by Mel Odom
Even when he knew Breezerunner had been about to leave, he hadn’t been able to try to contact Sabyna. He’d hobbled down to the dock and watched in silence as the ship had sailed away, his new stitches tight in his flesh.
Now he watched the activity at the docks with a mixture of emotions, working hard to keep them all in check. If he failed to control any one of them: pain, rage, or confusion, he was certain he’d be lost. He felt homesick and thought often of returning to Velen and facing whatever awaited him there.
Live, that you may serve.
Those words, that command, belonged to someone else. He’d convinced himself of that. Perhaps a someone he might have been had the fates not conspired against him. His birthright was the tattoo on his arm, not some ghostly voice that echoed in his head.
The dockhands labored night and day, but they weren’t just loading ships, they were packing goods onto barges and wagons that would be part of the numerous caravans traveling along the Alandor River or the River Road trade way to Crimmor. From there, the barges would off-load onto more wagons for the trip up the Bitten Road between the Fangs, into the Cloud Peaks, and on to Nashkel. Then began the increasingly dangerous trip north along the Coast Way, an overland trade route that had been only seldom used since the sea trade had opened. During his days of convalescence, Jherek had learned a lot about the overland trade routes that had become so heavily trafficked of late.
News continued drifting into Athkatla about the vessels and cargoes that were lost at sea, going down to sahuagin attacks and to leviathan creatures that erupted from the ocean bottom. Few ships reportedly reached Waterdeep or came from there. The other points north along the Sword Coast were just as dangerous. Paperwork, which had been only given lip service at many of the smaller ports, had become more sternly enforced.
More and more investors were starting to put their cargo on caravans. The losses at sea were too much. The overland trips took longer and grew increasingly dangerous as well. Orcs and goblins, and all too human bandits, passed information along about the caravans. Few, if any, reached their destinations unscathed.
A few cargo ships still attempted the sea trade north. Primarily ones that couldn’t take the loss on the goods they’d agreed to deliver, and weren’t able to find someone else to deliver it for them.
Jherek didn’t like thinking about Sabyna traveling into those hostile waters, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d failed her. If he hadn’t gotten into the fight with Aysel, he’d have made the journey with her, could have been there to protect her.
He got frustrated with himself for thinking that one man could make such a difference. That only happened in the romances Malorrie started him reading. He heard footsteps glide softly along the stone courtyard.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
Jherek turned, finding Fostyr approaching. The priest wore the robes and vestments of Lathander, the Morninglord. Colored in bright yellow taken from a dawn morning, the robes had seen better days, and so had the temple. Lathander’s beliefs weren’t a prime pursuit in Amn.
“Better,” Jherek answered. “Thank you for asking.”
The courtyard held a small wicker table and three mismatched chairs. Berries grew along the south wall, against the small rooms where the four priests slept. Although he’d been invited in, Jherek had slept outside all five nights, wanting to be in the open and in the salt air.
The bedroll and pack that contained all of Jherek’s possession was neatly packed and sitting in the corner of the courtyard. The priest’s eyes flickered over them, and he sat in one of the chairs. He was a small man with skin the color of buttered rum. Only in his thirties, he kept his head shaved. His quick, dark hazel eyes surveyed Jherek.
“You’ve had morningfeast?” the priest asked.
“Aye.”
“And your appetite, how was it?”
“Good,” Jherek answered.
“You have to eat to keep your strength up.”
“I know, Fostyr, and thank you for being so attentive.”
“I worry about you, my friend. Kythel told me you were working in the gardens yesterday, and you washed your own clothes when we could have seen to it.”
“I feel I have to earn my keep,” Jherek said. “I’m not a man to sit idly by.”
“Still, you have been wounded and should rest. You’re here at the temple as our guest.”
Jherek curbed his impatience. It wasn’t the priest’s fault that he hated lying fallow. Ilmater forbid that he should ever become a burden on anyone.
“Aye, I know that, and I thank you for your hospitality.”
“But you will not simply accept that hospitality?”
Jherek shook his head. “I can’t.”
Surprisingly, Fostyr only smiled and said, “Such responsibility in one so young.”
“Not so responsible,” Jherek disagreed. “Otherwise I’d have never gotten into that fight in the tavern. That wasn’t the course of a responsible man.”
“According to my friend who brought you here you fought for a lady’s honor.”
“Aye, I suppose I did.”
“Another responsible act.”
“I’m not so sure,” Jherek said. “What Aysel said were only words. I could have walked away.”
“But where do I draw the line?” Fostyr mused. “That is your question isn’t it?”
“Not mine,” Jherek replied.
Fostyr nodded, then took another tack. “I saw you at the service this morning,” the priest said.
“Aye.”
“What drew you there?”
Jherek shifted positions gingerly, mindful of the aches and bruises he’d received. “I wanted to pay my respects to Lathander. You could have turned me away when I was brought here bleeding, covered in ale-reeking sawdust.”
“Do you know of our religion?” the priest asked.
“Some,” Jherek admitted. “I’m a follower of Ilmater.”
“He is a good god to study, but Lathander might have something to offer as well. Lathander is the god of spring and the dawn, of birth and renewal, of beginnings. I’ve heard the nightmares that plague you, my friend, when you were in the grip of the fever that took you the first two nights you were here.”
The priest hadn’t mentioned that to Jherek before, and his face burned hotly. “What did I say?” he asked.
“You mean did you mention that you’re the son of Falkane, one of the most feared pirates along this coast? Yes, you did.”
Jherek shook his head in wonderment. “There’s a price on the head of any man who sailed with Falkane,” he told the priest. “You could have turned me in.”
“No, I couldn’t have,” Fostyr said. “I prayed for you, that you might find peace and happiness, and that the fear in your life will depart.”
Jherek didn’t mean to sound harsh, but his voice was tight. “You’ve seen the tattoo on my arm?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a brand, Fostyr, and there’s no getting rid of it. As long as it’s with me, I’ll be forever marked and my life won’t be my own.”
Fostyr was silent for a time, letting Jherek have time to regain his composure. “I just wanted to point out the possibilities,” he said.
“At the temple?”
“Yes.”
Jherek almost wanted to laugh in spite of the heartache that filled him. He shook his head and asked, “A pirate for a priest?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“No, Fostyr. What I need is a ship bound for Baldur’s Gate.”
“Why?”
Jherek thought about his answer, considered telling the priest about the voice that had plagued him, about the vision Madame Iitaar had had concerning that city, but he didn’t. “Because I have to,” he said. “I’ve been told that whatever calling I have in this life will be found there. At least some part of it.”
“You seek the truth of that?”
“Aye.”
“And if you find that it’s not true?”
Jherek looked out at the rolling blue sea and said simply, “I don’t know.”
“The north is dangerous country now, along the trade routes.”
“I know. Have you found a ship I can travel on?”
“No.” Fostyr sighed. “Even with all the contacts I know, no one is willing to take a man on without papers. There’s talk that some of the pirates are getting conspirators on board some vessels to sabotage them. If you’re not known, they won’t take you on.”
The only people who’d know him, Jherek realized, would be sailors from Velen. They would have heard all about his heritage by now. That was no answer, either. He turned to the priest and said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Now?”
“Aye. I feel as though I’m getting behind now.” That feeling had been nagging at Jherek since the fever had broke.
“You’re in no shape to travel,” the priest protested.
“I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” Jherek stood and took up his pack and bedroll. The cutlass hung on his hip.
Fostyr watched him silently for a moment. “You’re very driven, aren’t you?” he asked finally as he too rose to his feet.
“Aye,” Jherek answered, “only it’s more like … haunted.” He was relieved the priest wasn’t going to try to argue with him further.
“Then I’ll wish you godspeed,” Fostyr said, offering his hand, “and provisions.”
“No,” Jherek replied. “I’ll not take any more charity.”
“You can’t eat pride.”
Jherek gave him a crooked grin, but didn’t feel as brave as he tried to sound. “Pride’s all I’ve got left, Fostyr, and not much of that. I’ll have to work with what I’ve got.” He took his coin pouch out and dumped all the coins inside onto the table, knowing the priest would never accept them.
“What are you doing?” Fostyr asked.
“I’m making it harder on whatever’s driving me,” Jherek answered, knowing the truth of his words. “All my life my ill luck has kept me from having things no matter how hard I worked. Well, now I have nothing but the clothes on my back. I’ve been told that if a thing is supposed to happen, a way will be made.” He folded the empty coin pouch up and put it away. “I’m going to test that.”
The priest nodded. “You may be surprised, my friend,” he said. “Know that the door will always be open here should you need us.” He offered his hand.
Jherek shook the priest’s hand. “There’s one other thing,” he said, reaching into his pack and pulling out a folded sheet of paper. “I’ve written a letter. I’d appreciate it if you could have someone send it to Velen.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for your hospitality. Tell the others good-bye for me.” Jherek didn’t think he had the courage to go through any more good-byes. They were getting to be a habit.
He walked out of the temple courtyard and turned his steps toward the docks.
Less than an hour later, Jherek stood in a ragged line with two dozen other men down by the docks, waiting as the caravan master walked toward them from the wagon he’d just drove up in. He stood as straight as he could, knowing that his face was still marked and his eye nearly swollen shut. At least his vision didn’t appear to be harmed.
The caravan master was a big man, beefy and broad, burned by years of travel in the hot tropical sun. His clothing was sweat-stained and covered in grime. He wore a two-handed broadsword over his back. His leather armor showed signs of repair and of battle. Scars covered his body and marked his face.
“Listen up,” he barked. “My name’s Frauk. I got a caravan going out by evening so we can avoid most of the heat of the day. We’re going to be traveling all night, so any man that don’t think he can make that, step out now.”
Three of the men swapped looks, then stepped out of the line, drifting back toward the taverns where most of them had come from.
“I just got back from a caravan coming out of Waterdeep,” Frauk said, “and I want you to know what you’re facing. Since the shipping’s gotten so dangerous along the Sword Coast and the overland trade routes have opened up again, you might think you’ll be traveling well-traveled roads. Well, I’m here to tell you that the orcs and goblins are traveling those roads too. You might be able to figure out which end of a horse is which, but if you don’t know how to fight, if you’re not willing to fight, you might as well cut your throat here before we leave and save the orcs and goblins the trouble.”
Five other men left, grumbling to themselves, trying to act like the caravan master’s words hadn’t frightened them.
“Those of you still interested,” Frauk said, “I can promise you long hours, short pay, and little patience. We’re making a profit by getting shipments up and down the coast on time. I’ll be dogging every step you make if you lag.” He paused. “Now before I get a good look at you, are there any questions?”
Jherek looked at the man and asked, “How far north is this caravan going?”
“As far north as Baldur’s Gate, boy,” Frauk replied. “If things look prosperous enough, maybe on into Waterdeep. That suit you?”
“Aye, sir.”
Frauk narrowed his gaze. “ ‘Aye, sir?’ Are you a damned sailor, boy?”
Jherek hesitated, knowing that his bad luck was already showing again. Anger stole over him, giving his tongue a sharper edge than he’d have liked. “Aye, sir, and a good one.”
“What the hell are you doing trying to sign up on a caravan?”
“I need the work, sir,” Jherek replied.
Frauk came closer, taking long strides. “Can you sit a horse, boy?”
“Aye, sir.”
Frauk stopped less than a foot from him, glaring at him with cold blue eyes. “Have you been in a fight, boy? It looks like you’ve been in a fight lately.”
“Aye, sir.”
Frauk glared at him and put his hands on his hips. “Do you know how to fight, boy?”
“Aye, sir.”
Frauk spat on the ground and shook his head in derision. “From the looks of you it don’t look like it. Bruised up, beat up … I need men who know how to handle themselves. Grab your gear and get the hell out of my line.” He turned smartly on his heel and walked down the line to a big man. “Now you, you’ll do just fine. Go put your gear on that wagon.”
Embarrassment and anger flooded through Jherek. He shouldn’t have been surprised. His luck had doomed him from the start. There’d never been a chance. He’d only made a fool of himself. He reached down for his packs and took them up, turned, and walked away.
Two other caravans had offered to hire him, but they’d both been bound for the south. None of the ones he’d found going north so far had needed men.
He trudged away from the line, listening to the caravan master hire another man. He tried to think of what else he could do, but he was out of options. The anger inside him grew until he couldn’t stand it any more. He hadn’t been fairly judged and he knew it. He rated more than an offhand dismissal from the caravan master, and he meant to have it. He wasn’t just going to quietly go away this time. If that voice wanted to push him, then he was going to push back.
“You’ll do too,” Frauk told another man. “Go put your gear on the wagon.”
Shouldering his pack, Jherek turned and walked back to the caravan master. The man stopped, watching as Jherek came closer.
“I’ve shipped with a captain who knew manners and who knew men, and had no dealings at all with someone like you, so maybe I’m out of place here,” the young sailor said in a hard voice that could be clearly heard, “but I want you to know something. I’ve fought sharks and I’ve fought pirates. I’ve even fought sahuagin. I’ve fought in the day and in the night, on a ship’s deck, on land, and in the sea. My face is marked up right now because I’ve been in a fight, but that was a fight I won. If you speak to me with such disrespect like that again, you’re going to find out firsthand how well I fight.”
Without anoth
er word, Jherek turned and walked away. His pulse was pounding in his head and he knew he should have been feeling guilty about his behavior, but he didn’t. He’d stood up for himself and it felt good. He even thought Malorrie would have understood.
“Hey, boy.”
Slowly, Jherek turned back to face the caravan master, thinking maybe the man intended to fight him after all.
The caravan master stood looking back at him.
“Aye, sir,” Jherek answered.
“You still want that job?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then go put your gear up on that wagon. I’m hiring fighters today.”
For a moment, Jherek stood frozen, not realizing for sure what the man had said. Then he nodded and said, “Aye, sir.” He crossed to the wagon and tossed his bedroll and pack into the back.
Baldur’s Gate was a long way off overland, but at least he was headed in the right direction. He tried not to think of what may lie ahead of him, taking comfort in this small victory.
About the Author
Mel Odom is always trekking around in worlds of wonder when no one’s looking, but he always reports back with the story. Some of the worlds are borrowed, like TSR’s FORGOTTEN REALMS, but he’s created a few as well. The Lost Library of Cormanthyr was his first FORGOTTEN REALMS book, and he definitely enjoys the ring of steel on steel and the sizzle of a well-cast spell.
He’s written dozens of novels over the past eleven years in several fields: fantasy, game-related fiction, science fiction, movie novelizations, horror, young adult, juvenile, computer strategy guides, action-adventure, and comics.
He lives in Moore, Oklahoma, with his wife and five children and welcomes comments and conversation at [email protected]. When not facing down ferocious enemies with blade and spellbook, you can often find him cheering his children on at softball games, basketball games, wrestling matches, and baseball games.
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