The Great War: Chapter 17
For good or ill, it's something new
Something tickles Isaac’s nose as he takes a deep breath in, trying to relax back into his meditative state. Anya just left to buy some food for the evening, leaving him alone in the now-two-being tent. He grits his teeth as he holds back a sneeze from developing.
Exhale… The tickle only intensifies.
In… hale… A-AH-!
“-CHOO!”
The fateful sneeze erupts, so powerful it lifts him up off the ground momentarily. Geuh… he thinks with a sigh and a sniffle.
Suddenly, a distorted laugh echoes throughout the tent, sending a sharp chill down his spine. He looks around the empty tent frantically, trying to find the source of the sound. Who else would be in his tent? Is there another Illusionist around?
The laughing continues, though it slowly becomes clearer as Isaac’s panic only grows. And with the laugh, a presence makes itself known. A mind slowly forming, as if it were scattered before and is now coming together once again. The feeling makes his head tingle… uncomfortably.
Before his very eyes, a cloud of warm orange sand swirls around the central tent pole, growing by the moment.
“Ah, your sneezes are hilarious!” the voice rings again, the sand starting to take on a form. Although now he doesn’t need to see the being to know who it is.
“Ezra?” Isaac breathes in awe.
His tent-mate floats next to the tent pole and smiles a weird, sandy smile, the particles shifting in a mesmerizing flow.
“You…” Isaac continues to stammer, “Could you always do that?”
“This?” Ezra hums, looking down at his new form. “Oh, no, this is new. Cool, right?” He does a circle around the tent, passing over Isaac’s head, some of the sand brushing his hair as the Creationist passes. It’s warm and fine, almost soft but still coarse all the same.
“But… how?”
Before Ezra can even begin to reply, a variety of scenes spring into his mind. An expansive black background surrounds the Creationist as he tests his new ability, watched over by a being that appears as Ishtar, but is actually Korodon. The boy spent Spirit-only-knows-how-long testing his new ability, gradually going from failing to fly and reform after scattering to having a somewhat basic handling over himself again before being sent away.
“I can’t share that with you,” Ezra finally says, still smiling wide, “but I’m enjoying myself!”
“Clearly…” He’s not terribly disappointed with Ezra’s answer. He’d probably learn the truth one way or another at some point.
“Where’s Anya?” Ezra asks, finally lowering himself to the ground. Color and solidity returns to his body as he plants his feet, hands clasped behind his back as he scans the rest of the tent.
“She just left to get food,” Isaac replies. “I asked her to get some for you, if you’re going to be staying, that is.”
Ezra’s smile fades in an instant, and doubt springs to his mind. “I…”
“I’d like you to stay in the castle with us,” Samuel says, gesturing to Devin who shadows him as always.
“But… my family-”
The prince lets out a sigh. “You can still see them. It’s not like you are going to be held here forever. But we have proper food and proper beds. You’ll need to be in the best condition for… whatever we may face in the future.”
“Can I at least go and tell them?”
“Of course you can.”
“I’m not staying.”
“Ah. Well, we’ll miss you.”
“I’ll still come by!”
Isaac grins. “I know you will.”
Mathew could have ended up with one of the hard jobs, but he wasn’t expecting to get the dangerous job for his first time in the cannon hold.
Precariously perched atop a bolted ladder, a line of sailors below pass down heavy bags of sparkpowder to the line of left cannons. Above, a cannonball waits on the Guardian’s track system, ready to be dropped into the open black maw of the cannon. Mathew is stationed at the far end, meaning that he’ll be the last one out of the twelve to load.
He watches the other sailors in the same position as him carefully, seeing how they each handle pouring such a heavy bag of sparkpowder. One has the bag in his lap as he tears at the top with a knife, his knees wobbling under the weight. Another struggles to find his grip without already causing a spill, for his bag was opened before being hoisted up to his height. Guardians stand watching from the walkway, silent and stone faced, not lifting a finger to help.
This is not the first time the cannons have been fired, but it’s his first time operating one. As is for many of the other sailors present. They’ll all have a turn, they were told. They’ll all have a hand in destroying islands.
Finally, one of the sparkpowder bags he’ll need to load makes its way to the bottom of his ladder, where a redhead looks up at him and asks, “Oi, ye want it slashed?”
Mathew takes a glance back at the other laddermen, then shakes his head. “Bring it up as is.”
“Ye have something to cut with?”
“Aye, mate. Just bring it up. Can’t keep ‘em waiting.”
The redhead struggles to wrap his weedy arms around the bag, though once he finds a comfortable handhold as he hoists the weight onto his shoulder he carries it with ease. One hand keeps the sailor from falling off backwards as he ferries the bag upwards towards Mathew.
Once within his reach, Mathew grasps the bag with both hands and hauls the sack of rocks from the redhead’s grip, shifting so that he can rest the bag on the top rung where he perches. From his jeweled belt he draws his sword and drives it through the top of the bag’s woven fabric. Inside, the powder shifts, and Mathew has to keep a firm grasp on the bag’s top to keep it upright. He shoves his sword between his teeth, its sharp blade stinging the edges of his mouth as he hauls the bag up off the ladder and over the seemingly endless depth of the cannon next to him.
The barrel of the cannon is deep. If he were to fall in, he doubts he could get back out again. And the only way out is to get fired from it.
A soft chill runs down his back, but a dreadful one nonetheless.
The dark silver powder rains down into the cannon, the small beads creating the sound of rain falling. He almost wants to close his eyes and soak in the sound of rainy cycles against his bedroom window, but knows he’s got no time to reminisce on his home right now. The moment he drains the first bag, he turns to find the redhead offering him his second.
“Fast,” he murmurs, trying to muster a small smile that doesn’t stick. The redhead doesn’t reply.
Mathew casts the empty bag aside and takes the second full bag, once again cutting it open at the top and pouring its contents into the cannon. As the second bag empties, he glances down at his redhead courier and notices that he’s moved away from the ladder. Looks like two is enough.
He casts the second empty back to the floor and climbs down the ladder, sheathing his sword the moment he hits the sturdy wood.
He joins redhead and a few other sailors behind the cannons.
“Seen these things fire before?” he asks.
The redhead smiles wearily. “Aye. I was top deck a few times. I was also in the last group to fire. First time below?”
Mathew just nods back quietly as the cannonball stop up above is drawn back. The rumble of the rolling cannonballs fills the lower deck, their hard crashing against the inside of the cannons earsplitting. Mathew, along with many other sailors, can’t help but wince and cover their ears in a vain attempt to soften the noise.
With the cannonballs loaded, the cannons tip forward all on their own, aiming out at the world beyond the wooden walls of their large ship.
“Lighters!” a Guardian calls from the back. The Guardian’s present, previously observers, step towards each of the cannons, a soft glow in the palms of their hands.
“Step back, mate, and shut yer ears tight,” the redhead mutters to Mathew. “We’re goin’ to get loud.”
One by one, the Guardians raise their hands, waiting for some sort of signal. Mathew takes the redhead’s advice and takes another couple of steps backwards, jamming his fingers into his ears as hard as he possibly can.
Just barely audible, he can hear the final order given: “FIRE!”