“They must have expected us to support,” Josel was saying. “It’s a shock attack, they can’t have—”
Several voices bellowed challenge, and Arad turned to see five men charging them; Lordslanders.
Two of his own men came at them from the side, and two of the enemy stopped to engage; three came on.
“On my right!” Josel commanded, but Arad was already there. The two on the left were heading for Josel, who would want to give the leftmost his shield; it fell to Arad to cover his right.
The third man came straight for him. He was taller than Arad, as most Lordslanders were, but leaner. He had a shock of blonde hair protruding under a Somrian helmet, which he had no doubt taken from a fallen soldier.
The man was shouting at him wordlessly from under a thick moustache; he brought up a wooden shield in Arad’s face, then brought his shorter, thicker blade over the top.
Everything slowed, and Arad’s combat training took hold.
He had no shield. The enemy did, so he would use it to subvert his own attacks. Arad didn’t want to leave Josel’s side, so he couldn’t circle away from the shield; in any case, the other men were there, and he couldn’t present his back to them.
He stepped slightly to his left, then brought his sword up on the outside of his opponent’s, pointing it at his shoulder in a one-legged posture called The Monkey’s Dance. The curve of the sika deflected the attack downward. As it brushed past, he lunged in. The blade bit of its own accord, driving into the enemy’s neck below the helm, and he fell with a yelp.
Absently Arad reminded himself to pick up the man’s shield when they were done, but he was facing the next already.
Josel was parrying attacks from the man in front of him easily, but was struggling with the other who kept attempting to flank him. The shield was adequate protection, but only if he could keep both in view.
The Lordslander in front of him hadn’t anticipated his friend going down so quickly, however. He was sidestepping in surprise when Arad executed a low, spinning strike and finished in The Widow’s Lament. The sika found the side of the knee and cut deeply; he went down.
Arad rotated his blade in a tight arc and touched it gently upon the man’s throat; his eyes wide, the Lordslander relinquished his weapon as his own blood dribbled down Arad’s steel and across his neck.
Josel had his full attention on the other man now, and began a series of vicious attacks, but the man had seen his two companions go down so quickly that the fight was out of him; he bolted. Josel pulled a knife from his belt to throw it, but in the dark foliage he had already lost track of his target.
Arad’s captive was puffing quietly, trying not to move. “Surrender, rebel, and—”
Josel plunged his blade into the man’s throat in a brutal overhead swing, nearly severing it. The fallen man let out a strangled gurgle, then silenced. Arad looked at him in shock.
“No time,” Josel offered in explanation, looking around.
He was right. In the smoky darkness Arad couldn’t see much, but what he could see wasn’t good; there were more Lordslanders around them than Somrians.
“We have to move,” Arad said apprehensively.
“Agreed,” Josel muttered, looking around, then spotted a pitched battle in progress not far away. “This way,” he motioned, heading in that direction.
Normally Arad would have thought to move away, but a fight meant more Somrians, at least. He stopped to grab the dead man’s shield then brought up the rear, alert for any other enemies who noticed them.
・ ・ ・ ・
It was a fantastic stroke of luck.
Gallord-Smit had given the order to pull back and make for the other side of the island, and they had begun to move. With the Somrians still occupying most of the forest between his own group and the mountain, he had elected to run the beach. It would mean quick travel, and good visibility ahead and behind since the smoke was being blown inward, toward the mountain’s top. He also knew that no sizeable enemy force could come upon them there.
They were perhaps halfway around the curve towards where he hoped Three would be meeting them, when a scout dashed up behind them.
“Front-Captain!” the man shouted, struggling to find his breath. He was one of the better runners; if he was this winded, he must have been running hard.
“Take a breath, man. Give it to me when you can,” Gallord-Smit said, signalling a halt.
The man took two breaths, then continued, gasping as he was. “Somrians . . . moving fast . . . along the mountain,” he managed. “I think . . . I think it’s the whole load . . . Front-Captain.”
“Hold on,” Gallord-Smit countered. “Are you saying the group we just fought back there,” he made a motion back the way they’d come, “is trying to flank us?”
The scout shook his head, dropping his hands to his knees. “No . . . no, Front-Captain. I think they’re heading to support . . . the other group.”
Of course! Gallord-Smit wanted to slap himself. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? “Moving fast, you say?” he asked excitedly. “So are they strung out?”
The scout smiled, still gasping between his open teeth, which shone white in the starlight that reached them here, beyond the smoke. “As the innards of a snake . . . Front-Captain,” he said. “But there’s more.” He took a couple of deep breaths, slowing at last. “Three’s already found them. They were angling across the island to meet us, and stumbled right into the midsection of the Somrian army.” His expression became more serious. “They need support, my lord.”
Gallord-Smit nodded, grinning a feral smile in response. “All laid out before us, and the cut already made, you say?” He patted the scout on the shoulder familiarly. “Well, let’s see if we can’t just eviscerate them, then.”
46 JODHRIK
They had left him on the beach.
Jodhrik wasn’t sorry; he hadn’t particularly wanted to march into the interior of the island where the battle would be fought. He knew the landscape well enough, and could easily have led them, but they didn’t really need him. As diminutive as the island was, they weren’t about to get lost on it. So they had left him behind.
He looked over at Bauma, who was scratching in the dirt at the edge of the forest. The Proselyte had directed the Somrians through the familiar reef in front of his and Bauma’s old campsite, so they had been left there, and the beast-man was gleefully rediscovering his own handiwork. Now he pulled at the sand and produced a dirty net made from boar’s gut, which had been nearly buried during the storm. He cackled and hooted at Jodhrik, who smiled.
He sighed. If the two armies annihilated each other, would he be able to get home? Or would he have to go back to scrabbling out a life on this beach, as Bauma now did in the dirt?
He shook his head, frowning as he stared out over the waves that rolled peacefully and rhythmically onto the sand. No, that wasn’t his destiny; he had nearly forgotten why he became shipwrecked on this island in the first place—his duty was to find the girl Sayri, and bring her to the Sanctuary of the Spirit.
The girl who could channel the Link. The girl who had found what the Proselytes struggled to rediscover. What they had once known millennia before, when they had dwelt in the ancient Repository with the predecessors of the Collectors, before those had abandoned the most holy teachings in favour of power. What they had somehow let slip through their fingers, in arrogance not so different from that of the Collectors, so that they of the Sanctuary today were forced to humble themselves before the universe that it might deem them worthy and return.
The Great Link.
Where the waves were calmer, the Spiral glittered among them, reflected from where it hung brilliantly in the clear night sky overhead. It had watched over him for many a lonely night on this very beach, and did so still.
Was the Spiral connected to the Great Link, more than just as a symbol of its collective consciousness? Could he somehow, as he had occasionally imagined, reach out to the stars, touching all o
f them through the nearest? As he had been taught one could touch all souls through the nearest?
If he could, he would find the girl, and bring her home.
The starlight illuminated a vast column of smoke concealing the cone of the mountain. His own people had ignited the jungle somehow, filling the interior of the island with smoke; he knew this because a Somrian scout dashed out onto the beach just before dusk, out of breath, to demand of him when and where the fires had begun. He offered the warder no answers. When the man cursed and ran back into the jungle, Bauma stood up at its edge displaying a feral grin, a heavy rock in his blackened hands. The scout had no idea how near he came to having his skull cleft open.
Now and then, after the fall of night, he heard sounds coming from within the jungle not entirely dissimilar to those he had heard on his first visit, when the beast-man had hunted the lean wild pigs that had dwelt for eternity in safety there until his arrival. Their screams would tear open the peaceful night sky, deep-throated roars of anger quickly becoming wails of despair as they realized they were no match for the half-human’s deadly hunting prowess.
As they had died, so now Jodhrik heard men die, their screams echoing across the treetops and out to sea. Their dying cries were not entirely unlike those of the pigs, he thought distantly. Men died, and their souls were scattered to the Great Link—at least they had souls, unlike the poor swine. Those had left behind only meat and bone to be consumed by Bauma.
He wondered if wild boar were even now running terrified among warders as they murdered each other. And for what—a tiny ring of jungle that he had so struggled to escape?
The Great Link had abandoned them, and until they again proved themselves worthy of its blessings, men were destined to such horrendous folly. Only through the Great Link could they know the Spirit, and each other.
The sounds of battle had faded now. He only heard the occasional echo of a far-off scream or whistle. Perhaps around the curve of the island? He doubted he would have heard them if they were on the opposite side; perhaps they were aside the mountain’s slope, now. He had seen a distant group of men dash out onto the beach at one point, their silhouettes dark and harsh against the sand; he had wondered if they were coming his way, and if he was in danger. Lordslanders? Would they take him home, if so? Unlikely, since the Somrian commanders seemed quite confident that the enemy would never leave this place, except as slaves bound for Somria. If the difference in numbers was as vast as they said, he didn’t doubt it for truth.
In any case, the men had vanished back into the shadows.
Bauma snorted, narrowing his eyes at Jodhrik from the jungle’s edge. No; he wasn’t looking at him, but past him. The Proselyte followed his gaze out to sea, where he saw a ship sailing down along the coast from the north. More Somrians?
With a start he recognized the ship’s long, narrow profile from those he had seen berthed in Benn’s Harbour; low to the water, with two tall masts. It was a Lords’ Lands ship! They had sent reinforcements?
Oddly, the ship was flying a white flag; it fluttered like a false moon, pale and stark in the starlight. Jodhrik didn’t know it meant. How had the vessel managed to get past all the Somrian ships swarming the area?
As he watched, the ship raised sail, swung about, and came gently to a stop. It drifted lazily backwards, then came to a halt again as the anchor bit. Within a few hundred heartbeats he could dimly see a boat being lowered, and forms climbing aboard. While it began paddling toward shore, he gazed nostalgically at the ship, daydreaming that he might go aboard and find his way home.
The girl was important, he knew that, but he longed to be among his brothers. To lounge about on a rainy afternoon in the library, sipping tea and studying the histories. To gaze lazily at the groundskeeper digging in the garden under drizzles of rain from the roof, and wonder if he might like to come in for a cup of tea and light conversation.
To have nowhere to go, and nothing important to concern him. To have nothing to worry about.
He heard a low rumble. Thunder? He looked up at the sky; it was clear, except for the smoke rising from the island’s centre. Had the smoke become so thick that a thunderstorm was brewing within it?
The boat had made it through the reef and was approaching the shore. Whoever was in the boat, they had come from his homeland; he waded out into the warm water, thankful that he wasn’t wearing his stole, but only the simple brown smock the Somrians had given him. He glanced back at Bauma, who was crouching in the sand just beyond the jungle’s edge. He smiled sadly at the beast-man, nodding, to reassure him that friends were approaching, then turned back to the craft, which was gliding gently across the lagoon. There were three people aboard; in the starlight, he could only see that one was rowing and the other two sat quietly. One passenger was smaller, the other of average size and hooded.
“Hoy the shore,” a man’s voice said—the oarsman, who had twisted to see where he would land.
Jodhrik sighed with relief; he had expected a Lords’ Lands accent, but to hear it removed any doubt. “Welcome,” he said, knowing his own dialect would be plain. “Keep it straight, the waves will pull you ashore.”
When the boat caught the rollers and slid towards the beach, he reached out and took the bow, making certain it held straight, and directed it in to shore.
The man put up the oars and leapt out, then turned to offer a hand to the hooded form, who had stood and moved to the bow. With a start, Jodhrik realized that it was a woman, more from her movements than her shape, which was broad enough to be a man’s. She brushed off the proffered assistance, and sprung lightly from the bow to the dry sand beyond. The robes that billowed out behind her, Jodhrik saw, was a Collector’s. A chill crawled up the back of his neck.
The Collector was scanning the jungle front, and had located Bauma instantly. The beast-man hopped up, startled, when the woman pointed at him, and crept back slightly as if threatened by a predator.
“Is that yours?” she asked; a strong female voice.
“He won’t hurt you if you don’t attack him,” Jodhrik replied. He had released the boat and moved back up the beach a few steps. “Or me,” he added after a moment, perhaps more for his own comfort than Bauma’s.
The Collector nodded, diverting her gaze to the smoke that veiled the mountain at the island’s core. “Are you their prisoner?” she asked coolly, keeping her eyes inland.
Jodhrik was unnerved by this female Collector. She was cold and deliberate, as they all were in his experience, but something about her seemed dangerous. Even Bauma sensed it, and had backed away cautiously. Jodhrik swallowed, his eyes flicking briefly to final passenger being helped to shore by the oarsman. “Not as such,” he answered carefully. These were his countrymen, but he didn’t feel safer than he had moments earlier.
“I know that voice,” the second passenger, unsurprisingly another girl, finally said once she was on shore. “Proselyte?”
Jodhrik frowned in astonishment—someone from the Lords’ Lands navy knew him? He took a step closer, then shied away as the Collector moved quickly to intercept him. Was she protecting the other girl?
But the girl who had spoken moved forward, struggling slightly in the deep sand, and nudged the Collector aside. “It’s all right, Wissa,” she said, but her protector allowed her to pass only grudgingly, and hovered menacingly behind her. “Proselyte, perhaps you don’t remember me; to be true, I barely recognized you with the beard, and lacking your stole,” the girl went on. “We met only once at Lord Perrile’s palace. You came to advise me when I was sentenced to death—thankfully, a sentence not carried out. My name is Sayri.”
Jodhrik’s eyes went wide; in the dim light, he could barely make out her face—but it was her! He took a step back in astonishment; his heel caught in the deep sand and he fell, his bottom finding a soft seat on the beach. “S-Sayri—?” he stuttered. How in the Great Link . . ? “. . . I remember,” he replied numbly.
Somewhere in the darkness behind him Bauma gr
owled. The Collector directed a gaze at him, and he silenced.
Sayri laughed; a high, bell-like tone. She trudged forward in the deep sand, and offered a hand to Jodhrik, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet.
“Proselyte, how do you come to be here?” Sayri asked. “I have thought often of you, and hoped one day I might see you again. I have many questions for you.” She seemed quite different from what he remembered. In his dreams—not always pleasant—she had transformed from a meek and apprehensive youth into a frighteningly potent channel for the Great Link; he had not believed it as truth, of course, but somehow the girl before him was noticeably stronger than before. She held herself with a poise and confidence that seemed unattainable in the the time since he had last seen her. How long had it been, three moons? Four? He didn’t even know how long he had been marooned on this very island.
“Of course, young lady, of course,” Jodhrik replied, still feeling bewildered. “In truth, I have sought you out for this very purpose.”
Sayri froze; her expression was one of suspicion, suddenly. “What? What do you mean? You’ve been looking for me?”
“I would not seek to mislead you, young lady. I have traveled far, enduring a shipwreck and a battle, being lost adrift and ashore, all to find you.” He finished the statement with a soft bow of the head, bringing his hands together as he would have wearing a Proselyte’s stole. The girl needed to see him in his proper posture, of a man of the spirit.
“Why?” Sayri asked carefully, her eyes on his. Jodhrik noted that the Collector had moved away, toward the edge of the jungle. He didn’t see or hear Bauma anymore, but suspected the beast-man had retreated, for some reason clearly fearful of the hooded woman.
In the distance there was a cry, perhaps of a man. There had been no sounds of battle for some time; Jodhrik wondered if it suggested that a new one was erupting, but it was far enough off that he was unconcerned. He kept his focus on the girl. “Young lady, when I first met you, you demonstrated an extraordinary capacity for focus. It is very rare, and the wisest elders of my order felt you needed guidance. Since we had already met, they sent me. Little did I know that seeking you out would prove such a daunting task,” he added with a sigh.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 57