by Angus Wells
I smiled and hobbled closer to the wood.
Andyrt surprised me then, setting a hand on my shoulder to halt me as he dropped to one knee, hands crossed against his chest in attitude of prayer. Confused, I waited for him to rise with a question on my lips that I bit off as I saw his face. I was not sure what expression sat there; not fear, but an emotion not entirely divorced. Awe, perhaps; and something of disquiet. I looked to the wood and wondered why.
It seemed no more than a plain oak hurst, the massy branches verdant with spring’s new growth. The closer trees were mostly young as oaks go, though toward the center I could espy vast, majestic trunks that must have been ancient when Ramach faced the Kho’rabi. I turned to Andyrt and asked him, “Were you here then?”
“No.” He shook his head, favoring me with a brief smile. “Think you I’m so old? Bardan himself was a babe in arms when this battle was fought.”
I mumbled an apology he seemed not to hear, intent on the holt. I had never set foot in a place of worship larger than the village cella, but it came to me that his must be the attitude of a man entering some sacred precinct, a cathedral … or a sepulchre. I fell silent as we walked slowly through the edge timber, moving deeper into the wood. It dawned on me that I heard no birdsong, that no squirrels chattered from the branches, nor were there the usual sounds of the small animals amongst the roots and fallen leaves. Indeed, nothing other than the oaks grew here: there was no undergrowth, nor even moss on the gnarled trunks. It was unnaturally quiet, the only sound the faint susurration of the wind-stirred leaves, as if the oaks murmured amongst themselves; as if they discussed our presence.
I felt suddenly uncomfortable. The dull aching of my thighs and buttocks was forgotten, replaced with a prickling sensation that prompted me to turn to and fro, convinced eyes watched me from hidden places.
“You feel it.” Andyrt did not ask a question, and I nodded, whispering, “Yes.”
“It was a terrible battle.” His voice was low as if he made confession. “Two full warbands met the fylie of two airboats. Steel met steel, and more—the sorcerers of Cambar and Torbryn fought with the Kho’rabi wizards. Hundreds died here—it was five years and more before the warbands regained their full strength. Ramach declared this wood should be their monument, that it be left to grow unchecked. It does, and it remembers, I think. Nothing lives here save the oaks and the spirits of the dead.”
I looked about, at a wood no longer merely that. It seemed that for an instant I saw the fight. The sunlight slanting through the latticed overlay of branches glinted on bloody swords, armored men clashed, bolts of occult power exploded. Men roared, battle-shouts and dying screams. I realized I was very cold as the momentary vision faded. I shivered, my mouth gone too dry to speak.
“Enough?” asked Andyrt.
I nodded and we turned about, our departure swifter than our entrance.
Outside the wood, the sight of the placidly cropping horses, the fields beyond, a restoration of normality, we halted and looked back. “It was the height of summer,” Andyrt said slowly. “Two days short of the Sastaine festival, it began; it ended two days after. None come near on those nights.”
I thought of my vision and asked, “It’s haunted?”
“I’ve not come to find out.” Andyrt shrugged and grinned with some small resumption of his customary good humor. “Those who’ve been in sight—shepherds, late-traveling peddlers—say they’ve heard the sounds of battle, or even seen warriors fighting amongst the trees, but none have lingered to see more. Sometimes, from the keep you can see lights … like witchfire.”
“I thought I saw …” I shook my head and grinned shamefaced.
“Some do, if they’ve the gift.” Andyrt ran absent fingers through the stallion’s mane. The big horse tossed its head and snorted. “Perhaps that talent that shall make you a Storyman grants you the sight. Now do we return?”
We rode back at funereal pace, and I am sure my face was a red-lit beacon as I was aided down and hobbled stiff-legged across the yard. Andyrt helped me climb the stairs to my room, our progress met with amiable derision by the soldiers lounging in the hall, and summoned servants to draw a bath. Promising to find Garat for me, he left me alone. I waited standing.
A Changed servant brought in the tub, and others filled it with steaming water. The herbalist came, cursing my idiocy and Andyrt’s sadism in equal measure, spilling a selection of aromatic liquids into the bath, then leaving me with instructions to apply a salve to my tender parts and the observation that for all his efforts I should likely take my next few meals on my feet and sleep on my belly. I thanked him and sank hopefully into the water.
In a while hope became gratitude, and I blessed Garat’s skill as my aches abated. I rose and dried myself, carefully applied Garat’s salve, and made my way down to the hall.
Rekyn met me there, to advise me the merchantman on which I should travel north would dock on the morrow. I asked her how she knew, and she smiled and said, “Magic, Daviot. How else? The galley comes down the coast, and we sorcerers send word from keep to keep.”
I thought I should not sleep that night, but I did, and soundly, thanks to Garat’s potions.
I was awake early the next morning, roused from dreamless sleep by anticipation. I hurried to the hall, my appetite somehow sharpened by excitement: I had consumed a full platter of cold meat and half a loaf when Rekyn and Andyrt came in. They smiled at the sight of me and wished me the day’s greetings. I asked when I should leave, at which Andyrt chuckled and drew out a chair for Rekyn, hooking one close for himself. “Two days, and already he tires of our company,” he said.
I began to protest, and laughing, Rekyn motioned me to silence. “The boat’s not likely to arrive until late morning,” she advised me. “Bardan would see you ere then, to give you token of introduction. Can you curb your impatience?”
I nodded, mumbling further apologies lest I offend my benefactors.
Rekyn said, “Does the galley arrive as promised, she’ll catch the afternoon tide. Save the weather turns, you’ll sight Durbrecht soon after Ennas Day.”
I suspected she looked to ease my going and smiled my gratitude, asking, “What should I do when I arrive?”
“You’ll be met,” she answered. “A representative of the College will be at the harbor to meet you all.”
“There are others?” I asked.
“Two,” she said. “One from Ynisvar; one from Madbry. I’ve not their names, but the boat will collect them farther up the coast.”
I nodded sagely, for all I had no sure idea where Ynisvar or Madbry lay. Save I was aware the waters of the Treppanek divided Kellambek from Draggonek, and those of the Slammerkin that latter from Ur-Dharbek, I had little better knowledge of my homeland’s geography.
I’d have had a lesson there and then, but a Changed servant came with word Lord Bardan would see me now, and I followed him to the tower’s higher levels, to the aeldor’s private quarters. The chamber was not especially large, but very comfortable. A single window admitted light, and against one wall a fire burned in a low hearth. Bardan sat behind a desk of dark wood, in a high-backed chair matched by a second facing him. He bade me take that and I lowered myself, marveling at the softness of the cushioned seat. He set me at my ease with a cheerful inquiry as to the condition of my lower body, and I, greatly surprised he should show such interest, answered that thanks to Garat I was largely unafflicted.
“He’s a fine herbsman,” said the aeldor absently. “Now, Rekyn’s told you the galley’s on its way? You’re ready?”
I nodded and thanked him for his hospitality. He waved a dismissive hand and took a wax disk from the desk, tossed it to me. “Now, do you take this and guard it well,” he advised. “When you dock in Durbrecht, pass it to the College’s man who’ll meet you there.”
I ducked my head, securing the token beneath my shirt.
“So, enough,” Bardan said. “The God go with you, Daviot. May he make you the finest Rememberer
Dharbek’s known.”
I smiled and nodded and rose, recognizing dismissal.
Rekyn and Andyrt remained where I had left them, engaged in a game of kells, and I studied the board with poorly contained impatience until word came that the galley was arrived. Andyrt chuckled as I sprang to my feet. “There’s cargo to be offloaded,” he told me, “and the master’ll not leave without you.”
“Even so,” said Rekyn, more sympathetic to my nervous impatience, “we might find our way to the harbor, no? We can acquaint Daviot with the captain and, if there’s time, take a pot of ale in farewell.”
We quit the hall, and I must curb the impulse to run as we traversed the avenue, down toward the harbor, toward my future.
I had seen galleys before, but only at a distance, watching from the shoreline or my father’s boat as they ran sleek and swift, like hunting dogs coursing the waves. This was the first time I had seen one at close quarters, and I appraised her lines with all the experience of my sixteen years. I thought she looked swift, for all the belly-spread of her hold, and kept well. Rekyn pointed to the angled prow and told me her name was the Seahorse.
I was agog to board her, but my friends held me back, and I acknowledged that this was not the time: a double row of hulking Changed were unloading cargo, slinging bales and crates and casks from hand to hand as easily as children might toss a ball. They were supervised by a man I took to be the master, and I asked his name, which Rekyn told me was Kerym. I had been content to wait and watch until the offloading was done and whatever trade goods Cambar returned stowed on board, but Andyrt declared himself thirsty and we repaired to a tavern redolent of fish and spilled beer. The occupants were instantly recognizable as sailors or longshoremen. Off to one side sat a group of Changed. We took a table by the door, and Andyrt called for ale and platters of the fish I could smell grilling. Through the open doorway I could see the galley: I ate and drank watching her.
I started halfway from my chair as the line of Changed broke up, dispersing toward the taverns, but Rekyn put a hand on my arm, urging me be still, and said, “There’s business yet to be concluded, Daviot, and likely the captain’s hungry, too. He’ll not sail without you.”
I sank back, mumbling an apology. It seemed an age before Kerym returned, although the sun was only a little way past zenith and the tide only just on its turn. I drained the last of my ale in a gulp and reached for my bag as I saw the captain cross the wharf. He fetched a whistle from his tunic and blew a single note that brought his Changed crew striding obediently toward the galley. I heard Andyrt chuckle and murmur something to Rekyn, but my attention was focused entirely on the Seahorse and her master. I quit the tavern ahead of my companions, resisting the temptation to run.
The crew filed on board and Kerym turned toward us, a hand raised in salute. He seemed small beside his massive crew, but he was of average height for a Trueman and not very old. Younger than my father, I thought, his hair a brown streaked pale by sun and sea, a close-trimmed beard bordering his jaw.
“Day’s greetings.” His voice was surprisingly deep. “This is my passenger?”
Eyes narrowed from long hours staring into the sun studied me dispassionately. I felt somehow judged and found wanting. I said, “I am. My name is Daviot.”
Kerym nodded absently and said, “Then let’s be aboard, lad. I’ll not waste the tide.”
I did not much like his air, but still he was the master: I turned to my companions. Now I felt a pang at thought of bidding them farewell.
Rekyn smiled and took my hand. “Fare you well, Daviot. The God go with you; and may your road return here someday.”
I was taken a little aback by the abruptness of her goodbye. But in her eyes I saw only kindness and realized that she would cut short a potentially sad parting. I said, “Fare you well, Rekyn; and you, Andyrt. You’ve both my eternal gratitude.”
The jennym grinned and clasped my wrist in the warrior’s manner. “May Durbrecht find favor in your eyes,” he said.
I nodded, seeking some grand words of farewell, but finding none turned about, following the captain over the gangplank onto the deck of the galley.
Kerym pointed me to the stern, where the deck was raised to a small poop dominated by the tiller. Two Changed cast off the mooring lines and sprang agile aboard as the plank was hauled in. I saw there were six oarsmen to the side, two others stationed by the mast. The oars came down, pushing the craft clear of the harbor wall. Kerym called an order and the sweeps dipped. The prow swung around, and the Seahorse moved toward the open ocean.
I looked back, raising a hand in last farewell. Rekyn and Andyrt answered, then turned away.
“You’ve sea legs,” Kerym observed as I braced myself against the tilt and sway of the deck.
“I was born in Whitefish village,” I told him.
He nodded, one arm hung over the tiller, steering the galley with the same casual expertise as Andyrt sat a horse. He did not speak again until we had cleared the anchorage and rode the ebb tide of the river. Then he shouted for the oarsmen to cease their rowing and the sail be lowered, a triangle of pale blue canvas that caught the shifted wind, carrying us out to sea.
“You’ll sleep on deck,” he told me. “There’s but one cabin, and that’s mine. The God willing, we’ll make Durbrecht ere Ennas Day dawns.”
As I have said, my knowledge of Dharbek’s geography was scanty then, but even so it seemed to me his confidence was overweening, and I said, “That seems a very swift passage. Are you so sure of favorable winds?”
“I believe the wind will hold,” he said, “but does it not …” He gestured with his chin at the patient oarsmen. “Why, then these bonny boys will man their sweeps and we’ll go on regardless.”
The massive men seated on the rowing benches hardly seemed to me “bonny boys,” but I saw his point. Still, I resented his somewhat condescending manner and so demanded, “All the way to Durbrecht?”
“If needs be,” he answered with a composure I found tremendously irritating. “You’ve not known Changed before, eh?”
“I saw them in Cambar,” I replied, defensive now.
Kerym chuckled again, and said, “Around the harbor? Hauling crates and the like?”
I began to perceive he had the habit of asking such questions as were designed to lead me into admissions of ignorance, but all I could do, in honesty, was nod and allow it was so.
“You’ve not seen them at work until you’ve seen them rowing into the teeth of a storm,” he declared. “These are hand-picked, every one. Bred from fine, strong stock, they are. Needs be, they’ll row all the way to Durbrecht, night and day without stopping.”
I had no idea whether he spoke the truth or merely boasted. Certainly, the oarsmen were huge, and hugely muscled. Even so, it seemed unlikely even these giants could row so long without halt—I looked Kerym in the eye and let my expression answer.
He had the grace to smile at that, and shrugged, and said, “Perhaps I exaggerate a trifle. Perhaps not all the way, but I’ve known them go a day and a night without surcease.”
I could hear the note of pride in his voice. It was such as a man might use when speaking of some prized animal: a fine hunting dog or a valuable horse. I realized that I thought of the Changed oarsmen as men not unlike myself—save in size and strength—whilst Kerym saw them as possessions, as carefully selected beasts whose prowess reflected credit on him. “Do they not object?” I asked.
His eyes widened at that, fixing on me as if confronted with rank insanity. For a moment he was silent. Then he shook his head, chuckling, and murmured to himself, “Whitefish village! Fishermen!” so that I flushed, less in embarrassment than in anger. I think he saw my vexation, for he moderated his tone and said, “No, they do not. They are Changed, Daviot. Changed do not object, only obey and do their duty.”
I scowled and asked, “Have they any choice in that? I mean—do they choose their duty?”
Kerym sighed wearily and answered me, “They are
Changed” as if that were all the response necessary. I suppose my expression prompted his amplification, for he shook his head again in an insulting manner and explained, “They are bred to the task. In the God’s name, do you ask a horse if it wants to be ridden? An ox if it welcomes the plow harness?”
“I saw Changed drinking in the tavern,” I said, “and for that they need coin, but no one pays a horse or an ox.”
I felt it was a sophisticated argument—that I scored a point—but Kerym only shrugged and returned me, “A beast needs fodder, no? And water. Save I keep these fellows fed and allow them a tot now and again, they’ll weaken.” He repeated his exasperating chuckle. “I’d not have the finest oarsmen on either coast flag.”
“They receive no other pay?” I asked, thinking of the stipend I was promised merely for studying.
“I feed them; and well,” said Kerym grandly. “Three meals a day and a tankard of good ale with every one. When we’ve the time and they’ve no other work, I give them small coin for the taverns. What more should they want?”
I had no idea. Indeed, when I thought about it, that was as much as I received for working with my father on our boat. Save, it occurred to me, I had anticipated owning my own boat someday, and a cottage, a wife. I frowned and asked him, “Shall they always be oarsmen? May they quit your employ? What happens when they get old? Or are hurt?” The questions came in a rush, compelled as much by my desire to best the man as to learn the answers.
“So many questions.” He favored me with a smile I found patronizing. “Still, you hope to be a Rememberer, eh? Well—no, they shall not always be oarsmen, for they will get old, or damaged, and then they’ll be little use on the Seahorse. When that happens, they’ll be given other, less arduous employment—about the harbor, or in a warehouse. May they quit my employ? Of course not—I own them.”
He seemed to me smugly satisfied with the correctitude of his answer. I pressed my point: “And when they’re too old for even that? What happens to them then?”