The Harpy's Song (Ëlamár Series Book 1)

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The Harpy's Song (Ëlamár Series Book 1) Page 25

by Logan Joss


  Kneeling behind Mèlli, Trevor used his hands to turn the raft and then paddle towards the shore. He jumped off into ankle deep water and pushed the raft, with Mèlli on it, onto the beach, then encouraged him to put an arm around his shoulder and helped him to stand. They hobbled up the beach and sat down on the dry grass against a tree. Ignoring his protests, Trevor rolled up the leg of Mèlli’s pants. His knee was bruised and swollen.

  ‘That looks painful,’ he said. He hurriedly found two sticks to make a splint and used Mèlli’s pocket knife to cut some rope from the raft to tie them on. ‘How does that feel?’ he asked, once he’d finished securing the splint.

  ‘It’s too tight,’ Mèlli complained, wiggling his leg around to test it.

  ‘Well, if you kept still…’ He loosened it slightly.

  ‘That’s better.’ Mèlli looked up at Trevor gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

  Trevor just nodded. ‘We should make a fire now so we can dry off and get warm.’

  ‘No, it’s too risky. The galleon could still be around and we don’t want to give away our position with the smoke from a fire.’ Mèlli struggled to stand.

  ‘Here, try this.’ Trevor offered him a stick to use as a crutch.

  ‘Besides,’ Mèlli continued. ‘We should find a safer place to bed down for the night. We can dry off as we walk.’

  Trevor didn’t argue. He knew there was no point once Mèlli had made his mind up about something. So they set off into the woods, making their way slowly across the uneven terrain. In places, the forest floor was strewn with fallen trees, making it impassable and forcing the pair to take a meandering route. Mèlli struggled with his injured leg and became annoyed with himself for being so slow, but stubbornly refused Trevor’s offers of help. In the places where the trees thinned out, they scanned the skies for any signs of their pursuers, but there were none.

  After some time, their progress became even slower as Mèlli started to tire and began to trail some way behind. Trevor scouted ahead and noticed a large outcrop of rock through the trees ahead of them that he thought would make a good vantage point from which to see further.

  ‘Look there.’ Trevor pointed to the rocks and waited for Mèlli to catch up with him. ‘I can climb up and at least see where we’re heading.’

  Mèlli just shrugged, fighting against the now unbearable pain in his knee. ‘You go ahead, I’ll catch you up.’

  Trevor stepped out from the trees into the warm, low sunshine of the early evening. Shielding his eyes, he saw that the rock formation was higher than he had thought, and formed a broad ridge that he couldn’t see past in either direction. Unlike the obsidian of the canyon, this was more like sandstone—a rich, golden colored rock that ascended in a stepped formation. He examined it for a moment to find the best route and started to climb.

  Part way up, he met with a shelf of rock that came up to his chest. Using his arms to spring himself up, he swung his legs around so he was flat on his front on the rock before rolling away from the edge. He paused to catch his breath. Looking back down, he saw that Mèlli was at the base of the rock and had made himself comfortable on a soft patch of grass.

  ‘Having fun?’ he called up to his friend.

  Still catching his breath, Trevor raised a weary arm in acknowledgment. He felt a little self-conscious now knowing that Mèlli was watching him, so he got up and continued climbing, taking extra care not to make a fool of himself.

  Closer to the top, a crevice between two rocks allowed Trevor a view of what lay beyond. He called down to Mèlli, relaying what he could see. ‘There’s a drop beyond these rocks and then there’s a valley. With a river—a big river. I’ll go up higher to see if I can find a way down.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t fall off the other side,’ Mèlli called out, unhelpfully.

  Trevor scrambled his way up the last few feet and excitedly pulled himself up onto the ridge. He stood with his hands on his hips, catching his breath and admiring the view. Hundreds of feet below him, the pine forest continued, stretching out as far as he could see and cut through by a broad, fast-flowing river.

  He took a few steps forward to peer over the edge. His body stiffened, unable to move, before the sick feeling overtook him and he had to fight to stop himself falling. For there below him, hanging above the river, were the three red, firesilk sails of the galleon.

  It was all he could do to fall over onto his bottom and push himself away from the edge, sending a cascade of rocks tumbling down towards the vessel below. In a frenzy, he started to scramble back down, slipping and sliding in his haste to escape.

  ‘Run…Mèlli…run…they’re here!’ he gasped, just as he lost his footing and fell hard onto his back, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

  ‘What is it? Trevor, are you okay?’ Mèlli shouted, struggling to get back on his feet.

  Trevor shuffled to the edge of the shelf, gesturing wildly behind him.

  At that moment, Mèlli saw the billowing firesilk sails rising above the top of the ridge. Despite the excruciating pain in his knee, he dropped his crutch and started to climb towards Trevor. The sleek black hull was above them now, plunging the rock face into shadow.

  Trevor scrambled down as quickly as he could, yelling at Mèlli to go back. ‘What are you doing? Run!’ he shouted, as loud as his winded lungs would allow.

  But Mèlli continued to climb, more concerned with his friend’s safety than his own. Trevor launched himself down the last part of the rock, sliding out of control and landing at Mèlli’s feet. He staggered upright. Mèlli grabbed him and, without saying anything, unbuckled the pouch that contained his mother’s journal and the map box and stuffed it into the waistband of Trevor’s pants.

  ‘What are you doing? What’s that?’ Trevor gasped.

  ‘It’s me he wants—for this. I can’t let him have it.’

  Trevor realized what Mèlli meant to do.

  ‘It was good to know you, Trevor Pondsbury.’

  They looked at each other, sharing their fear, their terror and then their defeat as, from above, two large crewmen descended on bungee ropes and grabbed them around their waists. No sooner had they realized what had happened, than the ropes recoiled and sprung them back towards the galleon. Trevor and Mèlli kicked and fought with all their might, but it was in vain against the vice-like grip of the men’s strong arms.

  They hung there, helpless, off the bow of the galleon. Mèlli could see his own reflection in the black, mirror-like hull. He could barely recognize the person looking back at him. The cuts and bruises. The ripped clothes. The failure in his eyes. He felt disgusted with himself. Turning away from his pathetic reflection, he saw the swirling silver letters inscribed on the hull: Harpy’s Song.

  Finally, they were winched up and dumped unceremoniously onto the deck of the vessel. Mèlli yelped in pain as his knee twisted beneath him. He raised his head and his eyes met with a pair of polished black boots with golden buckles. A wave of emotion washed over him and he launched himself upwards at the man who had haunted his nightmares for so long. ‘You scum…’ he yelled, as a crewman pulled him back and held him in a firm grasp.

  The man stepped forwards, sniggering coldly. With his hands on his hips, he bent down to look Mèlli in the eye. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Sklõff, and, of course, I know your name.’ His words caressed the boy like a bouquet of thorns.

  Tears fell down Mèlli’s cheeks. He had imagined this moment so many times, but it had been very different in his mind. Is his version of events he had been holding a knife to Sklõff’s throat, but now it was hopeless—he would never get his chance at revenge. All the things he had wanted to say and do melted away like so many other lost dreams.

  ‘Oh Chamèlliar, my dear girl,’ Sklõff said, his arrogance oozing through every word. ‘If only you knew the lengths I’ve gone to. The expense. The trouble you’ve caused me. Now, after all this time, here you are.’

  Mèlli struggled against her captor but, unable t
o free herself, she spat at Sklõff. He wiped the spit from his face, before grabbing her chin in one hand and turning her face from side to side.

  ‘I do like what you’ve done with your hair,’ he crooned. ‘But I dare say the golden locks would suit you much better. You do look like your mother, you know.’

  Mèlli glared back at him with all the venom she could muster.

  ‘Now, I’m sure you know what it is I want,’ he said, letting go of Mèlli’s chin and standing to his full height. ‘And I’m sure you would not have let it out of your sight. Hand it over and this will all end quickly and painlessly.’

  ‘Daknat'òr. Be my guest if you want to go and find it,’ Mèlli said, her voice wobbling but still managing all the malice she intended.

  ‘Search her!’ Sklõff ordered, indicating to the crewman who was holding her.

  As soon as Mèlli felt his grip soften, she fought against him, but he was too strong. He grabbed her hair with one hand and used the other to pat her down. She resisted the urge to yelp in pain.

  ‘She ain’t got nothin’ captain,’ the crewman said.

  Sklõff eyed her with suspicion, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I dare say you’ve committed your mother’s journal to memory. And the map box. Hmmm, I wonder—did you get that thing open?’

  Despite herself, Mèlli’s eyes answered Sklõff’s question.

  ‘You did, didn’t you? Clever girl. And to think, your mother…All that time. All her tireless research. And you did what she couldn’t. I expect you’ve memorized that to the last detail too.’

  ‘I’ll never tell you anything you murderous vermin. You’ll have to kill me first.’

  ‘Oh, but my dear girl, I will kill you second. I will get what I want first.’

  ‘Never!’ Mèlli spat.

  ‘Lose the dead weight and set course for Aÿena,’ Sklõff said, ignoring Mèlli’s defiance. ‘We’ve got all we need.’

  Without needing further instruction, two crewmen grabbed Trevor, who had been watching dumbfounded from the bow, and lifted him into the air.

  Mèlli craned her neck to see what was going on and was panic-stricken by what she saw. She planted her elbow as hard as she could between the legs of the man who was holding her. ‘No!’ she cried, as the man released her in his agony. She threw herself towards Trevor, but she was too late. Hanging over the gunwale, she watched in devastation as Trevor plunged into the river far below. His limp body rose to the surface and floated away downstream.

  Power

  This room looks empty now that I have sorted all my work into piles. I have almost completed my preparations. I will burn it all before I leave. I have committed to memory all the important information from this research.

  The anticipation is almost too much to bear. Painful.

  Yet no one will notice.

  The time is here.

  What should have taken just a short while, has taken…how long?

  I have looked at each and every scroll, every parchment, each tiny fragment, each artifact.

  I feel a sense of calm beneath the anticipation.

  Calm.

  Once I have left this place, I will never return. Never think about it. I have no need to.

  Success. Success.

  I tell myself that it is not over yet. There is one final task to be completed, one last piece of the jigsaw. Still, I cannot help but feel jubilant. I feel as if I have woken from a long sleep, a never-ending dream that cycled again and again.

  I look at my disfigured hands and remember the pain, the suffering.

  It has gone now.

  But suddenly fear. A wave of nausea. A cold sweat pours over me like a seeping frost. I am confused. I have not felt such emotion since…

  What have I to fear?

  My research is complete. I am equipped with all that I need to dominate this world. I am all powerful. Apart from the last piece.

  But fear?

  It dawns on me. The idea of being out there. Being seen.

  Why does this vex me so?

  I clear my thoughts. I focus on the job at hand. It has taken longer than it should have already.

  I feel an attachment to every piece of parchment, every scroll, every artifact. It is childish. And reminds me of something.

  Once the final piece is in place, I pray that the voice, the images in my dreams, leave me in peace.

  I hold in my hand the scroll that made all this possible. I allow my eyes to close. I recall that day in the desert. How very close I came to losing my prize to another. An old man. His name eludes me.

  I must let go. Let go of all this false sentiment. It has wrapped itself around me, comforting me, like a child with a blanket.

  I rip the scroll in half. My heart pulsates in my chest. I clench my teeth and tear it into pieces, showering down like confetti onto the pile beneath.

  I miss it.

  On my desk are the only things I will take with me. Sitting beside them, it strikes me how benign they look, how innocent they appear.

  Despite their nature.

  I touch one, then the other. I let both hands clasp the helmet. I raise it high above me, then lower it ceremoniously onto my head. I have done this countless times before.

  It fits perfectly.

  I take the orb from its box. It hovers motionless in the air in front of me. I watch as the smoke jets from it. I do not usually do this.

  The familiar forms appear within the smoke.

  My glowing eyes reflect on the inside of the helmet as I speak. 'Nirikö, what news do you have for me?'

  'My lord Caleb. runia is under my control.'

  28

  The Bayard

  TREVOR STOOD ON the riverbank. The night was warm and clear and both of the moons of Ëlamár shone brightly, illuminating the river beside him with ripples of blue and pink. Far along the bank, he could make out a silhouetted figure walking towards him. As it approached, he saw that it was his father. He began to run towards him as fast as his legs could carry him, but his father continued at the same steady pace. Without hesitation, Trevor threw his arms around his father.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry,’ he wept.

  Suddenly he felt the burn of cold steel cut through skin and flesh and bury itself deep in his stomach. He released his grip and stumbled back in shock. His father had vanished and in his place stood Sklõff, grinning coldly as he pushed the sword in further. Gasping for breath, Trevor grasped the blade in both hands and fell to his knees, staring at the fatal wound in disbelief.

  ‘You’re right Trevor, it should have been you.’

  He looked up in surprise to see Mèlli standing over him. With one last thrust, she pushed the sword in up to its hilt. He fell back onto the soft mud of the riverbank, feeling his life draining away.

  From all around, shards of cobalt light streaked towards him and coalesced into a glowing orb which hung above him for a moment before morphing into the form of Gýella. She reached a hand down and touched the tip of a finger onto the sword. The blade vanished instantly, as did the wound it had caused. Only the ornately carved handle remained; it fell softly to the ground beside him, glinting silver in the moonlight.

  ‘No, Trevor Pondsbury. Not yet. Remember, your destiny lies in this world.’

  Trevor’s lungs spasmed painfully as they fought to eject the ice-cold river water. He managed to roll onto his side, allowing the water to gush out freely, only to be convulsed immediately by deep, painful coughing. To ease the pain, he grabbed and pulled at the soft mud around him, heaving and rasping as his body struggled to replace the water with air.

  Trevor’s eyes flickered as he felt his body being turned. He saw the darkening sky. Trees and large rocks moved passed him as he was dragged over the soft, uneven ground.

  In his half-conscious state, he could hear the rustling of shrubbery and the patter of horses’ hooves; the shrieks and hoots of nocturnal wildlife; the fragmented murmuring of far-off voices.

  Tr
evor opened his eyes and slowly took in his surroundings. The sun was just above the horizon, lighting up a cloudless spring morning. He was lying beneath a pine tree at the edge of the forest and could hear the gentle rushing of the river close by. With a sick wave of terror, he remembered being thrown from the Harpy’s Song. He sat bolt upright, casting a shower of soft blanket-like leaves to the ground beside him and was immediately overcome by a stabbing pain that gripped his left side and forced him back down with a howl of agony. His vision started to darken. Just as he began to pass out, something that looked like a horse approached him.

  ‘Ah, I see you are awake,’ said a clear, commanding voice from somewhere near Trevor. Through hazy eyes, he looked around and could see he was still surrounded by trees—and the horse was still there.

  He pushed himself up onto an elbow, grimacing in pain at the aches which seemed to cover his whole body. ‘Who’s there?’ he said with a croak, looking for the source of the voice he had heard.

  ‘There is no-one here but you and I,’ the voice said, as the horse turned to face him, its green eyes examining him with concern. ‘Has your vision been affected by your injuries? You took quite a knock to your head.’

  The voice seemed to be coming from the horse, and its lips even moved with the words. But that wasn’t possible, Trevor thought. Unless he was still dreaming. Or did horses talk on Ëlamár? He’d seen stranger things over the past few weeks.

  ‘Is it you who’s talking?’ he asked, blinking hard to clear his eyes.

  ‘As I have said, there is no-one here but you and I.’

  ‘But you’re a horse.’

  ‘I am most certainly not a horse! I am a bayard,’ he said with pride. ‘And you may call me Selmás.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,’ Trevor apologized.

 

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