Winds of the Wild Sea

by Jeff Mariotte

  Alanya understood why he didn’t think she would like hearing that. And for the most part, he was right. She didn’t want to think about him killing anyone, on her behalf.

  But she thought that she would do the same for him, or for Donial. Perhaps not happily. But if it was their lives, or another’s, she would choose theirs, every time. No matter what the cost to herself.

  What was that? Love? Family?

  She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure her friends in Tarantia—the “civilized” girls she knew—would even recognize her any longer, or understand the impulses that drove her.

  The whole experience was changing her, undeniably. Whether that change was for better or worse wasn’t within her power to judge. Leave that for someone else, she thought. Someone who has the luxury of judgment.

  For her, survival was the issue. Judgment was for people sitting safely inside comfortable homes.

  “DO YOU WANT to escape?”

  Donial looked at Mikelo, astonished that the young man would even suggest it. “I thought you said it was impossible.”

  “Not necessarily impossible,” Mikelo replied. “Just very difficult. And very dangerous.”

  “It does not seem that going off on the ship with these pirates will exactly be safe,” Donial noted. He looked at the big mounds of sand on the beach where all the bodies from the other day’s battle had been buried. He had killed one of those men. He wished it had been more. Kunios, especially. “Especially if Captain Kunios wants to ransom my sister to my father, since he is dead.”

  “Then he will likely just auction her off somewhere,” Mikelo told him. “Which would be awful.”

  Donial already knew the Zingaran had a crush on Alanya—he didn’t want to listen to the details again. “That is not going to happen,” he stated flatly.

  “The only way to be sure of that is to get away from here before we cast off,” Mikelo said. Suddenly Donial understood why Mikelo had changed his mind about escape. He wanted to “rescue” Alanya and make her feel indebted to him. He understood, but he cared less about the motivation than about the possibility of success. “And the ship is going to be ready soon,” Mikelo added.

  Donial scanned the horizon. Tall grass spread out into the far distance. Etched across the edge of the vast grassy plain was a dark line that might have been forest. But anyone crossing that grass would leave a distinct track, like the Argosseans had made when they came here.

  Donial and Mikelo had been sent from the new Barachan Spur to shore to deliver stored food to those left onshore. Alone on the lifeboat, midway between, it was safe enough to talk about such things. But they needed to finish up soon because several of the buccaneers were waiting for them on the beach.

  “Do you have an actual plan?” Donial asked as he rowed.

  “More of an idea than a plan, I guess. Here it is. The ship will be ready to sail by morning. It looks ready now, but Kunios will want to wait until morning light to cast off. He will be anxious to get under way, if I know him. So my idea is, tonight, when most of the Argosseans are on board and only a few guards remain behind on land, we slip away. Instead of going straight across the grass, we take to the water and walk along the shore for a few miles. The waves will cover any noise we might make and obscure our tracks. Only after we are well out of sight of the ship do we cut across the grass. In the morning, by the time anyone realizes we have gone, Kunios will be so ready to leave, he won’t want to spend much time looking for us. When there are no visible tracks, he will just cast off. Then we can cut across Shem to Argos, then Zingara or Aquilonia. Or we can take the longer route, through Koth and Ophir if you want to avoid Argos.”

  “Actually, we need to get to Stygia,” Donial said.

  Mikelo shivered in spite of the hot sun blazing down on them. “I would be happy never to set foot there again.”

  “I never have,” Donial told him. “But I have no choice in the matter. There is . . . something that Kral has to do there.”

  “So you plan to stay with the Pict?”

  “Aye,” Donial said. “He goes where we go.”

  “Your sister might like Kordava.”

  “She will probably never find out,” Donial replied. Fortunately, they were approaching the beach, and he jumped out of the boat to haul it in. As the water splashed around his thighs, he thought of Mikelo’s scheme.

  It just might work—if he was right about the majority of the buccaneers spending the night on the boat. If they didn’t, then it was probably doomed to failure.

  He didn’t want to find out what keelhauling was really like—certainly not from the vantage point of the keelhauled.

  But he also didn’t want to set sail on the Barachan Spur, bound for parts unknown.

  KRAL AND ALANYA both agreed to the escape plan, once Donial was able to explain it to them. Kral seemed a bit more reluctant than Alanya, or maybe just more realistic about their prospects, but he indicated his willingness to go along with it. Alanya, already sick of Kunios’s frequent and unabashed stares, was more enthusiastic. Both suspected that Kunios was half-mad, at least. His one-sided battle with his own sailor made it even more apparent, although Kral had expressed grudging admiration of the pirate captain’s swordsmanship.

  When night fell, however, a minor problem revealed itself. Kunios intended to sleep aboard the ship in his new cabin, and he took a crew out to finish some last-minute preparations for sailing at first light. But the bulk of the pirate crew, as well as the sailors and mercenaries from the Restless Heart, would be staying onshore until morning. Which meant more guards posted and less opportunity to slip away unseen.

  Even so, Mikelo indicated his eagerness to try. Donial brought the news to Alanya and Kral, and they both agreed as well. Alanya could barely eat dinner, so consumed was she with nervousness. Still, she knew it was important to maintain the pretense that everything was fine, so she tried to force down as much of the dried, salted pork and hard biscuits as she could. When one of the buccaneers asked her if she was ill, she replied that she was just anxious about setting off to sea in the morning. The man seemed to accept that as an answer and moved on.

  It felt like days passed before the camp settled down for the night. Alanya, Donial, and Kral had always slept near the edge of the group anyway, since they were not really seafaring types and felt a bit like outsiders among these others. That night, Mikelo picked a sleeping spot nearer them than he had on other occasions. They all bedded down at the usual time, and Alanya closed her eyes, listening to the jokes, boasts, and lies of the pirates (and the crew from the old Restless Heart, who seemed already to be blending in with the Argosseans), as she pretended to sleep.

  Eventually, the camp was quiet. She actually dozed for a time, despite her nerves. When Kral gently nudged her shoulder, though, she woke immediately, alert and aware of the situation.

  Mikelo crouched nearby, and Donial was pushing himself up onto hands and knees. They had agreed to lie down in the clothes they planned to wear on their escape, with the food and weapons they planned to bring close at hand. All had chosen dark clothing, and Alanya had also picked a black cloak to help hide her in the night. Her pouch contained her mirror, of course, which so far she had managed to keep hidden.

  Without speaking, they all started away from the group of sleeping men. Alanya heard snores, men twisting and writhing in their sleep, even one man who seemed to be laughing to himself. But as she scanned the camp, by light of the crescent moon and a smoldering campfire, she didn’t see anyone who looked awake—not even the guard, sitting up by the palms at the top of the beach, whose chin rested on his chest. Maybe the absence of their captain from the camp tonight meant that security would be more lax than usual.

  She could hope, anyway.

  The beach was flat, curving in a gentle arc. The four companions moved stealthily toward the south-east, toward Stygia and away from Argos, then cut down to the water. As soon as they reached it they waded in. The water chilled Alanya’s legs, but she apprec
iated Mikelo’s idea—the steady surf covered the sound of their getaway, and the water wiped away their tracks the moment they were made.

  As they put more and more distance between themselves and the camp, Alanya began to relax. This was going to work. She allowed herself a private smile.

  She started to turn to Kral to say something—the first words that would have passed between any of them since they left their sleeping areas.

  But as soon as she opened her mouth, before any sound could come out, she heard the shouts from the direction of camp. When she spun around to look back that way, she saw a swarm of buccaneers heading down the beach toward them. Moonlight glinted coldly on the blades of their swords.

  Kral grabbed her hand. “Run!” he cried, tugging on her.

  Alanya ran.

  17

  KRAL KNEW THAT, given his head start, he could outrun the pirates who chased them.

  They were used to life on board ship, where the longest run was only a few yards. Possibly they could outswim him, but he wasn’t even sure about that.

  But he could run for days—literally—at top speed, for hours at a time. If he paced himself he could run from daybreak to sunset without stopping once. There was no way the pirates could stop him if he went all out. He wouldn’t have to stop until he was most of the way to Stygia, and their legs would give out long before that.

  There was one problem with that, however.

  At the moment, Donial was ahead of him. Donial was a sprinter, one of the fastest Kral had ever seen. He could leave those pirates eating his dust, although Kral doubted he could sustain that pace for very long. He was a product of civilization, after all, not accustomed to running for his very life. But he could put some real distance between himself and the pirates, and maybe lose them.

  That left Alanya and Mikelo to worry about.

  Kral didn’t much care what happened to Mikelo, except that their whole plan, however flawed, had been his idea. He guessed he owed the youngster something for that.

  But in spite of his earlier resolve, he didn’t think he could leave Alanya behind. He held her hand, warm and pliant in his grip, and tried to tug her along with him. They eased out of the surf and onto the sand, since speed mattered more than stealth at that point. Even sand wasn’t ideal, and he was trying to work them all toward the grass, where they could run faster still.

  He had slept for a couple of hours. But during that time, he had been consumed by a dream. In that dream, he had seen a man—himself, and yet not himself, in the way that only dreams can do—living on the edge of an island far out in the Western Ocean. He looked farther to the west, off to sea, and he saw a thick, dark mass of clouds coming his way. He shouted to his fellows, all Picts, stunted and dark, but he could find no voice. Looking out to sea again, he discovered that the clouds had taken the shape of a bear.

  Some part of his mind tried to give meaning to the images even as he was dreaming them. Legend had it that the Picts had once lived on islands in the Western Ocean, islands that had become mountain ranges after the Great Cataclysm reshaped the world. The huge gray/white bear that lumbered menacingly toward the island could only be the Ice Bear.

  Then others on the island saw the bear’s approach as well. They screamed and tried to run, but still no voices could be heard. Kral could hear only the roar of the wind, growing louder as if it was the very breath of the massive bear. The wind was cold; branches iced up and snapped under its assault, naked flesh froze. Kral realized that he wore a bearskin, and he drew it more tightly around himself. Even so, he shivered with the chill that surrounded him.

  As the bear came nearer, the very sea itself froze solid. The bear was no mere shape in the clouds now. It had form, and weight, and the frozen ocean waves cracked and shrieked under its tread. In its fur Kral could see icicles longer than the tallest trees on the island, and in its eyes, he saw cold disregard for any unfortunates in its path. The Ice Bear was a force of nature, as unfeeling as wind or rain or flame. And still, it came on.

  Picts tried to run, tried to leap into the sea on the other side of the island and swim for the mainland. But the sea had frozen on that side, too. They only slipped and slid, and when they were able to get far enough away, the ice cracked under them, sending them hurtling beneath its surface, where they were trapped. The dream-Kral watched this with horror, but he made no move to join them. He simply stayed where he was, as if cemented to the spot by the ice that was everywhere now.

  The Ice Bear was upon him. Its claws raked the island’s shore as it came, its cold breath washed over him. Kral thought his own eyeballs would freeze and crack in his head. One great paw hovered above him, about to drop down, and surely he would be killed when it did—

  Then he awoke, with Mikelo shaking his shoulder. Kral nodded once, instantly alert, and went to wake Alanya.

  While running, he remembered the dream. He knew what it meant—he needed to save the Teeth of the Ice Bear, to return it to its proper spot. If he failed to do so, the Ice Bear would come back, and disaster would follow in its wake. Kral rolled over his earlier decision in his mind—that he would put the Teeth first, no matter what. That his own escape was of paramount importance, and other considerations had to be relegated to second place.

  And then he looked at Alanya, her golden hair bouncing in the moonlight as she ran, her face serious, giving every ounce of strength she could to the effort. If only she hadn’t tried so hard. If only he didn’t know that if he asked her, she would tell him to go, to leave her behind, to find the Teeth and get it back where it belonged. She would be fine, she would insist. Run, Kral, run while you can, she would say. He was certain of it.

  Which was why he couldn’t ask her. And why he couldn’t just leave her behind, let his legs stretch their full distance, and leave the pirates wondering if he was man or gazelle.

  He glanced at her again, as these thoughts rushed through his busy mind, and their eyes locked briefly, then Alanya was pulling her hand free from his grip. “You can get away,” she said, between huffs of tired breath. Almost as if she had known his thoughts. “Go on, Kral! Please!”

  “No,” he started to protest. But the look in her eyes was imploring. With just that, just the message delivered by those two blazing blue eyes on a dark night, she told him that she understood the urgency of his quest, and she beseeched him to carry it through to its conclusion.

  Kral felt that by leaving her behind, he would be losing a piece of his heart, as well. It was an almost physical pain in his chest. He didn’t let it slow him down, though, didn’t hesitate to extend his legs more, to pump his arms faster, to feel the ground rushing beneath him as he raced, liberated and hurting, into the night.

  ALANYA HAD FELT herself slowing Kral down, felt him trying to tug her along faster. But she was worn out. She had not slept much at all, her body was still tense and stiff from all the sitting and sewing of the last few days, and she had barely eaten today, so her body had no fuel to draw on.

  Donial had already far outpaced them, and even Mikelo was moving ahead a little. But Kral was the one who truly needed to get away. He was the only one who could return the Pictish crown to its proper place, and he needed to do it before whatever disaster was in the offing took place. What happened to Alanya mattered to Donial, to Cheveray, maybe to Kral, and a few friends back in Tarantia, but it didn’t have any greater overall significance. Kral might be saving the world, or at least part of it. Alanya was only saving Alanya.

  So she had to let him go. Without her to worry about, she knew he could lose the pursuing buccaneers. Maybe Donial could, too. If she let them catch her, maybe even Mikelo would escape.

  Not that she would give up, or voluntarily turn back. But her lungs were beginning to ache, and she thought her legs would cramp up at any moment. She wasn’t going to last much longer.

  She kept her head down, kept running as long as she could. A month ago, she wouldn’t have made it half that far. But her adventures had already made her strong
er, not just physically but mentally, emotionally. She had fought for things worth having, and she knew how to make that decision now. She was able to make a decision that, a month ago, would have paralyzed her—to guarantee Kral’s safety she would risk her own.

  Freedom was worth having, and she would fight with every fiber of her being for it. But she would not slow down others fighting for the same thing. She couldn’t do that and live with herself after.

  She could see by Kral’s face that he didn’t want to go without her. But he understood the sense of it just the same. He gave a barely perceptible nod—one he might not even have been aware of himself—and sped up, pulling away from Alanya almost instantly.

  Alanya gave Kral a few minutes to build up a good lead. Then she turned inland, running through tall, thick grasses that tore and pulled at her wet legs. The pirates were gaining ground fast. She didn’t think it would be long before they caught up. So she wanted to make them chase after her, or at least split up, giving the others a better shot at escape.

  She ignored the clawing grasses and hurried toward the far side of the field, where she thought a dark line indicated some inland forest. If she could make it there . . .

  But, no, she didn’t think she would. Already her breathing was ragged, her heart slamming so hard in her rib cage she thought it would burst. Her pace faltered, a combination of the thick grass underfoot and the deep weariness in her limbs. She could hear pirates close behind, the rustle of the grass as they cut through it, their harsh breaths and muttered curses.

  Pressing on, Alanya tried to imagine herself free of them, back home in Tarantia, with Donial and Kral around her. Maybe sitting beside a fireplace on a winter’s night, hot mugs of cider close at hand . . .

  And then a hard fist slammed into her shoulder. She went tumbling in the grass, winding up sprawled facedown. The knee of one of the pirates pressed into the small of her back, his breath hot and foul on her neck . . .