Ellerick volunteered to sit in the crow’s nest and spy the horizon for other ships or land or approaching hazards, but the captain restricted him to the duties of a page. As such, he turned the hourglass that marked each four-hour watch, cleaned up after meals, and helped the other pages—mere boys of only ten or twelve annos—scrub the deck. The sea was restless, and it rocked the massive ship and tossed it up and down like an empty cask. By the third hour of the first watch, Ellerick was green in the face and leaning over the side of the ship retching his supper.
At the end of his watch, Ghendris joined Ellerick at the rail and tried to take the youth’s mind off his seasickness.
“I love it when the moon hangs low in the sky like that, with no clouds running across its face,” he said. “Looks like a silver coin, no?”
Elllerick moaned and leaned over the side.
Ghendris felt for the lad, but practical advice seemed more fitting than sympathy. “You’d do well to keep some of your food down, Ellerick. Nothing but salted meat and sea biscuits left below deck, and the officers have rights to the meat. That leaves the sea biscuits, which will fall to us last, right after it’s graced with the piss and leavings of the vermin that ride below us.”
Ellerick turned from the rail and peered up at his companion with a woeful expression. “I’m done with food of any kind, Ghendris. I swear it.”
Ghendris smiled down at the youth and stroked his thick beard. “I’ll have a mind to join you if the food rots before we make landfall.” He turned to look out at the sea, which was black all around save for the spot that shimmered under the moon. “But then there’s always fish, and the sea is full of them after all.”
The mention of fish sent another wave of nausea through Ellerick, but the sensation passed, and after a while the seasickness did as well.
After only two days, the food was being heavily rationed, and the portions for the lowest ranks were barely enough to sustain life. The meager rations took a toll on Ghendris and Ellerick.
“Leave it to you to go through our stock in under two days, boy,” Ghendris said to Ellerick as he was mending one of the topsails where he knelt.
“At least my appetite returned,” said Ellerick, who leaned over Ghendris as he worked near the mizzenmast. “Now I’m apt to starve to death, lest I get a decent share of food in mi belly.”
Ghendris gazed at Ellerick a moment before his eyes fell back on his work. “For a man of your size, you can certainly eat your way through a week’s rations. You put me to shame.”
“Really, Ghendris, I’m worried we’ll not have enough food on this dreadful voyage.”
“Storm forming ahead!” yelled a man from the crow’s nest looking north.
Ghendris dropped the topsail and stood up to look beyond the ship’s prow. Dark clouds rolled in the distance, and bright flashes of lightning streaked down from the clouds’ swollen bellies. Thunder boomed and rolled.
“Looks like you’ll have more to worry about than food,” Ghendris said.
The ship’s boatswain, a gangly sailor named Pollus, marched around the deck shouting orders and sending crewmen scurrying. A dozen men climbed the riggings and walked on the footropes under the yards to furl the working sails and unfurl the heavier storm sails.
“We’ll try to circle around the storm, men,” Pollus shouted as the crew worked around him. “But brace yourselves, ’cause we’ll be heading into rough waters nonetheless.”
Ellerick looked at Ghendris, a look of alarm on his face. “Rough waters? You mean it gets rougher than this?”
Ghendris slapped him on the back and roared with laughter. “You’re a real pisser, you are.”
It was late in the evening when a pair of Dread Riders landed in the courtyard of Storms Reach castle and dismounted from their tyvoki lizards to report to the king. They found him in the Chamber of Council, where the elders had convened a meeting to appoint members to the new war council proposed by Lord Lyatt Kern. Inner Guards loyal to Nerus Vayjun parted at the tower entrance to allow the riders up. The riders climbed the steps and were ushered into the council room by the king himself when they appeared at the entrance.
“Let’s have it,” Vayjun said, eschewing the pleasantries. “What have you to report?”
“The search has turned up no knights or other enemies these past two days,” said one rider.
“And the status of the villages and towns?” asked Lord Kern, who sat at the end of the council table opposite the king.
“Nothing to report,” the other rider said. “The people fear the Dread Riders who patrol the skies, and your militia groups hold a firm grip on the key towns and villages. None have risen against them.”
The king leaned back against the stone chair. “Instruct your riders to continue their search until I give the command to break it off.”
The Dread Riders acknowledged the king’s order and departed from the Council chambers.
After they left, Lord Kern raised a concern about the colonies of Dread Riders the king had sent out. “When Drucephus Farisin learns of your betrayal, the Dread Riders will become a threat to your rule. Considering their sheer numbers—”
The king raised a hand to quiet the chief elder. “I will deal with that when the time comes. You need not fear.”
Far across the mainland, at the tip of the Prybbian Realm, another tyvoki lizard landed, but no Dread Rider was on its back. Kastor Monsig, the senior scout of the Outer Guard of Storms Reach, had a message for the Dread Lord from his acting king in the East, Nerus Vayjun. Though Monsig had never before ridden a winged lizard, a Dread Rider had assured him it was no difficult task. “The lizard knows where its home is. All you need do is hold to the saddle.”
Monsig’s pride had kept him from showing his fear, and he had climbed onto the beast without another word and held the saddle, as instructed. It wasn’t long before his initial trepidation gave way to a sense of wonder, and as he flew over the forest that divided the realms, he delighted in the expansive view below, a view that few men were privileged to behold. From such a height, the beauty of the land was breathtaking, and he took in every field, every stream, and every hillock he could see, hoping to preserve the memories forever.
Dread Riders greeted Monsig in the court of the Castle, which was called Blackwine, and two of them led him to the king’s hall. As they walked, Monsig noted that the castle was twin to the castle in Storms Reach, only the color of its stones was of a darker hue. Kastor Monsig was shown in to the great hall, whose ceiling was vaulted several stories. At the rear of the hall were carpeted stone steps that rose to a large throne carved from a single block of black stone, upon which the Dread Lord sat.
Drucephus Farisin was a Prybbian by blood, a warrior’s son who had made his name in the Barrens of Darmutt. The Dread Lord, who was once the primus of the Sapient Order in the West, gazed down at his visitor from his raised throne. He was menacing to behold, with jagged features and cruel, deep-set eyes. His head was bald and badly scarred, and one deep scar ran down the left side of his face and along his thick neck. The Dread Lord wore the fur of some exotic creature unknown to Monsig, and at his feet lay two Ivull dogs, dreadful black beasts with red eyes and powerful jaws that could crush a man’s skull. They were vicious animals, bred on blood meats and cursed from their birth by the spirit men of Ivull. The dogs were even rumored to be trained to hunt wraiths. Monsig shuddered in their presence.
“What have you brought me, boy?” Farisin demanded.
Monsig held up a rolled parchment, its outer seal unbroken.
“Akvalli,” said Farisin, uttering an Ivull command. The larger of the Ivull dogs rose to its feet and walked down the steps to the senior scout, who placed the parchment in its mouth. The dog carried it up to its master and returned to its place at his feet, its red eyes staring at the messenger standing before the throne.
Farisin broke the seal and read the message to himself. When he had finished, the parchment caught fire in his hand, the flames da
ncing on the tips of his fingers. The flesh of his hand was not consumed, nor did he exhibit any pain, and Monsig marveled at this. But when he saw the flame glow a sudden bright blue, his eyes widened. He did not expect the Dread Lord to throw the flame down upon him, and when he was engulfed, his flesh searing under the intense heat, Kastor Monsig screamed and wailed like a desert banshee, until death silenced him.
The Dread Lord stood up from his black throne, and his riders bowed down before him, their foreheads touching the stone floor. “The primus in the East has incurred my wrath,” Farisin said. “On this night we fly to Storms Reach. On this night we fly to war.”
THE SAGA CONTINUES IN:
Dragon’s Tyranny,
Legends of the Dread Realm: Chronicles the Third
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King's Vengeance Page 7