by Rob Scott
Brynne cried out when she saw the three men reappear. Forgetting her charge to keep the Capina Fair anchored against the current, she dropped the wooden pole and began calling frantically, ‘Is everyone all right? No injuries?’
Mark shouted back, ‘They’re fine, a bit shaken by whatever it was, but Steven managed to free them.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Steven interjected.
‘Well, the staff then.’
‘Not the staff either.’ He kicked towards the Capina Fair, keeping the staff’s magic close within himself in case the creature emerged to drag them back beneath the surface. It wasn’t difficult: the magic surged, vibrant and deadly, just behind the thin veil of his consciousness, as if it knew that danger was still imminent: it graced him with the strength – or at least the illusion of strength – to see him and his friends through to safety. He shivered at the thought of all of them being pulled back to the underwater formation – what if the magic failed again? They needed to reach the raft as quickly as possible, and then they could work out what the hell just happened, because he was damned if he knew. He was cold and frightened, but worse, he had lost confidence in the staff’s power.
Meanwhile, the Capina Fair continued to drift downstream.
Swimming with the current, Garec realised they were failing to narrow the distance to the relative safety of the raft. ‘Uh, Brynne,’ he called, ‘you’re floating away.’
‘Rutting merchant-on-a-stick! Sorry!’ Brynne remembered the pole and quickly anchored the Capina Fair, halting its resolute flight from the haunted river bend.
They hauled themselves onto the deck, and Garec picked up a second pole. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he shouted, shaking a little as he pushed hard off the bottom.
Resting in the relative warmth of the sun-drenched logs that formed the Capina Fair ’s uppermost deck, Steven felt the magic exit his body, skimming across his already damp flesh to disappear back into the staff, the earth, sky, or wherever it went when it left him alone. This time, though, it felt different, and he imagined he could still feel a bit of it there, masking itself behind his regular heartbeat and breathing. He shrugged the sensation off as vestiges of adrenalin and gazed into the low foothills that lined the river along either bank. Immediately above them was a rocky ridgeline ending with a precipitous drop into a deep valley. The cliff was capped by a small grove of pine trees that looked so out of place perched there above the river that the image stayed with Steven long after they rounded the bend and passed out of sight. The fifteen or twenty pines grew at odd angles, stabbing outwards from the bedrock, a confusing collection of natural road signs pointing everywhere and nowhere at once. Without quite knowing why, Steven made a mental note of the landmark.
Twelve days later, they reached the mouth of the canyon.
THE RAVENIAN SEA
‘Get out of your boots,’ Brexan directed urgently as she struggled to pull her own off, ‘and your cloak, untie it. Just let it go.’ They had been in the water a very short time, but already the cold was beginning to affect them. Versen didn’t look well: his face was drawn and pale, his eyes red, and his skin a cadaverous white. She struggled to keep his senses sharp despite the dulling influence of the frigid seawater. Versen’s fingers trembled as he endeavoured to loosen the thin wool ties holding the cloak about his neck; Brexan helped him.
‘You’re doing fine,’ she encouraged. ‘We just need to get moving again. We need to swim. It won’t be so cold once we start swimming.’ Brexan badly wanted to believe that, but she was dubious. She could feel the chill penetrating her bones: it would be just a matter of moments before she began to grow numb, to lose her senses and become confused. It was apparent the big Ronan wouldn’t be offering much assistance.
It would be up to her to generate a way to save themselves.
As he battled to remove his clothes, Versen could feel his legs failing beneath him. In his mind, he could see himself kicking hard and paddling with cupped hands to remain above the waves, but dipping his face in the water, he could see his limbs weren’t responding. His right leg turned lazy circles that did little to keep him afloat, while his left, painfully cramped in the cold autumn seas, pointed rigidly down into the depths and twitched involuntarily back and forth like a pendulum. His voice cracked as he said, ‘My legs aren’t working, Brexan. I can’t get them to move.’
‘Hang on to me,’ she said. She had no idea how she would keep them both afloat, but she was determined to try. She draped Versen’s arms over her shoulders. Her face resting against his, she grimaced. His skin was cold, colder than the water around them. Trying to remain positive, she said, ‘There, that ought to keep you out of trouble.’
‘No.’ Versen struggled to pull his arms back, but he lacked the strength. ‘I’ll pull you under. You should try to make it on your own.’
‘Ox,’ Brexan said gently, ‘we will either make it together, or we won’t.’ She knew the cold was dulling her consciousness, because the notion of failure had crept into her mind and she didn’t feel terribly alarmed at it, at the prospect of giving up, of simply laying back in the water and falling asleep. Shaking her head, she forced a moment’s clarity and turned her attention north. The Falkan Dancer was coming about in a long slow tack. It was nearly out of sight already, so there was no chance they could hail the vessel on its next pass. She cursed Carpello Jax, and wished she had driven the stolen knife blade deep into his flabby pink hide rather than just slashing him. That wound would heal; she should have killed him when she had the chance.
For a moment she thought she might have traded their current situation to be chained again to that bulkhead beneath the forecastle – being locked up in the dark, humid, stinking chamber had been difficult, but compared with their current plight, the manacles were a welcome alternative. She recalled the comforting sensation of feeling Versen’s legs entwined with hers, even though she couldn’t see him. But no, if they were going to die, at least they’d be free.
They were entwined again now. Versen’s arms lay across her shoulders, and his long legs continued to jerk spasmodically, kicking between her ankles, interrupting her efforts to tread water, and causing both their heads to dunk periodically beneath the surface.
The Ronan coast lay far to the east, two days’ swim away. Brexan nearly laughed. In another quarter-aven, both she and Versen would be a distant memory. She wondered if their bodies would sink or float in this cold water – as much as she hoped they would eventually be washed up on shore, she feared they would end up on the ocean floor. They would fall slowly, spiralling awkwardly down, and their bodies would come to rest in the deepest part of the Ravenian Sea, where the amiable reef fish feared to venture, where only the most primitive and cruel sea creatures scavenged for food. In an embarrassing fit of selfishness, she hoped the big Ronan would sink first; maybe then she wouldn’t find the journey as terrifying.
Brexan’s imagination frightened her awake, and with a sudden burst of adrenalin, she grabbed hold of Versen’s forearms and tugged. ‘C’mon, Ox,’ she entreated, ‘we have to swim. Kick your feet. Kick, Ox.’
‘I can do it,’ Versen mumbled, then choked out a mouthful of seawater. But he couldn’t. As his head began to loll forward, Brexan submerged briefly to free one hand and shove against his forehead, pushing his face out of the water and away from the waves.
‘Keep your head up,’ she ordered, ‘I’m doing everything else over here. You ought to at least hold up your own head.’
Versen didn’t respond to her weak joke.
Shivering uncontrollably, Brexan felt her muscles begin to cramp. The tightness seemed to attack her all at once; it felt like her body had been seized by an invisible sea god. She howled in frustration. Her strength was failing. She couldn’t support Versen’s weight any longer. She had to let him go, let him sink. If she wasn’t supporting him, she might stand a chance of swimming, if not all the way to shore, at least into shallower water where the waves might eventually carry her body up onto
the sand. ‘Please, Ox, please,’ she pleaded between sharp breaths, ‘I can’t do it alone. At least tread water, please.’
Sobbing weakly, she held on until her muscles burned and then gave out. Even had she been able to summon the will to support Versen’s weight any more, her limbs had already rebelled, giving up the struggle. Unable to move she watched Versen bob a few paces off before sinking beneath the waves.
Crying in earnest now, she inadvertently gulped a large mouthful of salty water and choked violently for several moments, coughing the fluid from her lungs between sobs. She struggled to fill her lungs and roll onto her back so she could float as long as possible before succumbing to the cold. She couldn’t feel her extremities any more. Her time was at hand; she hoped Versen was waiting for her on the long trail to the Northern Forest.
Above, the clear blue sky was interrupted by a few thin clouds scudding north towards Orindale. Floating on her back, Brexan inhaled as if to breathe in those clouds, to draw them down with her in hopes they might bring the sun’s warmth or better yet, might carry her away, carry her someplace dry. They must be warm; they are so close to the sun. Let them come. Come and take me. Just one of you, come down here.
Brexan choked as a wave passed over her face. Coughing and blinking to clear her vision, she drew a final hoarse breath, smiled up at the ghostly clouds stark against the brilliant blue sky, and gave up.
‘I’m coming, Ox,’ she mumbled and turned her gaze skywards. Unable to draw another breath, Brexan’s vision tunnelled, and the walls of her consciousness began to close down upon her. In an ironic last vision, she was faintly amused that one of the bone-white clouds appeared to be dropping from the sky.
Karn’s leg was bleeding badly from the wound the young woman had dealt him before she sprang from the quarterdeck of the Falkan schooner. Now, trailing a cloud of bloodstained water, he knew he would not survive the day. The cold had already slowed his progress, but he doggedly continued swimming, determined to get as far as he could before allowing the ocean to swallow his body. Karn understood swimming to shore was his only choice; that had become obvious the moment he realised the schooner’s crew could not retrieve his prisoners from the Ravenian Sea. To return to Malakasia without their prize would mean certain death for him. Karn preferred to drown here rather than return to face Prince Malagon empty-handed.
He had hoped the cold, coupled with the healing properties of salt water, would stop the bleeding, but although the pain had lessened dramatically, blood continued to flow unchecked from the wound. He wished he had had the forethought to stitch it himself before jumping overboard, but it was too late for that. Karn swam onwards, without hesitation or regrets.
Beside him swam his fellow Seron. Rala’s jaw was set, and a look of fierce determination passed across her face when she made eye contact with him. They would not wait, nor would they slow their pace to accommodate him. If he made it to shore, he would bind his injury and follow their trail until he could rejoin them.
Neither Haden nor Rala looked back as Karn began to lag behind. Soon they were ten, then twenty paces ahead of him. At fifty paces, he periodically lost sight of them behind the waves, and by the time the pair had moved a hundred paces more, Karn was already gone.
Rala swam steadily, but not even the consistent, repetitive motion or her single-minded intention to recapture the Ronan prisoners could mask the reality: her strength was waning. Beside her Haden continued, apparently unaffected by the cold or by the impossibly long distance they had yet to cover. There was something terrible about him, something powerful and evil. Rala understood Seron were stronger and more physically resilient than most men, but he was especially strong, especially brutal and coldly cruel, even for one of their race. Lahp was smart, a heavy-handed disciplinarian and a powerful leader among the Seron; Haden was quite as strong as Lahp, his equal physically, but he was far more ruthless, content to wait in the shadows, biding his time and awaiting opportunities to kill or maim.
Rala knew when they found the Ronans, Haden would most likely kill one of them right away. She would have to protect the second if they were to retrieve the stone, even if it meant a physical confrontation. It would be her responsibility to oversee the survivor’s interrogation, or they would lose critical intelligence to Haden’s inexhaustible appetite for pain, torture and dismemberment.
Struggling to remain afloat, Rala considered asking him to help her, but fearing his response, she decided instead to rededicate herself to maintaining her strokes and ignoring the cold as long as possible. But it didn’t work: fear began to creep into her mind, an emotion she knew little of. Slowly, she felt herself give way to panic. Her short, economic movements, designed to carry her rapidly through the water with minimal effort, became wild, jerky flailings that exhausted her physically and exacerbated her terror. Her head fell beneath the waves several times, and she cried out, choking, then hacking the briny seawater from her throat.
Finally she gave up and reached out. ‘Haden, help Rala,’ she pleaded in a high-pitched grunt.
‘Na,’ he replied, shoving her violently away, disgusted at her childish fear: she should be proud to die for their prince.
When she came at him again, Haden could see she had lost control. He placed the flat of one palm firmly against her chest, holding her at arm’s length as she thrashed and pleaded with him to save her life. Realising he could not afford to waste his energy battling Rala, the scarred Seron gripped her by the shoulders and forced her head beneath the waves. It wouldn’t take long, then he would continue swimming towards Rona. With Rala gone, he would be free to deal with the prisoners as he saw fit. Within an aven he would have the stone key, or know where it was, and the partisans would both be dead.
Rala surprised him: she was stronger than he had expected. She gripped his wrists and began pulling him down. His head submerged twice before he realised he had made a mistake. In the throes of fighting for her life, Rala discovered a store of adrenalin yet untapped, and she kicked and tugged like a wild woman until Haden released her. He decided to swim away; she was in no condition to keep up with him. He grinned as he watched her surface several paces off. He understood he might not make it to shore, but before he died, it would bring him great pleasure listening to Rala’s terrified, wailing cries for help, knowing none would come.
In a final act of desperation, she plunged forward, screaming, ‘Help Rala!’
Haden grimaced and spat a surprised curse as the woman managed to grab hold of his tunic. Screaming and scratching, Rala pulled wildly at his arms, his hair, and even his face as she struggled to find a solid purchase. Spinning onto his back, the scarred one raised his fists to pummel her beneath the waves, but before he had an opportunity to throw his first punch, Rala stopped struggling.
Her eyes wide in shock, the Seron woman choked out a final plea, then released her grip. Bobbing away like a tide-borne piece of driftwood, Rala’s body began to shrivel, to waste away until she was little more than an empty sack of sodden skin housing a jumbled array of pale yellow bones.
‘Almor,’ the remaining Seron grunted approvingly and turned to continue his journey. He had not gone far before he felt the almor’s touch, a faint prickling of primitive energy, as the demon creature came from below to envelop him in a warm and protective blanket that buoyed its passenger high in the water and heated his cold flesh. The milky-white fluid of the almor’s insubstantial form clouded the water around him, and he felt his hands and feet pass through the gelatinous substance as he made his way steadily towards the shore.
Together they would find the Ronans, discover the hiding place of Prince Malagon’s lost stone, and savour the pain and suffering of their victims through the next Twinmoon.
The rain finally stopped, and before the mud dried in the streets, heavy waves of disagreeable humidity radiated up from the sodden ground. Mornings were the worst, the sun somehow hotter than at midday: Hannah hated going about Middle Fork in the morning. Regardless of how carefully she
stepped or how thoroughly she cleaned her boots each evening, by the mid-morning aven, her feet were covered with mud and she was drenched in sweat.
Cursing herself for leaving her sunglasses – she could see them now, lying where she had tossed them so carelessly, on the front seat of her car – she felt as if she had developed a permanent squint. Of course, sunglasses would destroy her efforts to blend in with the Pragan people; any passing Malakasian patrol would take her into custody in a matter of minutes – but it might have been worth it. ‘At least they might take me someplace dark,’ she muttered, then added with a sigh, ‘No. I suppose that would be worse.’
This morning, she was hustling back to Alen’s home near the outskirts. Over one shoulder she carried a thick hemp bag stuffed full of vegetables, fruit, fresh bread, a couple of wine flagons and the ungainly carcase of something called a gansel.
Hannah had – stupidly! – taught Churn how to play rock, paper, scissors, and now he insisted on challenging her every day, especially when it came time to help out around the house. Bring in firewood? Rock breaks scissors. Buy food for breakfast? Paper covers rock. Shovel out the ash box? Scissors cut paper. The man was a virtuoso, a rock-paper-scissors savant, and to make matters worse, Churn bellowed an inhuman laugh every time he won: it sounded like a drunken opera star practising the vowel continuum in a stairwell.
Avoiding a group of begging street children she crossed through the mud, turned down an alley, and cut back behind several large businesses before re-entering the main boulevard only a block or two from Alen’s house. She promised herself she would return later with the leftovers for the hungry children, but for now, she wanted to get back to Alen Jasper. He had told her a lot about Eldarn, its people and history, but there was still a great deal to learn, especially if she were going to track down Steven and discover a way to step back into Idaho Springs.