by S. C. Monson
Out of the corner of his eye, Kor glimpsed a dark shape on the waves; a mast pierced the mist. It was heading for a gap in the boulders at the northeast corner of the fortress behind him.
The ship—the Nalkaran ship. Peter had seen him.
Kor ground his teeth. A determined bellow gathered deep in his throat as he fought harder. Slowly, he straightened in the gap, chopping furiously at Rimak’s legs.
The mercenary cried out and staggered back, falling on the parapet. He tried to stand, but toppled back again.
Seizing his opportunity, Kor scrambled to freedom, backing out of the tight space and hopping up on the raised stone behind him. From the other side of the crenel, Rimak struck out with his hakuma. The hooked end caught Kor’s vest, tearing a hole in the material.
The thin veil of clarity in Kor’s mind burst and the gentle prompts vanished. Fatigue and the pangs of his injuries clouded his thoughts more readily as he turned and dashed down the wall. He clutched at the bottom edge of his vest, feeling for the rocky lump in the lining, but the gem was gone.
Smoke billowed up from the wall walk to his right. Kor coughed and stumbled forward. His flesh rose in goosebumps and the grip on his sword turned slightly hairy. Ignoring the rawness in his flesh and focusing on escape, he pressed on. In the darkness over the ocean, the deep midnight-blue mast and sails were nearly invisible, but Kor spotted them rising up through the mist ahead and left of the wall. Far below, he thought he heard someone shout his name. Kor glanced down at the frothing whitecaps, then fixed his eyes on the mast and sped down the wall toward it.
Don’t look down, he thought dryly, and leapt sideways off the wall.
For a split second, he arched over the ocean. The ancient throbbing rumbled through him, vibrating his bones. Shards, like glass, clawed at his flesh from the inside, as though trying to break free. Too weary to resist any longer, Kor gave in. Needles punched through his pores and a thrumming enveloped him. Beneath it all, he felt a strange shrinking sensation. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he plummeted, unconscious, toward the dark sails.
38
“The bony landlubber’s coming to.”
The deep, melodic voice rang in Kor’s ears and his eyelids fluttered open. A face leaned over him, its features distorted by shadow and lantern light. The tall, barrel-chested figure brought Rimak to mind, and Kor came fully awake. He scrambled back, swinging a fist, but it was empty. No doubt the sword had been dropped in the fall.
“Relax, Kor. You’re safe now.” Peter’s familiar face appeared in front of the first man’s and calmed his racing heart.
Stiff fur brushed Kor’s side and he glanced down as Spart snuffled him all over.
“Someone’s pleased to see you,” Peter said, chuckling as the badger planted his paws on Kor’s chest.
“Easy, Spart,” Kor said, wincing. The long digging claws scratched his flesh, which was already feeling raw enough. Spart ignored the plea and nosed Kor excitedly under the chin. Kor scratched the animal around the ears, then pushed him aside, groaning. His whole body throbbed and the ground tilted under him. “Where am I?”
The barrel-chested figure responded with a sweep of the lantern in his hand to indicate the ship. “Welcome to the Screaming Hen, prime vessel of Nalkara’s monarch.”
Despite his aches, Kor was intrigued. Up to that point, he thought the Nalkaran rescuers were common sailors, honoring a favor for Peter’s outside man. But the barrel-chested figure said no more on the subject. Instead, he stuck out a meaty hand in a fingerless leather glove to help Kor up. Kor took it. His own hand was crushed in the man’s grip and his arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as he was yanked to his feet. He grunted with the sharp movement and hastily withdrew his hand. Flexing to check for broken bones, he warily eyed the formidable, mountainous figure.
The huge sailor wore a leather jerkin. Iron studs rimmed the jutting shoulder pieces. Thick leather armplates were strapped to beefy arms. Around his waist was a belt, half a handspan in width and lined with an assortment of knives, daggers, and swords. The man surveyed Kor. “Bit of a scarecrow, aren’t you?”
“Compared to you, maybe,” Kor muttered.
The man laughed.
Peter lifted Kor’s vest, suddenly noticing his burned and bleeding side. “Are you alright, lad?” he asked.
Kor glanced down at his grenade injury. It still hurt like blazes, but perhaps not as much as it should have. “I’m well enough.”
Seeming satisfied with the answer, Peter relaxed a little and asked his next question, curiously. “How did you get here?”
Kor raised an eyebrow. “I jumped,” he said flatly.
Peter remained silent and Kor sighed, knowing he was after a more detailed report.
“I fell behind,” Kor said, glancing back at the shrinking Isle. The prison fortress was shrouded in mist. Flames licked the top of the north wall. “Rimak caught sight of me and drove me out to the prison courtyard. We ended up on the ramparts. I saw the ship approaching, took my chances, and jumped,” he said, meeting Peter’s gaze again. “What happened on your end?”
“Roe caught up to us,” Peter said. “He attacked with a handful of guards as the prisoners were boarding the rowboats, but the Nalkarans, Spart, and I took care of them.”
“And Cadogan?”
“A bit scratched up, but otherwise doing well. He’s been wanting to go back and help more friends escape, especially now that he’s seen how much Nalkaran support we have, but…” He glanced into the shadows beside Kor. “Captain Hardison doesn’t think it’s wise.”
A man stepped into the lantern light. His sleek black hair was pulled away from his square jaw in a short ponytail. He was half a head shorter than the barrel-chested figure, though still tall, and far leaner. Even in the dim light, however, Kor could see the leanness was solid-toned muscle.
“One victory will suffice for now.” The man’s quiet, mellow voice was nonetheless commanding. “Best not push our luck.”
Peter turned back to Kor. “I didn’t notice you were missing until we reached the rendezvous on the switchback. I almost went back to find you, but Spart started acting up, snapping at my boots, getting in my way. You know how he is. He kept staring up at the wall and chittering until I finally looked up. You were on the parapet. Leastways, I was fairly certain it was you.” He tipped his head at the barrel-chested figure with the lantern. “It was Keasby’s idea to signal the ship in closer. We were going to launch a harpoon at the wall and have you climb down the rope. Bu-ut you jumped instead.” Peter opened his mouth to say more, and hesitated. “You sort of rolled down the sail when you fell. You were—whole when we found you.”
A look passed between Peter, Captain Hardison, and Keasby.
Kor paid no heed as pain flared in his side. His bones ached as though they’d been snapped in two, then pounded back together again with a mallet. “Not that whole,” he said, with feeling.
“My first mate will feed you and patch you up,” Captain Hardison said, nodding at Keasby.
Keasby shot the captain a glare. “I thought Leeter was back on galley duty,” he said, sounding miffed.
“Have you tried Leeter’s cooking?” Hardison asked. His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in confidentially toward Keasby. “The man boils hardtack in water and calls it stew.” He shuddered. “No,” he said, straightening resolutely and looking at Kor again. “Keasby will feed you, put some meat on your bones—”
“You said it was temporary,” Keasby said through his teeth.
“—and show you to the hammocks belowdecks,” Hardison continued, ignoring him. “You can rest there ’til you’re fit and able.”
“Demoted to cook and nursemaid,” Keasby said, grumbling under his breath.
Hardison’s mouth twitched in a smile as he turned to leave.
“Captain,” Kor called after him.
The man stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
“How long is the voyage to Nalkara?
” Kor asked, dreading the answer. Peter had told them they would be headed north after the escape, but had said little more on the subject.
“A fortnight. Maybe less, if the wind’s right and the sea cooperates,” Hardison replied, and strode midship toward the helm. His nub of a ponytail bounced as he walked, and he leaned slightly with the tilt of the ship. A seasoned sailor.
Keasby jerked his head to indicate a direction and started forward, muttering about cramped galleys, false promises, and hoity-toity captains.
“I can hear you,” Hardison said, taking over the ship’s wheel from another sailor. His quiet voice cut smoothly through the sounds of the ocean and creaking boat.
“Man’s got ears like a bat,” Keasby said. “It’s no wonder he looks like one.”
“I can still hear you.” There was dry humor in the captain's tone. “Better watch it or I’ll have you swabbing decks and scrubbing bulkheads in the morning.”
“You do, and I’ll throw you overboard,” Keasby threatened.
Kor heard Hardison and several other sailors chuckle and laughed himself. Keasby shot him a glare. The forester cut his mirth short with a cough and quickly glanced away, though he thought he detected a mischievous twinkle in the look. Still, he followed the man at a distance.
Contrary to Hardison’s threat, however, it was Kor and the rescued Isle prisoners who were put to work scrubbing bulkheads and swabbing decks. Not Keasby. But Kor didn’t mind. On his knees, he could almost pretend the ocean wasn’t there. And when that task failed to distract him from his fears of the sea, Hardison and Keasby’s friendly banter and the jovial crew helped.
Also contrary to Hardison’s calculations, the journey took longer than a fortnight. Once underway, they didn’t stop to rendezvous with the pirate ship—Hardison and Peter had paid the Vahindans with a hefty Nalkaran sum and the proceeds from the wine before the attack. However, a storm delayed them. It took nearly three weeks before the Screaming Hen finally docked in Nalkara.
As soon as they lowered the gangplank, Spart was off—most likely to stretch his legs and scrounge up a hearty meal. The badger, though he’d seemed fairly at ease on the boat, looked ecstatic to be back on land. Kor watched him slip away, knowing he would return at his leisure.
Hardison went ahead to the Nalkaran palace with Peter while Keasby and Kor stayed behind to see that Cadogan and the other rescued prisoners were cared for. Then they followed in a cramped, horse-drawn carriage.
It was only cramped because Keasby was in it. The large first mate had to fold in on himself to fit inside the frilly white vehicle. Kor squeezed onto the seat across from him. Their knees knocked together as they bounced over ruts in the path. As soon as they had stepped on land, Kor noticed a change in the first mate’s demeanor; the farther they got from water, the more sour his mood became. Keasby glowered miserably at the red carpeted floor and leather upholstery, barely speaking the whole ride.
Thankfully, they arrived at the Nalkaran wooden palace before long. The two piled out of the carriage into a frigid, early spring breeze. The winter snows had mostly melted. According to Keasby and Hardison, this was unusual for Nalkara. Generally, the ground remained white until mid-May.
Kor buttoned his fur-lined jacket and flipped up the collar against the breeze. Keasby had given him the coat his first night on the ship, along with boots, a shirt, and loose-fitting cotton pants. The jacket was nearly as warm as a borlan-hide cloak, but the cold cut through his trousers.
He started forward through the palace gates, then slowed to stare in awe up at the massive wooden structure. The smooth, horizontally laid slats forming the wall were seamless. Their rich reddish-brown color glistened in the sun, reminding Kor of the borwood trees.
Ahead, Keasby grunted in impatience. The first mate was already at the massive double doors.
Kor hurried after, taking the palace steps two at a time. He turned in a circle, taking in the intricately carved double doors as he passed through them. Inside the palace, his boots clicked on polished marble. “Who did you say we were going to see?”
“Nalkara’s monarch—King Hysoph.” Keasby’s reply was uncharacteristically curt.
“And why did he help me?”
Keasby gave him a sidelong glare.
“Fine, fine,” Kor said, placatingly. “But the man practically sponsored my rescue. It would be a shame not to know why.” He glanced hopefully at Keasby, but the sailor didn’t reply.
Kor sighed. For the entire voyage, Peter and his new Nalkaran friends had sidestepped questions regarding the monarch’s involvement in Kor’s rescue. Each claimed it would be better for the ruler to explain things himself. Even the unranked sailors had remained silent on the subject.
“I spent over a fortnight swabbing the decks of your floating deathtrap, and nearly drowned in a storm,” Kor said, attempting to needle the man’s conscience, “and you can’t even answer one simple question?”
“Orders are orders,” Keasby grumbled, turning a corner down a long hall. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You didn’t have to swab the decks, you know. You could have worked on the rigging.”
Kor ignored the comment. “Since when do you follow orders?”
“I always follow orders,” Keasby said, with an indignant sniff. “Not my fault certain circumstances require improvising.”
“I thought the term was insubordination.”
“I’m the first mate,” Keasby said, cracking a grin and playfully shoving Kor’s head. “I’ll call it what I want.” For the first time since Hardison had informed him he’d be escorting Kor on land to the palace, Keasby’s mood began to lighten.
Kor staggered sideways with the shove, chuckling. They turned a corner again and headed toward another set of carved double doors. As they approached, two stone-faced guards crossed their javelins in front of the entry. Their apparel was similar to Keasby’s jerkin, but crafted from thinner, embroidered cloth instead of leather. At a word from Keasby, one guard disappeared through the doors. When he returned, he instructed them to follow.
Keasby and Kor entered a wide room. Kor took it all in as they walked. The walls on either side were lined with curtains. Folds of damson velvet spilled onto the white marble floor. Gold fringes looped along the curtain rods above them. High overhead, rich reddish-brown slats formed the ceiling. Elaborate carvings in the wood depicted strange scenes of badgers and borlan and men.
Kor nearly bumped into the guard as he stopped at the end of the long room. Just in time, Keasby shot out a hand to hold him back. Kor flashed him a sheepish grin as the guard introduced them both, then left. Before them sat a wide, low dais. Kor eyed it, curious to see his benefactor. A man sat on a tall wooden throne the same rich reddish brown as the rest of the palace with detailed carvings on its curling armrests that were painted a shiny ebony black. The man had wavy silver hair, a meticulously trimmed beard, and a sharp, rectangular jawline. Stately, with the look of a sly but fair king. A fur half cloak was draped over his right shoulder and secured under his left by a silver chain and clasp. At his hip hung a sword in a carved leather sheath.
Not surprisingly, Hardison stood on the dais beside the monarch. Peter, too, was there, standing in front of the dais with his back to Kor, talking to someone. At last the woodsman turned to acknowledge Kor and Keasby, revealing the other man—
Commander Martt Veen.
39
Kor’s shock soon escalated to fury. He lunged for Martt, but Peter and Keasby restrained him. As they did, the monarch stepped off the dais and strode toward him, a straight, proud figure of a man.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked in a commanding, coppery tenor.
For a moment, Kor stopped struggling. His glare flicked to the monarch, then back to Martt. “What’s he doing here?” he demanded.
“The voice is similar,” the monarch observed, eyeing Kor. “Same jawline, same hair, same deep set of the eyes, though the color is different, more like his mother’s.” Clasping his hands
behind his back, he circled Kor. “A bit bony, perhaps, but overall, the build is similar, and the scar appears to be there—though the latter is entirely the boy’s own.” He paused before Kor and leaned forward to inspect the scar. In his attempt to get at Martt, Kor's jacket and shirt had pulled left, revealing part of the mark on his neck. “Can you shift, boy?” the king asked, curious.
“Pe-ter?” Kor’s tone was both warning and inquisitive.
Peter ignored him and addressed the monarch. “I saw him shift on the Isle, Your Majesty—once after a punishment should have killed him and once the night of the escape.”
“And he partially manifested the gift before Leon sentenced him to the salt mines,” Martt added. “He was undergoing torture at the time.” He said it as though it were a natural, everyday occurrence.
Kor glared and Martt flashed him an unperturbed smile.
“He shifted on the boat, too,” Hardison put in. “After we nearly lost him at sea.” This last part he mumbled, flinching slightly as the monarch glanced sharply back at him.
“I don’t think he remembers any of it, though,” Peter said.
The monarch turned back to Kor. “Naturally. The first shifts are generally a blur,” he said and waved a hand. “No matter. I will teach him to control it.”
“Control what?” Kor asked, exasperated. “Peter, what is going on?”
The woodsman looked like he wanted to answer, but his gaze went back to the monarch as the Nalkaran ruler returned to his throne and spoke again.
“Do you ever dream of being a badger, boy?” he asked, settling back on the cushion of the great, carved wooden seat. “Dreams so real you can feel the fur on your skin?”
Kor reeled slightly at the accuracy of the question.
“Those are the dreams of a shifter,” said the monarch.
At the last word, Kor furrowed his brow. The term was familiar. Older villagers had mentioned it in relation to the tale, The Badger, the Borlan, and Man. “But—that’s a myth.”