Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Arad returned it on his approach; Elsano greeted him as well, and the men snapped to attention. “Is there news?” Arad asked.

  “Of a sort.” Josel paused, frowning. “The enemy has disappeared.”

  Arad laughed. “The island isn’t that small, as you’ve often said, Captain-General. They must be somewhere.”

  “So you’d imagine,” Josel agreed, but he didn’t return the smile, and Elsano’s expression remained serious. “But there it is. The scouts have scoured everywhere they could be hiding, and they are gone.” He shrugged. “It’s an oddity.”

  Arad looked around. The grasslands had already dried out, at least enough for the grasses to stand tall again, and they were rippling like water in the breeze. In the distance, he could see breakers rolling in the open sea. The sun was already climbing the eastern sky. He didn’t see any clouds. “It’s a fine day for sailing,” he observed. “Perhaps they all boarded a ship and sailed away.”

  Josel shook his head, flattening his lips. “No, Master Arad. We’ve had ships patrolling the north coast to make certain they didn’t have reinforcements coming, as you suggested.” He added the last with emphasis. “No ships have come in.”

  “They had one already here, then,” Arad offered.

  “No ships have sailed north, either, Master Arad,” Elsano put in. “And we know what boats the rebels have, and none are close to what they’d need to carry out five companies.”

  “Perhaps they built one,” Arad said. “They’ve certainly had time.”

  “But not the right wood,” Elsano replied, “and certainly no masts. The best they could build is a barge. They’d never make it to the Lords’ Lands. They wouldn’t even make it to one of the other islands. They’d all be lost at sea.”

  “Not necessarily,” a deep voice said; the barrel-chested form of Captain Kollivar strode up, his uniform as immaculate as if he had not undergone the same storm they had. Arad became suddenly self-conscious of his own state of dress; he was muddy, and his hair was plastered to his head. He frowned at Kollivar’s neat, clean uniform. “I’ve been aboard ship this morning,” the Captain went on, as if it answered the unasked question. “Scouting for any sign of the rebels. I didn’t find any, but I did find something very, very interesting.”

  Arad shook his head in wonder. Did these men sleep? He had awoken not long after dawn from a horrid night’s rest—or lack of it—and had thought he was doing well to meet the responsibilities of leadership. But Elsano and Josel looked as if hey had been up for ages, and Kollivar had just come in from a morning sail?

  “What did you find, Captain?” he heard himself say numbly.

  “A lost enemy countryman, and a beast-man,” Kolliver replied. He turned to indicate behind him, where a group of soldiers were escorting two shaggy-looking men. As they approached, Arad saw that they were thin and deeply tanned, and their clothes were ragged. “We found them in a poor, broken excuse for a boat. I thought they were both base creatures when I first greeted them and one started growling at me, but then this one started talking, and I noticed his clothes were once good cloth.” He pointed to one of them.

  Arad couldn’t tell the difference. Both men were covered in facial hair, though one sported a beard that was much longer than the other. Both wore rags. “All right,” he said slowly. “How is this relevant to the enemy movement? Were they soldiers of the rebel army?”

  “Soldier?” The voice was a rasp, and came from one of the dishevelled men. “Not I, Commander. I am a man of peace.”

  Arad stepped up to him. He was slumped over somewhat, but would probably be about average height in the Lords’ Lands, from which his accent clearly identified him. His face was sunburned and dry with sea salt etched into it, making his age difficult to determine, but his eyes were lucid, if a bit wild.

  “Who are you?” Arad asked. “Why are you here?”

  It was Kollivar who replied. “That one’s a spiritualist,” he said with a laugh. “From some sanctuary in the Lords’ Lands. But it’s not why he’s here that matters, Master Arad. It’s where he’s come from.”

  “What do you mean, Captain?” The situation was puzzling, but Arad remained patient, allowing Kollivar to play the story out. Apparently the man enjoyed creating drama.

  “An island,” Kollivar said finally, with a smirk. “These two unlikely travellers have been marooned there for tendays. It’s east of here, probably no more than a day’s travel in a properly oared vessel. Less, in a sailing ship.”

  “There is no such island on the maps,” Josel protested. “The closest is to the west, at least a day by ship.”

  Kollivar nodded. “I know it, Captain. I was as surprised to hear of it as you. But that’s not the last of it. Did you hear stories as a child of the mountain that spat fire?”

  Josel frowned. “What’s the point?”

  “Have you, Master Arad?” Kollivar asked, turning to him.

  “Of course, Captain,” Arad replied. “Everyone hears those stories as children. A mountain in the southern sea, rising to spout fire and smoke. Giant sea monsters dancing around it. Then it vanishes into the waves. A legend,” he added cautiously.

  “No more,” Kolliver announced proudly. He strode to the side of the man who had spoken, and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Tell him,” he commanded.

  “We were shipwrecked, Commander,” the disheveled man told him. I know not how long we were adrift . . . in the sea. After the ship sank. Bauma saved me,” he said, looking over at the other man, the one Kollivar had indicated as the beast-man.

  Looking more closely at the other man, Arad saw that he had thick arms and legs, and a naturally stooped posture. Most oddly, his brow was extremely thick, almost shrouding his eyes. From under that hairy ridge, the man gazed at him with a feral intelligence.

  “He can’t speak?” Arad asked. “Bauma?”

  The beast-man grunted.

  “No, Commander. He does not possess the gift. But from wherever he comes, he did learn cunning and unrivalled skills of survival. I was most fortunate to be rescued by him. On the island, I would have surely died were it not for his care.” The man’s voice had cleared up as he spoke, and Arad saw now that he held himself, however strained, with a certain regal pride.

  “You are a Proselyte?”

  “The Sanctuary of the Spirit is my home, north of Benn’s Harbour, and so I am, as you say, a Proselyte, Commander.”

  “I am not a Commander,” Arad finally corrected. “I am a civilian. You may address me as Master Arad, if you wish.”

  The Proselyte’s mouth dropped open. He stood there for a long time, staring at Arad.

  “Go on,” Arad encouraged.

  The Proselyte shook his head as if awakening. “It took us a tenday to paddle here, in a rude craft of my own construction. The storm nearly killed us,” he added.

  “The island, man. Tell him about the island,” Kollivar urged impatiently.

  “It—it was very small . . . Master Arad. The sole peak was tall and narrow, and often shrouded in smoke. It was a volcano.”

  Arad nodded slowly. “Just like the fable,” he muttered.

  “We have them,” Josel said, his eyes gleaming; he was, it seemed, the only one not distracted by the Proselyte’s strange tale. “If they built a simple craft with a row of oars, they could reach the island in perhaps a day. With our ships, we can get there faster. We might even,” he added, a smile spreading across his face, “catch them on the sea.”

  Arad turned to Kollivar. “You’ve just come from the docks. How long to prepare all our ships, Captain?”

  “By the time Captain Josel has our men at the docks, we’ll be ready to sail,” Kollivar answered sharply.

  Josel, behind him, opened his mouth, but Arad was faster.

  “Do it,” he said. It was an order, with Josel technically in command of the army, but the Captain clearly didn’t mind; he smiled.

  Kollivar snapped straighter. “By your will, exec,” he said, spinning on
a heel, and marched off.

  So much for being civilian advisor, Arad thought to himself sardonically. But he wasn’t sorry. Somehow it had felt right. Was he becoming a natural leader, like his father? The thought made hairs stand on the back of his neck.

  But the Proselyte, now nearly forgotten, had stepped closer to him. He smelled of salt, and sweat. As he did so, the beast-man made a soft clucking sound with his tongue; Arad glanced over at him, wondering what it meant.

  The Proselyte didn’t react to his companion, however, keeping his focus fully on Arad. “Pardons, Master Arad, but are you the same Arad who visited Benn’s Harbour? The wrestling champion?” His tone was hushed, intimate; almost eager.

  “I am,” Arad replied tentatively. “What of it, Proselyte?”

  The man brought his hand up, shaking, to touch himself on the head. He seemed shocked to discover hair there, and he smoothed it back with both hands, attempting to make himself more presentable. “Mmm . . . Ah, pardons, Master Arad. One more question, if I might so intrude,” he said politely.

  “Master Arad has matters to attend to,” Josel said from behind the Proselyte, obviously not pleased how close the man was standing.

  The beast-man clucked his tongue again.

  “It’s fine,” Arad said, raising his eyebrows to the Proselyte.

  “Did you,” the man began. He licked his lips, then started over. “Master Arad, you sailed back to Somria with Lord Perrile, did you not?”

  Josel had his hand on his sword. The beast-man, though he had not moved, had the appearance of a gazer about to launch.

  The Proselyte’s eyes were not aggressive, however, but eager.

  “Calm down, Captain,” Arad said slowly. “You’re making his friend nervous.”

  Josel glanced over at the beast-man, who was eyeing him as keenly as a hunter might watch a wild boar. Arad wondered what would happen if they were unleashed. The Captain was no doubt an expert swordsman, but the beast-man seemed a coil of muscle, ready to spring.

  Wisely, Josel removed his hand from his sword, and smiled at the beast-man. ‘Bauma’ smiled back it him, but it seemed more of a snarl, displaying a row of sharp, yellow teeth.

  The Proselyte was oblivious; his eyes were wide with fixation and he licked his lips again. “Commander?” he asked again, forgetting Arad’s proper title. “Did you travel with him?”

  “Yes, I did travel with him, Proselyte,” Arad replied. Best to end this quickly. “Why do you ask—is he a friend of yours? I’m sorry, but I do not know his whereabouts.”

  But the Proselyte was shaking his head. “The girl. Was there a girl, Commander?”

  Arad felt a cold weight sinking into his stomach. “To whom are you referring, Proselyte?” he asked warily.

  “Her name was Sayri,” the Proselyte said, his voice very quiet and calm, as though speaking to a child. “A girl from the Lower Valley. Did she travel with you? Do you know of her whereabouts?”

  “No,” Arad said, more an involuntary denial than a lie, but the word came out as a whisper. The Proselyte’s eyes opened wider, clearly understanding the meaning of Arad’s tone.

  He was about to speak again, but Arad took a step back. He had had enough of this; he didn’t know why the Proselyte would be seeking Sayri, but he wasn’t about to have a discussion about it in front of his officers. He also wasn’t sure what it might mean for Sayri. Did this represent another danger for her, if they returned to her home? Or even if not?

  “Have these men placed on the Dissolute,” he told Josel. “I will want to interrogate them further.” He did his best, and thought he succeeded, in keeping the trepidation from showing in his voice.

  The Proselyte was staring at him intently; Arad walked away. He wasn’t sure if a fight would break out when they made to take the two away, but he could no longer face the man.

  He knew about Sayri. And more importantly, he was seeking her—why? Lord Perrile had absolved her, but was she now being blamed for the lord’s capture? If so, why was the Sanctuary of the Spirit after her?

  It made no sense at all, but the way the Proselyte had looked at him had disturbed him deeply. It was so . . . fervent, as if Sayri meant something to him personally. As if she meant something to his faith. What could it be?

  He didn’t know, but he had to put it aside for now. He needed to focus on the battle ahead, on defeating the rebels. When they were beaten, and their leaders delivered in chains to his father for justice—or, at least, his father’s version of justice, however twisted—then Sayri would be safe. He knew his father well enough to be certain that he would follow through on his word; it was, in his father’s mind, the only true definition of honour. If he kept his word, he believed he was a good man—or, at least, whatever he thought a man should be. Consistent, perhaps.

  Finish the rebels. Sail for home. Then Arad would question this Proselyte at his leisure, and find out why he was looking for Sayri, and precisely what he intended to do if he found her.

  42 GALLORD-SMIT

  Making it to the barge turned out to be a simple task, but launching it was another matter. Rain fell heavily after dusk, masking their retreat, but by the time they approaching the eastern coast the wind was beginning to whip up fiercely. When, after some debate, they finally concluded that launching was impossible, Gallord-Smit began to worry about the Somrian forces pinning them against the beach in the storm. That, too, quickly became a non-factor, however, as the wind speed continued to rise until Hellamer announced that a tropical storm was upon them, and they should find cover. There would be no battle fought that night—both sides would be busy keeping their heads down under mother nature’s onslaught.

  The barge, as Hellamer and Charese continued to refer to it somewhat mysteriously, was safely tucked away in a crook between two cliffs; it would survive the storm. The men would have a harder time of it; they had left the protection of the forest some time before, and were exposed on open, rocky hills atop a cliff facing the sea. Hellamer ordered the men to find what cover they could, and regroup when the wind died down. He warned them to stay in groups and take turns on watch, or face the danger of waking with Somrian swords in their bellies.

  Hellamer himself was in poor condition; he wouldn’t walk for a while, and despite the best efforts of the group’s medic, who was hardly a skilled chiurgeon, he was in a fair amount of pain. Leading the army, if it came to battle, would fall entirely on Gallord-Smit’s shoulders.

  He helped Hellamer find as comfortable a resting place as he could, wrapping him in a pair of cloaks to keep him dry, but there was no good cover; they simply would have to endure the worst the weather had to dole out.

  That proved a peril in itself. For most of the remainder of the night, they were plunged into completely blackness, save for shimmering white waves covering the sea. The wind became intense, threatening to tear them from the rocky bluffs and hurl them into the turgid waters far below. Gallord-Smit saw that Hellamer had somehow fallen asleep or, more likely, had passed out from the pain, and covered him with his own body best he could. Gusts thrashed and tore at his back as though a massive beast had slithered from the sea and was trying to drag him off to a watery grave. Gallord-Smit gritted his teeth and held on.

  Time became meaningless; only surviving mattered. If the wind plucked him away from the rocks, he would be hauled over the treacherous terrain and battered to his death. At some point, lost in the howling winds, he thought he heard the screams of a man who might have suffered that fate. Many times he wondered if he would wake to discover that the entire army had been wiped off the island, to vanish into the sea.

  The storm became a living entity. It was a towering beast, the deepest fear for those like Gallord-Smit who had been raised on the coast, in witness of the sea’s fury and the carnage left on the beach the morning after. It circled him, screamed at him, pounded on his back, and thundered in his ears. It tore at his cloak, pulling it into the air and threatening to choke him. It picked him up, then slammed him d
own on top of Hellamer, who groaned pitifully, and knocked all the air from him before doing so again.

  Gallord-Smit realized that the storm was trying to kill him. A conscious entity, perhaps the Great Link itself, or one of the old nature spirits that long-dead men had dreaded as they huddled in the sanctuary of barbaric campfires. Hellamer eventually stopped moaning; perhaps he was dead. Gallord-Smit accepted then, with deep sadness, that they would not survive the night. He would not see Rena again. He hoped she was safe, and would find happiness, perhaps with one of the young, dashing patrician’s sons who constantly sought her out at their lavish parties. He laughed aloud as he remembered the few evenings he had followed her to attend, puffed up in the latest Somrian fashion like a mating pepper dove. He had felt the fool, but those were good memories. He wished her well.

  The storm tore at him; it threatened to pull off his clothes, hair, and skin.

  Will I see Daeyella soon? Will she forgive me my love for Rena?

  He was hammered relentlessly in the darkness, his hands, elbows and knees ripped and bruised on the rocks, which became slippery with his blood.

  Mellie. His thoughts went to his little girl; her delicate yellow hair, and her tiny button nose. My sad, sweet daughter...

  Time in the storm had seemed to have stopped, but must have crawled on imperceptibly. When the wind gradually began to die down, he thought he might survive. Then it stilled completely, and stars appeared, and he knew they had made it.

  Gallord-Smit rose like a corpse from the grave. He looked around him; it was still dark, but clouds had cleared. Starlight was sufficient for him to see people everywhere, picking themselves out of hiding places and brushing themselves off of sand and leaves.

  “That was a nasty one,” Charese said, approaching him, grinning. Then she saw Hellamer, and her expression turned grave. “How is the Right-Precept?” She crouched over him.

  “You’ve . . . encountered such storms before?” Gallord-Smit was shocked at her casual attitude. “I wondered if we’d survive.”