by B R Crichton
“Fate,” he groaned, “I think he’s broken something.”
“Let me see,” said Elan. Kellan held up his throbbing hand, trying to flex the fingers, and wincing with the effort. “You should tell Master Sharrow,” he said.
“No,” Kellan replied quickly, “leave it. I’ll deal with Lannier my own way.”
“But look at you; you can barely bend your fingers. How are you meant to draw a bow?” he insisted. Kellan looked at his rapidly swelling knuckles. He was sure the knuckle of the middle finger on his right hand was cracked or broken and could not bend it let alone hold a taut bowstring, but his index and third fingers flexed reassuringly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, reaching for the Calm as his anger simmered within him.
They were called for the final challenge. The remaining four archers would line up on the range. Fifty paces ahead of each of them was a shelter housing one of the instructors with a catapult and a pile of clay pots. On every beat of a drum, a pot would be launched upwards from behind the shelter, to be smashed with an arrow. When a competitor missed a pot, he was eliminated. The last remaining archer would be pronounced victor.
Granger offered a bundle of arrows to Kellan, and showed a mixture of concern and confusion at the boy’s swollen hand. He went to offer aid, but Kellan waved him away.
He drew the first arrow from his quiver and placed it on the bowstring. This would require a different technique, as the drum would beat irregularly, making breathing difficult to time correctly. He had learned to breathe shallow until the drum tolled, and then a sharp intake of breath and quick draw of the bow would have the arrow in flight before the pot began to fall. The stronger boys could hold their bows drawn, ready to release, but that would sap his strength unduly. The two other boys, Aron and Lukar, were the same age as Lannier, and all three would use that technique.
The first beat of the drum, and a moment later, four clay pots rose in unison from the shelters.
He was aware of the pain, shooting up his arm from his wounded hand, but it did not distract him from his purpose. Using his index and third fingers to draw the bow back, he drew in a sharp breath, timing the release of the arrow to intercept the pot at the top of its climb.
Four pots shattered in near synchronisation. Kellan heard three bows being drawn already. They waited.
Another drumbeat a few moments later saw another four pots make their brief flights above the shelters. On the fifth drumbeat, one of the archers missed. Lukar. Kellan was vaguely aware of him backing away from the line with his head low, but he was not part of the focus that Kellan held over the range. His damaged hand was screaming at him to stop, to rest the wounded tendons and bones, but he refused to be dictated to by pain.
Three more pots shattered, then another three.
Aron missed, leaving only Lannier to beat. Master Sharrow called another order, that Kellan barely heard, but its implication was well understood. With only two contestants remaining, the drumbeats came a little quicker, and the pots were angled to one side or another. He heard Lannier snarl a few paces away from him, growling in anger at this boy who would not be beaten.
The pots rose at awkward angles, and the drum pounded faster. His fingers threatened to give in as time after time, pots exploded in unison.
Then he released an arrow, and as he watched his pot explode, he heard a cry of anguish as Lannier’s did not. Quick as a thought he whipped an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and drew his bow, sweeping his aim to cover Lannier’s line. The arrow darted from the bow and smashed the older boy’s pot before it reached the ground. He did not have to look at Lannier to know that he wore a shocked expression. Shocked and defeated.
Kellan was aware of the cheer that rose from the side-lines of the range and the crowds behind him, but it was irrelevant to him. He felt no elation until he was able to slip out of the Calm, and into the tumultuous reception that awaited him.
Elan was the first to lift him up, then a couple of the other younger boys joined in to hoist him onto shoulders and parade their young champion around. He laughed through gritted teeth, between wincing at the pain in his hand. He did not know who started the chant, but soon the whole range was booming with his name.
Ke-llan! Ke-llan! Ke-llan!
He caught a glimpse of Eloya, standing calmly at the side-lines, surrounded by cheering spectators. Her smile held a promise however, and he would hold her to it.
Chapter Eleven
The storm passed soon after Kellan had freed the mast, and the dawn arrived with an innocence belied by the night that preceded it. The crew were inspecting the damage, when Granger surfaced squinting into the dawn light.
“That was a foul night, Captain,” he called to the ‘Sea Raven’s’ commander.
“That it was,” he replied sadly. “Lost a mizzen mast, and a good man.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Granger offered his condolences.
“We can fit a new mizzen in Kepu,” the Captain said philosophically.
“I meant about your man,” said Granger.
“Ah, yes.” The captain had the decency to look embarrassed. “Thank you.”
He wondered how the Captain could be so flippant when he had lost a soul to the sea, but then remembered that these sailors faced death on every voyage, and death on land was unthinkable to them. One could hardly call it a blessing, but sailors were a hardy lot and would sooner be taken by the waves than some land-borne illness, or Fate forbid, old age.
Granger was followed on deck by a few tired looking mercenaries from below, including Valia, who went straight to the side to empty her stomach.
“I will ask Truman to prepare one of his brews for you,” he suggested. He had given the pouches of herbs to Truman, who had dutifully kept Valia supplied with the stomach calming infusion. She replied with a heaving sound that sounded more animal than human. Slowly the quarters below decks emptied themselves of passengers, and they wandered about the ship, surveying the damage.
“Well,” said Granger, rubbing his hands together, “anyone for breakfast?”
Kepu was on the largest of the Sabayan Isles, Sapauru. It was the only place that could be called a town in the whole archipelago. The island folk lived in very small communities scattered thinly along the length of the islands, coming together only to trade. Kepu served mainly as a stopover for the traders that took the route through the reefs. Without that trade route it was doubtful that Kepu would exist at all.
Three days after the storm, late in the afternoon, the ‘Sea Raven’ picked its way through the treacherous waters, weaving this way and that while the pilot sat upon the bowsprit watching the jagged outcrops below and giving hand signals to the captain at the helm.
A few times during the operation there were grinding noises as the flat hull nudged the rocks and coral, earning the pilot a torrent of abuse.
Kellan smiled at that and wondered if the Captain was in any way related to Scurrilous Blunt. Then his mind returned to the events of the storm. Blunt had been wary of Kellan since then. He wondered if he had lost the mercenary’s trust. He glanced at Blunt, in his bright red hat with the feathers, and the man turned away, unwilling to make eye contact, but clearly watchful of Kellan.
Despite the few scrapes, they arrived safely in the little port. Kepu was made up primarily of a series of wooden jetties, reaching out from the golden sands of the beaches like fingers into the tranquil blue water. They appeared to be constructed from stout wooden posts and uneven boards, bound together with thick twine. These jetties protruded far enough for the larger trader ships to moor, and held dwellings, taverns and trade stalls along their lengths. Every building was made from bound together lengths of straight branch, and thatched with sun bleached reeds.
It was an island paradise.
Brightly coloured birds sat on perches beside many of the stalls, some for sale; others belonging to the stall holders. Monkeys chattered in cages, accepting offerings of fruit from their owners and nibblin
g in that ‘too human’ way that they do.
The ‘Sea Raven’ was the only ship in Kepu. Countless small sailing vessels of improbable design flitted across the crystal waters or bobbed while their crews of two or three cast nets to catch the myriad bizarre fish that populated this place.
Kellan was the first to jump from the ship onto the jetty. Elan followed him, and Valia climbed unsteadily onto the wooden platform soon after.
“I swear, after this voyage, I will never board another ship,” she said gratefully as she welcomed the stability beneath her feet. “Or eat another fish,” she added.
“Don’t let Granger hear that,” Kellan warned, “he would be mortally wounded.”
“Care to join us for a drink?” Elan offered. “We’re heading for whatever passes for a tavern here.”
“Thank you, no,” she replied, “I am headed for that beach and the shade of a tree, where I will remain until repairs are complete.”
“That will be several days,” Elan warned.
“Then so be it,” she said, “I need dry land under my feet, not a collection of sticks held together with string over the sea.”
They bade her farewell, and made their way to one of the airy wooden buildings perched on the long broad, jetty. The sign declared it ‘The Trader’s Inn’, and a young man with a broad smile welcomed them into the empty room. Like all the Island Folk, he was tanned to a golden brown, with black hair bleached in places by the sun to honey highlights.
“Gentlemen,” he beamed, “how may I help?” His eyes lingered on Elan’s skin for a little longer than was polite, but his smile remained warm.
“What’s on the menu?” Kellan asked.
“Food or liquid refreshment?”
“Liquid refreshment!” Foley burst into the room. “To celebrate our deliverance from the cruel sea.”
He placed himself between Kellan and Elan, and draped his arms around their necks, pulling them together in his overbearing way.
“I hear they make a particularly special drink from the juice of the coconut and mango,” he grinned at the young Islander, who reached under the bar and produced a large gourd on a stand. He placed it on the bar in front of them along with three small cups. He wordlessly poured a narrow stream from the spout into each cup, and gestured his invitation to drink.
Kellan took a cup and smelled the brew. It burned his nostrils.
“All together, gentlemen,” Foley dared, and they all threw their heads back, downing the strong spirit in one.
The coughing that ensued only attracted more of the mercenaries, and it was not long before a good crowd filled the tavern. The Islander was more than happy to oblige with more and more of the gourds, accepting the silver coins offered in payment.
It was strong stuff, and it was not long before Kellan began to feel the effect of the spirit. He gestured subtly to Elan and they slipped quietly from ‘The Trader’s Inn’, leaving the mercenaries to their revelry.
Blunt was walking away from the ship with Olimar, having been checking on their small cargo when they found Granger writing in his books in the shade of one of the buildings on the jetty. He was sitting on one of a dozen crates stacked randomly on the boards. Blunt gestured for Olimar to wait at a distance, and then approached the historian. He pushed the brim of his wide hat back with a stubby forefinger, and nodded.
“Granger,” he greeted him, “I hope I’m not interrupting your documenting of events.”
“Not at all,” Granger replied, gently blowing on the ink to dry it before placing the open book on the boards of the jetty beside him.
“Only, I would hate for you to record any details incorrectly, or omit incidents that might be important.”
“You are being polite, Blunt,” he sighed. “You are angry with me. I can tell.”
“Really. Well maybe you can bloody well tell me this; who is Kellan bloody Aemoran? What is he? What he did on board that ship was not natural. I saw it with my own eyes and still barely believe it.”
“There must have been a great many things happening on deck in that storm,” Granger said reasonably.
“Don’t,” Blunt growled, stepping forward and pushing a warning finger at Granger, “treat me like a fool. You know what I am talking about. You know a lot more than you let on. Now, that boy arrived with you, you know him, and I want to know exactly what it was that I saw in that storm.”
“Kellan is a good boy,” Granger began.
“Aemoran is a cold blooded killer,” Blunt interrupted him. “I have seen that boy carve his way through a battalion of Heavy sodding Infantry for sport, so do not tell me that he is ‘a good boy’.”
“You know, he saw his parents murdered by Korathean soldiers when he was only a child. He has a better reason than most to hate the Empire.”
“Orphanages across the land are full to bursting with children who witnessed their parents killed by the Empire. I seem to be failing to make myself clear. I saw him do something to the air around him.” Blunt shifted his gaze to a point above Granger’s shoulder, reliving the moment. “It was as if he had pushed the storm away from himself for a moment. I saw it. Felt it wash over me. I am not a man prone to delusions; now what was that?”
Granger gestured to a crate for Blunt to sit, and when the stocky man only glared in response, began to speak. “Kellan is wrestling with an inner demon, and none of us can truly comprehend what it is he faces every day in his mind. He is capable of many things, as you say, many improbable things, but he is at his core, just a frightened young man. For all that he has strengths and abilities beyond our understanding, in all the years I have known him I have never felt threatened by the boy.” He paused, wondering at the truth of that statement, but satisfied himself that it was true. “Kellan Aemoran is not a danger to us. He is a true friend and ally, not to be distrusted.”
Blunt spat on the boards at Granger’s feet. “I will be watching,” he said, and then he turned and gestured for Olimar to follow. His son fell into step at his side with a puzzled glance in Granger’s direction.
Valia was drifting in and out of sleep in that wonderfully decadent way. The dappled shade in which she lay allowed just the right amount of sun through to warm her without burning. She looked forward to the end of this journey, aware that her palms were becoming softer, and not relishing the thought of working through the blisters to toughen her hands again for the sword. She could normally spar to keep herself keen and fit, but she had had no appetite for it on the ship. The poet’s brews were all that kept her meals down, and even then, only just.
She was dressed in the loose travel clothes that she had bought in Hadaiti, and knew that they needed a wash, but she would see to that later. Right now was for relaxation and dry, solid ground.
She became aware of a presence nearby, the barest hint of the sound made by someone breathing quietly, the scent of another person close by. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, but then she had been sleeping on and off. Without opening her eyes she slowly moved her hand to put it near the dagger in her belt. She tried to get a sense of her watcher’s position, her warriors senses straining.
With one movement she drew the blade and rolled, coming up in a crouch with the dagger held defensively.
“Truman!” she spat. “What in the name of all damnation do you think you are doing?”
The poet was sitting on the stem of a fallen palm tree with what looked like a sketch pad on his knee. He barely looked up as he made a few strokes with his charcoal.
“Now that is a shame,” he said. “You were far lovelier in repose.”
“Are you spying on me?” she asked, not lowering the dagger.
“Valia, you are lying in full view of half of Kepu on a beach,” he laughed. “No, I am not spying.” He returned to his sketchpad and smoothed his moustaches with thumb and forefinger before continuing.
“Then what do you think you are doing?” she said, relaxing a little.
“I am no artist, but I know beauty that should be co
mmitted to paper when I see it,” he replied, making a few more short strokes on the paper.
“Truman,” she said in exasperation.
“Don’t be angry, it was meant to be a gift,” he said, looking up. “I had hoped to complete it before you woke, and leave it at your side for when you did.”
“I probably would have killed you,” she said, looking at the dagger she still held in front of her. She put it in her belt and sat down on the sand again.
“Some things are worth the risk,” he replied, returning to his sketch.
She watched him for a few moments.
“Well?” she said at last, her patience having run out. Despite herself, she was actually curious.
“Well what?” he said innocently.
“Are you going to let me see it?”
“It’s not finished yet,” he replied. “Could I ask you to lie down again, perhaps with one arm held just so?” He draped an arm over his head languidly.
“Are you going to show me, or will I need to prise it from your dead fingers?”
“Your threats do you no favours; for one so beautiful.” Valia groaned and lay back again, trying to keep her pose as far from what he had suggested as possible.
Another few moments passed before he spoke again. “As I said. I am no artist, but this is how I saw you there.” He lifted the sheet of parchment and held it out for her to take. She sat up reluctantly and leaned forward to reach it. She snatched it away, watching him suspiciously, before settling back down to inspect it.
At first she did not recognise herself in the loose fitting garb; it had to be another woman lying on the sand beneath a palm tree, but when her mind adjusted, the likeness was startling. He had caught every contour on her face, and the delicate depression at the hollow of her neck. He had captured in detail her ears and every wave of her hair, the few strands that escaped her braid curled on her brow. The braid itself nestled between her breasts where the fabric of her clothing was pulled tighter. He had spent far too much time capturing and shading every curve under that blouse for her liking, and where she had been lying with one knee slightly raised off the sand, he had clearly found the soft curve of her thighs a fascinating subject too.