Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I will not let it happen again.’ He gripped the bars tighter, attempting to bring his mental training to bear, trying to wrestle the surge of violent rage under control.

  Waves of anger swept over him; he could feel them taking control. Every muscle, every sinew, screamed in protest as he strove against the inhuman monster battering at his sensibility.

  ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘I will not …’

  But the raging beast within was stronger than the man. The black washed over his eyes.

  38

  Even though the city of Vogel itself had long since vanished from view, the smoke of its death throes still stained the sky. Iskopra had proved himself to be a cheerful companion with a wealth of tall tales about his life on the sea. It was clear from his easy competence with the Sotiria that at least some of his outlandish stories might have had a minute trace of truth buried among the exaggeration and hyperbole. It was only once that he was shamed into a fleeting moment of silence, and that was when he claimed one of the legendary deeds of Tulugma as his own.

  ‘Umut is as treacherous as she is beautiful.’ Iskopra paused to trim the sail slightly and give Maida a small correction to their course. ‘I was working off my slavery to the Blindfolded Queen on one of her coastal barges when my captain, idiot that he was, ran aground on one of the southern shoals. Obviously, he needed to lighten the load, so he considered his options. Either he could toss some of the cargo overboard, and risk impalement by the Queen’s Guard, or some of the passengers, and not get the full payment for their passage, or some of the slaves. It did not take a lot of thought, even for a mindless lump of wyvern crap like him. So me and half the slaves were unchained and thrown into the water.

  ‘Umut is warm and her water is soft, but she is home to more monsters than the other two seas put together. Now, me and Mikos, we were swimming together to make shore. Stroke for stroke we went for two days. We were starting to slow as hunger and exhaustion worked their evil magic on us, when this huge dark shape appeared under us. Mikos saw it first and screamed when he realised it was a julle shark. He veered away from me — probably to distract the monster — but I still had a knife in my teeth.’ He paused at Maida’s sceptical raised eyebrows. ‘I swiped it from a guard when they threw me overboard,’ he explained.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So I grabbed my knife and dived down into the water…’

  ‘And drove the knife into the monster’s eye,’ interrupted Keshik. ‘It came at me, but I kept on its blind side. No matter how fast it tried to turn, I kept ahead of it by forcing my hand into its empty eye socket and holding on. The more it swam at me, the harder it thrashed, the further my hand was driven into its skull.’ Keshik spoke evenly, gazing at the horizon. ‘Finally when my breath was nearly gone and the lights were exploding behind my own eyes, my hand broke through the bone and thrust into the beast’s brain, killing it instantly.’

  Iskopra had stopped talking and was staring open-mouthed at Keshik as he talked.

  ‘Thus locked together, the dead monster and I floated back to the surface. Its flesh provided me with enough to eat while I drifted to shore.’ Keshik ceased his tale and fixed Iskopra with a withering stare. ‘Was that how it went?’

  Iskopra blinked for a moment before regaining his composure. ‘Mikos?’ he said. ‘Mikos, is that you? I swear, I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Keshik snapped. ‘That is one of the old legends of Tulugma himself, as recounted in the Legends of the Wanderings, Third Saga, Fourth Lesson. Its stricture is “The Beast’s foremost strength can be its true failing".’

  ‘Ah,’ Iskopra said. ‘I forgot you were a Tulugma Swordmaster.’ His smile slowly reappeared. ‘Great story, though.’

  ‘Great story,’ Keshik repeated, disbelievingly. ‘One of the legends of the Master, and he says it’s a great story.’

  ‘Well it is. And I tell it better.’

  Keshik grunted and looked back out at the water, muttering to himself.

  ‘Maida,’ Iskopra said, not taking his eyes off the Swordmaster. ‘Am I supposed to pay attention to all that mumbling?’

  Maida smiled and shook her head. ‘No, he does that when Tulugma is questioned.’

  ‘So I don’t have to be afraid of him now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Iskopra took a swig from a waterskin and leaned forwards. ‘Now, when I landed on the shore, that’s when things got really interesting …’

  Keshik listened to the continuing saga and allowed himself a small smile. The man’s lies made Maida laugh, and in the two days since they had left Vogel, she had laughed more than she had since Sondelle had brought her back. Also, the nightmares did not seem to be bothering her. He rested easier knowing she was happy, if only due to this braggart’s ridiculous lies.

  The ways of sailing were simple and they had settled quickly into a routine. Maida sat in the stern with her hand on the tiller, while Keshik operated the single sail under Iskopra’s instructions. Iskopra himself did the navigation, using the tools of his craft and numerous measurements of the position of the sun, the twin moons and the stars at night. Keshik tried to follow what the sailor did, but it all seemed impossibly complicated.

  The largest and most complicated instrument was a collection of mirrors and a small telescope. It was mounted on a swivelling platform on the bow post and at sunrise, midday and sunset, Iskopra took a reading. He first brought the Sotiria around until they were headed due south, then he pointed the telescope at the sun and manipulated one of the mirrors until it shone a reflection onto a brass surface etched with a graduated scale.

  Using this reading, he shifted another mirror around until the reflection fell onto a different scale. He recorded this new reading then called for Maida to alter course until the reflection of the sun fell onto a black disc mounted at the centre of the instrument. None of it made any sense, but from the quick, precise movements Iskopra made, it was clear it was something he had done hundreds of times.

  Keshik had navigated himself by the stars and the moons for many nights and knew enough to realise they were heading north and west. After three days, when the wind was light and the water calm, he asked Iskopra about their heading.

  ‘We’re making for C’sobra,’ Iskopra replied.

  ‘Why?’

  Iskopra shrugged. ‘It’s not Lac’u.’ He tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. ‘Was there somewhere you wanted to go?’

  It was Keshik’s turn to shrug. ‘Not really. Away from Lac’u is good enough for now.’

  Iskopra grinned. ‘Thought so.’ He stripped off his shirt and boots and dived into the water to relieve himself.

  ‘Keshik,’ Maida said.

  Keshik looked away from the strongly swimming Iskopra and clambered towards Maida.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked when he was sitting next to her.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Some Seagull, an opportunist like us.’

  ‘But how can he live? I mean this boat is too small to be his livelihood. You couldn’t transport anything in it, certainly not enough to be viable. It could not outrun a navy ship if it was a smuggler. It’s not a fishing boat — there’s no gear — and he could easily run it on his own. So what does he do?’

  Keshik stroked his long moustaches, lost in thought. ‘And few Seagulls would know both the Legends and the sayings of Deveraar.’

  ‘Deveraar?’

  ‘What he said when we first met him: “only evil happens fast”. It’s an old saying of the Lac’un philosopher.’

  ‘So he’s educated.’

  ‘And he’s a better navigator than just a coastal Seagull, I am sure of that. To venture this far out from shore in such a small boat smells of the kind of confidence that only experience brings.’

  ‘Why was he still in Vogel? And why did he pick us up?’

  ‘And where is he taking us?’ Keshik added.

  ‘Wherever it is, there’s nothing
we can do,’ Maida said. ‘I don’t think either of us could sail this boat.’

  ‘No. And he knows that.’

  ‘So we are at his mercy?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  His suspicions aroused, Keshik found himself watching Iskopra’s every action, constantly wondering if the man would betray his true purpose. But as the days drifted by in an apparently endless period of perfect winds and calm seas, Iskopra remained a cheerful, apparently honest, sailor.

  His ability to catch enough fish and floating weed for their food, his clever device for purifying the salty water and his skill in avoiding squalls all suggested a competent man who was happy to live his life uncluttered by the things of the land. His only possessions were in the Sotiria, his only apparent motive to sail the waters until the end of his days. But Keshik was unconvinced. How could anyone live so simply? And why had he stayed so long in Vogel after everyone else with a boat had fled?

  ‘How long until we see land again?’ Keshik asked.

  Iskopra shrugged. ‘Depends on the winds and the Eastern Drift.’

  ‘The what?’

  Iskopra took his eyes off the horizon to face Keshik with a smile. ‘You have never been in a boat before, have you.’ It was a question, but he said it like a statement of fact.

  Keshik shook his head.

  ‘The Eastern Drift is the current that runs across the northern reaches of the Silvered Sea. It varies, and sometimes it will rip a little boat like mine along faster than the wind. If we get caught in it at a time like that …’ He scratched at his chin. ‘Well, we could end up in Gielde before you know it.’

  ‘And is it running?’

  Iskopra shrugged again, an expressive gesture that was an answer in itself. Not only did it express his ignorance, it declared his complete lack of interest in either the current or their eventual landfall.

  ‘What do you do?’ Maida asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you aren’t a fisherman; there’s no gear. You aren’t a smuggler or a freighter; the boat’s too small, and no one who was not as desperate as us would be a passenger. So how do you live?’

  ‘I live very well,’ Iskopra said. ‘And I do fish — look.’ He held up the simple hook and line he used to catch their daily food.

  ‘You know what she means,’ Keshik said.

  ‘I do, but does she?’

  Keshik was about to reply when a squall hit the boat, sending it heeling over sharply.

  ‘See what happens when you stop paying attention?’ Iskopra chided. ‘Grab that,’ he directed Keshik. ‘Maida, bring her around.’

  The three of them scrambled to bring the boat back under control. By the time they were done, the moment was past and Keshik had forgotten what he was going to say. Despite his misgivings, he had to acknowledge that the sailor was skilled and so far had given no indication of anything untoward. And, he also had to admit, the life Iskopra claimed to live was not that different to his own. The Seagull seemed to wander the waves, content to be taken where they would go, taking freely from the water’s bounty, giving back only his devotion to her fickle ways.

  At least to Keshik’s eye, the water’s ways appeared fickle — Iskopra’s confidence suggested otherwise.

  Keshik looked up. Only Grada was in the sky, her light dimmed by the sun’s brilliance, but he could still make out the vague markings on her face. Some claimed to see meaningful shapes amid the tumble of dark and light, but he had never been one of them. For him, Grada was a trusted companion through long dark nights. Her big sister, Yatil, with her brighter gleam and clearer face, had never held as much fascination amid the mystics and scholars. No, it was always Grada to whom the lost and lonely addressed their yearnings, and it was always Grada who gave poets their inspiration. Her meandering trail across the skies, always in thrall to Yatil, had been the basis for centuries of verse and romantic yearnings. More maidens had given up their virginity through Grada’s entrancing visage than through any fervent entreaties. Keshik shook his head while smiling. More than one maiden had yielded to his beseechings under Grada’s spell.

  ‘What is so funny?’ Maida asked.

  Keshik gestured up to Grada. ‘I was just remembering times under her light.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Maida. ‘I can guess what sort of times they were.’

  ‘And you, pretty lady?’ Iskopra asked. ‘Have you ever fallen beneath the spell of the Wanderer?’

  Maida’s eyes glazed as she looked away. ‘Indeed I have,’ she whispered.

  ‘You sly dog,’ Iskopra said with a short laugh and a slap on Keshik’s back. ‘I knew you were a poet under that vicious, cold-blooded killer’s shell.’

  Keshik glared at the Seagull who simply laughed all the more.

  ‘I know you now, Tulugma Swordmaster.’ Iskopra wagged an admonishing finger at Keshik. ‘You can’t intimidate me any more with that look.’ He glanced up at the sail and made minute adjustments. ‘Not now that I know …’

  Keshik growled in disgust and followed Maida’s lead in staring at the horizon. The man was irritating and presumptuous, and could not have been further from the truth. Maida was not remembering her time with Keshik but with her long-dead husband. He did not need to turn his head to watch the tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks to know they were there. No matter how he loved her, no matter how many times he saved her, protected her honour, no matter how many men he killed in her defence, still she mourned the death of her family as though it were yesterday rather than the decade it had been.

  He ignored Iskopra as the sailor gaily chatted on about whatever crossed his mind.

  The horizon was distant and flat, unsullied by weather or swell. The blue sky, shifting to white as it dropped to meet the water, was vast — a huge dome stretching away further than imaginings would go.

  I could learn to like the sea, Keshik realised.

  A movement, high in the unsullied sky, caught his eye. He searched. There. There it was again. Almost directly above them, something, little more than a speck, was moving.

  ‘A bird,’ said Maida.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That, up there, where you are looking. It’s a bird,’ she explained.

  ‘No,’ said Iskopra. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘How can you tell from this distance?’

  Iskopra pointed. ‘It’s not flying right,’ he explained.

  ‘You have good eyes,’ Maida said.

  ‘Aye, I do. It helps out here.’ He squinted at the speck in the sky. ‘It’s not a bird, and it’s coming towards us.’

  Keshik stared at the dark mote in the sky and had to agree. Whatever it was, it was getting bigger. His eyes widened.

  ‘It’s falling,’ he said.

  ‘And falling fast,’ Iskopra added. ‘Time to move.’ He started to make adjustments to the sail, urging the little boat on. Their wake widened, showing more white as the Sotiria responded to Iskopra’s changes.

  Maida kept staring up. ‘That’s not right,’ she said. ‘It’s following us!’

  Iskopra stole a quick look up before grunting and returning his attention to the sail. Keshik watched as the thing plummeted towards them. A low whistling sound that was rapidly building into a roar reached them.

  ‘Look out!’ Iskopra cried. The object screamed through the air and slammed into the water with a deafening explosion not twenty paces to the right. In the instant before it landed, Keshik thought it looked like a huge rock.

  Spray shot into the air. A wave taller than the mast swept over them, sending the Sotiria rolling completely out of control. Everything was tossed into the sea. Keshik grabbed Maida’s arm as she was thrown overboard. What, heartbeats earlier, had been the placid, cool waters of the Silvered Sea were now a hot, plunging maelstrom of hissing steam and angry waves. The Sotiria was driven further beneath the cauldron, taking Keshik and Maida with it.

  A hand gripped Keshik’s foot, arresting his downwards plunge.

  He looked up an
d saw Iskopra swimming strongly back up to the surface, dragging him along. Keshik tightened his own grip on Maida and added his strength to Iskopra’s and together they surged upwards.

  They emerged into a changed world.

  Overhead, the sky was no longer blue, but yellow. The water, where it should still be churning and wild, was perfectly calm, its surface unmarked by even the slightest movement. Overhead, Grada shone with a weak, sickly glow that seemed to emanate from deep within. Across her face stretched two black lines, straight and clean like sword wounds. Keshik stared as he held the barely conscious Maida tight to him. Iskopra’s head bobbed to the surface nearby.

  A burst of brilliant blue-white light illuminated the scene, like the flash of lightning across a darkened sky. In the brief glare, Keshik saw the upturned hull of the Sotiria close by. Still holding Maida, he started to swim towards it. Iskopra swam strongly beside him, helping to keep Maida afloat.

  When they reached the hull, Iskopra dived under the surface. In moments, he had pushed the Sotiria back up the right way. Her mast was snapped off and all their gear was gone, but she seemed sound. Iskopra clambered in and helped Keshik lift Maida up. When she was aboard, Keshik heaved himself into the boat.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked Iskopra.

  ‘The Light at the End of the World,’ Iskopra whispered. ‘I have only heard tales.’

  ‘What is it?’ Keshik repeated.

  Iskopra shook his head. ‘I only know what I have heard: rumours, drunken boasts in taverns, bragging in the late watches. It’s when all hovers on the edge of disaster, the great forces at work bring chaos to the world. The Light at the End of the World is said to be the first harbinger.’

  ‘Harbinger of what?’