Sons of the Oak

by David Farland

  The sky on the horizon was the blue-green of a bruise, and the air was as heavy as a wet blanket. You could feel the lightning in the air, little pinpricks crawling over the back of your neck.

  “Drop the sails,” Stalker ordered. “Batten the ’atches, and strap yourselves down.”

  There was no port to make for. They were fifty miles north of the nearest island, at the very least. Navigating on the open water like this was always part guesswork, and Stalker only had a general idea of where he was.

  Myrrima felt it, too. She woke in the morning in solemn terror and didn’t take time to eat or clothe her children. She spent the morning on a rope ladder, drawing runes of protection on the ship, runes of strength to hold it together, runes of way-finding to guide the steersman’s course.

  Then it came. The clouds gathered over the heavens, sealing off the sunlight, and the thunder could be heard in the distance. Then the explosive bursts of light came, high in the clouds.

  The seas began to pitch and the storm rolled in lightly, the wind singing through the rigging. When the first patters of rain started, Myrrima brought the children down into the hold, into the dark, where only a single lantern swaying on a hook gave any light.

  Captain Stalker stayed above decks and watched the hurricane come in, three men lashed to the wheel, trying to guide the ship.

  There are no words that can describe the terror of a storm at sea, winds of ninety miles an hour shrieking through the masts, waves crashing down over the bow so that the boat shudders under your feet as if it will tear apart, that moment when the boat climbs and climbs and climbs up an eighty-foot wave, only to reach the top, and then come crashing down into the wallow with a bone-crushing jar.

  Down in the hold, the children wept and moaned. Seasoned crewmen who never got seasick grew ill and lay in their own vomit, wishing for death, wishing with each moment that on the next wave, the ship would tear asunder and yet also fearing to the core of their being that on the next wave the ship would founder.

  Lightning took the mainmast. A bolt of it struck the masthead and sent a line of fire running down the beam, almost to the deck.

  Stalker didn’t worry about the fire. The rain was driving so hard that you couldn’t open your mouth without getting a drink, and mountains of water crashed over the railing.

  The fire would sputter for a few minutes, then die.

  Amid the high winds, the weakened mast gave a tattletale cracking sound, and the ropes in the rigging began to snap.

  Before Stalker could shout a warning, it toppled, falling backward into the mizzenmast, snapping spars, so that both masts fell in a tangle of rope.

  The ship twisted beneath their feet, listing to starboard.

  The heavy masts tangled in the rigging. As the masts fell, the ship lost balance and canted precariously.

  If the men didn’t cut the masts free, a wave would take them broadside and capsize the ship.

  Suddenly a dozen sailors rushed up from below decks, swords and axes in hands, chopping at the tie lines and rigging, trying to cut the fallen masts free. Stalker and the steersmen grabbed the wheel, tried to aim the ship’s prow into the waves, but it felt as if the rudder were gripped by a giant hand, and three men together could not budge it. The fallen mast gave too much drag.

  Stalker abandoned the wheel and rushed to help cut the damned masts free.

  The waves caught the ship broadside, and he lost his footing, went down beneath a wall of water that came cascading over the railing.

  Three crewmen went flying overboard, into the white surf, their mouths working uselessly, their cries for help stolen in the roar of the wind, the pounding of the sea.

  And then there was a crack, and a line snapped, the rope slapping Stalker’s face like a bullwhip, and the mainmast went sliding into the sea.

  He himself followed, gravity pulling him downward. He tried to catch himself with his feet, bracing them to take all of his weight as he slid down the slick decks toward the railing.

  It didn’t work. He hit the rail and his legs gave way beneath him. He found himself toppling overboard. Only years at sea kept his mind steady enough so that he twisted in the air and grabbed onto the railing with both hands, clinging for dear life.

  The ship rolled over a smaller wave, and now suddenly the boat lifted and turned. Stalker clung to the railing as the ship seemed to rise beneath him like a mountain. He was suddenly plastered against the outside of the hull, his weight sustained by it, and peering down across the deck to the trough of the next wave.

  Inwardly, he prayed that the ship would hold together.

  27

  SYNDYLLIAN

  Children always imagine that evil resides somewhere far away, perhaps in a mysterious land far beyond their borders. But every man knows where it can be found. It is as near as your own heart.

  —Gaborn Val Orden

  When the storm finally cleared, Captain Stalker found that he’d lost seven members of the crew, including Endo.

  The last that he had seen of the man, Endo was treading water in incredibly rough seas, trying to keep his head above the whitecaps. His faithful sea ape, Unkannunk, howled in dismay and leapt into the wash to save him, but a huge breaker crashed over the two, and by the time the water cleared, both of them were lost to view.

  The only thing that saved Stalker himself was dumb luck.

  The ship was a wreck. The mainmast and mizzenmast were gone completely, and much of the upper deck was broken and in a shambles.

  The storm had blown them far off course to the east and north—that much Stalker could tell just by the water: it was deeper green than it should have been, from too much algae, and its surfaces were all hard angles. That only came from cold water funneling down from the arctic currents.

  In their current condition, it would take a couple of weeks just to limp to some island among the Mariners. And they wouldn’t be able to just dodge onto some uninhabited island. They’d need a proper port, one where they could get the masts replaced, buy enough tarp for some new sails.

  Sailing on to Byteen was out of the question. There was only one place to go: Syndyllian.

  “We’re goin’ to get boarded,” Stalker told Borenson and Myrrima that night. “There’s rumors that Shadoath is searchin’ for your boys. I mean to see that she doesn’t find ’em.”

  “Are you sure that we have to go to Syndyllian?” Myrrima asked.

  “It’s the only island in the chain that’s got proper trees on it,” Stalker argued. “We might take on food and water elsewhere, even buy some new sails, but we can’t repair the masts … and without them, we’re almost dead in the water. We outran that little black schooner twice, but we won’t do it again.”

  “So what do you propose?” Borenson asked.

  Stalker had it all figured. But he needed Borenson and Myrrima to agree to his plan.

  “I figure it will take a few days to get the masts fitted,” Stalker said. “I’ve ’ad business dealin’s with Shadoath in the past. I pay for free passage through the Mariners. So me and the ship shouldn’t be in any trouble. I’m thinkin’ we can sail into port at night, under cover of darkness. But before we make port, we’ll lower a boat, and you, Mr. Borenson, can row the boys ashore. You’ll need to stay ’id. You should be fine for a week. Then just keep watch for the ship at night. When we sail out to sea, we’ll drop anchor near the beach, and you can row out to meet us.”

  Borenson considered the plan. It sounded simple enough. Syndyllian was a big island, from all that Borenson had heard, and had been well settled for hundreds of years. There was plenty of fresh water, plenty of farms and peasant huts.

  He looked to Myrrima for approval. She was the wizardess, after all. And she was the one who would have to stay with their children, perhaps even endure the scrutiny of Shadoath. “I can take the boys,” he said. “But I’m not sure that I want to leave you and the children. We could all go. We could all hide out together.”

  Myrrima bent her head,
deep in thought. Her heart was full of misgivings. She didn’t know what kind of shelter they might find in the wild, what foods they would be forced to eat. Myrrima could handle it, but it would be harder on the little ones. Worse, Myrrima was still nursing Erin, and at three, Sage would never be able to remember that they were in hiding.

  “I’ll stay with the children, and keep Rhianna,” Myrrima finally decided. “You take the boys into hiding.”

  Her misgivings were fierce, though, and she rocked back and forth on her stool, wondering.

  In her fortress on Syndyllian that night, Shadoath walked upon the veranda of her palace, under the stars.

  Outside in the valley below, the barracks of her armies stretched for miles, dark tents covering the land. And as the stars twinkled in the heavens above, the campfires and forge fires glittered below her.

  Shadoath had taken hundreds of endowments of stamina, brawn, grace, and will. She no longer needed to sleep.

  But she rested, walking alone under the starlight, her eyes unfocused, in a waking dream.

  That’s when the Sending came.

  Asgaroth appeared to her not in any human form, but with a hideous face, as if to reveal the monster that he was. He spoke only two words: “We come.”

  The vision faded, and Shadoath smiled. For nine years she had been on this miserable little world, preparing.

  Now, the torch-bearer was on his way.

  Nine days later, the Leviathan reached Syndyllian. Captain Stalker had apprised the crew of his plan and sworn the men to secrecy.

  It was only at the last instant, as the boat lay under the stars on the north shore of the island, that Rhianna informed them all that she would be going with the boys.

  Myrrima was prepared for it. The girl was growing more and more dependent upon Fallion. At night, evil dreams kept her awake, and it wasn’t until she was lying by Fallion’s side that she could sleep.

  Reluctantly, Myrrima gave her consent. Borenson and the children climbed down the ladder to the ship’s boat. Borenson rowed away, the big boat riding lightly on the sea as it made for the gentle white sands of Syndyllian.

  The captain marked the spot with the navigator, choosing a pair of mountains in the distance as a point of reference for their return.

  An hour later, the Leviathan sailed into the port city of Mannesfree under a gentle breeze as the moon rose so huge out above the sea that the last of the roosters down in the hold thought the sun was rising and began to crow.

  They eased into port and found the waters still and glassy, with four other ships already lying in harbor. It was not a huge port. A steep hill rose to the south, and they were at the mouth of a deep river. A few inns and shacks crouched along the pier. Myrrima could see the fishermen’s nets hanging by the docks, where they were dried and mended.

  To the north, a small city sprawled across a fertile plain.

  It felt cozy and idyllic.

  There was singing coming from a little shanty by the waterside, and the sounds of woodwinds and drums. So late in the night, few other folks in the city seemed to be awake. A single lantern gleamed over the water.

  The city seemed almost abandoned.

  No smoke rose from the chimneys. No lights shined from the windows.

  Stalker studied the scene with evident concern. “’Aven’t been in port ’ere for five years. Used to be a jumpin’ place. Busier than this.”

  Myrrima stood on deck, peering anxiously. One of the ships lying in port had black masts.

  Sitting upon a barrel behind her, Smoker inhaled deeply on his pipe, a red glow forming in his hands around the bowl, and peered out over the water, his face wrinkling in concern. He said to Myrrima, “Something wrong.”

  Myrrima could not fathom why everything was so dead.

  28

  THE BEACH

  In Carris, when the reavers charged, I saw men grow weak at the knees and faint, while others leapt into battle and performed superhuman feats of strength. Thus I propose that the fear that weakens one man only serves to make another man strong.

  —Duke Paldane

  They all helped drag the away boat up onto the beach, Borenson lifting the prow while Fallion, Rhianna, and Jaz tried to get the back and sides. None of the children were slackers. Borenson drove them too hard in weapons practice for that. But they were still young, and Jaz especially had a hard time of it.

  They wrestled the boat up over the sand dunes, through tough grasses that rasped beneath their feet, and it was a quarter of a mile before they neared the tree line.

  As they struggled toward it, in the hills above them Rhianna heard a familiar growl, like distant thunder: the hunting cry of a strengi-saat.

  Her muscles melted at the sound of it, and she dropped her corner of the boat.

  Borenson whirled and drew his saber. Rhianna already had her weapon in hand. Fallion hadn’t heard the sound, but recognized that something was up, while Jaz just grumbled, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  The surf splashing over the beach was a constant hiss, and Rhianna stood, straining to hear more, another cry in the darkness, or the thud of footfalls as one of the creatures dropped to the ground.

  She heard a swoosh, the movement of branches as something heavy leapt from a tree, and moments later another hunting cry rose to her left, and oh so faintly, almost as if she imagined it, a third cry farther up in the hills.

  The moon was rising, huge and full out over the ocean behind them. Rhianna searched across the beaches for sight of any shadows in the coarse grass, any dark patches where a strengi-saat might hide, but she could see nothing.

  The creatures did not like open spaces.

  Palm trees rose up ahead. There, giant ferns shadowed the ground, and vines corkscrewed up among the foliage. It was a jungle. The strengi-saats could be anywhere in there.

  Borenson crept toward the children, had them huddle together, and put a big hand on Rhianna’s shoulder comfortingly as he whispered, “All right. This is as far as we go tonight.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jaz asked. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll turn the boat over,” Borenson whispered. “Rhianna, I want you and Fallion to crawl under it, use it for a shelter, and get some sleep. I’ll keep guard out here.”

  “What’s going on?” Jaz demanded again.

  Borenson gave him a look, warning him to be silent, and whispered, “Now, I’ve a question for you. I’m thinking that it might be good to have a fire. It keeps most animals away. But it will also light up this beach for miles, and show us up to anyone or anything that’s out there.”

  So he wanted a vote. He looked mainly at Rhianna though, as if the choice were hers. He knew that she was terrified of the dark.

  Each time that a strengi-saat approached, it brought the night with it, and she had learned to be afraid.

  She had to balance the hope that a fire would give her with other very real dangers, though. Shadoath’s people were supposed to live on this island. Were any of them left? How long could they survive if strengi-saats were about?

  Could it be that Shadoath somehow controlled the monsters?

  Rhianna wasn’t sure.

  “A fire,” Fallion suggested. He was nervous, shifting from foot to foot. “A small one. I can build a tiny one, and keep it small, until the moment we need it.”

  Borenson peered at Fallion, measuring him. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  Rhianna wasn’t sure what he meant. Could Fallion keep a small fire going, or was he asking something more?

  Fallion was a flameweaver, Rhianna knew. And Myrrima had fought against Fallion’s training. She thought that he was too young for it, and fire was too seductive. Would Fallion be tempted to trade his humanity for Fire?

  That’s the question that Borenson is really asking, Rhianna decided. He doesn’t want to bring Fallion to this beach as a child, only to watch him become an immolator.

  “I can control it,” Fallion said. But Rhianna could see that he was worried.


  He needs the fire as much as I do, she decided.

  And so they flipped the boat over, and Rhianna and Fallion scooted beneath it. Borenson told Jaz, “Look around here, bring over some driftwood and put it in piles, along with some dry grass, so we can set it afire at need.”

  So Borenson and Jaz remained outside, and Fallion put his arm around Rhianna and they lay together.

  They had not been lying for more than a few seconds before the fire started.

  Fallion didn’t wait for his brother to bring some dry grasses or driftwood. The fire just seemed to sprout from the empty air, as if the heat were so great that it could not be contained.

  It was a small fire, as promised. A tiny flame no bigger than a candle; Rhianna saw that it had formed on a twig of driftwood that Fallion had found in the dark.

  But it was enough. It gave them some hope.

  The curve of the gunwales on the boat let them see out a bit, to where Borenson’s feet marched past nervously.

  Rhianna trembled in fear, her heart fluttering madly.

  Fallion whispered, “How did strengi-saats get here? Asgaroth opened the gate between worlds months ago, thousands of miles from here. Did they come by ship?”

  “They couldn’t have been brought by ship,” Rhianna decided. “We’re too far from there. Besides, the strengi-saats that caught me were running wild.”

  So Shadoath must have summoned her own monsters. But why? Why would she loose them upon an island, one where she kept her warriors?

  “They’re part of her army,” Fallion whispered as if she had asked the question aloud. She realized that he was drawing upon his powers; he’d seen into her mind. “They’re her night sentries. Darker things stir in the hills.”

  She turned, just enough to see his face. His eyes were wild, his face pale and drawn. Sweat was rolling from his brow, and he peered intently at his little flame, as if the fire were showing him things.