iron serpent seek to protect the other ships while they rescue Alexandrians along the coast, but the enemy have so many ships and we are few. Already we've lost the Archimedes and another that joined us on the second day. The Jörmungandr has destroyed six or seven of the Roman ships, but Hoth cannot keep them at bay forever."

      They sat a while and Heron listened to the sailors and the catapults. The throaty volleys sounded hollow and she wondered what they could be firing after so many days. She couldn't imagine the Jörmungandr carried enough materials to sustain battle against a determined enemy.

      She did not hear him approach. Quadi was standing right beside the bed with a short blade in his fist and something small held tightly in his teeth. He grabbed her right wrist and she was too weak to resist. He held the wrist to the bed, exposing the palm and quick as a breath, brought the blade across her flesh. The cut was shallow, but went from the edge of her calluses to the meat of her thumb. Beads of blood welled up along the slice. Quadi squeezed her hand in half and she gasped as the blood pooled and dribbled through the valley he'd created. A brass vial appeared in the place of the knife and Quadi collected the blood. When he was finished, he jammed a stopper into the vial and shoved it into his pouch.

      What are you doing? she asked, but he ignored her and pulled a needle and thread from his teeth and began sewing the wound closed. Each piercing of the skin brought a grimace, but in short order, he was finished. Quadi retrieved a bowl from the table and dunked her hand into the mixture bringing tears to her eyes since the liquid was a clear alcoholic mixture. Complete, Quadi returned to his seat and stared back at her as if nothing had happened.

      Are you mad? she asked. Why wait until I'm awake if you're going to steal my blood?

      Another wound might have spelled your death, which would have meant mine, too, he said and then he narrowed his eyes. You need food.

      Quadi retrieved a different bowl from a tray on the far table. He set it on her belly.

      Eat.

      Heron's stomach growled mercilessly. She felt hollow, like an empty goblet.

      Not until you tell me why you did that. Why did you take my blood? she asked.

      Quadi was still standing over her. I can make you eat that awake. It can't be much harder than when you were asleep.

      Heron threw her meal at him, the liquid splashed across his face as the bowl tumbled to the floor. Soup dripped from his chin as he stared down at her. He wiped his chin with a forearm, keeping his gaze locked with hers the whole time. Then he returned to his spot at the table, picked up the scroll, and said, Hunger will tempt you eventually.

      She silently cursed her impulse. She knew he was right. Her stomach was already complaining loudly about the loss of a meal.

      Heron tried to feign disinterest by examining the sewn wound on her palm. Dark crusted blood had already formed along the cut, marked at intervals by the thread moving through her flesh like a snake through the grass. The closure was expert craftsmanship. Better than even Sepharia, who'd sewn up many wounds in the workshop. Remembering her daughter brought a longing in her heart to see her again.

      Shapeshifter, she said, trying to distract herself. Why do you keep calling me that?

      His eyes never left his parchment. Because you are.

      She realized he must be speaking of her gender disguise.

      I was never a man, she said as if it somehow mattered. Only hiding as one. I've always been a woman.

      He glanced up, blinked once, and returned to his reading.

      Have the ships rescued anyone I know? Sepharia? Plutarch? Punt? Any of the others? she asked, but as the words left her lips, she knew the answer. If they'd been rescued, they'd be here taking care of her instead of Quadi. He didn't bother answering as she slumped into the blankets, wishing she hadn't foolishly thrown her meal at him.

      Her thoughts were interrupted as a great host of shouts went up from the deck. Even Quadi appeared worried as he scowled. Heron opened her mouth to speculate when a sky rending crunch reverberated through the ship. The Jörmungandr had impacted with another ship and the iron walls screamed like the cursed souls of the Underworld.

      Chapter Four

      Fill your lungs, Poseidon! Gnash your teeth, Neptune! Bend your lips, Aegir! shouted Hoth the Black, laughing.

      The Jörmungandr growled as it split the quinquereme, timbers shattering like reeds, men screaming as they were dumped into the sea, masts snapping like thunderclaps. Like a bloated hornet's nest split with a sword thrust, the hull vomited out its contents of food and oars and slaves. The Jörmungandr churned away, leaving the broken Roman ship in its wake.

      Grimm stood nearby, a sword in his hand, clearly shaken from the impact. He was taller than his brother Quadi, but had the same shock of white hair like fresh snow. The brothers were peculiar, even for Hoth, but he'd never known them not to be dutiful in their tasks.

      Are you a Roman in your heart, Grimm? asked Hoth, laughing.

      Grimm spit on the deck. You'll send us to Aegir's grave like this, using your ship like a battering ram.

      And why wouldn't I? My hull is impenetrable iron while theirs is wood, scoffed Hoth, and then leaning over his shoulder, he shouted to his sailors, "Prepare the catapults! I see the Pontica to the port side!"

      Hoth leaned into the steerage. The long connecting rod that ran to the back of the iron boat turned the rudder and the Jörmungandr made noises like whales at the surface. His arms were tired from working the steerage, turning it required considerable leverage unlike the wooden boats. As the boat rotated, he felt the weight of it strain against the lever in his callused grasp.

      He breathed deep, enjoying the crisp sea air. A few days ago, they'd enjoyed a cold rain that washed the ash from the deck and scrubbed the sky of the stench. For days, it smelled like burnt hair and stone. They were also further out into the sea as they chased the Roman ships down, giving the others time for a rescue along the coast.

      By morning tomorrow, they were to meet the other ships off the coast of Syracuse before they headed to Alexandria. But first he wanted to take care of the Pontica. Once the Romans had realized the superiority of his iron boat, they'd scattered their ships and tried to board rather than fight ship to ship. The Pontica, a massive hexareme, was the only one large enough to cause Hoth any concern, the other ships were too low in the water to make a credible attempt at boarding.

      Hoth turned to Grimm. "Tell the men to prepare the fire shot. I'd rather keep a safe distance from the Pontica. She carries enough troops in her belly to cause us considerable harm and she's large enough I don't want to risk ramming her."

      Yes, Admiral, grumbled Grimm before he left to give the men orders.

      I thought you'd be pleased I'm not going to ram her! called Hoth. Ungrateful cur.

      But Grimm's reluctance wasn't Hoth's primary concern. His biggest issue, one he hadn't shared with Grimm, was fuel. They were getting low. The last time he'd visited the coal room next to the boiler, he'd had to lean over the edge to see how much was left. Which was another reason

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