“Let go of me!” she screamed. “Let go.”
“Not a hope!” Kerian yelled back, determined not to give up. His hazel eyes blazed defiantly at the couple as the young man struggled to pull his terrified companion into the ferry against the pull of both Kerian and the river.
“Help me Stefan!” she screamed anew. “Get him off me.” There was a flash of steel and a dagger appeared in the young man’s hand. Kerian stared up in horror, knowing he could not let go and parry any attack or he would risk falling fully into the rushing water below. The maid screamed as her companion lunged with the blade, the weapon slicing through her pack and making it come away from her shoulder, dropping Kerian lower into the churning river. He hung on desperately, the drag from his weight through the water putting strain on the already jeopardised integrity of his lifeline. Stefan grinned at Kerian’s struggles then raised the dagger to cut the final tie.
“What are you doing?” the young woman wailed to her partner. “The gems are in my pack!” The smile melted from Stefan’s face in an instant, instead of trying to cut the bag he now realised he needed to cut loose the man holding it. He adjusted his hold on the dagger and leaned out over the side. Kerian stared up helpless, realising he had no room to manoeuvre, whilst swinging from the maid’s shoulder strap. He struggled to bring up his feet as the dagger flashed down, dragging the maid towards him and making the man’s attack miss completely, drawing a scream from the girl. He took in the sight of other passengers on the barge observing the turmoil and starting towards him, presumably seeing the image of an old man grabbing at a defenceless young girl.
“Thief!” Kerian yelled, desperate to make his case clear. “Thie...”
The dagger flashed inches before his face as Stefan lunged again, the blade catching on the material of the pack and slicing the back of Kerian’s clenched hand. Blood flowed from the wound but Kerian was determined to hang on as the waters beneath him churned and frothed.
People were yelling now, some confused, others amused by the entertaining event happening before their eyes. Kerian felt like his arms were ripping from his sockets but he refused to give in, determined not to let go. He swung up a leg, finally pulling it from the suction of the dragging water and tried to hook his arm around the maid’s struggling form. If he could pull her over the side with him, he could obtain his belongings without the outside interference of her dagger-wielding lover.
He tried to dig deep with the reserves of strength that remained, only to hear a loud rip that seemed to be much louder than the turmoil around him. Kerian stared wide-eyed as the stitching on the pack start to loosen beneath his hand, one strand popping free at a time. His boot slipped from its perilous perch as Stefan’s dagger slashed again, catching the material of the pack and finally severing it. Kerian found himself falling backwards into the brown water, the pack tearing open as he fell, a dazzling rainbow of tumbling multi-coloured gems twinkling after him.
The Mereya closed over Kerian’s head in a rush, barely leaving him time to gasp a breath before he found himself tumbling in the current, his body dragged downstream as the might of the storm waters took hold. His skin felt on fire as the cold torrent thundered across his body. His heart pounded loudly in his chest as the current hammered him down, the shield at his back jarring against the riverbed before he was flung upwards back into the daylight.
Kerian gasped as his head broke the surface, then floundered, dropping below the water, allowing some of the river to pass into his open mouth. He surfaced again, coughing and retching, disorientated and completely at the mercy of the flood. Flailing about with his arms, he tried to turn onto his back and float but the shield seemed determined to drag him down in the water. He bounced and spun about, turning first one way then the other, flashes of little shanty huts and tall silver blue trees whipping past his vision. He was out of breath, exhausted and in no condition to swim for shore.
Something wet and dark brown barrelled through the water towards him, making Kerian splutter in horror, tales of carnivorous water lizards playing cruelly in his mind. As it closed he realised it was a log that had been lifted by the floods upstream and sent down the river with all the other detritus. Kerian reached out as it angled past, flinging his weary arms across his makeshift float and thanking his unlikely saviour as he was swept away.
From his position of relative stability, Kerian was able to look around and spot both sides of the river. He took a deep shuddering breath, then identified the nearest shore, not sure exactly which side of the Mereya it actually was but determined to get out of the water and back onto dry land before a real water lizard or hungry fish decided to nibble on his aged form.
He cursed his luck at losing the maid and his gems, then took stock on his destination. It looked miles away from this low vantage point! He lowered his head and began a slow stroke to shore.
* * * * * *
It seemed as if hours had passed before the muddy bottom of the riverbed struck Kerian’s knee. He jerked initially, thinking something was attacking him, before looking up and seeing the tangled reed bed ahead of him. Dragging himself to his feet, slipping and sliding on the treacherous boggy ground at the edge of the river, he finally squelched free and crashed exhausted onto the grass. Time and place had no meaning. Kerian just wanted to close his eyes and sleep until he woke and then go to sleep some more.
“Uh hum!” came a familiar voice. “Are we disturbing you? Or are you still intent on chasing defenceless young women across the countryside?”
Kerian craned his neck and looked up to see its owner, complete with his ever-infectious smile sitting upon his horse, unfortunately the psychotic golden stallion followed close behind. Toledo whinnied as if laughing at his rider’s moist state and picked a tuft of tasty grass to nibble on, one eye glaring in Kerian’s direction. It snorted and shook its head, practically daring Kerian to consider getting on its back in his sodden condition.
“I see that whilst I have been obtaining supplies you have been taking a swim and getting some of the local beauty treatment.” Octavian continued, gesturing firstly at the mud splattered all over Kerian’s form and then behind him to where a small mule covered in supplies was trailing. “I thought the intention was to not cause problems and to keep a low profile?” he remarked rising one eyebrow. “The ferry is there for a reason. It is not a good idea to try and swim across otherwise everyone would be doing it.”
With a groan that felt as loud as every ache and pain he had, Kerian pulled himself wearily to his knees.
“Where are we?” he asked, with a mouth that felt filled with half of the riverbed. “Where is the ferry?”
“We are about half a mile downstream from the crossing.” Octavian replied. “There is no ferry anymore. The signal house is aflame, the oxen stampeded and the rope burned through. It appears whoever your elusive friends were; they are not keen on you being able to catch up with them again.” The gypsy shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Why is it that you appear to bring out this trait in most of the people who know you?” Kerian bit back his response and flicked a glob of mud from his tunic, sending it spiralling into the bull rushes.
“So how long before the ferry is fixed?” he asked, stealing himself for the answer he guessed would be coming. “A few hours… a couple of days?”
“More like weeks.” Octavian replied firmly, shaking his head again. “So I guess that sadly our journey is at an end. To think I worked so hard at getting Dorian the Donkey here. We will just have to return to Wellruff and think of some other way to pass the time.”
“I’m not letting those tradesmen get away with my pendant.” Kerian snarled, his ire starting to rise within him. He paced before the mounted gypsy, his mind churning in anger as the mud dribbled down from his clothes. “There must be a way. There just must be.” Octavian flushed, knowing the only option available but not willing to offer the dangerous lifeline.
Kerian paused as his mind
replayed what Octavian had told him about the region. Then he looked up at the young man and noticed the jovial nature had slid from his face, as if he had recognised Kerian had already concluded what he was dreading.
“Didn’t you say we could travel through the Vaarseeti Desert?”
“I told you before.” Octavian replied gritting his teeth. “There is nothing out there, nothing but miles and miles of shifting sand dunes. No settlements, no taverns, no ways to make money… nothing.”
“Well surely there are other travellers considering the route? I mean, now the ferry has broken.”
“They aren’t that stupid.” Octavian spat. “Besides, I did not agree to take you to such a place. You did not pay me enough for that.”
Kerian picked at a stubborn lump of mud lodged between his tunic and his neck, only to discover something hard within the mess. He brushed it off then stared at it hard as his companion continued complaining loudly. A glimmer of red glowed through the mud. Kerian continued polishing it between his finger, confirming he held a small ruby. It was the last gemstone he owned from the dragon horde, the last connection he had with the island where he had sacrificed everything for Colette apart from the shield he wore secured on his back.
He turned back to Octavian and flicked the gemstone towards the gypsy, who fumbled the catch and bounced the gem from hand to hand before he finally caught it and secured the jewel.
“Consider yourself paid.” Kerian smiled. “Just think of it this way. It’s the ideal opportunity for us to get away from it all.”
Chapter Twelve
Colette’s brow creased into a frown as she trailed her fingertip along the spines of the dust covered books in Rauph’s cabin. She knew what she was looking for had to be in one of these long undisturbed grimoires but the question was where? The mage reached forward and pushed a glass sphere to one side, the scarlet scorpion within, frozen in time, tail arched and pincers extended, in a pose it would retain forever.
The Anatomy of Magic, MacLeod’s Ancient Lore, Protection Against Psionic Attack, Herbology and the Identification of plants that can eat you, Jay’s Five Faces of Fear, Ye Monstrous Compendium, Grey’s Spell Anatomy, Practical Skills and Magical Diagnosis. Colette brow puckered further. She needed to find something to protect the ship, a spell that would mask them from scent as well as sight. Maybe transmogrification held the key, or maybe even a complex illusion?
Her finger slid to a halt, a drift of grey dust marking her journey’s end. Davidson’s Dark Arts. It was a cumbersome volume and Colette grunted as she slid the leather-bound tome free and carried it over to the large table the Minotaur used for his navigation, wrinkling her nose as dust rose from the book and tickled her nostrils.
The book creaked open, the spine cracking from such a long period of disuse. Colette paused for a moment, feeling the richness of the parchment making up the pages, gazing at the handwriting, the elaborate cursive swirls and loops and the illustrations penned with such incredible artistry. She hoped secretly that one day she would create her own volume but these thoughts were for later. The fact that the Scintarn Hounds had tracked the ship so successfully had the mage concerned. She needed to find a way to travel undetected, to mask them all and keep the remaining crew safe when they travelled through the ship’s graveyard.
They had lost too many. Thomas projected an image that was aloof and unfeeling but Colette could never act that way. The pressure of trying to protect everyone bore down on her like an invisible weight upon her shoulders.
The mage thought back, her mind remembering fellow travellers who had slipped away. Then she remembered hazel eyes and a weathered face that despite its sternness masked a heart of gold beneath. For a second her eyes watered before she brushed them sternly aside. A good mage always focuses on the task at hand, she could let her feelings show later.
Flipping the pages over to the index, Colette traced her finger down the page. There had to be something here. Philosopher’s Stone, Midas Touch, Wall of Force… Oh, this was so frustrating!
“Why don’t you help me?” she snapped, turning to the ruined chair in the corner of the cabin where a dark shape sat watching her silently. Her observer did not reply and simply stared out from his seated position because he was dead.
Colette stormed over to the chair, taking in the desiccated corpse sitting there, still attired in his magic robes, now coated in a thick layer of dust. Her blue eyes lingered on the mortal wound in the man’s chest, the result of a ghastly spear wound that had taken her mentor from this world of the living, leaving his spirit trapped in ghostly limbo.
“How can you sit there so silently Master Sumnar?” she yelled. “Do you care nothing for this crew? Do you just intend to brood in silence, allow more good people to die?” The high mage’s corpse remained silent, showing no signs of life, no movement of its head or bony gesture from its hands. Colette threw her arms up in frustration. It did no good trying to talk to her master when he apparently had no intentions of listening. The last time he had spoken was to shriek out the name of their Elven betrayer, Scrave, back at Stratholme.
“I don’t know why Thomas still permits your presence aboard Lucas Sumnar!” Colette snapped, dropping the master title to emphasise her disappointment. “It’s not as if you are holding the Wizardseeker any longer. If you don’t care about anyone, be gone from here.” She turned away heading for the door of the cabin. Her hand touched the handle of the door, intent on yanking it open and slamming it on her tutor when a dry rasping voice issued from the corner of the room.
“You cannot stop people from dying on the El Defensor…” the dead mage spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. “It is the curse of this vessel; you cannot prevent it any more than I could when I was alive. More are destined to die. Let them finally be at peace. Who are you to decide if this is right or wrong?” Colette moved to discuss the matter further, only to see that Lucas had lapsed back into silence. Her master just sat there, a dried husk, dead and unresponsive.
“It appears I was mistaken in believing you cared.” Colette replied, leaving the cabin and shutting the door behind her.
Silence descended on the room like a thick blanket, every sound on the ship muffled beneath its weight. Nothing moved within the room, even the orb containing the red scorpion refused to rock, despite the gentle movement of the El Defensor. A heavy sigh filled the air, long, drawn out, filled with emotion, like the gasp from a fresh cadaver moved for the first time.
Despite the sigh, the high mage’s corpse remained stationary, simply observing everything as if in quiet contemplation. Then in a slow, deliberate movement, one long bony digit twitched and the book of spells still lying open on the chart table flipped over a few more pages before falling open at a particular one.
Lucas Sumnar could do no more. He knew he had to conserve his strength. Dark times were coming for the crew of the El Defensor. He had seen them and he knew if he did not rest, he would not be able to help his friends when it really mattered.
* * * * * *
Thomas looked towards Rauph for some guidance, an indication that the Minotaur wanted them to break free from the troops boxing them in and preparing to march them away from the Fickle Fish but the navigator seemed in a daze, oblivious to the glances his captain was sending him.
What was wrong with the navigator? Why had he called the female Minotaur his mother? Was this where Rauph originally came from? Was this his home?
Thomas turned to check on his fellow crew members, Ives and Weyn, who were supporting the harbour master between them, the man’s face pale and etched with the agony of his shattered leg. Mathius had somehow managed to disappear in the confusion, blending in with the shadows and becoming one with the crowd as the Minotaur had rudely ushered them from the Inn. Even now loud crashes and cries of dismay rose from the crowd as several of the troops set about destroying the quaint establishment.
“No please don’t do that.” Thomas turned to Aelius the
captain of the guard, desperate to make a case for the innkeeper. “They did no harm. We went into the Fickle Fish and showed disrespect, not them.” The aged Minotaur tried to appear stern and uncaring but even he flinched when a flaming brand twirled through the air to land in the thatch of the building.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered so only Thomas could hear. “Examples have to be made to keep the population in line.”
Thomas felt the accusing look from the innkeeper land on him like a lash, although no physical contact was made, the mental blow was pain enough for the captain. He watched as the man hugged his sobbing wife and held the hand of his child, his gaze unfaltering and unforgiving.
“I will make this right.” Thomas shouted, as the Minotaur grouped together and commenced marching away, pushing the crew before them. “I swear I will make this right.” The captain stumbled on the cobbled surface and found when he regained his feet the face of the innkeeper was lost amongst the crowd but he had seen enough and swore he would keep his word, whatever it took. Ives nodded at Weyn as they picked up the pace, supporting the harbour master between them.
“See I told you so.” He grunted, gesturing to the smoke rising from the Fickle Fish. “Every time we find a nice place to eat it is always the same. Up it goes in smoke. I would really like to have an opportunity to eat somewhere twice!”
Weyn just kept his head down, taking swift glances at the crowd on either side of them and realising that their arrival was causing more than simple destruction. People were gesturing towards Rauph and appeared elated. He had seen this reaction from crowds once when a famous bard had come to sing, adoring fans, stretching and craning their necks for a glance of the famous singer and the opportunity to listen to his music. The thing was, as far as Weyn knew, Rauph was no singer. So why the adoration?
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