Daven

Lannisport was always busy, with a quarter of a million people within it's walls it couldn't be otherwise. Daven scratched his chin, his beard still itched even after a year of growth, the southerners were still in port trading for… well anything really. It might be best to find out what they're buying the most of, for when they return. The southerners had already turned a profit, Daven was sure of that, with Lord Tywin's blessing Daven had opened the treasury of Casterly Rock and had flooded their ships with gold in exchange for their strange weapons that spewed fire and death, the dragons, and for men to stay and teach the growing army encamped between Casterly Rock and Lannisport in how to use them. At first they had refused to part with very many of their weapons or to stay and train the Lannister soldiers. But… the gold of House Lannister proved persuasive, as it always did. A single ship was all that would be returning to their homeland far to the south, and their captain had promised to send word of the potential for wealth to be made in Lannisport.

Daven let his hand wander to his hip to the small dragon the southerners had gifted him, not so large as those the common men would wield, but instead suitable for use in one handed on horseback. There had been half a dozen different kinds of dragon in their holds, great massive ones that shot balls the size of a head, which they had been the most disinclined to part with, that they called taisho. The smaller ones, that were called juki by the southerners, had come at far less cost. Even though Daven knew their proper names he still preferred to call them dragons, as they had been named in reports from the east. Easier to say, and easier to understand. He had bought seven hundred of the hand-dragons and a score of the dragons from the nine ships that had come to Lannisport, and now just as many men were training outside the city walls.

As Daven watched the last of the southerners boarded their ships and began to depart, heading home with their hull full of gold. "Hopefully they'll be hungry for more gold come next year," Daven japed. Hopefully the war will be won and done come next year. The first of their ships began to pull away from the long stone piers. "Let's go," with a twist of his reins Daven led his horse, and his guard, away from the harbour and out of Lannisport. The city watch with their lion helms and crimson cloaks made passage for them, through the crowded and clean cobbled streets.

It was not long before they passed beyond the walls. The gilded and iron reinforced gates opened, allowing Daven and his guard to pass beneath the gates, under the gaping jaws of lion statuets that framed the murderholes, which would pour boiling water, hot sand, or even oil on any invaders. Invaders from the land at least, Daven thought remembering the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Beyond the walls the army was mustered. The remnants of Oxcross and Riverrun, sellswords and freeriders and hedge knights, and the newly raised levies of the West. Near six thousand men all told had been gathered in the shadow of Casterly Rock. Their camp was well defended, a deep ditch lined with spikes backed by an earthen and wood palisade enveloped the camp. The tents were placed in a grid, with broad lanes and streets between them, guards with pike and crossbow patrolled the edges, watchtowers rose every hundred feet holding nests of archers.

Against the east palisade a thick wall of earth had been set up to absorb the bullets shot by the dragonmen as they practiced for hours at a time. Wooden targets in the shape of men had been placed there on the first day, but they had been so quickly destroyed by the dragonfire that replacements had not been made since.

As Daven approached the dragonmen released a deafening volley then bent to reload, as the southerners and sergeants watched their efforts through the smoke, recording how long it took the men to reload. Daven had promised a reward of five gold dragons to the man who could reload the quickest each day. As of the moment the record was about two and thirty seconds.

"How are they doing today?" Daven shouted his question at Ser Murton Lannys, the knight placed in command of the dragonmen.

"A new record Ser. " Ser Murton pointed at a gangly looking youth with a freckled and pimpled face. "Young Brus there reloaded in only eight and twenty seconds."

"Hah!" Daven laughed. "Good show boy! Good show the lot of you!" Daven reached into his coin purse, but after a moment's hesitation instead pulled the whole purse from his belt. He tossed it at Ser Muton and shouted. "Five dragons to Young Brus, the rest to be spread amongst the men."

The dragonmen cheered at that, and Daven laughed and wagged a chiding finger at them. "Now boys don't go spending it all on wine and women you have your eternal souls to consider," his voice dripped with sarcasm and mock piety. The dragonmen laughed and cheered even harder after that and Daven laughed with them as he turned his horse to leave the camp and return to Casterly Rock.

His laughter quieted as the afternoon sun shined upon the Rock, turning the brown stones into the crimson and gold House Lannister had taken for it's colours. After all these years seeing Casterly Rock standing strong in the sun still enraptured him. The Lion's Mouth opened before him, a great cavern more than two hundred feet high, the steps which lead to it were wide enough for twenty men to ride stirrup to stirrup. Far above them tunnels and chambers in the ceiling and the walls hid behind murder holes and arrow slits from which death would come to any invader. Within the cavern was the gate a massive piece of stone carved from the rock itself, siege ladders couldn't overcome it, for there were no walls, only a battering ram could break through the gates, and good fortune to any who would try to bring such a massive engine over the steep stairs.

It was no wonder that Casterly Rock had never fallen to siege or storm, even Visenya Targaryen was said to have dreaded trying to take the Rock with dragonfire. Though, thought Daven, these new dragons could prove more difficult to defend against, it's a straight shot at the gates.

The gates in question opened as he approached, letting him enter the lower bailey. Daven dismounted lending his reins to a squire as he marched onwards and deeper into the mountain. Endless stairs brought him to the chambers set aside for his own family, his sisters Cerenna and Myrielle, his mother Myranda, and, until his death, his Ser Stafford Lannister. They were three levels below the rooms of Lord Tywin and the lord's own children.

He entered via the hall into the small dining hall that serviced their family, Cerenna and Myrielle were having a small luncheon, their mother was not to be seen. Daven shrugged out of his heavy cloak and mantle, shook off his boots and tucked them into an alcove. He stretched his aching feet and joined his sisters.

"Where's mother?" He asked of his sisters.

"With Maester Creylen," Myreille answered. "Tending to the injured."

Daven shook his head. "We need to get her away from here, there's too much of father here. Mother will never recover so long as she remains at Casterly Rock."

"Father was her whole world," Cerenna said. "I think no matter what happens she'll not recover. Not completely at least."

"Did she at least remember to eat today?"

"She had some bread and cheese with her watered wine."

"Hmmm, that's an improvement I suppose."

Since their father had died, their mother had put upon a strong face, but her grief came out in other ways. She often forgot to eat for she kept herself so busy, as if if she kept herself from thinking of father's death than he wasn't really dead.

"What's that," Daven asked noticing for the first time a letter on the table.

Cerenna and Myrielle grinned at each other. Not good.

"A raven came from Goldengrove, with a letter from Lord Tywin," Cerenna answered.

"You're to bring the army into the Reach and join him at Goldengrove," continued Myrielle.

"You're both still smiling so I imagine there's more."

"And while you're at Goldengrove you will attend a very important wedding," Myrielle spoke over Cerenna's barely controlled giggling.

"Is King Joffrey wedding Lady Margaery so soon?"

"Oh no," said Cerenna as she slid the letter to him. "It's not the king's wedding, it's yours."

Griff

A century past, a victorious Braavos had forbidden the Pentoshi from owning or selling slaves within Pentos. And so by law and by treaty there were no slaves in Pentos, but for every free man, Griff saw three more with a collar around their necks. In the narrow streets of Pentos Griff rode his spotted, swaybacked mare through the markets filled with the scents of queer spices from the east, the sight of goods from north, east, west, and south. The boy and Ser Rolly Duckfield did likewise, while Haldon and Lemore followed them inside a wagon.

They had come to Pentos from the safety of the Rhoyne through fields of poppies, flax, and cotton, where laboured a small horde of slaves beneath the whips of their masters. I wonder if they've heard yet about Astapor? Griff doubted it, he himself had only heard because the cheesemonger had deigned to tell him in the letter he had sent, when Griff had been summoned to Pentos. The fat man had been concerned, Daenerys was not going where the plan required her to go. I should think he'd be used to that by now, when have his plans ever gone right. First it was supposed to be Prince Viserys with fifty thousand Dothraki Screamers, then Daenerys with three dragons. Now what? Is the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms supposed to invade with only the Golden Company at his back? If even half of what I've heard of Storm's End and King's Landing is true than it would be a disaster worse than the War of the Usurper.

Eventually the narrow streets of the markets gave way to the broad avenues of the wealthy. The great walls enclosed the massive manses and gardens of the wealthy and Illyrio Mopatis' manse was one of the largest in the city, a great behemoth of smooth white stone, curved roofs covered in painted tiles, with majestic fountains and statues in every courtyard. Servants, slaves, ran out to meet them. They took the horses into the stable and led Young Griff, Ser Rolly, Haldon and Lemore into the manse, likely to an a set of outrageously decorated rooms.

Another servant, slave, approached Griff. "The master asks that you meet with him. This one will lead you to him."

Griff grunted his assent and began to follow the slave, deep into the halls of the manse. The servant led him through a maze of corridors decorated with tapestries, Myrish carpets, statues, and other gaudiness, into another courtyard where Illyrio Mopatis lounged upon a couch like a great flabby whale, watching birds nibble at seeds in the grass, while he himself chewed on pieces of roasted and glazed chicken.

Griff took a seat in the chair that had been set aside for him, to the left of Mopatis, and waited for the fat man to lift his attentions from the birds, both cooked and alive.

Mopatis gave a small burp, which he covered with surprising grace, with the back of his hand. He set the plate on one of the small tables and, with the aid of a slave, sat up to look directly at Griff.

"Has the plan has changed again?" Griff asked.

Illyrio nodded. "It has. On the Rhoyne, did you hear tell of foreigners from the south?"

"Summer Islanders?" Griff shrugged. "Nothing of particular note."

"Hmph, news travels fast, but not that fast it seems. You've heard about Storm's End no doubt."

"Aye, and King's Landing too. These new weapons that Lord Stannis has..."

"What have you heard of them? These weapons?"

"That they are weapons of smoke and fire, that they kill without honour, without skill."

"That they can destroy armies and walls within minutes," interrupted Illyrio. "What do you think of that?"

"If these weapons, these… dragons can bring a man power and victory," he paused for a few seconds, thinking for a moment of Stony Sept and the Battle of the Bells. "I think one should use whatever means are available to win for victory wipes away all dishonour."

Illyrio smiled. "Strangers have come to our shores, and they bring their weapons that some already call dragons for they are so terrible. You're right I think, 'victory wipes away all dishonour'," he chortled and waved a hand sending a slave scurrying into a nearby chamber. "And if these weapons are truly as terrible as some claim, then perhaps they are worthy of being called dragons, and if that is the case." The slave returned now carrying what looked like a long wood and metal club. "Then should it not be House Targaryen that uses them to their fullest potential?"

The slave knelt before him, holding up the club… the dragon. He glanced at the smirking visage of Illyrio, who was smiling like a cat behind his pointed yellow beard. Griff rose from the chair and took up the dragon. He smiled and turned to Illyria. "What would you have me do?"

"I have purchased many of these weapons, and my agents in the other Free Cities are doing the same. The Golden Company shall be the spearhead of King Aegon's invasion to reclaim his throne, that part of the plan has not changed, but now they will do so armed with dragons."

"And Princess Daenerys? She's in Slaver's Bay is she not?"

Illyrio frowned. "She is, last I heard she was marching on Yunkai, and that Yunkai and Meereen were gathering sellswords. How well sellswords and slaves will fare against Unsullied and dragons I'm sure you don't need an explanation."

"No, the answer seems plain enough."

"Just so. Princess Daenerys will sack Yunkai and Meereen, and then my own messengers shall entreat her to join King Aegon here in the Free Cities. Then with dragons of both kinds House Targaryen shall reclaim its rightful place."

"What place does the Golden Company have in this new plan of yours?"

Illyrio nodded at the weapon in Griff's hands. "Fearsome as they are they require skilled hands to wield them."

"And none are more skilled than the Golden Company," Griff smiled.

"Just so," said Illyrio a smile beneath his forked beard and many chins. "The Golden Company is encamped in the Disputed Lands for the moment, gathering my gold and my supplies to themselves. I think it's time the king reveal himself to them."

"I couldn't agree more," though it was Griff the Sellsword who had come to Illyrio Mopatis but it was Jon Connington the Lord of Griffin's Roost who left him to speak to the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Skahaz

Sheltered from the baking heat of Slaver's Bay, the Great Masters held court within the Great Pyramid of Meereen. They listened to what the sellswords had to tell of the movements of the barbarian girl from Westeros, Daenerys, who had sacked their sister cities and called herself the Heir of Old Valyria. Though he didn't show it the words sent a shudder up Skahaz's spine. Every child of Ghiscar knows enough to fear the return of the dragonlords.

While most of the sellswords spoke Bastard Valyrian well enough to speak to the Great Masters directly, they still spoke among themselves in their own tongues, be they any one of the Valyrian dialects from the Free Cities, the Common Tongue of Westeros, harsh Dothraki, queer Ibbish, and a few even singsonged in Qartheen or YiTish. No doubt the sellswords thought themselves unheard in the Great Pyramid as most of the great masters would be listening to the current speaker above all else. And they were right most of the Great Masters were.

Skahaz let the other great masters listen to the bleating of the Volantene who currently held the floor, while he focused on the muttering herd farther down the hall. He nudged his newest slave, a young Naathi girl with a gift for tongues he'd won in a bet in the fighting pits from the Kraznys mo Nakloz, only a few weeks before the Good Master had met his death at the fires of a dragon.

"What is that one saying?" Skahaz asked, pointing surreptitiously at a Westerosi in a brown and blue surcoat over his worn mail.

The slave girl leaned towards Skahaz and whispered. "He says the City Watch of Meereen are not worth sheep shit and that they will be shattered by the Unsullied in minutes," the slave provided him with an exact translation as Skahaz had demanded before the council.

He's not wrong, but then that's what he and his men are for.

The slave continued. "He goes on to speak many insults about the Good Masters of Astapor and the Great Masters of Meereen."

"What is he saying exactly?" Skahaz asked.

The slave girl took a breath. "That the Good Masters and the Great Masters are fools and cravens, who hide behind walls and slaves. That if they were not rich enough to pay so finely, he would wish Daenerys well."

He'll need to be watched. What the Great Masters of Meereen might lack in martial skill we make up of with intrigue. If he so much as sneezes in Daenerys' direction we will know.

"And that one, the one in the strange robes."

The slave closed her eyes and focused of the speech of the black haired foreigner who was speaking to an older woman of the same race. The slave girl held her head low. "This one does not know their tongue," the slave said quietly.

Skahaz sensed there was something the slave wasn't saying. "Continue," commanded Skahaz. "What else do you know?"

"This one has heard their tongue spoken in the presence of the Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz, and knows that they are traders from the far south. From beyond the Summer Islands."

Interesting. Skahaz let his eyes pour over the foreign party, aside from the grey haired woman they were all men, in near identical black and blue robes, with wide pants, and sandals. They had broad sashes of silk wound around their waists. Their hair was pulled back into knots near the back, they were clean shaven, and seemed to be very clean. Skahaz waved a finger to bring the attention of a message slave, who came over and knelt.

"What can this one do to please you Great Master?"

"Inform Qezzan mo Zhak, that it is the wisdom of Skahaz mo Kandaq that the leader of the black robed men be called next."

The slave bowed three times and departed to do deliver Skahaz's message to the Council Chairman of the day.

At last the Volantene sellsword finished his bleating and was dismissed. Qezzan mo Zhak rose from his seat, almost letting his tokar slip, and intoned. "Let the captain of the Beikango come forward."

Without a hint of hesitation the strange man was allowed to advance. He walked rigidly toward the Great Masters of Meereen and gave a straight bow from his waist, waited a moment, and began to speak in thickly accented Bastard Valyrian.

"Great Masters of Meereen-city. I am Ryunosuke a captain in service to the daitomi of Totoro. My fellow captains and I, come to you to offer our services against the Pale Girl."

The pale girl must be the Targaryen.

Skahaz stood, holding his tokar tight and looking for permission from the chairman before speaking, Qezzan nodded his assent. "Why are you and your fellow captains so eager to fight on our behalf?"

The man, Ryunosuke, bowed as he turned to face Skahaz. "It was the will of the Great Captain to come to the Bay of Slaves and conduct trade. We were in Astapor-city when the pale girl unleashed her black monster to spread fire and ruin. The Great Captain, the son of the daitomi, was killed. For our honour, vengeance is required."

An interesting people, Skahaz picked up on the clenched fists among the other captains, but I think there is more than honour at work here. "And how many men and ships do you bring?"

"Six hokkaibune armed with taisho and six hundred and fifty four men, armed and ready with sword, and spear and juki."

Skahaz forced his brow to remain unraised as he head the unfamiliar words and let them spin in his mind for a few moments. "What are these taisho and juki?"

The foreign man smiled, then bowed, and then began to explain.

Despite his desire to seem unimpressed, Skahaz felt a small smile twitch at his mouth. At last the children of Ghiscar will have dragons of our own, and we shall avenge ourselves upon the heir of Old Valyria. We shall fight dragons with dragons.

The Cook

For three days and three nights the pirates followed them. Katamoto, the captain of Poem had wanted to take a shortcut past the Isle of Women, which the locals called Lys. It had been a mistake.

"We should have listened to the locals," said Katiro as Ajio slopped a soup of rice and meat in his bowl. "They warned us that pirates haunted these waters."

"Be silent," Hage the bosun growled from behind his red beard. "Captain Katamoro has made his choice and we will follow his commands. Even if the pirates catch up the juki (firearms) and taisho (cannon) will blast them from the water."

Katiro walked away in silence, his bare feet slapping the deck as he walked away to his friend.

Hage offered his own bowl to Ajio. "And the daitomi will reward us greatly when we return."

Ajio shrugged at the mention of the wealth-lords. "So long as I'm paid. I don't care."

"Keep working miracles like this," Hage sniffed at the soup. "And I'm sure Lord Tsukima will give you more gold than you know what to do with. That's if Lord Masada doesn't get you first. Heh heh."

"Heh. Heh," Ajio echoed out of politeness. As if the daimyo or the daitomi care about a Hokkaibune's (North Sea Ship) old cook.

Ajio stumbled as the ship shook as the strong winds switched direction without warning. The cauldron swung sending hot soup across the under deck. Ajio danced to avoid stepping in the hot water as he tried to set the cauldron upright again. He was still struggling, everyone loved his food but couldn't be bothered to help, when the big gong sounded three times it's deep bellow singing in his aching bones, and the little gong rang twice. All hands storm approaching.

Without a moment's hesitation Ajio ran across the room and went up the ladder. Passing the younger men who were still trying to force rice into their bellies before answering the gong's call. Idiots, as if food matters when the ship could be sinking in ten minutes.

After decades at sea Ajio had thought he'd seen it all, everything that could be thrown at him. He'd been shipwrecked, kidnapped and sold into slavery, left adrift floating of a raft for weeks. But this took his breath away. Ten minutes ago the sun had been shining and the wind blowed calm and strong, a perfect day for sailing. Now the sky was black and green with clouds that roiled like a bowl of live shrimp. In the east the clouds seemed to touch sea itself, they spread from horizon to horizon, with long streaks extending westwards to block out even more of the sky. The winds had grown in strength sending a spray of water onto the deck, pulling up waves large enough to send the Poem all but flying.

Ajio watched a wave reach up like a great dark hand and bring a pirate ship into the depths. Lighting crackled in the east and above them striking the sea and another ship, seconds later the thunder boomed.

Unbidden thoughts rose from the back of Ajio's mind, of his childhood when his grandmother told him tales of the Waveriders, blue eyed demons that came with storms from the cold southern seas, and how each tale ended with the same warning. "The Everstorm Comes," Ajio whispered to himself.

The crew went to work, hauling lines to bring the ribbed sails up so they would not catch the furious wind and make Poem capsize. Within minutes the rain was falling like arrows, and hail like bullets, pounding the deck and the men. Lightning flashed and thunder roared around them like the laughter of an evil god. Another swell sent Poem into the air, for a moment Ajio thought she had left the sea behind. But to the sea Poem returned crashing into another wave sending water higher than the mast.

"Ware starboard!" Came a voice from the stern.

Ajio turned, squinting through the rain to see a great wave rising from the sea, the kind of wave that could smash a ship into kindling, but the wave was too far to fall onto Poem and instead it crashed back into the sea. Not the kind of thing one should worry about. But what lurked behind the wave sent a chill down his spine. Another ship, revealed for but a moment by the lightning, her sails raised she streaked fearlessly across the water, low and lean like the northerners liked their ships, deadly and swift. Far swifter than Poem.

What kind of madman keeps his sails up in this?

The ship shuddered again as another wave beat against it. The wind howled harder than ever sending rain and hail against them. Lightning flashed and Ajio saw the strange ship had grown even closer. Close enough to see the men who crowded the prow armed with sword and axe and bows, close enough to see the figurehead, it looked like two people. Then waves hid the ship again.

"Too arms!" Shouted the captain. "Too arms! We will show these pirates how true men fight!"

The crew roared and Ajio roared with them, though he felt no great hope for this battle. The storm made their greatest advantage, the juki, all but useless. The crew opened the weapon chests pulling out spears, clubs and short swords. This was not the first time they had fought off pirates and it wouldn't be the last, they were ready for what would come.

With a spray of water the pirate ship rose above them, riding high on the crest of a wave. Her crew screamed like demons in the darkness. The crew of Poem screamed back as the enemy ship raced toward them. Ajio could see her prow more clearly now, the figurehead was not two people it was one, a maiden of black iron with long legs, slender waist, high breasts and mother-of-pearl eyes which seemed to burn blue in the lightning, a maiden with no mouth. Beneath her was a living man, chained in place. At that sight something stirred in the back of Ajio's mind, something primal rippling through his mind and up his spine, like he had just looked into the infinity of evil.

The ship crashed into Poem her ram locking them together, and the enemy crew screamed cries of hate as they crawled over the side. Ajio lunged with his spear, but it was contemptuously swept aside by a pirate's shield. The pirate, a burly man covered in tattoos, hopped forward and brought the edge of the shield up into Ajio's jaw. For a moment he watched as the pirates sweapt over Poem's crew like waves upon the shore, but then there was only darkness.

Ajio awoke with sand in his mouth and screams in his ears. His arms and legs were bound and he was naked. He twisted and looked around, the storm had passed and they were on land, an island most likely, for they were not far from the sea. It seemed some sort of bay, flanked on all sides by tall cliffs, with a beach of small stones, and higher, away from the tidewash, was a great rock of oily black stone, that seemed to radiate an aura of dread.

The screaming came from Tsukiko, the ship's Wisdom, she was younger and prettier than most of her order, she had been strapped to a barrel, and a line had formed behind her. Ajio looked away. The rest of the crew were were naked and bound like himself, most of the pirates were sitting and drinking, a few tended to a large pile of loot, Ajio saw a separate pile made from juki, and barrels of powder and shot. There was one last group, two old men and one old woman, all of them dressed in robes and with queer blue lips, tended to a fire and a large pot. Upon the pot were grotesque images of demons, doing unspeakable things to people. Not far from them was a handsome black haired man with an eyepatch, he was sitting by himself, stroking the barrel of a juki. He had blue lips as well. That's likely their captain.

The whole scene sent shivers of unease up his spine, and it only took a moment to realise what. The pirates weren't laughing, they weren't singing, they weren't joking or jesting, or doing any of the things sailors should do when they were on land. They sat quietly, not even in small clumps, every one of them was alone, alone and silent. Over two hundred people in the clearing and the only sounds were a bubbling cauldron and Tsukiko's screams.

One of the robed men approached the captain and said something in a northern tongue Ajio hadn't heard before. The pirate captain nodded and stood walking over to the tied up crew members of Poem. The pirate laid a hand on Captain Katamoro's head before reaching out to grab the hair of Shun, one of the ship's boys, a child of only ten. The pirate pulled Shun over to the pot, the closer they got the more Shun struggled, but, tied and bound, he couldn't resist the pirate. The pirate pushed Shun so that he was leaning over the pot and in one smooth motion cut Shun's throat with a knife covered in strange symbols. With the help of the robed men the captain let Shun's blood drain into the pot. The images on the surface of the pot began to glow a sickly green.

"Sorcery," Ajio cried, horror in his voice. He started to back away from the pirate captain, the sorcerer, the rest of the crew tried to do the same.

The sorcerer leaned down next to the dead boy and stuck the knife into the fires. Blood sizzled as it dripped from the blade, the pirates rose and one by one took hold of Poem's shaking crew, holding them still for what was too come. When Ajio felt a hand on his shoulders he looked up into the pirate's smiling face and saw why they did not laugh or sing or jest. He has no tongue.

With the knife heated red, the sorcerer stood picking up a set of pincers and he walked towards the prisoners. One by one the pirates forced open the crew's mouths and the sorcerer took their tongues. Each one was added to the pot, which began to let out and awful ringing sound that grew louder and stronger the more tongues were added. Ajio realised he was crying and when his turn came he barely resisted as his mouth was opened, his tongue stretched by pincers, and a red hot knife cut out his tongue.

The pirates released him and Ajio fell forward, letting the blood trickle out of his mouth. He lay there as the last tongues were taken, only Tsukiko and the captain had been spared. The sorcerer stirred the pot and let it simmer and the fires died, the ringing sound smothered any other noise, the very ground seemed to shake.

The sorcerer gripped the pot in both hands and began to drink from it, blood and boiled tongues washing over his face, dripping gore across his body and slowly piling at his feet. The sorcerer groaned with pleasure, a wide smile spread across his face. He opened his eye and saw Ajio staring at him.

"I would share," the sorcerer said in the tongue of Beikan, without even the faintest hint of an accent. "But I seem to have finished all of it."

The sorcerer stepped forward and knelt in front of Ajio's captain, grabbing him by his long grey hair and pointing the juki at his heart.

"Who are you?" Asked the captain, fear straining his voice.

The sorcerer smiled a mirthless chuckle escaping him. "I am the storm. The first storm and the last."

The Everstorm Comes, blood dribbled from Ajio's mouth as he moaned in terror.

The sorcerer leaned before the captain and reached for his eyepatch. "Now tell me your secrets."

Ajio screamed when the sorcerer removed his eyepatch and he saw what was beneath.