The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  Cal's hands found the hull's ladder, and a wry smile grew across his closely bearded face. "I have worried and wondered; I have both despaired and daydreamed over the fate of this very vessel. And now? Now, my lady Astyræ, I will climb its fretted hull and consider those long-sought answers resolved."

  Her brow lifted in a bemused expression at his flowery speech, but she could not help but feel a bit of exhilaration in the wake of his own.

  Cal put one hand atop of the other, and with a bright and hopeful light in his eyes, he climbed his way along the leaning belly of the wooden beast until his boot found purchase atop its ancient deck. "Come on now, your turn!" he yelled down to her.

  "Is it safe?" she asked playfully.

  "I cannot say if it is indeed safe, though I must confess it is rather wonderful!" he shouted down to her.

  She smiled and shook her head, and then began the curved assent along the wooden spine of the ladder.

  "Look!" he shouted as he held onto the deck railing while climbing his way to the wheel deck. "Illium, our King—he must have stood right there, steering his brave ten towards their doom. And there!" He pointed. "The masts, are they still whole? Look, they are still unbroken after all these years."

  She reached the top of the hull, and she too felt a bit of the wonder that Cal had found. "The Dardanian people did not trust this place, for there is unknown magic all about its timbers, and we cannot be certain of whether or not it is good."

  "Not trust it?" Cal asked as he continued to explore the depths of the deck.

  "Yes," she said with great conviction. "My grandfather said that with the coming of the tree men came great suspicion; those who had been brothers and kinsman for generations turned hostile in the wake of their very presence."

  "Why did your people mistrust them?" Cal asked intently. "Did they do ill towards them? I cannot imagine the great King Illium of Haven would not act with respect and care for the people of your land."

  "It was in the time of a meaningful season for our people. The elders and the leaders had begun the great white hunt of Dardanos, the Leuktherao, as it was once called," she said, looking out into shadowed forest that surrounded this marooned enigma. "My grandfather was young in those days, and my father was just barely a man. They had chased the White Stag into this very clearing … but when they were nearly upon the beast, an arrow was loosed from the bowstrings of the tree men. Its iron barb pierced the flank of the mighty stag and though it did not smite it, the beast was startled and fled the men of the hunt."

  "I am sure the tree men meant your people no harm," Cal reasoned with her.

  Astyræ looked long into the shadows as she remembered aloud. "Perhaps not, but our elders and leaders never found the body or the blood of the hunted one, and the White Stag was never again seen in the forests of the Greywood, though many a hunt has been made to seek it."

  "Cal!" the voice of Deryn interrupted her sad tale. "Cal, lady Astyræ; I think you will very much want to see what I have found."

  "What is it, dear Sprite?" she asked him.

  "Come on," Cal said taking her slender, pearl colored fingers by the hand. "Let us find out, huh?"

  She smiled an almost sad smile, but nodded her head in hopeful agreement, for she very much wanted a reprieve from her saddened memories. The two of them followed the azure glow of their winged friend down the stairs of the main deck and into the vast hold of the royal ship.

  The hold was empty, with not much else save rotting rope and split barrels. The iron hooks where the crew's bedding once hung held nothing but the ghosts of thread that refused to release their purpose. The storerooms were stripped bare, and as they surveyed the emptiness, it felt as though the very essence of this once magnificent ship was merely a carcass whose flesh had been picked over by a host of carrion.

  "What have you brought us down here to see, Deryn?" Cal asked rather uneasily, as if he were trespassing the floor of an ancient tomb. "What have you found?"

  Astyræ held tightly to his muscled arm, all the more nervous here in the shadows of this cursed place. "Is it near? Are we near? For I do not feel safe in the bowels of this ... of this place."

  "Just a bit further in, and then we must go up," Deryn urged.

  They walked precariously through the remains of the once great hold until they came upon another set of stairs with an elaborately carved, pearl inlaid railing which led one to believe that these steps were meant for someone with great status. "Does this ... does this lead to where I think it does?" Cal asked hopefully.

  Astyræ looked to him, not sure what it was that he was suggesting, but Deryn answered for her. "Yes, to the captain's chambers, the very quarters of the-"

  "King!" Cal said interrupting his companion with his eagerness. "Well, come on then, I would very much like to see this place."

  Cal and Astyræ held tightly to the intricately carved railings as they climbed up the steep set of stairs at a most awkward angle. The boards beneath them creaked and groaned under the almost forgotten weight of boots upon their now brittle surface. They reached the top and came upon a double-framed door that now hung limply broken, splintered and off-keel after sixty years of non-use. Cal put his hand to the masterfully carved door and pushed on it with a dramatic flourish so that he and his companions might behold the seafaring dwellings of the last King of Haven. The room shone gloriously in the violet light of so much hope and so much excitement.

  The windows were shattered, and whatever stores of armor and weaponry that had once lined these richly paneled walls had been taken from their rightful place, but to Cal these dwellings seemed as if Illium himself still chose to abide here.

  "I never in all my days thought for a moment that I would be standing in the King's quarters of the mighty ship Wilderness!" he blurted out to his friends. He plopped down hard upon the aging, wooden deck as a potent mixture of wonder and humility overtook him. His gaze traced the royal chambers in wide-eyed amazement. "Why me, Deryn?" he asked in stunned disbelief. "Why do I get to behold such history, such fabled lore? What did I ever do to warrant such a gift as this?"

  Deryn smiled, though he did not feel compelled to answer the question-laden musings of his friend. Deryn knew in his heart that no spoken answer would ever suffice the unanswerable wonderings of one who has beheld the glimmers of his own destiny.

  "Do not tarry too long in the land of wonderment," Deryn said playfully. "Or at least, not just yet, for boyish fantasies must still give way to a calling fully wrought, and there is more to discover here than history."

  "What is it, then? Huh?" Cal laughed. "Out with it, my riddle-speaking Sprite friend!"

  Deryn came to rest upon the writing desk of the king, and as he did the azure glow of his wings illuminated letters etched in black, hasty runes upon its wooden surface.

  "What is that?" Cal said as he slowly rose to his feet.

  "A voice still calls out from the Wilderness, dear groomsman," Deryn said.

  Cal walked closer to the angled, wooden writing surface, and grasped one hand upon each side, looking very much like the great, priestly orators of Westriver. With an awestruck voice he spoke the old, ruined words aloud.

  Barkas,

  If you have made your way back here, you will find that we have departed. We have gone north after a most encouraging discovery. Payam was sent to find you, though he has not returned. We have heard whispers of a guardian called "Shaimira", and it is said that safe in its keeping are the hidden secrets of a great magic. A way has been prepared for you, so look to the north, for that is from whence I perceive our help will come.

  Seek the light, warrior of Haven.

  ~Illium

  Cal stared silently at the ruined writing table, reading and rereading the words over and over again. This last message of the King himself was carved into the very surface of the desk, and Cal's fingers traced the indentations of the script as he thought long on its meaning.

  "What does it mean, Cal?" Astyræ asked him finally. The gr
oomsman did not answer her. His hands gripped the side of the table, doing their best to anchor his balance while he steadied his thoughts. "Cal? Cal, what do these words mean?"

  He looked up from the desk, his eyes filled with joyful tears. "What does this mean, my lady? It means that the King was not lost at sea, nor was he run aground upon the shores of the Isle Dušana, nor did he perish behind the bars of Enguerrand!" Cal choked back his emotion and boyishly wiped the tears from his eyes with his forearms. "It means that the story of the King still lives, that he did not die here. It means that he didn't give up on finding the light, that he went northward just as we thought, and that at least ... at least once upon a time, a way was prepared for someone to follow him. And perhaps ... just maybe … that way still stands."

  "Ever north we go then, groomsman," she said as she reached out with her soft fingers and wiped away his heavy tears. "How, though, will we know the way? The Wreath is wild and vast and I have never heard of such a place as this Shaimira."

  "Of that I cannot say, though I don't doubt for a moment that we will recognize this way that has been prepared when we do, in fact, find it." He spoke with a kind smile, his own large hand meeting hers upon his cheek. "Ever north we go ..." he said in a singsong voice.

  She smiled deeply, for his faith—despite its absurdity—compelled her ever to him. "Come on, groomsman," she said playfully as she slid her hand from his bearded face. "You'll have to lead the way."

  He smiled at her and then turned to his winged friend. "Do you think Barkas ever read these words?"

  "I hope he did, Bright Fame. But either way, it appears that the King left some clues about the way to Shaimira, and I think we had best make our business about finding them," Deryn replied with a wry smile of his own.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  MICHAEL COULD NOT BELIEVE HIS eyes at what he saw there before him. The groomsman stood stunned, silent with horror and yet overwhelmed with gratitude.

  "Hey!" Timorets shouted out into the distance. "Are you alright? Wait there! Don't move—we are coming for you!"

  The group of escaped prisoners ran the short distance to the edge of the abyss, staring into its depths with the wonder and dread of the moment.

  "I cannot believe it!" Michael murmured in a shaky voice, looking at the group that appeared to be suspended over the chasm. "How is this possible? How in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN is this even possible?"

  "I think you answered your own question there, groomsman," the large schoolmaster answered. "Do you know these travelers?"

  "Yes!" he said as he put his arm around his rotund friend. "Yes, indeed, I do!"

  "Brewer, are you steady on your feet?" Fryon asked his friend as he surveyed the dangers both below and out in front of them.

  "Aye, I am," Timorets said reassuringly. "Though I am going to need both you and your brother to steady me while I help."

  The three of them held tight, each to the other, giving a much-needed strength to the task at hand. "Friend?" Timorets said calmly and reassuringly to the large man barely hanging onto the ledge. "Whoever is lost, is lost; but you need not follow in her footsteps. Come, give me your hand, and let's all be done with this terrible place."

  Portus looked up. The strong face of the tall tanner was indeed defeated with the weariness of his failed strength and the loss of his friend. "She fell—she would not stop kicking ... I couldn't ..." he faltered.

  "You gave your strength, sir, and nearly lost your life too. Come on, give him your hand and we will see you safely across," Fryon said to the large man.

  "But how ... how will I stand without falling?" the tanner asked as he took account of his perch. "You cannot lift my full weight."

  "Grab my hand, and use it to turn yourself up to a sitting position," Timorets instructed firmly. "Once you are seated upon the ledge, you can grab the lady's hand there and the two of us will help you stand. Careful now."

  Portus nodded his understanding, and grasped the brewer's hand.

  "Steady!" Timorets grunted as Portus pulled heavily. "You all better hold tight!"

  Celrod and Michael anchored themselves with as much strength as they could muster, grasping the brothers, ready to heave the brewer back to safety if the worst happened. Michael winced as Celrod's grasp closed over his burnt hand, and he steeled himself for the inevitable pain he would have to endure. Everyone stayed silent and focused as the men positioned themselves, and to their great relief, Portus was able to sit upon the ledge in momentary safety.

  "What about the green eyes?" Portus asked, worried that soon the enemy would be upon them all. "Did you stop them, how far are they behind you?"

  "No, friend, we did no such thing," Fryon said. "It will take more than a few convicts to stop whatever hell it is that drives that nocturnal army."

  "But we did not see them along the pass," the brewer said reassuringly, nodding at Margarid to take Portus' other hand.

  "We heard them coming," Portus muttered as he glanced at Margarid's offered hand.

  "Easy there, Portus," came a familiar voice from the ledge of the ravine. Michael had stepped away from the group enough to look the tanner in the face. "We are safe enough for the moment—let's just worry about getting to the other side for now."

  "Michael?" Portus said in hopeful disbelief.

  "Aye," the groomsman smiled. "Come now, stand up—can you?"

  Portus glanced at Timorets and Margarid to check for their readiness. Then, carefully, he gathered himself and slowly rose to his feet. "Aye," he said with a nod and a sad smile.

  "You are a sight for sore eyes, old friend," Michael said. "Now come on, and I'll greet you proper on the other side."

  Before Michael stepped back at the end of the line, he caught the tear-filled eyes of his auburn-haired affection staring back at him in grateful amazement. "My lady!"

  She sent the fullness of her thoughts across the ravine in a single smile, and then quickly looked back to her tanner friend. "Alright, Portus, let's be done with this place."

  "Alright, Mar," he replied with a tone of wounded hope. "Let's be done."

  Eleven they were now, and with frayed emotions and new strength they slowly all made their way across the mountain pass onto the solid safety of the other side. The remnant collapsed in an exhausted heap once the last of them had stepped off the pass, feeling both victory and defeat at such a crossing. Margarid flung herself into Michael's arms, and he was glad to receive her. They kissed and embraced, careless of those who watched them, for the joy of this reunion would not be swayed even if it were in the presence the Priest King himself.

  "Where is Engelmann?" she asked him as he wiped away her tears. "Was he not with you in the prison hold?"

  Michael looked back to the four with whom he had traveled under river and fire and mountain; their grief at the loss of Engelmann showed heavy upon their faces.

  "He has gone to the eternal lands, my girl," Celrod said sadly. "I've never seen such a deliberately foolish sacrifice in all my days."

  "He is … gone?" Margarid whispered.

  "Yes," Michael said in an exhausted exhale.

  "That makes, I mean, that ..." Portus had a hard time gathering his thoughts and forming them into words. "That they are both gone? Both of them?"

  "Both of them?" Timorets asked.

  "Yes," Georgina lamented. "Engelmann and Elmer."

  "Elmer? But why?" Michael said, stunned at yet another loss.

  "It was through his death that this northward pass was even made; he made this for us," Harmier answered.

  "Do you see the glowing marker?" Margarid pointed. "After he was consumed in the death of the great tree, the arrows have appeared all along this Elmer pass, pointing the way for us."

  Michael stared at the amber arrow, carried away by thoughts of all that had passed and all that had been lost. "The Arborists are gone, the city has fallen, the Priest King himself has taken the un-light from dragons, and the people have followed him. There is almost nothing l
eft to hope for."

  He spun around, tearing his gaze from the glowing icon and meeting the eyes of his weary friends. "And yet something still pulls at me! Something is not yet final. Something makes me think that all is not lost, at least not yet."

  "And what is that?" Fryon asked.

  "It seems as though the magic of the Arborists may have passed from their bodies, but not wholly left this darkened world of ours," Michael mused aloud. "And that ... that cannot be mere coincidence or happenstance. No. That must be done with some other design at hand. It has to be."

  "He is right, you know?" Georgina assured the group. "Have you noticed just how much brighter this passage has gotten since they have joined us? There has to be a reason for that too, doesn't there?"

  "Why, I do think the girl is right!" Celrod said, looking around the cavern.

  "But what about Kahri?" the butcher's wife asked. "Was that of some higher design, too?"

  "I cannot presume to account for her loss, nor whatever other miseries await us all," Michael responded honestly. "But I do not believe any piece of our journey to be meaningless."

  "Should we pray for her?" Georgina asked sheepishly. "I know it seems silly with all the loss the world has felt this day, but I do wish someone would speak the words over her."

  "Yes. Yes, of course we will," Michael assured her as he tousled her flaxen hair. He looked to Portus, silently asking the broad tanner if he wanted the closure of speaking this final prayer for Kahri.

  Portus looked out over the cavernous abyss behind them, then nodded to Michael. "May bones and breath be born again, in limb and tree and light. May flint and flame your soul reclaim ..." his voice trailed as a lone tear travelled down his cheek.

  "And dawn break through your night!" Michael said, finishing the ancient ritual for them, only this time he added his own words to the ancient prayer. He clasped Portus on the shoulder and the tanner nodded his thanks.

  "May it be so," came the gathered voices in unison. They embraced each other, this new remnant family, and wiped away their tears as they picked up their packs, knowing that the time had come for them to leave this place.