by Martin Frowd
“You did well, young Zarynn,” the necromancer’s voice was hoarse with pain and strain as Zarynn reached him. “A Druid is not an easy foe to slay, for one as young as you, yes?”
Zarynn could see Glaraz struggling in vain to free his arms and legs from the web. Zarynn began to reach out to try to help him, but he stopped as the necromancer shook his head firmly.
“Do not, young Zarynn. Against this magic, your bare hands are no help. You would merely snare yourself also, and poison yourself besides, and then where would we be? I have come this far to rescue you. I would not – I will not lose you to a poison web now, when we are so close.”
“Poison…web?”
“A…cruel magic it is.” Glaraz grimaced with pain as he thrashed against the sticky strands that bound him. “Not a Druid magic alone, and not all Druids have the Poison Gift. The web is poisoned, yes? Sticky web to hold its victim fast, while the poison is absorbed into the skin. It is a slow killer, if the victim is not prepared. Druid’s revenge, it is sometimes called, though not only Druids wield it. A last strike, to die knowing your last foe dies also.”
“Slow…killer…”
“A master necromancer does not die so easily,” Glaraz snorted, though it was clear to Zarynn that the outlander was in pain. “Fear not, young one. I am well accustomed to poisons both mundane and magical alike. It hurts, yes, but it will not kill. But the web binds me, yes? I must be free, and soon, before more Druids come, yes?”
“More Druids?” Zarynn gaped.
“Truly you thought we were free now?” Glaraz snorted again, and grimaced as his body suddenly spasmed, as best it could within the sticky confines of the web. A fit of coughing overtook him for a few minutes, as Zarynn waited on his next words, fear rising again that the necromancer, despite his bravado, would not last long enough for them to reach safety. “This is not yet over, young Zarynn. The Druids hunt us still. The storm rages still, yes? Druid weather magic raised this storm. That it still rages means a Druid is yet close by.
“Now. Young one. I must be free. You see my belt? A knife should hang there. Take knife, cut webs. I cannot reach. You must cut webs. Cut me free. Touch not the web! Only the knife, yes?”
Glaraz’s short, choppy sentences emphasised the pain he must be in, and it was clear to Zarynn that it was an effort for the necromancer to speak. Zarynn hesitated for a moment, as Furiosa flew onward and the rain and wind continued to batter at them. Then, gathering his resolve, he nodded at Glaraz. Flattening himself low against Furiosa’s scales, to reduce his profile to the fierce wind, he reached carefully for the necromancer’s belt. Parts of the belt were draped in web strands, but – he silently thanked the Protector – he could see the knife, and it appeared to be free of webbing. Awkwardly, he fumbled it free of its sheath, constrained by the need to avoid touching the web with his bare hands. The knife came smoothly out of the sheath.
Half a foot of sharp, straight, shining, silvery metal blade glinted in Zarynn’s hand. The hilt was wrapped in some sort of rough hide or leather, to prevent slippage, and fit his grip well enough. The pommel was of the same shiny metal, fashioned into the shape of a grinning skull. The knife was not made of iron, that much Zarynn could tell. No iron he had ever seen retained such a shine, nor such an edge. The blade looked wickedly keen to his admittedly inexperienced eyes.
Zarynn rose carefully up on his knees, needing leverage for what he had to do next. His left hand pressed against Furiosa’s rain-slick scales to steady himself as his right hand found a comfortable grip on the hilt of the knife, and he knelt above Glaraz, looking down on the trapped necromancer.
It would be so easy. The thought came unbidden to his mind. To plunge the knife down, not to free the necromancer, but to slay him, while he lay webbed and helpless. It would take but a moment to thrust the blade into his exposed throat, or stab it down into an eye, rather than carefully slicing through the webs to free him so that he could take Zarynn away to a life of slavery.
Slavery? Zarynn blinked. Where in all the world had that thought come from? Kill Glaraz? He needed Glaraz. For survival, and for any hope of mastering his magics and reconnecting with the spirits of his parents. His head pounded again. Nausea rose, and he did his best to force it back down. His eyes watered and Glaraz appeared to be doubled beneath him, one necromancer superimposed over the other. Zarynn forced himself to sit still for a moment, or as still as could be against the wind and the pounding rain, not trusting himself to wield the knife while he still saw double.
“Swiftly, young Zarynn,” Glaraz urged him. “More Druids must be close. I must be free before they are upon us!”
Zarynn blinked again and raised the knife, looking down. He froze in shock and horror. Glaraz was gone. The man now lying beneath him, wrapped in sticky webs, was the Druid from whom Glaraz had first saved him, back at the execution ground. The man who had ordered the deaths of his parents.
Zarynn gripped the knife tightly, raising it high, over his head. He did not understand how the Druid could be here, suddenly trading places with Glaraz, but an inarticulate rage shot through him, making him quiver and shake. Druid’s revenge, Glaraz had said. Die knowing your last foe dies also. If escape was to be denied him after all, snatched away by Druid magic, then perhaps he would have a revenge of his own.
The Druid beneath him glared up at him with hate-filled eyes that matched the fury consuming Zarynn himself. Zarynn shook with anger, and began to bring down the knife, shouting inarticulately as he slammed it downward.
Furiosa roared, drowning out even the rage of the storm for a moment. A powerful weight slammed into Zarynn, knocking him sideways even as he lunged downward. The knife missed its target – the Druid’s throat – and scraped across Furiosa’s wet, slippery scales, ineffectually. Starting to right himself, Zarynn saw that it was Furiosa’s tail that had sideswiped him, although she had been careful to use the flat of her tail – not the stinger.
Zarynn shook his head to clear it, immediately regretting it as pain and nausea flared anew, and looked down again. There was no Druid. There was only Glaraz. Horror and shame mingled in Zarynn’s mind as he realised just what he had so nearly done. Remarkably, the necromancer met his eyes calmly, with no trace of anger nor fear for his life – at least, not from Zarynn.
“Swiftly, young Zarynn,” Glaraz reiterated. “Druids must be close – closing in. Free me! The webs, you must cut them!”
Recovering his composure as best he could, Zarynn bent low again and began to cautiously cut at the webs pinioning the necromancer’s legs. Mindful of Glaraz’s warning, he was careful to avoid touching the web with his skin as he sawed at it with the knife. The metal blade proved indeed to be sharper than any Zarynn had ever seen before, and began to part the strands of web, but they were many, and thick, and sticky, and it was slow going, all the more so because of the imperative not to let his bare skin brush against the web and the contact poison it contained within every strand.
Thunder boomed and Furiosa roared again. Glaraz’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak. Out of the corner of an eye, Zarynn saw movement in the sky. He hesitated for a moment, the knife poised above the webs, and glanced around to see black wings sweeping toward him. Black wings banded with blue.
The doomhawk glided in with eerie silence. Swiftly crossing the sky, it was almost on him before he could react. Its fiery red eyes glowed with malice. As it stooped, Zarynn instinctively flung up a hand to keep it at bay.
The hand that held the knife.
The doomhawk veered away, as if suddenly afraid. But it reacted too late, and the knife sheared away feathers. Feathers that came away in bloody clumps that fell to Furiosa’s scaly back before being blown away by the wind.
The doomhawk broke its silence with a hideous caw of pain and rage. It came about for another pass, diving at Zarynn, its talons extended. Zarynn ducked against Glaraz’s bare chest, careful to avoid touching the poison web, as the bird passed low over them both, banked and turne
d again for another attack. As the doomhawk lunged once more, Zarynn gripped the knife tightly, like a miniature spear set to fend off a charging beast.
The doomhawk dived, and Zarynn stabbed upward to meet it. The knife glanced off a raking talon, knocked outward for a moment, and then seemed to twist in Zarynn’s hand, rotating inside the doomhawk’s guard, to twist again and plunge into the hell-bird’s breast. The impact jolted Zarynn, and it was all he could do to hold onto the knife hilt. Blood streamed over his fingers, hot and foul, spattering his soaked tunic, Glaraz’s naked chest and Furiosa’s scales. He staggered, stepping back a pace, as the doomhawk tore itself off the knife, fluttered weakly, and fell, disappearing into the churning sea below.
Nausea rose afresh and Zarynn bent over Furiosa’s side once more to vomit into the crashing sea. Wiping his mouth, letting the rain wash the blood from his hand and from the knife blade, he forced himself to return to the task of sawing at the thick webs that still held Glaraz immobile.
“Masterfully done, young one,” the necromancer praised him. “Blooded now, yes? Swiftly now. Slice webs. Where doomhawk flies, Druids soon follow.”
Zarynn nodded, not trusting himself to speak in that moment, as he continued his methodical assault on the webs. Even as he continued to saw at them, Furiosa roared again. This time, to Zarynn’s ear, the monster’s voice had a different tone to it, almost more of a croon than a bellow.
“Yes, Furiosa!” Glaraz acknowledged the scaled monster. “Soon. Safe, soon. Soon we sail home.” As Glaraz spoke, Zarynn glanced sideways, to see the unmistakeable shape of an island rising out of the sea to Furiosa’s left. Her scaly wings beat the air powerfully, as she crooned again, losing altitude, beginning to descend. Below, Zarynn caught glimpses of a sandy shore. Men seemed to be shambling aimlessly around on the sand. Not men. Zombies, he realised as Furiosa dropped lower. Only days ago, he would not have known the word, nor seen their like with his own eyes, but after his travels with Glaraz he knew the restless dead when he saw them close at hand.
In the water, off the island, was a – structure. Long and narrow, or so it looked from the air. Could that be the promised ship? Oddly hazy, as if covered in low-hanging clouds, so that he could not see it clearly. He caught a faint glimpse of movement from it, as if men walked on it, but he could make out no more detail. He shook his head as if to clear it, and regretted it as the pain flared again, but kept on sawing away at the webs around Glaraz’s legs.
“The Isle of Crows is below us, young Zarynn,” the necromancer confirmed, teeth still gritted in obvious pain, but managing to force himself to speak in complete sentences again. “The ship awaits off the shore. Hidden, yes? Hidden from our sight, and Druid sight, with illusion magic.”
Before Zarynn could explain that he could see it – or at least its outline – the sky boomed afresh with thunder, louder than ever before. The wind roared, and Furiosa roared in return, as if challenging the elements themselves. Lightning flashed all around, and Furiosa rolled this way and that in the air to evade the blasts. Zarynn held on desperately to her scales but could not help sliding a little to the right, then back to the left again. His knuckles were pale with the effort of keeping his grip on Furiosa and on the knife. He dared to look up to the stormy sky, and he froze.
“Not now, when we are so close,” Glaraz grimaced. “Not six more!”
◆◆◆
On the deck of the ship, rain pounded down. Sailors ran this way and that, armed with buckets, baling the deck clear as fast as they could manage.
“Faster, faster, ye bluidy layabouts, blast yer hides!” Rathgar blistered the air with dwarven impatience as he exhorted the crew to greater efficiency, stomping and splashing with every steel-shod step. The first mate glared up at the stormy sky, as if personally affronted by the weather. “Aldrek, lad,” he appealed to the mistweaver, “can ye nae dae owt tae make this rain stop?”
“I’m doing my best to lessen it, so the crew have a chance of keeping on top of it, Rathgar!” the captain’s nephew retorted between gritted teeth. His hands traced intricate patterns in the air as he spoke, and mystical sparks shot upward from his fingers toward the clouds. “Druid weather magic isn’t subtle, and this feels like a communal working.”
“More’n one Druid, lad? Ach, hae ye nae guid news? Anjali, lassie, nowt ye can dae?”
“Sorry Rathgar,” Anjali shouted over the noise of the wind from the cover of the doorway to the stairs leading below deck, where she sheltered to escape the worst of the rain. Her robe was damp and rain-spattered, but she was not soaked to the skin as Aldrek, Rathgar and the rest of the crew were. “The clouds aren’t alive, so I can’t charm them and convince them to stop raining! I could weave an illusion to make you think it was a dry and sunny day, but that wouldn’t stop the ship filling up with water-”
“Aye, and sooner or later we’d capsize, aye? Nae thank ye, lassie. Reckon we’ve tae deal wi’ this as we are then, eh?”
“Is good idea,” Kitithraza agreed, lounging beside Anjali, glaring out at the torrential rain from the safety of the doorway. “So much water from sky not natural is.”
“Aye, ye ken? Ye could help, Kitithraza lassie, another pair o’ hands’d see it ended that much faster, aye?”
“Guard younglings, you said,” the felis retorted to the dwarf. “Keep from getting on deck and wet and in way, you said. Am doing. Cannot do bucket work at same time. And would get wet,” she finished scathingly, with a shudder.
Before either Anjali or Rathgar could offer a reply to the felis, a roar sounded in the distance, breaking through the noise of the thunder, the wind and the rain. Anjali froze, listening keenly, and was rewarded by another, this time more of a croon than a bellow.
“That was Furiosa!” Anjali’s face broke into a smile. “She’s close! And that means so is the Master!”
“Grand, lassie, grand!” The dwarven first mate gave her a quick grin. “Now we’ve just tae bale all this here water overboard afore Himself gets here, aye? And tae be sure Himself’s nae being chased, afore ye drop this here fine illusion as shields us all,” he added darkly, glaring up at the storm clouds above.
“Rathgar-”
“Nae buts, lassie,” the dwarf overrode her firmly. “Himself’d be first tae tell ye nae tae put us all in danger on account o’ him, aye? Does us nae guid tae get Himself on board if it means Druids, monsters or other bluidy villains see us and sink us afore we get away, see?”
Anjali sighed, but nodded reluctantly, seeing the first mate’s point.
Furiosa’s crooning sound echoed through the sky again, closer this time. Anjali glanced up to the cloud-choked sky and pointed with a triumphant smile.
“There she is, Rathgar! There’s our flying fury!”
“Aye, and she’s nae alone neither,” the dwarf responded dourly, pointing beyond the black-scaled Furiosa as she dropped altitude, gliding low, crooning almost plaintively as she turned her massive black head from side to side, clearly looking for the ship that was still invisible to her.
Anjali followed Rathgar’s pointing finger, and she gaped as she took in the sight. Pursuing Furiosa across the sky, dropping lower and lower even as their prey did, came six creatures out of nightmare. Their bodies were leonine, thickly muscled and covered in golden fur, but leathery black wings sprouted from their sides like those of gigantic bats. Their heads were a hideous blend of the muzzle of a crocodile, a swampy green-grey and packed with sharp and vicious-looking teeth, and the long, backswept horns of a goat, glinting a pale ivory colour. The golden tails sprouting from their backsides were bifurcated near their end, splitting into two razor-edged spike tips that looked equally formidable stabbing or slashing appendages.
“Bluidy chimerae, as I bluidy live and breathe,” grumbled Rathgar. “Reckon I’d hoped ne’er tae hae tae face these beasties again, after last time.”
“Chimerae? I thought so,” Anjali nodded, shuddering. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never – well, I’d never �
� seen them in the flesh.”
“Well lassie, I’ve bluidy fought ‘em afore, and it were nae easy fight, ye ken? And it were but three last time, nae six, and nae bluidy Druids neither!”
Anjali looked again, following Rathgar’s jabbing finger. As the chimerae dropped lower, already too close to Furiosa and gaining on her, she saw, as the dwarf already had, that the hybrid monstrosities had riders. Each one bore a robed and hooded figure. She could not see faces, but it took no great deduction to know that, in these lands, robed riders could only be men, and Druids at that. Five were clad in robes of deep brown. The sixth wore black.
“Ugly beasts,” shrugged Kitithraza, idly playing with the hilt of a sheathed falchion. “Look bad. Smell worse. Not so tough.”
“Oh aye, ye’ve fought ‘em afore, hae ye Kitithraza lassie?”
“Have. Back of neck is weak spot. Jump on back, slice neck. Swift strike there, often kills.”
“Well now lassie, I were nae planning tae get that close,” grumbled Rathgar, fingering the pistols thrust through his belt and glowering up at the six chimerae and their riders. The felis snorted in response, but she said nothing.
Furiosa crooned again, plaintively, her huge head still turning left and right. She passed over the ship, barely clearing the topsail, nostrils the size of Anjali’s head flaring as she sniffed the lightning-charged, salt-laden air. The chimerae and their riders followed close behind, continuing to close the gap.
“Lassie…”, Rathgar warned Anjali, seeing her gaze follow Furiosa, who still could not see the veiled ship.
“She can’t find us, Rathgar! As long as we’re still veiled by illusion, she – and the Master with her – are stuck out there, at the mercy of those – those –”