A Home in the Hills

by Robert J. Crane

  At last, within a foot of the Prenasian, Burund stopped and spoke, in a language Jasen did not understand. The Prenasian stared into Burund’s face with a steely, unreadable gaze. His sword gleamed dully in the faint sunlight that permeated the constant haze of cloud. He was so close, all it would take was one easy swing, and Burund’s head would go toppling from his body.

  How could the shipmaster just stand there?

  Burund tried again, saying something else. If he could have torn his eyes away, Jasen would have searched for Kuura or Huanatha to ask them for a translation, to learn whether the anxiety that caused his heart to beat so furiously in his throat was justified.

  The Prenasian cut Burund off, his voice a deep baritone, but his words, whatever they meant, hard and sharp.

  Burund opened his mouth to answer, but

  the Prenasian grasped him by one shoulder.

  Jasen hardly had time to gasp—he was certain the blade would flash, blurring in a streak, cutting through their shipmaster—but then Burund was shoved around. A knee rose, slamming him in the back of the leg—and with a pained grunt, he went down. The Prenasian bowed with him halfway, still clasping a fold of his tunic in a tight fist, knife extended across his throat, where it hovered, yet to draw blood.

  He barked orders back toward the boats. Already men were dismounting.

  The mammoth yellow creatures lumbered up after them. So heavy they threatened to topple the rowboats, they were ungainly things, clad in only loincloths. Dull eyes assessed the men arrayed on the isle’s shore.

  Suddenly there was shouting, a cacophony running through the Lady Vizola’s crew. Weapons were drawn from—Jasen didn’t even know where. Kuura withdrew a dagger concealed around his back. Hamisi leapt up, lifting his spear high—

  Alixa gripped Jasen’s arm. “What do we do?” she cried over the sudden noise.

  Jasen opened his mouth to answer, “I don’t know,” but Huanatha spared him. Barreling across to them, Longwell in tow with his lance at the ready, she bellowed, “Get back! Behind me!” And she bundled her arms around them, thrusting them backward.

  Jasen staggered and tripped. Alixa fell over him.

  Scourgey whined.

  “What’s happening?” Alixa asked.

  “Just keep back!” Huanatha said. She’d drawn the stubby remainder of Tanukke from her sheath, where she’d had to tie it to keep it from falling out now that some four-fifths of the blade had been shattered.

  Jasen and Alixa watched with fearful eyes as the Prenasian crew spilled out onto the island, outnumbering the Lady Vizola’s people by a good margin, their superior numbers bolstered by the massive yellow beasts that lumbered behind them.

  The Lady Vizola’s crew put up a valiant effort—for all of thirty seconds. Half were disarmed in a few moments, simply overwhelmed. Another third ran, but were quickly caught, either by Prenasians or the huge beasts they commanded. The remainder, mostly those led by Hamisi, swung with their weapons frantically, shouting curses and threats until they were swarmed, beaten down, and then their weapons wrestled from their hands.

  A second captain from the rowboats, this one with long, dark hair spilling down his back, tied with string every few inches so that it bulged like a string of beads, was interrogating Burund. Leering down from where Burund knelt, his hands behind his head, he snapped off question after question.

  The man with the blade to Burund’s throat scoured the isle with his calm grey eyes—so damned cold, they were.

  When they settled upon Jasen, cowering behind Huanatha and Longwell, he felt as though a bucket of freezing water had been tipped down his spine from the base of his skull.

  This captain said something to his companion, something entirely too quiet. Chills came to rest in Jasen’s belly.

  The companion glanced over, taking in Jasen—Huanatha, actually, and Longwell. A faint light of interest sparked momentarily in his gaze; then he waved the other captain off, pointing him toward the camp, by the look of it. The captain who’d downed Burund answered with a nod, then withdrew his blade from Burund’s neck and strode off, gathering men with staccato, shouted orders.

  Jasen watched them recede as Burund remained on his knees, a stiff look of pain pursing his lips.

  “What are they doing?” Jasen whispered.

  “Looting,” Longwell answered quietly. “Scoundrels. They’ll take everything they can lay their hands on.” He shook his head.

  “Why aren’t they bothering us?” Alixa asked.

  “Oh, they want to,” said Huanatha. “Believe me. They want to.” But she said no more—and so Jasen and Alixa had little choice but to watch from behind hers and Longwell’s backs as the Prenasians arrayed the Lady Vizola’s crew in a long line. Their weapons were tossed into a heap, where a pair of Prenasians looked through them—scouring for any of actual use, by the looks. They set aside a handful of daggers. Most were discarded. Hamisi’s spear was granted hardly a look before being tossed into the fire.

  The men from the Lady Vizola were patted down. Their pockets were emptied, possessions pulled out. Anything not of use was tossed into the fire. Items the Prenasians perceived to have value were transferred to their own pockets.

  The men were then stripped down to their undergarments. A few fought this indignity, Hamisi among them. He received a nasty welt on his face, already swelling, as a result. Jasen couldn’t help but admire Hamisi’s resistance, foolhardy though it was.

  The long-haired captain finished interrogating Burund just as the first of his crew returned from the encampment, carrying barrels of water, one apiece. He questioned them quickly—asking about the barrels’ contents, Jasen presumed—and then directed his people toward the rowboats.

  Then, at last, his gaze once more settled upon Huanatha and Longwell and Jasen and Alixa—and he set off for them.

  “Oh no,” Alixa breathed, at Jasen’s side. She gripped him, so fiercely tight that her nails surely drew blood of their own.

  Scourgey growled low in her throat.

  “Easy, scourge,” Longwell muttered. “Make this simple for us.”

  The captain clambered over the rocks, never once looking away from the four clustered people apart from the Lady Vizola’s crew. This close, Jasen could see that the tattoos winding across his chest were jagged fractals, turning end on end over and over. Only on one side did they terminate below his ear. At the other, a single inky line swept across his cheek, reaching its end left of the bridge of his nose with a large dot.

  He neared to striking distance.

  The sour smell came from this man in waves, catching in the back of Jasen’s throat.

  He stymied a cough. Likewise, he tamped down on the urge to bolt, even as his legs were electrified, warm, black adrenaline coursing through his veins, and his heart thundering in his throat.

  Unlike Hamisi and the other fighters, Jasen recognized that—at least so far—if he just went along easily with these Prenasians, the worst he would receive was a muscling about.

  The Prenasian man studied them all. His gaze lingered on Longwell a moment longer than Huanatha, and on her longer than Jasen and Alixa.

  Finally—“And who are you all?” he said, in heavily accented Luukessian. “To be sailing aboard a Coricuanthian merchant ship?” His expression held the a hint of a smile, but it was neither pleasant nor polite.

  “I am Lord Longwell of Reikonos,” announced Longwell in a commanding voice. He hefted his lance, and replanted its haft on the rock underfoot with a solid thunk.

  “Lord Longwell,” said the captain, very seriously, drawing out both title and name. The smile on his face disappeared, his features schooling themselves into something more plain—and, ironically, a much more polite expression than the veiled smile he had worn moments before. “You are known to us, and recognized. I accord you full honors.” He bowed, slightly. “I am Rakon Brenjaack, of Farthoon, First City of Prenasia.”

  “Pleasant day to you, Rakon,” said Longwell. There was only the sl
ightest bit of civility in his otherwise uninflected voice. He did not extend a hand to shake, or relax his posture; he remained only in that guarded position, chest thrown out and shoulders back, the lance gripped in his fist, unmoved.

  Rakon did not move to extend a hand either. Instead he turned quizzical eyes upon Huanatha. That ghost of a smile returned. This time, Jasen decided it was patronizing, almost predatory.

  “And who are you, my dear?”

  Huanatha bared her teeth. “I am not your dear,” she spat back. “I am Huanatha, queen of Muratam.”

  Rakon’s eyebrows rose. “Queen of the Muratam,” he repeated, drawing the title out.

  “Such a strong grasp of language,” Huanatha replied with a sneer.

  Rakon laughed, a dry boom that was over as soon as it had started. “Oh, your majesty …you are known to us.” The brief humor that had crossed his place vanished. “Your title carries no weight with Prenasia. Commendations for trying, though. Nevertheless, because of your ties to Chaarland,” he said, “you will be accorded with the same treatment as Lord Longwell.”

  Huanatha glared. “What kindness.”

  “This is not kindness,” said Rakon. “Chaarland is a trade partner. I see no profit in antagonizing one of their protectees.”

  His eyes flicked over Jasen and Alixa.

  “And these?” he said, directing the question over both their heads.

  “My wards,” said Longwell, not so quick that he would appear suspect, but before Jasen or Alixa could take it upon themselves to answer. “Jasen and Alixa—my servants.” He gestured to each in turn.

  Rakon granted them barely a look, before moving on to Scourgey.

  His flattened nose screwed up even further still. “What is that?”

  “Our pet,” said Jasen. His quick answer drew a raised eyebrow from Rakon, but whatever Rakon thought of Jasen’s response, he was sidetracked by disgust at the sight of Scourgey. He wrinkled his nose, brushing it with a wide fist, tattooed with angular drawings, in an attempt to swipe the rancid smell away. Nevertheless, he conceded, “Very well. I suppose one more … passenger … thing … will not be too much trouble.”

  “You’re extending passage to us?” Longwell asked.

  Rakon nodded. “That I am, Lord Longwell. Conditionally,” he added, holding up a finger. “You will not be permitted to carry your weapon aboard Galley 324—neither of you,” he added, directing Huanatha a short glance—her title meaningless, this conversation was for Rakon and Longwell only.

  Longwell asked, “And what will become of it?”

  “It will be returned to you,” Rakon said, “at our next port of call.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Rakon.” He did not hand it over, though, and neither did Huanatha move to deprive herself of the stub of Tanukke.

  Jasen couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The warriors retained their weapons—for now. If they were to take passage with the Prenasians—and surely that would be soon—then heels could not be dug in any longer—and their weapons would be divested.

  “I assume that you will be traveling with us,” said Rakon, not quite questioning. Once more, he directed this entirely at Longwell; Huanatha, Jasen and Alixa’s answers were of zero importance. “Unless you are, perhaps, waiting on … other means of passage?”

  Longwell did not answer this. He did say, though, “We would be most grateful to join you. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps later we can discuss how the Lord Protector of Reikonos and his servant children—and a disgraced queen—” Rakon’s gaze flicked over Huanatha “—came to be stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of lowly merchants. Many questions, I have, many questions indeed …”

  Huanatha seethed, but she held her tongue—quite probably only because of Longwell’s subtle touch to her wrist.

  The dragoon replied instead. “I would be happy to answer them for you, at a more opportune time than this.”

  “I look forward to it.” Rakon flashed a disingenuous smile.

  Longwell answered it with a small raise of his own lips.

  One of Rakon’s fellow captains called to him. He turned, shouted something back, and then began marching the Lady Vizola’s crew, stripped and now tied together by two lengths of rope, one around each man’s ankle, the other binding their wrists, toward the rowboats perched upon the shore.

  Guilt shot through Jasen’s chest. “What’s happening to them?”

  Rakon shot him a peculiar look. “There is a war on—do you not know?”

  “My wards are not typically privy to global matters,” said Longwell.

  “Of course,” Rakon nodded. Looking down at Jasen with false kindness, he said, “Amatgarosa has done much to collapse its relations with our good land. Now our wrath falls upon them, and sailors who are suspected of doing trade with the enemy—as these men are,” he said, looking at the backs of the Lady Vizola’s crew and baring his teeth, “are subject to immediate seizure and press-ganging into the Prenasian navy. All hands are required in this time of crisis.”

  Jasen stared in stupefied horror. The Lady Vizola’s people were being forced into naval service? Made slaves?

  “But don’t worry,” said Rakon, as Kuura, and then Burund last of all, were shoved into the last of the waiting rowboats. “You won’t be a part of that. Clearly, you are not a sailor.” He nodded, eyeing Jasen’s hands—which were soft, not calloused, like the men of the Lady Vizola.

  “Await us here,” Rakon said to Longwell after a moment. “We will have another boat for you shortly.”

  “You have my word,” said Longwell.

  Rakon boomed that dry laugh again, and then he was off, striding for that last rowboat awaiting him.

  As soon as he’d stepped aboard, the rowers began, their long oars dipping into the water over and over in perfect synchronicity. Despite the winds that had pushed the warship inland, the little craft moved swiftly through the waters, past the shattered Lady Vizola and the rocks she had been broken upon … and toward the galley, on which the crew would become—

  Jasen’s heart thumped in his throat. Slower now, it seemed not to pulse blood through him but waves of guilty nausea.

  The Lady Vizola’s crew were captive to the Prenasians.

  And, like their wreck upon this wretched rock—it was all his fault.

  7

  The poetically named Prenasian War Galley 324 was a behemoth. It had to be, to carry four additional rowboats, each capable of holding ten men plus those oversized, ugly yellow creatures—trolls, Longwell said they were called—plus a handful of captives. It positively teemed: the forty who’d sailed out were but a fraction of the galley’s complement. Many were arrayed on the deck, ushering the Lady Vizola’s crewmates to work almost as soon as their bare feet touched the dark wood. More manned the sails, twisting and pulling them around, fighting the gusts.

  Rakon rode the boat with Longwell, Huanatha, Jasen, Alixa and Scourgey, who sat cowering and whimpering from the time she was coaxed aboard. Rakon seemed to take some joy in this and watched Scourgey with faint interest. A ghostly smile lifted the corners of his mouth every time a shallow wave caused the rowboat to bob like a seesaw as it crested it, and Scourgey whined louder than ever.

  As soon as they had boarded the war galley, Rakon barked an order to several blue-skinned sailors aboard the deck. They answered with what Jasen assumed was their language’s version of Aye! and rushed for the rear of the ship, where a great wheel wound with chain stood, a pair of levers on each side. The chain, easily the width of Jasen’s waist, descended into a hole in the deck. The men began to turn the wheel. Heavy though it must have been, their slow progress looked almost easy.

  Jasen didn’t have long to be impressed. Rakon swiftly diverted him, via Longwell, through a door that led into the ship.

  This entrance could never accommodate trolls. They must get inside someplace else, Jasen thought. With all the activity on deck though, obscuring the smaller decks atop the galley, Jasen
hadn’t been able to see. And Rakon had been quick to get them inside.

  “We have spare quarters,” he was saying to Longwell, leading the way.

  “Excellent,” Longwell answered. He still had his lance, though Jasen was sure it would be taken from him soon.

  The passages inside were bare. Not that the Lady Vizola had had a great deal of decoration, but Prenasian War Galley 324 had none at all: just wood boards, nailed together.

  Jasen had initially felt that the Lady Vizola, with its tight spaces and many rooms and turns, was something of a labyrinth. He’d managed to get his head around the layout quite quickly, in the end, but then it was not an over-large ship anyway, he realized, once they’d docked at the Aiger Cliffs and he’d seen some of the other vessels moored there.

  The war galley really was a maze, though. With no markers whatsoever to orient by, the crew must be operating entirely on memory. A smart design choice for a war galley, Jasen supposed—if they were ever boarded by external attackers, it would be easy for the enemy to get utterly lost in here. But he could not help but realize that it also meant any attempts to escape would be severely hampered.

  Jasen pushed away the thought for now. They’d barely left the isle of Baraghosa, and the next port was many days off, even if it were only half the distance from here to the Aiger Cliffs. For now, at least, they weren’t going anywhere.

  After numerous twists and turns, Rakon led them to a room barred by a locked door in a corner—one of many; the war galley seemed to be filled with the damned things. He retrieved a single key from somewhere in his clothing and unlocked the door. Just as quickly, the key was vanished away—though not before Jasen stole the briefest of glances at it. Nothing like any key he had ever seen, it was a very thin bar of dark metal, bent and folded into square angles. Small teeth rose from it in spindly slivers.

  The door opened to a little cube of a room, with a single bed in it, bolted to the floor. It had no window.

  “Your wards may stay here,” said Rakon, gesturing inside. “They are happy to share, are they not?”