Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  It was only then that he noticed the Rift’s color changing once more.

  To white. To the same color as the hated Wall.

  His agony doubled, then trebled, and then there was only the agony. Then nothing.

  * * *

  The Patterner Larril sat on the blue tile roof of his house in the early morning sun, watching the northern horizon with weary eyes. A wooden pipe hung from his fingers, but the spark within had long since gone out. He’d been waiting here all night, after all. Waiting for what he dreaded to come, waiting for the inevitable.

  His stomach tightened as it came.

  A great white line of light flared into existence, as if another sun had chosen to rise this morning. Larril couldn’t normally see the Rift from the roof of his house—it was too far, with too many hills and drytrees in the way—but with how bright it was now, he doubted anyone in Naruvieth would miss it.

  The white light died moments later, marking the death of the Rift itself. Just a crevasse from here on out. Just as Andrin’s Wall would now be a pile of rubble.

  Larril heard a scream then, an inhuman scream that only he could hear. Others would sense it as a mere shifting of the wind, a rustling of the fine hairs on the backs of their arms, but none could hear the Pattern like Larril could.

  “So much for all your plans, Orthkalu,” Larril muttered as he clambered down off the roof. Where had he put his manacles again? He’d need them if he was going to look for Tharadis. Once Larril found him and healed him—at least enough to ensure there was no permanent damage, anyway—Tharadis would want to put that sword through Larril’s belly for sending his daughter off to Falconkeep. He hoped that the manacles would serve as a suitable compromise. After all, it wasn’t Larril’s time to die. He knew that for a fact. He just had to make sure Tharadis understood that as well.

  Larril found the manacles in the first place he looked of course, and he stuffed them in his sack before heading out the door and down to where the Rift used to be.

  “All right, O Great Warden,” Larril murmured dryly. “Time for you to lead us all to our doom.”

  Chapter 87: Shoreseeker

  In the two weeks that followed, so many reports of disaster came in that Rannald could hardly keep track of them all. And he was nearing the point that he no longer wanted to. It was simply too much for one man to deal with.

  Shoulders bowed, he stood in the Sentinel field house, a small, rickety structure hastily built out of the ruins of Garoshmir, reading one such report now. The sheggam invasion, he was learning, had spread far beyond Garoshmir. Dozens of villages and small towns would need to be erased from all maps. Caney Forks, where Rannald had been born, where he had once fought and bled before becoming a Sentinel, had been decimated. The dead were beyond reckoning. This report had specifically mentioned that neither of Rannald’s cousins had been found.

  After a while, the words on the report seemed little more than indecipherable smudges. He let the hand holding the paper drop to his side. Rannald was beyond tears, even for those he loved. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the wicker basket in the corner of the poorly-lit room, where all his other reports sat crumpled. Many of them had only been partially read as well.

  Those reports, too, outlined tragedies beyond reckoning. According to what he’d read, the citizens of Twelve Towers had been slaughtered to a man. He knew most were innocent and shouldn’t be blamed for Shad Belgrith’s treachery, but he simply couldn’t summon any sympathy for them. He had so little sympathy left to give.

  The other cities were much the same. Not even Falconkeep had been spared. Rannald was glad that he hadn’t been the one to come across that grisly scene. He was even happier that Nina and Chad had been spared such a fate. From what he’d heard, no one was left alive in that place. He shuddered as the image of a killing field full of children passed through his mind, and he quickly turned his mind to something else.

  Nina. Rannald wondered if her father was still alive, and if so, whether he knew she and her aunt had survived after he had left them. Of all the reports Rannald had received, the one he’d hoped for most still hadn’t come.

  What of Naruvieth? What of Tharadis?

  He shook his head. Thinking about that report wouldn’t make it arrive any faster. Maybe getting some fresh air would do him some good, help him clear his head. Rannald touched the pommel of the sword at his hip to reassure himself it was still there—a constant habit he had taken up since that night, one he didn’t feel like breaking any time soon. He stepped outside.

  The caravan had grown from a humble handful of wagons to the beginnings of a sprawling settlement. Tents covered the ground, but some squat buildings had been erected, with a couple more on their way. Few Garoshmiri wanted to move back into their homes, but some, especially those with no loved ones to bury, did. Rannald had hardly ever stepped inside a temple, but he found himself wondering what kind of place Farshores really was. He supposed he would find out someday, when it was his turn to cross the Astral Sea. May that day be a long time off, he thought.

  A few raindrops fell from the dark clouds scattered throughout the afternoon sky, plinking against his breastplate. Involuntarily, Rannald glanced north. The sight filled him with anguish, as it always did, but it was impossible not to look at the rubble where Andrin’s Wall had stood for so long. It was also hard not to wonder when the next sheggam army would come along to finish the job the last one had started.

  The thunder of galloping hooves approaching pulled Rannald out of his grim reverie. He turned to see one of his Sentinels, panting and red-faced from the hard ride, slide out of his saddle and salute. Rannald saluted back, trying to make sense of the man’s strange expression. It was one he hadn’t seen in so long. Was he … smiling? “Report, soldier.”

  “Yes, captain. It’s about Naruvieth.”

  Rannald perked up. “You have news? How do they fare?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” The man’s grin widened. “But you can ask them yourself.”

  “What? Tharadis is here? He’s alive?”

  “Not just the Warden, sir. All of Shores-damn Naruvieth is on its way.”

  * * *

  Two more days passed before the long train of Naruvians came into sight of the settlement outside Garoshmir, and nearly dusk that night before they began to gather at the base of the hill just south of the city’s ruins. It turned out not to be all of Shores-damn Naruvieth, but nearly ten thousand of them, several crowded in wagons or mounted on mules, with Tharadis walking at the head. They hadn’t the weary, beaten look of refugees. Something else shown through their expressions, something that looked as out-of-place as the smile on that Sentinel’s face had. But Rannald couldn’t figure out what it was.

  When Tharadis’s eyes met his own, Rannald couldn’t help but smile.

  Favoring his right leg, the Warden crossed to him, and they clasped arms. His grip was firm. Rannald didn’t want to let go; he was nearly convinced that if he did, Tharadis would prove to be nothing more than a vain wish and disappear before his eyes.

  “Captain,” Tharadis said when Rannald finally did let go. “It’s good to see you’re alive and well.”

  “It’s good to see you’re alive too, Warden.” Rannald stroked his chin as he looked Tharadis over. “Though I’d be hard-pressed to call you ‘well.’”

  Tharadis nodded but said nothing. His face was a lattice of faint scars. His left hand was tightly bandaged, leaving only his fingers bare. Whatever wound he had suffered did not seem to be healed yet. A deep exhaustion hid behind his eyes as well. Rannald didn’t want to ask what the man had been through. He assumed Tharadis would tell him if and when he wanted to.

  “My daughter,” Tharadis said, his voice quiet. “Where is she?”

  Rannald gestured to a nearby tent. “She’s there with your sister.”

  Tharadis didn’t even wait for Rannald to finish speaking before heading for the tent. Over his shoulder, he called, “Gather everyone at dawn. I have som
ething to say.”

  Rannald frowned. “Everyone?”

  “Everyone with an ear.” Tharadis lifted the tent flap and disappeared within.

  * * *

  Word spread quickly. Everyone wanted to see this man. Conflicting rumors flew about, some saying he had single-handedly destroyed the sheggam threat, while others declared he had brought down the Wall himself. Yet no matter the rumor, Rannald heard it spoken with an unsettling mix of fear and awe.

  So, when the sun broke over the horizon, everyone with an ear did indeed gather in front of a large flat-bed wagon, now used as a dais. Rannald stood with ten of his Sentinels in front, ostensibly as protection, but also because Rannald wanted to be close enough to see. Tharadis went up the steps and stood there, wearing his headband with the Warden’s symbol, dark waves against a pale blue sky—a sky the same color as the Warden’s blade, Rannald realized. And though he had been down in Naruvieth, he was dressed for colder weather, as were many of his people. Earlier, Rannald had heard mutterings that with the disappearance of the Rift had completely changed the climate down there, so that it wasn’t all that different from Garoshmir’s. If that were true, life as these people had known it was over. Then they’re in good company, Rannald thought grimly.

  But he didn’t think that was the full explanation of their clothing. Something else was going on here.

  Tharadis scanned the thousands of faces watching him. Tharadis had a bearing about him, one different from anyone else here. His face didn’t have the glazed eyes, the slack expression that so many here wore. His face wore the opposite. His jaw was tight, his back straight. His green eyes were sharp with focus. Something burned within those eyes. Something dangerous.

  Hope.

  In the past weeks, Rannald had talked to people, had listened to them. He knew how desperate they were to make sense of the madness their lives had become. Centuries-old institutions had crumbled overnight; their very world was flipped upside-down. They were lost, as if already afloat in the Astral Sea with nothing to guide them to shore. If they saw so much as a flicker of light on the horizon, Rannald knew they would swim for it. No matter where it led.

  With a sinking feeling in his gut, Rannald suddenly wondered at the wisdom of yoking his fate, and the fate of his Sentinels, to that of this man.

  Tharadis spoke.

  “I don’t need to remind you of what you’ve lost,” he began, his voice carrying out over the heads of the assembled. “Everywhere you look you see reminders. The institutions you’ve relied upon for so long are gone. We thought they could keep us safe, but they couldn’t. Nothing could have kept us perfectly safe. Perfect safety is an illusion, a lie we tell ourselves. There were always cracks in Andrin’s Wall, even if they couldn’t be seen.”

  Beneath the folds of his cloak, Tharadis clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “The Restless Sea is no longer restless.” Low murmurs rose up as the implications sank in. “Not only can the sheggam come again by land, but they can come by sea. Their Patterners and their commanders will soon learn of our vulnerability and they will work to exploit it.”

  Rannald didn’t know what he had expected from Tharadis, but this certainly wasn’t it. His speech was less a general’s call to arms and more a funeral service.

  Tharadis halted and studied the crowd, and it almost seemed as if his gaze met every pair of eyes looking his way, if only for the briefest moment.

  “War has come to us. It is an ancient war, and history shows us that it is a war we cannot win. But when it comes to fighting, we will not have a choice. They will come again, and we will need to prepare ourselves for that day. Everyone fit to hold a weapon must learn how to wield it, simply because there aren’t enough trained fighters left to protect you all. You will have to learn how to defend yourselves.” Again, murmurs filled the air, this time tinged with anger. “Understand that this is not some command I am issuing. It is merely an observation. You will either learn to fight and perhaps survive, or you will die, helpless and afraid. This is the reality we are faced with, and your acceptance of it has become a matter of life and death.

  “Yet,” Tharadis continued, “like any walls we build, fighting will only hold them back for a time. Even if we win a battle, we cannot win this war. And knowing that, we may despair, and in that despair our resolve will weaken, hastening our demise.

  “This is because our enemies have chosen the field of battle. It is the realm of pain and suffering and death. And though many have died at their hands, death is merely a tool to them, a tool to cause pain to those who remain. Pain is their god, and we are their offering. And as long as we continue to let them choose the battlefield, they will crush us.”

  “What are you saying?” someone cried out from the crowd, incredulous. “Invade their lands?”

  Tharadis shook his head. “We are not tribes disputing mere claims of land. We can’t simply drive them back and hope they forget about us. They want to destroy our spirits.” He clenched his fist before him. “They want to destroy our will to live! As long as we treat this like a traditional dispute between equals, we are bound to lose.”

  Tharadis let his hand drop to his side. “Most of you believe in a place called Farshores.” Several nodded in assent, though far fewer than Rannald expected. He supposed many had had their faith tested of late. “So do I,” he continued. “But in a different way from most of you, I suspect. Most believe it to be a world beyond this one, a place our souls go when we die.” He paused. “But I believe that Farshores is real, that it exists on this world, and that the Astral Sea is nothing more than an ocean filled with water that ships can cross.”

  Anger filled his voice. “But most of all, I believe that we do not have to wait for the sheggam to deliver us to paradise on the points of their swords. I believe that we can deliver ourselves on our own two feet!”

  All around, the crowd erupted in a roar. Rannald’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword in case things turned bad, but the crowd didn’t seem upset at Tharadis’s heresy. Actually, quite a few of the raised voices were shouting for him to keep speaking. As his hand fell away from his sword, Rannald gaped in astonishment. Were people taking this madness seriously?

  However, Rannald wasn’t the only one who wasn’t convinced. A woman about five heads deeper in the crowd cupped her hands around her mouth to be better heard over the din. “Why should we believe you?”

  Tharadis waited until the crowd settled before answering. “An excellent question.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t give you much reason to. We don’t know much about Farshores aside from the name. But we know that the idea of Farshores is newer than the sheggam scourge. The first one, that is,” he added with a sidelong glance to the ruins of Garoshmir. “We know our people were not native to these lands. Our ancestors fled from somewhere, and that they flourished there, with wonders beyond our reckoning. At least they did before the sheggam drove them out.” He gestured to a small cluster of men and women wearing the brown of the Academy, who flinched at his sudden attention. “Ask your scholars if you must, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Despite his misgivings about everything else, Rannald had to admit there was some plausibility to the idea. The exploits of a Great Fleet were told to every child in the Sutherlands. Wouldn’t those ships have had to come from somewhere?

  “I’ll be honest,” Tharadis said. “I don’t know if such a place still exists, if it ever did. But if Farshores does exist, it is not here.”

  Silence stretched before a new voice called out. “You simply expect to cross the sheggam lands and survive?”

  “Do you expect to live in Sheggamur and survive?” Tharadis spread his arms. “This is a conquered land, waiting for its occupiers. The only thing stopping them before was Andrin’s Wall. It’s gone. These are now sheggam lands.

  “Maybe I am a fool,” Tharadis went on. “Maybe Farshores is just a myth, or a place that no longer exists. Maybe I’ll die out there in a hos
tile wilderness. But if I die, let it be on my terms, not on the terms of my enemies!”

  Scattered cheers broke out again. Tears even glistened on some faces. Rannald shook his head. He couldn’t understand it. Why was anyone taken in by this foolishness?

  It would be simpler to stay, to try to rebuild rather than strike out into the unknown. Perhaps they’d never build another wall like Andrin’s, but they would try. They had to.

  Rannald lifted his head to look at the sky, blue, spotted by only a sprinkling of clouds. Few gulls flew in the sky now; only the odd crow or raven.

  This was not the world he had always known. Even the birds were different.

  It seemed such an odd thing to note, but it suddenly made him realize that he was afraid, deathly afraid, of the dangerous, unknown world that lay beyond the rubble of the Wall. That realization, more than anything else, decided it for him.

  Fear, I confront you. You can only take what you are given.

  And I give you nothing.

  Flipping the edge of his cloak back, Rannald ascended the steps to stand at Tharadis’s side. The crowd went silent and still at the sight of him. His eyes flicked to the side as he searched for Sherin’s face. He suddenly wished he had spoken to her first. Oh well, he thought with a grim, inward chuckle. One more fear to face.

  Tharadis turned to face him. Their eyes met, and he nodded. A small smile appeared, and he pitched his voice for Rannald’s ears alone. “We meet again, captain. Just the two of us, in front of everybody.”

  “Yes. Just the two of us, again deciding the future of our peoples.”

  Tharadis shook his head. “We can’t this time. They have to choose for themselves.”

  Rannald stared at him a moment longer before raising his voice to address the crowd. “I don’t know if Farshores can be found in this life or the next. But I for one will join the Warden in his quest to find out.