Marooned

by Travis Smith

  THE

  STRANGER

  Book 2: Marooned

  Travis Smith

  The Stranger: Marooned

  Copyright 2019 Travis Smith. Self-published.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks are due to Todd Barselow for his editing services and kind words of encouragement, and to Ryan Doan for another exceptional cover design. Your voices are as much a part of this story as my own.

  Additionally, a special thank-you to Anna Chase for map illustration.

  This story came to life over 4 years or more, with continued support and encouragement from close friends, colleagues, and even some strangers. To all my beta-readers, confidants, critics, fans, illustrators, and Kickstarter backers, thank you!

  C. Scott Fleming, Gary Volkell, Tyler Langill, Samuel G. Cushing, Brannot, Ashley Foss, Best mom ever, Jeff and Anne Smith, Coleman and Bonnie Smith, Rebecca Lally, Stephanye Doucette, Matt Levasseur, Kam, Charles Martin, Karma Salem, Ali Murray, Anita Mallya, Luke Dainty, Ryan Smith (D.O., M.Ed.), Matt Emanouil, Shakthi Sureddi, Thomas More, Lexi Reale, Karla Desorcy, Philippe Vallotti, Sophia Duval, Ellie Creitz, Theodore Clark, Miriam Quinlan, Hunter Windle, John Tompkins, Melissa Trujillo, Kara Johnson, Ray Wong, Jess Partlow, Jonathan Dupuis, Ricky Smith, Tamara Talarico, Valerie Arias, Paul Escuyer, Calyn Austin, Trish Heaphy, Teresa Caringi, Jay Ardios, Emily Thiebaud, Corinne McLeod, Jeremy Kaz, Halie Marie, Sarah Leach, Courtney Najera, Travis Skelton, Mel and Peggy Dainty, Dave Peltier, Elysha Parsons, Crystina Mendolia, Kathy Wetzel, Erich Wildgrube, Tess Carstensen, Ray Harrington, Abigail Gockel, Colleen Ahern, Claudia Zbrzeski.

  Prologue

  T he sun ushered the day beyond the horizon like a shepherd driving his flock over the hills. As the purplish hue of dusk descended upon Teromade, Ian Meng accompanied his father along the outskirts of town toward an ancient, abandoned stone tower. The pair walked in silence, young Ian’s tiny hand locked within his father’s own, until they stepped inside the building. Ian’s father glanced along the seldom-travelled paths suspiciously as he pushed the heavy door open. The door was scarcely still attached to the stone façade, and its corner scraped across the packed earth.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” his father whispered after pushing the door closed and escorting Ian toward a small, dark stairwell in the expansive foyer. “He shan’t know I brought you here. I had no choice.” Ian’s mother lay ill at the local potioner’s domicile, and his father had reluctantly dragged Ian along on this seemingly pressing errand.

  They descended the curving staircase into a dark room that could have once been a cellar or a dungeon. A number of tiny windows lined the walls, but little light shone through at this time of day.

  “Will you be frightened?” his father asked.

  Ian shook his head in silent promise.

  “Make not a sound,” his father suggested as he ruffled his son’s bushy black hair. “I’ll not be long.”

  Ian stood and watched his father disappear up the dark stairwell. After a few more moments of silence, the boy plopped his bottom down on the ground and began playing with a short stick that was lying nearby.

  After a while, soft voices drifted down the stairs. One belonged to Ian’s father, but the other was unfamiliar. It was as slick as a frozen pond and as cold as the ice which coats it.

  “I’m beginning to question our ultimate aim with these endeavors,” his father whispered. “What are those?”

  “These are relics of my success.” The man took no pains to keep his voice low. It possessed a snake-like, hissing quality.

  “Your success?” his father cut in sharply. “In what have you succeeded?”

  A dark silence ensued, and a soft wind began to sough through the dense bushes outside the cellar.

  “Our experiments have brought us no closer to our goal. You’ve become a king of the realm that exists between life and death …”

  “In some cultures, men and women call that king The Devil.”

  After a short, deliberate silence, Ian’s father said, “Not exactly … The realms about which the ancient Manni have spoken? Are these the cultures you mention?”

  Ian imagined two tense adults staring into each other’s eyes as the silence stretched out. He twirled the stick in the dirt anxiously.

  “What are these?” his father repeated.

  “Those are the most efficient dealers of death in any realm I have visited, second only to that which lies within the king’s chambers in Reprise.”

  “Any realm you’ve visited?” Ian’s father asked. “You are saying that you’ve succeeded in—”

  “Look for yourself,” the other voice said.

  Ian twirled the stick as he listened to a series of small metallic clicks. His eyes drifted to a strange symbol carved into the stone wall.

  “We’ve come all this way,” his father mused. “All this way … and you bring back weapons?”

  “Stay your naivety, foolish man. I have not called you here to discuss ethics,” the mysterious voice hissed.

  “Nor have I come to discuss violence.”

  “Then let us retire this palaver.”

  “I should have seen through your eccentricities. I should have seen you for what you truly are long ago.”

  “You shall never know what I truly am.”

  “Our engagement ends here—”

  “More than that will end here if you do not lower that firearm.”

  Ian’s father’s voice grew shaky. “What do you plan to do with these?”

  “ENOUGH!” the voice commanded just as a rapid series of contained explosions echoed throughout the tower.

  Ian dropped his stick and brought both hands to his ears. He stifled a shriek as his heart pounded painfully in his chest.

  The voice that had erupted moments before spoke again, this time as calm and placid as a sleeping serpent. “You think these can end me? You imprudent man, you should have fled when I gave you the chance.”

  A crisp whooshing sound penetrated the ringing silence. After a few moments, Ian heard a single set of footsteps approaching the stairs. He remained still and silent, barely breathing, his hands over his ears, and his eyes locked on the insignia on the wall. The footfalls reached the tower door, and when Ian heard the heavy wood clang closed, he allowed his eyes to drift to the series of circles he’d scribbled in the dirt between his legs.

  Chapter 1:

  The Albatross

  1

  T he Stranger awoke to blinding brightness and crippling heat. He glanced around frantically, his eyes absorbing no signals while his pupils struggled to constrict against the brilliant sunlight.

  No, he thought. Not again …

  He felt the stinging of razor-edged sand in fresh wounds. This opened his eyes and ears to his whereabouts and to the waves that weren’t solely the ebb and flow of his consciousness.

  A beach.

  The Stranger clutched at his chest to feel for the wound where the musket ball must surely be burning.

  I simply cannot be here again. Why is this happening?

  He turned his head to see small piles of wood scattered along the shore. The remains of his small vessel. He blinked his eyes tightly as a dark figure came into focus, walking toward him on the beach.

  “No,” The Stranger muttered. “I have to get off this
island.”

  He scrambled to dig his feet into the sand and stand up, but he felt as though he were moving within a dream. He could not pull himself upright fast enough.

  A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder.

  “Whoa, now.”

  2

  The Stranger continued to stare at the horizon stubbornly. He did not move even after Eugene’s deranged shouts faded into the serene sloshing of the waves against his craft. He watched the vast sea spread out before him and imagined already that he could see the shores of Reprise beginning to appear in the distance. Soon this hellish nightmare would all be behind him. Soon he would be with his wife and son once more, and the world would return to its proper order as The Baron would simply see himself out, taking all his minions with him and sailing out over the edge of the earth.

  The Stranger entertained these delusions without blinking. He ignored the sting of the salty air in his drying eyes until they again turned wet from tears that coursed down his cheeks and into his lengthening beard. The island was long behind him. That chapter of his life was closed. From this point on, everything would be different.

  He stood unmoving until his head began to swim and sway independent of the rocking of the boat. At last he nearly came to his knees, arms resting on the vessel’s low wall, and he realized that he hadn’t taken a breath for quite some time.

  He heaved a heavy sigh and allowed his eyes to close tightly. The change was immensely soothing after staring so still for so long. When he finally turned and looked behind him, Eugene’s island was but a minuscule dot on the distant horizon. The horizon to which he would never return, if he had his own way.

  3

  The Stranger fixed the sails to maintain his steady course due east into the dimming day. The sun had started to descend from its highest point in the sky, and it was slowly making its way down behind The Stranger’s back. When he was satisfied that his path would carry him to Reprise in the most direct manner, he made his way down to the ship’s small cabin below deck.

  A moderate sized canteen lay beneath an empty table. He picked it up to find that it was about two-thirds filled with what appeared to be fresh water. He set aside the canteen and glanced around the nearly empty cabin. Two wooden chairs sat beside the table, one tipped onto its side, the other pushed neatly underneath. A broken jar lay in a shattered pile at the edge of the cabin. A thick layer of dust had settled atop the uncomfortable-looking cot that was mounted against the far wall. On the shelf lay an empty oil lamp on its side. The Stranger needn’t search for long to establish an absolute lack of food on board the vessel.

  How will you sail across the Great Sea with no food and little more than four days’ worth of water?

  He swallowed hard and pictured William tucked within his mother’s bosom as she stared out of a vague window at the Great Sea and awaited her savior.

  Yer damning yer quest! he heard the old man scream inside his head.

  Could Eugene have been correct? Could The Stranger’s bull-headedness have condemned him to starving to death aboard this craft in the middle of the massive maelstrom that is the Great Sea?

  “No!” The Stranger growled. The fool was a doddering old curmudgeon. He knew nothing of The Stranger’s quest. And it was his fault that The Stranger was in this present predicament. If he hadn’t been scrambling to keep his life and his freedom every moment that he was on that accursed island, he wouldn’t have ended up in this state, at sea on a tiny ship he hadn’t taken the time to check for vittles.

  Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could survive without food …

  There was nothing on board that could serve as a fishing rod. He could likely fashion a net out of some miscellaneous materials around the craft, but how would he cook anything he caught? He hadn’t been able to pack anything basic, let alone matches. The Great Sea was a vast whirlwind of tempests and icy, black waters—the only thing separating the two great nations of Reprise and Fordar—and he would sail across the expansive waters with nary a rock to dock upon and take stock. He would have to. His family relied on him to do so.

  Ye’ll never find yer son! the phantom old man warned.

  So sayeth the innocent old coot who deals with dirty pirates and vassals of The Baron.

  “You lie,” The Stranger muttered. “I will find my son.”

  4

  The Stranger faced away from the setting sun and focused on the distant horizon instead of the undeniable fact that he would surely die of starvation before his journey was even an eighth of the way complete. Despite having less than four days’ worth of water, he poured a small amount into his hand to ensure that it was clean before taking a long draw on the canteen.

  The last time he’d had a fair night’s sleep was in the old man’s cellar, under the influence of those strong potions. The span of events in between seemed a lifetime’s worth. He thought fleetingly of John, the poor fool who had risked and lost it all to save The Stranger’s life. With a lengthy, monotonous journey ahead, he could spare a few moments’ thought on something other than the misfortune of his own wife and son, but he felt ambivalent and guilty allowing such thoughts in. He wouldn’t be here without John’s help, but if he’d stayed and cared for the dying man, it would all have been for naught. John would still be dead, and The Stranger would be stuck again in that old bastard’s cellar, or worse. Besides, Maria and that other man would be there to send John off properly.

  The Stranger turned to fiddle with the jib and distract his mind from the rolling growl growing in his stomach. He went back down to the hold below and found a small bucket to catch any rain that may fall.

  Dark clouds were creeping into the day’s twilight from the south, and a swelling wind nudged the small craft off its most direct course. To sail northwest would not do. With little water and even less food, The Stranger was determined to make this journey as brief as possible. He adjusted the sails to combat the growing breeze and allowed himself to submerge once more into his thoughts.

  5

  Before the sun had touched the western horizon, the heavy clouds had wandered nearly overhead, and the strengthening wind had forced The Stranger to stand beside the mast and hold the sails against the gales to maintain course. The sea had grown black as night, and a matrix of tiny, choppy waves began jostling the small craft like a newborn upon his mother’s knees.

  The Stranger’s stomach growled and his head swam as his arms ached against the rigging. No matter how he resisted, the wind never relented at the sails. With no proper meals in over a day and no sleep in even longer, his muscles were already throbbing and fatiguing even after so short a spell.

  When the tempest came full force, The Stranger could scarcely stand any longer. He collapsed against the helm and hoped his body weight could maintain the boat’s course. Heavy sheets of rain pelted the aged sails above his head. The clatter upon the cloth at times dwarfed the roar of the sea as its waves slapped the bow of the ship and came crashing down upon the deck. The pail that was filling with rainwater now collected the salty sea. Eventually the bucket was tipped onto its side and flung over the vessel’s short wall. The Stranger clung to the mast as the boat pitched and yawed violently from side to side. The crashing thunder and blinding lightning blended into the clamor that had erupted below deck. Crashes erupted as the table and chairs were cast against the wall again and again. The oil lamp came crashing to the floor and shattered into pieces.

  At last The Stranger’s grip failed, and he was tossed against the short wall. For a moment, he feared that the entire craft would capsize or that he would simply be hurled overboard and left to drown in the tumultuous waves. As he clung to the wall considering these likely outcomes and squinting against the torrential rain, he decided that he would be safer down ship. He would better serve his family below deck.

  He struggled to muster enough strength to make a dash for the stairs. When he made the attempt, the bow hit a wave head on. The swell was half as tall as the ship’s mast, and Th
e Stranger was lifted completely off the deck and pitched to the ship’s stern. His lower body slammed against the wall, and he only just managed to grab ahold and keep himself from flipping head over heels into the sea. As the boat rode the swell back down the other side, the bow tipped downward, and The Stranger allowed himself to slide down the slick deck and grab a rope dangling near the cabin door.

  He maneuvered his body inside the doorway and struggled to push the door closed far enough to latch. He leaned against the door once it was secure and braced his arms against the walls on either side of the stairs. The craft rocked and bounced until The Stranger stumbled to the bottom of the steps onto his knees. The cabin was wrecked. Bits of broken glass slid across the floor in small pools of flooding waters. The table lay on its side against the wall, its one broken leg in the middle of the floor.

  The Stranger finally made his way atop the uncomfortable cot and grasped the sides of it. He doubled his grip as the boat pitched to and fro against the storm, nearly bucking him from the cot back into the floor. He lay on his stomach and allowed the waves to rock him repeatedly against the wall by the cot. Only when it made to pitch him onto the floor did he expend what little energy remained to grasp hold anew.

  After what must have been half the night, the violent tempest seemed to break at last, and The Stranger was able to allow himself to slip into slumber to the sound of the residual rain pounding on the deck above.

  6

  Brilliant sunlight reflected off the great Ankar Lake on the outskirts of Krake. A flock of light-footed geese descended from the cloudless blue sky and landed on the lake’s glassy surface, creating only the tiniest of ripples. A high, gentle breeze swished through the thick green leaves at the tops of the trees surrounding the lake but left the tall grasses at the shore untouched. The day was as striking a contrast to The Stranger’s perilous night at sea as one could imagine.