by Scott Jäeger
“This one will tell you nothing,” the soothsayer said. “These beings only masquerade as humans. Quartermaster, show them what are the Men of Leng.” I nodded to Ajer and he tore the prisoner’s headdress free. Everyone stepped back at what was revealed: beneath a mane of glossy chestnut hair, twin black horns curved back from a bony brow. The captain of the black galley glowered at us, and even Ajer could not hide his apprehension at those murderous eyes, burning as if a furnace raged inside his skull.
“Have him spend the night in the lower aft hold,” I said. He would find no rest in that space, barely high enough for a man to sit upright, and always awash in bilge. To him, I said, “And pray that I find Isobel.”
I had already turned my back when Ajer gave a hoarse cough, the loudest sound he could muster, but too late. The yellow-eyed villain had produced from his sleeve a long black needle, like a wasp’s sting the size of a dirk. He was already lunging towards me, but halted in the middle of the motion, and with a thunk fell back to the deck. He was pierced through the hip and held in place by a long wooden shaft. Jome lowered the crossbow, resting its tip at his feet, his expression inscrutable.
Our captive scrabbled frenziedly to get free, until snagging himself somewhere on the point of his own blade. His reaction made the crowd step back yet again. The captain’s whole body convulsed once, every sinew stretched quivering to its extremity, then collapsed. I supposed him dead at that point, but his form began incrementally to contract around the quarrel pinning him down, limbs seizing up like the legs of a dead spider, until finally he stilled.
Ajer and Erik wrenched the carcass free of its catch, and the captain of the black galley was sent to join his crew.
“That’s settled at least,” Erik said.
I pushed past him and the others, making for the main hatch and ladder. Taking a proffered lantern, I descended to the sweeps deck and found it empty. Initially, I thought the next level deserted as well, but a hushed sobbing guided me aft, where I had to hold a sleeve over my mouth against the stench. The rear compartment was strewn with empty cages, devices plainly designed for men.
“Over here,” came her voice, “I’m here.”
I hastened my steps, unwilling to believe my ears.
“Are they all dead?” Isobel asked. Then she saw me clearly. “Isaac? No, it’s not true. It is just a dream.” Tears were washing the filth from her face as I reached for the door. It was unlocked. I lifted her out of the cell and we made our way up to the first level, and back to the galley captain’s quarters. It was a queerly luxurious space, hung with embroideries and lined with unusual books. She stopped me.
“Not here,” she said. “For a time the captain would keep me in his quarters. He did not mistreat me, only kept me nearby to look upon, like a pet from a distant land.”
We settled in a less opulent compartment. Isobel had been roughly used –her legs would forever show the scarring of shackles– but she showed no permanent injury and her eyes were clear. Before I could think of anything sensible, she began haltingly to speak.
“My father,” she said. “I was trying to find out how he ended up in the coal burners’ camp. Those men didn’t kill him. It was the yellow-eyed merchants.”
“He found something then?”
“Solomon knew why the galley masters were gathering gold. It’s for some kind of rite.” She began to grow excited and I held her tighter, telling myself again she was real. “It will take place on a nameless island. There is a magic circle there, engraved in stone, which they mean to fill with purest gold. That is why they have been collecting gold. All they are missing is some kind of fetish, a deformed skull hidden in the temple of some other cult.”
“What do they hope to do with their gold-filled symbol?”
“None of it makes sense to me,” she said with a shiver, “but they want to open a door to another place. The name is unpronounceable, but I am sure anything they wish must be horrid. When this door is open, their master shall come through and rule over them. That is all.”
“But an isle with no name,” I said, "in these waters. We'll never find it.”
“Most of what I learned was from their human servants. But there is one other thing, their dearest secret. The turbaned ones spoke freely before me, for no one understands their tongue, but they didn’t know I could read the nautical charts in the captain’s quarters. Their granite island is not far from Dylath-Leen. I can tell you the coordinates.”
“That is marvelous,” I said, “but we will discuss it later, away from this prison. Can you stand?”
The two of us ascended to the deck, where the men waited, tense and unhappy.
“Take an hour to rest or scavenge the ship as you will,” I said. “Whatever spoils you find are yours. Then it will be the pyre to burn our dead.”
I took Isobel back to the Peregrine and the captain’s cabin, where I was glad to see Huspeth had not yet returned. I sat by her until she had fallen asleep, when I reluctantly decided I must update the mystic on what I had learned. We took what privacy was available in the forecastle.
“If what Isobel says is true,” Huspeth said after considering my news, “then the skull must be the relic recovered in Dylath-Leen, and the last requirement of their ritual.”
“When they jumped into the sea, they looked nothing like men going to their deaths.”
“No, they would never be so wasteful. The skull must have been in their possession when they magicked themselves away.”
“But what do they intend?”
“They intend to submit this world to the will of their master.” Her face fell when she said this. “And he is no warlord or ship’s captain. Do you understand what it is I speak of?”
“I have some idea, yes. Will we have time to stop them?
“They will not move until the full moon, six days hence. If their destination is as close as Isobel says, then yes, we have time.” She bowed her head to think. “But do we have the will?”
Thinking of all I had learned of my enemies since inhaling the sweet smoke of a fisherman’s pipe in a Kingsport tavern, I chose to reserve my answer.
When the crew had finished picking over the black galley, and her pitch barrels had been tipped and set alight, we sailed again for Dylath-Leen.
* * *
“How many have we lost?” I asked. Back in port, after dividing up the booty from the galley, a troubling number of men had picked up their kit, taken their payout, and left.
Erik shook his head, unwilling to lift it from where he scanned the manifest.
“With the dead from battle and those leaving for brighter shores, a full third. There is plenty of work to be had in Dylath-Leen. Best speak to them now, or we might lose more.”
On deck the men went about their few remaining duties silently. I called a break, and once everyone was settled with their pipes or drinks, or arms crossed and scowling, I addressed them.
“We pursued the black galley and we overcame her. Isobel is alive and safe, and Solomon the shipwright avenged, because of your tireless labour and courage.” I paused, already sweating. “We overcame her crew and burned them to the water, but there is a greater threat from the Men of Leng. They have been gathering their strength for a ritual, a working of desperate magic–”
Though no one spoke, discontent rippled through the crowd as plainly as wind on a field of wheat. I paused a second time, a weaker Isaac Sloan whispering in my ear that if I failed to rally them I could turn the Peregrine back south, and leave off conflict and death for the life with Isobel that I had so hardly earned.
“The gold,” Erik hissed to me beneath his breath.
I cleared my throat.
“They have gold,” I said, and their attention snapped back to me like a compass needle to true north. “The yellow-eyed merchants have traded and schemed, gathered and stole for the past two years to amass a great horde of gold.”
“How well is it guarded?” someone asked.
“Is it far?” said G
avrel.
And a host of similar questions.
“It is not far,” I said. “I do not know how they guard their wealth, but we have already taken the measure of their slaves, and we all have friends to avenge.”
The promise of revenge made Jome the first to declare his support. That shout turned to a cry of pain when he tried to lift his wounded arm, but luckily his enthusiasm was infectious. A little time would ease my own doubts as well. Whatever devilry they planned, I knew I could not leave the Men of Leng to their own devices. I dismissed the men to two days' leave in Dylath-Leen, at the end of which we would sail against the horned ones a final time.
I called Jome to a conference in my cabin.
"I have hard news, Jome,” I said, “but you're a hard man." In better times he would have answered this with a joke, but Marthin’s death had damped his rude humour. “You know we can’t take Isobel with us to the granite isle, and Dylath-Leen is the enemy’s territory. I need someone I can trust to escort her back to Zij.”
“That you might,” he said, “but not me. I’m the best fighter you’ve got.”
“Can you make a fist yet?” I asked, and he shot me a look that could have burned a hole in the keel.
Steadying himself with his right hand, he groaned with the effort as he tried to close his left. He shook his head, panting from the pain.
"Go easy on that and it might mend."
“There’s to be a fight,” he said incredulously, “and I’ll miss it.”
“You’ll miss your left arm more.” Seeing that he had already come around, I produced a coin pouch. Convincing Isobel had been much harder. "There's enough here for both your passages, plus your payout, and more besides. You leave in the morning."
"I'll stand the drinks on the Peregrine’s return, Captain." He tried to smile encouragingly, but quickly gave it up. It didn't suit his face anyway.
That night, Isobel and I lay in the captain's cabin like two mice in a cigar box and for awhile pure exhaustion obliterated the terror of the yellow-eyed merchants, and all our lesser cares besides.
Helter Skelter
“A storm gathers in the north,” Gavrel observed. Dark clouds were rising behind the jagged hump of island ahead.
“And in the east,” Erik said dourly, “west, and” –looking over his shoulder– “in the south.” As he said, bad weather seemed to be converging on the island from all sides, and would soon crowd out the remaining patch of blue sky.
“I do not like the look of it,” Gavrel said.
We had departed Dylath-Leen for the second time with a crew of only two dozen. It was a short jaunt to the nameless island, and morale was no longer a problem. Among the men, talk of gold circulated like a fever.
Cliffs of yellow granite, lifting a forest of ancient oaks up from the sea, marked our destination. If there was aught special about the place, it was not immediately apparent.
“I see a jetty,” Erik said, scanning the shore through our spyglass, “but no tower or fortifications.” The dock had been built at the foot of a natural slope which bypassed the high cliffs along the water.
A little later he added, surprised, “No black galleys in sight.”
“Bring us closer,” I said.
The approach was too shallow for the Peregrine, so a dozen of us landed in the longboat. Once on dry land, we sent the craft back for more men. I gestured for silence, but there was nothing except the wind in green leaves and the small sounds of a forest in summer.
“There may be no one here now,” Erik remarked, “but that track heading inland shows regular use.” Indeed, the earth was so packed down it looked broom swept.
“Let’s scout ahead,” I said. Erik began to follow the path, but I led us into the woods, where we followed the road at a distance. The massive oaks crowded out the light, which made for sparse undergrowth and, after the steep climb up from the shore, an easy hike. We moved anxiously at first, wary of a trap or ambush, but the dappled light and warm breeze made it seem impossible we headed towards violence.
Near the center of the island, a long, clay-floored declivity ran like a scar through the wood. At the far end, the clay had been scraped back to expose a square plaza of the island’s naked bedrock. Inspecting this scene from the cover of the trees, my attention was drawn to the sky directly above. Where the roiling clouds met, they were forming an inverted black funnel, a shape both unfamiliar and unnaturally precise.
Erik again removed the spyglass from its felt pouch and raised it to where two lonely figures conferred at the far end of the plaza.
“The first is one of the Men of Leng, the other a man in red robes. He’s too calm and still to be one of their slaves. They are speaking in a friendly fashion.”
After surveying them for a minute more, Erik jerked the telescope to one side and carefully adjusted the focus.
“Something else of interest,” he said, passing it to me.
Scarring the exposed granite floor was a circle several meters across, the inside of which was crowded with sigils and hieroglyphs, also carved into the stone. Softly glowing in spite of the gloom, every line and curve had been filled in gold. I let out the breath I had been holding, and turned the glass on the two forms at the edge of the arcane device. The man dressed in rust-coloured robes was solidly built and had hidden his face in a cowl, as was ever the habit of cultists. Huspeth had told me every cult must have a high priest, and that we would certainly find him on the island.
“But for a crossbow,” I said to myself and chuckled grimly.
I let the others each have a turn with the glass, ensuring everyone had a long look at the gold, and put a hand on Gavrel’s shoulder.
"Head back to the beach,” I told him, “and make sure the others find us." Gavrel jogged back the way we had come.
“The yellow-eyed ones never travel without their slaves,” Erik said, scanning the oak wood which edged the clearing on all sides. “We should wait for the rest of the crew.”
“No. The weather has turned odd, the golden circle is complete, and Huspeth warned me a full moon rises today. Their ritual has already begun.” I glanced apprehensively at the sky. Whatever the funnel portended, its apex seemed to narrow to a place beyond sight. My eyes would not focus there, but always slipped aside to the restlessly streaming clouds.
Setting his jaw, Erik quietly concurred and the others straightened their backs and made their weapons ready. No one could mistake the burgeoning, unnatural tension in the air. We left the safety of the trees, and headed across the clay towards the granite stage where the high priest waited, alone now.
As Erik had predicted, once we were exposed a contingent of Wilted emerged from the trees. They did not walk with slow menace or run out to attack, but alternated between scurrying forward and abruptly pausing, like a horde of curious rodents. Forming an uneven crescent at our backs, they fidgeted and leered at my men, and jostled each other like nervous children.
“Isaac Sloan and his merry band of ne’er-do-wells!” The hooded figure's voice rumbled with hearty good cheer, more like that of a favourite uncle than a fearful sorcerer. “Brave sailors and adventurers, why do you persist in obstructing our affairs? You have murdered my lieutenants and servants, and scuttled my finest ship. You recovered your girl, yet your bloodlust remains unslaked.” He sighed and shook his head at events having come to such a ridiculous conclusion. “Worst of all, you think me your enemy.”
Despite the threat of the high priest ahead and his henchmen behind, the vortex overhead was exhibiting a terrible fascination. Observing it, I felt tantalizingly close to understanding an immense puzzle.
“The battle will take place here on the ground, you buffoons,” Erik said to the men likewise staring upwards. “Not in the pretty clouds!”
“I bring you not destruction but mercy,” the cowled figure continued. “You are about to witness a change as significant as this world has ever seen, a rebirth for man and animal, plant and stone.” The winds chasing the storm had
risen from a moan to a howl, buffeting us from all sides, yet though he was over twenty meters away his voice was as clear as if he stood at my shoulder. “I am glad you have come, Isaac Sloan, and you men of the Peregrine, for you will be the first fully human witnesses of the new age.”
Having allowed him all the time he wished for his monologue, I was repaid for my patience. The rest of my crew had arrived, and fanned out behind the high priest’s henchmen. The sailors were coiled and eager to fight, and I knew Gavrel had spread word of the gold. The Wilted were growing more agitated as well, calling out threats and jogging in place. We had not evened the numbers, but neither would it be a rout, and though the Wilted separated the two halves of my crew, they did not shield their master.
Ajer made an almost imperceptible signal to me, and I to Erik.
“At them, men,” Erik cried, “cut them down!”
The crew of the Peregrine swarmed the Wilted from both sides while Ajer and I broke in a sprint towards the cowled figure. The gold's light was dripping upwards from his feet like ice melting from ground to sky. As we came closer to the magic circle, I saw too the tangled beard that spilled from the dark of the high priest’s hood and the hole of his mouth. When that black oval had stretched improbably wide, it loosed a rushing cacophony of voices, male and female, in all different accents and pitches, yelling, gurgling, and singing. With this, the gale redoubled in force and shifted its direction to directly oppose us. Ajer and I had to stop to find our footing so we would not be bowled over.
When the babble of sound, and with it the overpowering wind, abruptly ceased, the light began to bend overhead. I was reminded of my dream in Bromm’s hut of vines, when the sky had become a lens through which something vast and incomprehensible watched. I sensed that this was no dispassionate observer, however. It wanted to come in.