Shards

by James Duvall

  Sapphire hurried out of the cupboard and hopped up into the little alcove with the window in it. The moon flowers were still in their pots on the sill, unmolested. At least there was that. She moved them outside and placed them behind the lab where they could not be seen from the road, but might still get rain and light.

  "We can't stay here anymore," Sapphire said, to which Dawn nodded. She could tell he was eager to leave and would have been perfectly happy if she made for Nothnor right then and left the island on the next airship through the gate. That was not going to happen though, not when Faralon's journal spoke of other treasures hidden on the island, and the humans had gone to such trouble to mark them for her. An Arlorian focus was a great treasure, and this was only the first. It alone could buy a small city, and if there were others, well... "We're going to the Mistwood."

  "For another herb?" Dawn asked. He looked skeptical.

  "No, the journal has another treasure marked there. There's a third at the Storm Riot, but I'd rather be warm for a few nights if its all the same." She did not also add that the Storm Riot seemed to be one of the most dangerous places on Merindi. It did not need to be said. On clear days, travelers could see the clouds swirling over it, lightning crashing down all around the peak like spears dropped down from the highest reaches to form crackling prison bars around the captive mountain.

  Dawn looked up toward the distant peak. It was early evening, and the lightning left a glow in the sky even after it had passed. "The Mistwood is not safe either," he noted.

  Any good alchemist knew that a mist field was not safe, and the Mistwood was a mist field that was days across, no doubt large enough to ward off all but the most seasoned of mistweavers. There, the mist welled up in a deciduous forest, deep in the island's interior. People talked about the mist fields with a sort of reverence that Sapphire had long ago grown used to. Strange things lurked in the mist; things that could devour a man in the blink of an eye and leave naught but memories to mark his grave. Perhaps this was because mist fields always seemed to coalesce in the lonely places of the world, so far flung from civilization that all manner of wonderful and horrible things might thrive.

  Or perhaps it is the opposite, Sapphire thought ruefully. She wondered if the mist brought about these woes and civilization had learned to stay away much like a cub learned to avoid the flame, lest they be burned. The mistweaver came to mind, balding and gray-eyed with skin so ashen and white. Somewhere in his life he had wandered too close to the flame and been burned. The mist had done him no favors. Was he like that before? What had he seen in the darkness?

  Sapphire saw a feather lying on the ground. She turned it slowly in her claws, seated on her haunches with her tail curled along the ground behind her for balance. The Twilight Hour was near and she squinted at it in the evening light. The feather bothered her deeply. It had been a few days since she had trapped the lighthound in the lab, casting him into a world of darkness if only for a few minutes. Her people were known for their love of the light, a trait they shared with the lighthounds. It was not a kind act on her part, but in a moment of desperation it had been her best option. She could feel the weight of the book in her satchel, crammed in alongside Carrol's. Both were of great value to her now, and she would not give them up. Looking at the feather made her feel uncomfortable. It made her feel that she had made a mistake, but trapping the lighthound had been her only option. It had left him vulnerable, yes, but he was the kind of creature that came out stronger for such an experience.

  "Have you ever seen an amulet like the one that silver-eyed dragoness was wearing?" Dawn asked, stirring Sapphire from her guilt.

  "I haven't," she answered. "But it felt... I think it might have been cursed."

  From his viewing platform, Dawn's own senses were very limited. He might have sensed the magic drawn away from the Dawn Shard, but he could not have known the great evil that Sapphire had felt carried on the sickly green light. Not that the light itself looked like it could mean anything nice, but the sensation was much stronger than Sapphire was used to. Her past experiences with hexes stacked up to the amulet like a series of calm summer rainstorms leading up to a hurricane.

  "That must be the bond she spoke of," Dawn said, rubbing his chin. Sapphire stopped to watch him. It was a very human mannerism, something he had no doubt picked up from his 'father.'

  "What?" Dawn asked, blinking at her. Sapphire shook her head and chuckled softly, then returned to packing away what equipment she could carry with her.

  That night the luminarians left the lab behind them and ventured into the dark interior of Merindi's woodlands. The forest spilled down from the mountains and over the foothills like a great waterfall of green that pooled at the heart of the island in the thick Mistwood. In the distance Sapphire could see the soft blue radiance, and hear the howls of creatures come to feed upon its mystical provender.

  Chapter 13

  Evelyn Thatch

  The Mistwood, Isla Merindi, Pendric Shard

  Prior to the Shattering, the region now known as Firevane Falls was a hilly grassland with several small farming towns sprung up around mills through one central river. Deshym's bridgers instead found a mountainous land of many rivers, with a waterfall hundreds of feet high that glowed like red flame at night.

  From Shardwalls, A History

  Timothy pushed the tent flap aside and let it brush against him as he quietly stepped into the dark campground. The air was bitter cold, pushed back by the smoldering fire pit. Eyes peered out from the darkened trees, reflecting back the golden glow of the fire. All around Timothy's feet a thin haze had begun to form, rolling in like a fog that clung to the ground. It was a milky mixture of blues and greens, and it gave off an otherworldly light.

  "There's at least three of 'em, captain," Willoughby said in a hushed voice. This time, Timothy did not correct him for the improper use of the title. Willoughby had his sword drawn and was prodding at one of the crewmen to wake him. "Bad time for sleepin' lad."

  Aebyn hissed and the shadowy figure to the north drew back, but did not retreat. Timothy turned a slow circle, sword raised. The campground was surrounded, but there seemed to be no immediate threat of attack. The three in the woods were outnumbered. Timothy counted seven among his number, eight counting Aebyn, who was until that moment untested in combat. The rest would likely join the fight as soon as it began, which was likely any moment if the bandits realized their targets were awake and grouping up to repel an attack.

  "They'll be bringing reinforcements," someone said in a voice so low as to nearly be lost to the whisper of wind and crackle of the fire. "If they see us forming up, they'll attack."

  Timothy squinted against the faint light and made out Henry Torvald's form. He was second mate. "Right. We can't wait for their backup. We rush the northern lookout."

  There was fear in the eyes of his men, and uncertainty as they glanced toward the south, away from the Mistwood. Timothy could sense what they were all thinking. "If we go south," he said. "We'll likely retreat directly into their reinforcements. Unless you think there are bandits living in the Mistwood and if you do, now would be the time to speak up."

  Unfortunately it was just then that some unlucky airmen thought to wake Christopher and entered his tent, startling the businessman out of his wits.

  "What the devil is this?!" Christopher shouted, breaking the tense stalemate. Realizing they were discovered, the bandits charged.

  Timothy stepped back, avoiding a knife that glinted in the moonlight. He swept his foot out and tripped its wielder. The man stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance. He found his end against Willoughby's sword, driven clean through. Another bandit was coming for Willoughby from behind. Timothy leveled his pistol. The crack made Willoughby flinch, and sparks showered around Timothy's hand. Momentum carried the would-be killer a few more steps even as his body drooped. He ended in a heap on the ground with dark blood oozing from a hole in his chest.

  One of the crewmen had f
allen beneath a bandit. Torvald ended the bandit with his own quick sword and pulled the corpse off the fallen airman. Nearby, the remaining two crewmen had downed another and gotten his sword away from him. He was still alive, but had enough holes poked in him that Timothy did not expect to get many answers before he went to his maker.

  "Are there more of you? What direction is your camp?" Timothy asked. The dying man gurgled a response. Pink foam gathered on his lips as he choked out a plea for mercy. His lungs were filling with blood. Timothy was about to order some water be brought when the man's wheezing stopped. His eyes lost their focus as though he looked somewhere impossibly deep into the night. He did not stir again.

  "Captain," Willoughby said to Timothy. "Bill Ingvot's dead. Crewman Thacker is wounded, but Torvald's patching him up. He'll live, long as there's no festerin'."

  Timothy nodded grimly. "Make sure his wound is washed," he said, rising from the dead man's side. Briefly he paused to pay his respects to William Ingvot. The man was in his early twenties, and had joined the crew earlier in the year. Christopher appeared beside him and Timothy looked him up and down, inspecting for injuries.

  "No worse for the wear," Timothy said to him.

  "We should press on, immediately," Christopher said. He paused only a moment to grimace down at the dead man.

  Timothy shook his head. "Not until we've buried Bill," he said.

  "The boy?" Christopher asked, pointing down at the body.

  “Yes, the boy.”

  Christopher wrung his hands, looking into the darkness as though expecting a dozen sets of eyes to light up at any moment. “Is that wise? They might come back.”

  Timothy shrugged and hoisted the corpse up over his shoulder. "Maybe, maybe not, but it's what we're doing. I'll not leave him to be scavenged."

  Willoughby came and assisted Timothy with the body, while Aebyn and the others worked together to dig a grave. Timothy called a halt when he felt it was deep enough, and then he and Willoughby lowered the man down. Christopher and one of the crewmen that wasn't busy digging the grave stood watch, but the bandits did not show their faces again.

  Afterward, Timothy went to inspect his wounded crewman. Thacker was middle-aged, which was old for a smuggler, but he had a taste for the rum and a bad habit of gambling away his prize money whenever the ship hit port for too long.

  "How am I, captain?" Thacker asked. He was nearly completely bald, save a little isthmus of gray above either ear, and he was strong for a man his age. He wore a plain leather jerkin over a dirty linen shirt that had been white at one time but was a dusty tan from its age. The lower right side of it was stained with blood. Torvald had ripped one of the sleeves off to make a bandage, which was wrapped about the man's middle and kept pressure on the wound.

  Timothy lifted the cloth a bit to see the slender gash. Right away he could see that Willoughby's assessment was correct, the wound was not immediately life threatening. However, without the intervention of a surgeon, infection was nearly guaranteed.

  "Water," Timothy called, and it was provided. He placed the bowl over the fire and let the water boil, then unwrapped the bandage and heaped it in. A stick served as a simple stirring tool until the bubbling had subsided and the clean bandages could be reapplied. Field dressing a wound was not Timothy's strongest suit, and he was fairly certain the bandages should have been let to dry before being reapplied, but it was enough to stanch the bleeding.

  He could see in the man's eyes that he was hurting, but he asked the question anyway. "How is the pain? Can you walk?"

  Thacker needed to walk, that was the simple answer.

  "Yeah, I think I can."

  Willoughby and Torvald helped him to his feet. All eyes went to Timothy for instruction, but it was not Timothy that spoke first.

  "We press on," Christopher declared, pointing toward the growing haze. The pronouncement brought a general grumbling from the crew.

  "He'll die if we do that," Torvald said, nodding to Thacker. "What are you trying to do? March us all off to our deaths? For what? Tell me we're not here to hammer the Vault. It's not far from here."

  This accusation brought further grumbling and nods of agreement.

  Sensing that the situation was quickly running out of control, Timothy took Christopher by the shoulder and quickly took him aside, out of earshot of the others.

  "What are you doing?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  Christopher looked indignant and pointed again toward the dark forest, now alive with shimmering blue mist. "The bandits will not follow us in there," he reasoned.

  He was probably right, the entire island seemed wary of the Mistwood, especially at night when the mist fields formed. Timothy was no expert on magic, but his instincts told him that the mist was like a fire, pretty to look at but best viewed from a distance. It was all around now, making the forest brighter than he had ever seen it. Light from nowhere flickered against the distant canopy. The mist obscured the view along the ground like the fog it resembled. Timothy could only see dark silhouettes of his crewmen against a backdrop of shifting blues.

  Of course the bandits wouldn't follow in there. No sane man would willingly step into that luminescent fog. "We cannot go in, because crewman Thacker must be taken back. He must see a surgeon as soon as opportunity affords. If we do not take him back, we condemn him to a slow death of fever and gangrene."

  "We do not know that for sure," Christopher said, avoiding eye contact.

  Timothy hoisted him by the collar and slammed him up against a tree. Now he had the man's undivided attention. "You will not say such things,” he growled. “Not in front of the crew, not in front of me. We are a day's march from a surgeon with a badly injured man and you wish to press forward? Do you want to have a mutiny on your hands?"

  Christopher narrowed his eyes. "Do I already have one?" he asked. His voice had gone cold.

  "It is your ship, your crew," Timothy answered firmly.

  "Thacker called you captain, and I did not hear you redress him for it!”

  Timothy let go of Christopher's jacket and shoved him away. "The man had a dagger hilted in his gut," he hissed. "Forgive me for not standing on ceremony. It is your ship, your crew. I am not looking to undermine you but you will order the retreat to Nothnor or I will. This isn't about you or me, this is about what's right, and that means not marching our crew off to die. We need to withdraw and regroup. We are a single day's march in, Christopher. One. Single. Day. What is a few more days? We are better than this!”

  "We are smugglers, Timothy," Christopher said. "Smugglers."

  "Not killers."

  For a few moments of silence they stood nose to nose. Christopher moved first, shoving unnecessarily through Timothy to rejoin the others. Timothy waited for him to get a few feet ahead before he followed. In the haze he could see a figure crouched low to the ground, blue eyes shining with light. A nod brought Aebyn out of the haze and to Timothy's side.

  Christopher gathered the men up around the campfire which Willoughby had stoked back to life. "After considering all of our options I have narrowed my decision down to two courses of action. We can proceed into the Mistwood in furtherance of the expedition's goals. If we do this we are unlikely to be confronted by more bandits. Withdrawing to Nothnor might bring us in conflict with the rest of the party that attacked us an hour ago. Timothy has explained to me the extent of Crewman Thacker's injuries and it may be most prudent to return to the city before his condition deteriorates. Either direction there are risks, and that means risks to everyone."

  The crewmen either looked off into the mist or shuffled their feet and exchanged doubtful looks while Christopher spoke. Most of them could see Timothy's hand at work here, the rest could sense that something was not quite right and that if they were not careful, they were about to be had. Timothy could see the hateful look in Torvald's eyes as bright and consuming as the campfire. The second mate was right about Christopher; he would gladly lead them all to their deaths and then s
cratch his chin in confusion when they all lay dead, if he noticed at all. Christopher had a knack for seeing the big picture and yet somehow missing the simple truths and the lives he spent along the way.

  Willoughby nodded ever so slightly when Timothy caught his eye, a knowing nod. It was then that Timothy realized why the man hadn't said anything when Christopher had first called for the expedition to continue. Willoughby trusted him, and he felt the weight of that responsibility. Looking around, he could see others that were watching him, not Christopher. They were looking to him to make the decision.

  Damn.

  They really were his crew. When had that happened?

  "Show of hands for going on?" Christopher asked. He raised his own by way of example, to discontented muttering. One of the younger crewmen looked around and lifted his own hand, but several dark looks brought it back down.

  "And those for going back?" Christopher asked, hands on his hips. Most of the crewmen raised their hands high. Someone helped Thacker lift his. Aebyn stood at Timothy's side.

  There was a silence so deep and so deathly that not even the crickets trilled as Christopher and his hired hands looked at each other across the campfire. It was only a few feet but Timothy could see the great gulf between them. A few more moments passed and he still had not acknowledged the will of the council he himself had called. Someone harrumphed in the mist and broke ranks. Timothy couldn't make out the man's face anymore through the iridescent haze, but he remembered it was about where Torvald had been standing. Sure enough, the same-said man came marching out of the woods with bundles under each arm. Dutiful Willoughby stood by until Christopher gave the order, but gave Torvald a sympathetic look as he passed.

  At last Christopher waved toward the south. "Load up, we're going back."

  Timothy broke down his tent with the others and was soon marching through the darkness in as near to silence as a half-dozen men could manage. A pale light lit their backs, casting tall shadows haloed in blue-green light. As the Mistwood faded behind them the trees shrank to normal proportions and the ground became crunchy with leaves that looked black and purple in the moonlight.