“That sounds perfectly plausible.” One crewmember said to another, as a loud clattering spread across the deck and weapons fell from open hands, making Miguel spin around in shock. What was everyone doing? Had they all gone mad? His crew were dropping their guns and pikes, walking away from the deck guns, leaving the nets and moving towards the old man and the flashing lights. Had they all lost their minds?
“What’s going on with them? Why are they all acting so stupid?” He turned to Cornelius for answers, only to see the lizard shaking his huge head and flicking his massive tail in an agitated manner. “What’s wrong with you? Snap out of it or I will make you into a pair of boots!” The huge reptile appeared unable to answer its captain’s question, so Miguel turned to its huge brother who appeared to be scratching his nose as if a large bug had landed there and was biting him.
Malum leaned in closer, his fans whirring and clicking, licking his lips at the feast to come.
“That’s right, you should all follow me now.” He hissed his deadly command. “I am sure there is enough room around the dinner table for all of you and when I am full, we can discuss with those who remain just how you know Thomas Adams and then how you can all help me catch him.”
Malum turned from the barge and started to pick his way across the wrecked ships, confident his clicking fans had the entire crew in their thrall. The Scintarn hounds moved to escort the mindless crew as they stepped one at a time off the skiff and started to wander unquestioningly towards their doom.
Miguel looked over at his lizard companions as his dazed crew walked past, gesturing that they grab Pheris as he dropped to the deck, sparks jumping from his cybernetic components.
“I’m really sorry Miguel but for some reason I don’t feel at all well.” The cyborg confessed before lapsing into silence. The buccaneer did not know what was going on but he had no intentions of leaving his cyborg companion behind.
A loud growl sounded from behind him, followed by several more from other huge hounds that had somehow managed to encircle them. Horatio turned offering his own deep-throated growl and an exaggerated thump of his tail, his earlier mesmerised state now apparently forgotten but Miguel stayed the lizard’s hand.
“Let’s just follow for now.” He whispered. “Just pick up as many weapons as you can and then we can carefully assess the situation before we act. I do not want to show this creature how strong you and Cornelius are. Nobody messes with Miguel Garcia and lives to talk about it.” The lizards, Miguel and the cyborg slowly moved across the deck, the two huge monsters picking up additional weapons as they walked, harried by drooling Scintarn hounds that snapped and growled menacingly at their heels.
Silence descended on the deck of the William O’Rielly as the straggling group slowly moved away. The silence stretched on for many minutes, allowing time for any imaginary shades of the dead to retake her rotting decks, before one small forgotten pile of refuse suddenly sprouted two small grubby hands and feet and detached itself from the deck where the Scintarn had stood. The rubbish pile shuffled and clanked across the ship then dropped onto the wallowing skiff and started eagerly digging through the contents of the ship’s stores, foraging technological components and stuffing food into its pockets.
If there was one thing this moving pile of garbage could do… it was survive.
Chapter Ten
Kerian attempted to rein in Toledo on the hill overlooking the port town of Wellruff and ended up with the stubborn stallion turning in an agitated circle rather than do as his rider commanded. The horse snorted loudly in derision at such attempts to control his spirit and pawed the ground in protest as Kerian took in the predawn scene of the meandering path behind them.
Their rapid, if roundabout, departure from Wellruff had gone much easier than Kerian had expected. It appeared that the attentions of people focused more on the disaster of the market square and the hypnotic effect of the crackling flames consuming the stalls, than the two riders moving away from the scene. They had kept to the side streets, only stopping at the Lusty Mermaid to collect Kerian’s saddlebags under much vocal protest from Octavian. This unexpected detour did have some merits, by heading back into town, before then moving out again, they avoided the crowds of people heading to witness the fire.
Octavian followed in Kerian’s wake, his face tense, head down watching the ground in front of his mount, as if the weight of the world was upon his shoulders. Kerian was unsure what thoughts were passing through his travelling companion’s mind but with the look of him, they did not appear to be happy ones. Maybe the thought of leaving Wellruff was preying on him. He clearly had no job to go back to; the thick column of billowing black smoke rising into the heavens from the market district was proof of that.
Kerian squinted and tried to note the small frantic shapes of people running around trying to put out the fire but the distance was too great. He tried to visualise in his mind where the Tulip was dry-docked, scanning the skyline trying to identify where she lay but he was unable to locate her. Then he tried to trace the cluttered rooftops for some sign of the Lusty Mermaid and finally gave the whole thing up as Octavian rode up alongside him.
“Why so glum?” Kerian quipped, trying to break the gypsy from his morose state. “The weather is with us; the sky looks clear. It is a perfect day to get out on the road. At least with this early start we will miss most of the other travellers upon this road.”
Octavian looked up at Kerian and shrugged indifferently before continuing to push his horse past Toledo and advance along the trail.
“Oh yes this was a great idea,” he mumbled as he passed. “No supplies, no water and a companion who leaves chaos in his wake.”
“Who me?” Kerian replied, feigning insult. “I don’t leave chaos; I create new opportunities. Your job was going nowhere, you were gambling most evenings trying to make money, gaining the wrong kind of friends. It was only a matter of time before you found yourself run out of town or strung up somewhere. Look at this as a liberation, a chance to wipe the slate clean and make an honest living.”
“The only problem with an honest living is it doesn’t pay the bills.” Octavian responded. “How am I going to raise funds out here?”
“What debt do you owe?” Kerian enquired, his tone changing from jovial to concerned as he realised that he had hit a nerve.
“My debt is my own.” Octavian shot back. “It is mine to carry, much like the one I now have with you.”
“At least mine is getting you out in the fresh air, seeing the sites and living life.” Kerian smiled.
“I was living life just fine in Wellruff.” Octavian replied over his shoulder.
“Where are we heading?” Kerian shouted after him, struggling to make Toledo move and failing miserably.
“We shall strike towards the ferry at Lichfield.” Octavian replied, ducking to avoid an overhanging branch. “If we hurry, we should catch the noon sailing. If we miss it there is a long wait and there is no other way to cross the Mereya, unless we head across the mountains into the Vaarseeti Desert…” he paused and muttered under his breath. “…and we don’t want to be going that way.”
Kerian nudged Toledo again trying to turn the stallion to follow Octavian’s passage but a tasty tuft of grass was taking the horse’s attention and he was not moving on until this morsel had been fully chewed and ingested. Kerian looked back over his shoulder at Octavian and then turned his attention back to his horse preparing to give the stallion a stern scolding.
As his head turned, he caught the rising sun just cresting the far horizon. Dawn was upon them. A sudden sharp pain of loss hit him, stabbing deeply into his heart and making breathing difficult. Colette! He was straying further and further away from Colette. The blow compounded by the thought he would not be able to see her beautiful face in the pendant. He had no idea if she was well, if she still loved him as much as his heart ached for her. He longed to be at her side, scenting her perfume, captivated by her enchanting
smile and drowning in her deep blue eyes.
“I am coming for you.” He whispered. “Keep safe until I can be with you again. I know you cannot hear me, I realise this is madness but I love you and I want to be with you forever. I promise this is only temporary. I will be back soon and I will sail to hell and back in the Tulip to find you. Just wait a little longer.”
He choked back his emotions and turned angrily to the horse, unaware that his promise to return would become just empty words snatched away by the wind.
“If you don’t get moving, I swear I’m going to have you cut up for steaks.” He threatened the stubborn horse beneath him. Toledo swung his head up from the grasses and turned a baleful eye towards his rider, as if to say ‘I would love to see you try’ before dropping his attention back to the grass once more.
Kerian snatched the reins roughly on the right side, tugging Toledo’s head up and over. The stallion snatched the reins back and turned to the left almost unseating his rider at the unexpected manoeuvre, before reluctantly picking up the pace and heading off after Octavian, making sure his path wove beneath every low hanging branch as he did so.
* * * * * *
The Monastery of St Fraiser was serene and calm, a place of worship and quiet reflection where scholars wandered the halls of the multi-tiered circular library, their shuttered lanterns casting mute light and flickering shadows along spines of books and rolls of faded dusty parchment that contained knowledge from the ages. The whisper of robes across the marble floor, complemented soft steps of sandaled feet, as hooded monks moved from shelf to shelf in pursuit of the elusive wisdom secreted within these hallowed halls. The library never closed to those who required its wealth of learning.
When Justina had assumed control of the library, the scholars decided not to notice. The new mistress removed no books, changed no access rights. Life for these monks, in whom the rustling page of a book and the curling cursive letters it contained were sacrosanct, continued as always, with another lead to chase, another story or enigma to pursue. What did it matter who was in charge as long as they were free to visit other worlds within the pages of the treasured tomes stored here?
The only change for those who paid attention, were a selection of newly appointed guards spaced evenly around the many floors of the library, their hourly patrols marching around the hub of the great hall at the centre of the ancient many storied building, an unspoken element of frustration. Studded leather armour clinked loudly against buckles and belts, heavy boots left marks across the marble floor and maces leant against bookcases tripped the unwary bookworm who failed to lift his nose from his obsessions in time.
If the scholars lifted their attention from their books, maybe taking a moment to consider the words illustrated within a book or scroll, they often turned to the centre of the library, where the great hall was located. The focal point of this airy space was the effigy of St Fraiser, the figurehead responsible for creating the order of monks’ centuries before. The effigy rose up beyond fifty feet in height, with a dais beneath adding even more stature to the imposing powerful figure.
Numerous animals, frozen in time, stood all around the monk: A wren on his outstretched hand tweeting long silent tales observers could only guess at, a squirrel on his shoulder, nibbling on an acorn, whilst whispering into the saint’s ear. Field mice slid down folds of his robes and a fox stood to silent attention at his feet, the carvings so lifelike that many a visitor stood awed. A hedgehog balanced on St Fraiser’s sandaled foot, its little spines piercing the hem of the saint’s robe. There was even a fowl standing slightly away from the sculpture, its front leg skilfully carved to flow into the traveller’s robes, the tiny deer appearing to move in with no sign of fear in its posture, eyes wide, nose up as if sniffing the air. This attention to every minor detail, every nuance of the traveller, displaying the love and affection the order held towards their founder.
In the Saint’s free hand rested a large ledger, known to all of the priests and monks studying within the halls. It was a larger than life copy of the very first volume added to the library, its pages detailing the journey and observations of the travelling scholar. The huge book hung open, a worn rosary draped across the page. On the end of the rosary, suspended from the beads hanging freely over the edge of the ledger, a pendant shaped as a flaming cross, the token of the order of St Fraiser.
The glass ceiling high above the statue displayed the grey clouds scudding across the crowded sky outside. On a day when the sun graced the heavens, the light would beam down into the hall, serving as further reminder that their learned founder was truly blessed but today everything was cloaked in foreboding shadow.
No one noticed the ripple that started to form in one of the darkened alcoves, the distortion of shadow, the wavering mirage created by heat on a summer’s day. A solitary gold coin suddenly appeared from the distortion, dropping to the wooden floor of the library and bouncing on its ancient pitted edge, rolling and spinning past the shelves. One edge of the coin was slightly melted, the regal profile of a long distant king softened by heat, age and the passage of the currency from hand to hand.
The scowl from the nearest scholar, upset at the disruption from his studies fell sourly on the nearest innocent guard. The man stared down at his feet, shrugging his shoulders as the golden coin rolled past him heading for the balcony that opened out overlooking the statue of St Fraiser. With a skilful stamp of his foot, the guard’s boot came down on the free rolling currency, stopping its movement and allowing silence to return to the room. The man bent down to pick up the coin, his eyes scanning for the possible owner to suddenly come crashing from the bookshelves in hot pursuit. The yellow metal felt uncomfortably hot in his hand.
A loud disapproving tut issued from the scholar as the monk returned to his books, his eyebrow raised in irritation. The guard shrugged his innocence before glancing at the treasure he tossed from hand to hand in disbelief. This was nearly a year’s wages he held! His luck was in today. He took one quick look around, then popped the gold piece into his pocket and placed his singed hands behind his back, trying to look innocent.
The rattle of two more coins bouncing and spinning across the floor raised further disgust from the scholar whose quill skipped across the parchment before him at the disruption. The guard wiped his hand through his hair, pulled a strained face before marching towards the currency his booted feet coming down on the money and killing their motion dead with two loud stamps.
A wide smile spread across the guard’s face as he bent down to collect the new coins, only to watch with disbelief as a sudden deluge of gold and silver pieces started to rain from out of thin air. He ran forwards, determined to pocket as much of the treasure that was suddenly coming to him before he skidded to a halt as two humanoid figures materialised before him and crashed onto the library floor.
Eyes wide, he took in the battered yet unmistakable figure of the high priestess as she struggled to regain her feet, tripping over the hem of her robes and staggering as if slightly disorientated. The male figure behind her groaned and vomited before trying to grab her leg with an outstretched arm that looked as if it had been skinned. Muscles lay bare to the air and for a second the guard wanted to believe the movement was an illusion, the figure had to be a corpse that had simply been caught up with Justina as she had teleported here from wherever the gold coins had come from. Until the corpse spoke in a rasping voice that sent chills up the man’s spine.
“What have you done to me?” Scrave groaned, spittle dribbling from his lips. “Why do I feel so dizzy and sick? What twisted sorcery have you cast?”
“It’s the side effects of teleporting such a long distance. Don’t you know that spell?” Justina gasped, holding tightly onto one of the book cases for support as her demonic familiar ran up her arm and sought sanctuary in the shadows of the ceiling. Scrave retched heavily, before lifting his emaciated head and staring at her with undisguised venom in his eye.
“I
would not have needed your assistance if I knew how to teleport!” he snapped, rolling onto his knees and attempting to pull himself up from the floor before crashing down onto his backside and lying there groaning as if the very ground beneath him were rolling about in high seas. At least he was away from the accursed temple. He was finally free. He lay back and closed his eyes, palpable relief flooding through his emaciated form.
The guard moved forward, slipping the wicked mace from his belt. The discussion between the two people clearly signifying his mistress was not friendly with her companion. Maybe if he assisted her there would be more gold coins as a reward? He lifted his weapon intent on smashing the hard-studded iron ball down onto the charred figure before him, only to find his eyes torn from the grisly creature by the sight of the elaborate double-bladed golden dagger wrapped tightly up the man’s arm.
The golden scales winked in the little light that filtered into the bookshelves. It was so life-like as if the weapon was alive, which was impossible of course. He moved closer, determined to wrestle the dagger from the fallen figure. Ruby eyes blinked and a warning hiss rose from the blade just as his mace began its devastating downward swing.
Scrave’s desiccated eyelids shot open at the sound. He saw the studded weapon hurtling down towards him and rolled away with inches to spare. The mace crashing onto the ground with an impact that jarred every scratching quill within fifty feet.
“Kill him!” Justina screamed, having recovered from the disorientation of her spell, galvanising the guards within ear shot to rush to her command. “I want his Elven head!” The exhausted Elf rolled again, coming up hard against a bookcase as the guard’s enthusiastic attack brought the mace smashing down in an arc of destruction, catching the shelf inches above him and decimating the books stacked there. Manuscripts, errant paper pages, jagged splinters and a billow of disturbed dust filled the air, blocking the guard’s view and allowing Scrave to scoot away from the man who found himself sneezing repeatedly. The Elf dived into the darkness between the shelves, the dagger writhing angrily on his arm.
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