Page 13 of Death’s Kiss (The Order of the Tide Raiders #1)

“A merchant,” I answer easily.

“How can you tell?” Beldham counters, expectation clear in her eyes.

I angle my head towards the image slowly rotating above us. “That boom there on the mast. It’s used specifically for lifting cargo. ”

The barest hint of a smile pulls on Beldham’s mouth. “Correct, Captain Boreas.” With a twist of the sphere from our Grand Regent's hands, the image enlarges. “And just where is this particular merchant vessel from?”

I study the ship, having to lean forward to do so, and mentally curse out the jackass in my seat for the terrible position we’re now forced to observe from.

Captain Agni’s deep, gravelly voice answers from my stolen chair, “The Nation of Jetsam.”

“How can you be sure?” our preceptor prods, her stoic face giving away nothing.

The jackass sighs before crossing his arms and tipping back the chair legs in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

“You mean apart from the ragbag mix of materials they’ve put that ship together with?

Or the depth of the hull on it due to the heavy-duty ballast tanks needed in order to survive their nightmare of a sea? ”

Beldham blinks once in silent confirmation to continue.

“The ID is right there, MV-4687-NJ.” Olsson motions with a ring-adorned hand to the starboard side of the ship's transom and I notice the engraved markings upon it for the first time.

“MV stands for merchant vessel, the four-digit number is the ship's naval code and NJ is the Nation of Jetsam.” His explaining drawl is insolent at best.

I see a rare look of surprised approval color Preceptor Beldham’s expression and I'm forced to bite down on my lip to keep from scoffing. “Very good," she praises. "We haven't gotten to hull identification numbers yet in this course. I applaud your previous instruction, Captain Agni."

Olsson glances over his shoulder at me with a smile so smug it nearly sends me into orbit.

Get a godsdamn grip, Boreas.

Preceptor Beldham moves right along with the lesson. “Alright raiders, now let’s say in this scenario you’ve been given the task of targeting this particular vessel. Why is it important not only to know the type of craft you’re dealing with but also where it originates? ”

“You can use the information against them. Learn their weak points, cultural vulnerabilities, fears, needs, etc.” Vash answers from the table in front of ours.

“Yes, precisely . Know thy enemy,” Beldham agrees, rapping a knuckle hard against the edge of her dais. “Thank you, Captain Larceon.”

I notice the way Captain Agni’s entire table subtly shifts to glance at Vash. Their stares aren't exactly threatening, more calculating. But Vash is too busy throwing Kleio a wink to notice. My eyes study the ceiling in exasperation at their constant flirting.

“That leads us to our main topic of discussion for this year: psychological warfare,” Beldham announces.

“There are several tactics you can deploy based on the target at hand. But for the sake of time, we’re going to stick with the merchant vessel from the Nation of Jetsam today.

Let's begin with their vulnerabilities, what are they?” she inquires, opening the discussion once more.

“Their visibility systems,” calls out Aoi Nakai, fifth in command of Vash’s crew.

When Beldham looks at her pointedly, she explains, “Like Captain Agni mentioned, their ships are a collection of various remnants and scrap pieces. Which means so is their technology. I’m betting that causes most of it to go haywire pretty often. ”

“Yes. Good. What else?” our preceptor inquires.

People begin shouting out possible weaknesses, such as weather, isolation, and resources. I take note of each answer with their reasoning. However, none of them seem to be exactly what Beldham is looking for.

Herse’s husky voice is the one to answer correctly at long last. “Their governance,” she says, not need prompting to continue.

“The Nation of Jetsam is ruled by five clans; they're almost always in the middle of some sort of conflict.

If you wanted to take one of their merchants, just stage a false attack.

Draw up flags with one of the clan's insignias, then send out a distress signal. Let them come to you.”

I can’t help but smirk at the brilliance of my third.

Preceptor Beldham all but beams. “I couldn’t have said it any better myself, Raider LeRoi. ”

Captain Agni’s second—the male with tied-back sandy blonde hair and chiseled square jawline—looks at Herse in interest. She responds by studying her nails with cool indifference, and I catch a flicker of annoyance alighting his navy irises.

My smirk deepens.

The lesson moves into a lecture regarding the importance of knowing the background to each and every landmass. Class concludes with the promise of more physiological tactics to come and a debate in our next meeting.

We share history with the East and water combat with the West. But the Grand Preceptors have all decided to keep our affinity training courses separated to ensure fairness in the trials. However, weapons training the following week consists of all four Cardinal Orders.

The practice chamber Preceptor Oplon favors is by far the largest and can more than hold all level-eights assembled.

The former renowned gunner has strategically separated us eight captains as far from one another as physically possible.

He’s also made sure to assign everyone partners within their own cardinals.

At least while we settle into this new arrangement.

I’m positioned in the far left corner. My designated partner this time around is Herse. Which is useful as we’re practicing the use of her preferred weapon of choice: the evening stars.

It’s a difficult weapon, favored by those with superb balance and control.

It consists of two metal rods joined together by a bit of chain and adorned on each end with evening stars, of course.

The spiked midnight spheres themselves are coated with a paralyzing poison.

Even the faintest of scratches and its lights out until you’re given the antidote.

Hence the name.

I study Herse intently, noting the way her feet move about in a series of dance-like steps. She lurches forward without warning in a swift diagonal strike. Acting on instinct, I stretch out the two iron rods of my weapon and block her attempted maneuver in the space above our heads.

We grunt in unison from the impact of our collision. Sweat slides down the sides of my temple and my shirt sticks uncomfortably to the skin beneath. We’ve been going at it for nearly an hour.

“So, in Beldham’s class last week,” I start up casually, ignoring my own labored breaths.

Herse grabs one end of her dark metal rod and whips out the other half in a horizontal swipe. In turn, I maneuver mine from one side of my body to the other in a quick double-sided block.

“Yeah?” she asks, stepping back to regain her balance.

“You mentioned the five clans in the Nation of Jetsam—" It’s my turn to go on the offensive and I swing a single chained rod above my head before bringing it down with blinding speed. "I’m guessing you had family in one?”

Herse is already there, both rods folded together as one, rebuking my attack. “My brothers,” she grunts out in reply.

I step back, flipping one stick over my arm in readjustment.

We begin to circle each other while breathing a bit raggedly.

I’m trying to decide how much I dare pry.

Herse is tight-lipped about most of her past life.

She was sacrificed, of course, having originated from noble blood of some sort in the Nation of Jetsam.

The youngest of three with two older brothers. This much is all I know for sure.

It’s not uncommon for raiders to avoid their previous lives, to push themselves away from the past knowing it won't ever be their future. Most, if not all, prefer to keep their former life buried deep down inside. Except for Kleio, she’s the only raider I’ve ever met who talks about home like it’s a place she might one day get to return.

“Do you think you could feign a distress signal?” I ask, moving in for a quick side swipe.

“What?” she barks back in confusion while deflecting my weapon. The venomous black spikes of an evening star swipe less than an inch from the thin fabric of her shirt.

“I mean—” I grunt, twisting away before knocking down her next incoming strike. “Knowing you have family there—people that could be on a vessel we target. Could you go through with it? The plan you laid out in Theory of War?”

Herse feeds the evening stars behind her back and comes at me with one stick spinning like a motor blade. “Are you asking me if I would betray you?” Her words are sharp and I barely have time to meet her blow when she lashes the still-spinning rod out like a whip.

“No— gods no. I’m just asking—” I duck under the swing of her rod.

“I don't even know what I’m asking.” I swing my own weapon upward and Herse drops back just in time.

“I guess—I just wanted to see if you were alright. If talking about targeting your home like that—” I'm stumbling over my words when she swipes for my legs and I'm forced to jump back out of range.

“You’re one of my crew,” I try again, willing her to understand my reason for the query.

Herse’s violet eyes are filled with determined light as she gracefully whips the evening stars around in a fluid butterfly formation.

I don’t catch onto her strategy before she’s folded them in two and aims a well-placed jab to my ribs with the blunt end of the rods.

"Fuck, ” I hiss as pain blooms along my side.

That’s going to leave a right nasty bruise.

“They sacrificed me, Merena. My own mother slit my throat and tossed me into the sea,” Herse says, stepping back to regain balance. “As far as I’m concerned, that place means nothing to me. It can burn for all I care." The set of her jaw beneath the blunt cut of her onyx hair tells me not to push.

But it’s harder for me, not knowing or remembering my own origins, to understand the others on this level.

The landmasses are few and far between. The drifters are basically floating specks.

Every inch of known territory is under extraordinarily strict population control.

Most families are only allotted one child, those of noble blood may be afforded two. Any extras are to be disposed of.

That’s where the Tide Raiders come in.

Those with highborn blood may be raised for sacrifice on the Sál Moon instead of merely being put down. There’s no guarantee the drowned gods will choose them. No promise or assurance that the will of the Nixes will bring them back from Nawai and lead them to the Order.

Even if they do, even if the stars align and your child is sent to one of the four cardinals, the question becomes, what sort of life are you subjecting them to? I suppose the way I see it, it’s a second chance for your child. A shot in the dark maybe but a shot nonetheless.

Herse lunges forward to resume our spar as a voice unlike anything I’ve heard reaches my ear. It's as lovely and bright as the stars on a winter's night.

“Don't move,” the voice commands.

I instantly obey the order, desperate to hear more of its beautiful tenor. I don’t understand the mixed look of confusion and fear in Herse’s eyes until her evening-star spikes rake straight across the front of my chest.

“ Merena !” Herse shouts as I stumble and fall backwards onto our training mat.

The pain bursting inside of me is sharp and biting.

"Merena, why didn’t you move ?” my third demands, rushing to my side.

I shake my head in confusion. There’s an odd sort of pounding that’s starting to sound in my ears. The pain located in my chest grows keener and I try sitting up so I don't choke on my own saliva. That’s when I spot the swish of long raven hair retreating to the far side of the chamber .

Raising my hand slowly, I point it towards Corvina’s backside while black spots begin dancing along the edges of my vision. “Sirenspeak,” I manage to spit out over the hammering inside my head.

Herse’s violet gaze follows my line of sight and before I can stop her, she’s up and running for Captain Leporem. The world next takes on a very strange greenish hue. I watch in ultra-slow motion as Herse tackles Corvina down to the ground.

“Herse what the hell are you—” Kleio yells from somewhere further off. There’s muffled shouting and then my second’s voice is closer by. “Oh my fucking gods— Merena !”

I hear other people’s voices too. I think they come from nearby but I can’t be sure.

“Someone start explaining, now!”

“—then she just freezes out of nowhere and–”

“ Three fucking gashes—”

“Where is Raider Supad?”

“—left with Captain Larceon almost an hour ago.”

Nameless voices carry in and out like the tide of my subconscious but I can barely string the conversation along.

The painful hammering inside my head has turned into a dull and heavy beat.

My fingers and toes feel significantly lighter, my breathing slower.

And the searing agony from earlier mercifully begins to fade.

I start to think this might not be so bad.

“ Vos omnes sunt futu idiotae, ” mutters an angry voice like smoke. The stranger's deep tenor slices through my newfound peace and stirs up something that had just begun to slumber.

Then suddenly, I’m airborne.

I think I might groan out in protest but it’s hard to be certain of anything external. Internally, I struggle and fight with all my waning strength to kick up to the surface of my own consciousness.

“Whhhat’s ’appening ?” I demand, breathless.

It takes nearly all my energy to get those two words out and they sound deranged even to my own ears. I’m held captive inside a steady rocking motion, like relentless waves beating against solid rock. The comforting rhythm does little to keep me cognizant.

A dark huff of annoyance, a curse, and the bitter-sounding words “déjà vu” are all that accompany me while tumbling down into that sweet soporific abyss.