by J. W. Webb
And so he had stumbled the length of that dark tunnel at last emerging into the wide blue of a cold autumn day. That sudden bright glare had momentarily blinded him, causing Tarin to blink and stagger like a drunkard. After getting his vision back, Tarin had drunk long from a stream, its clear clean water reviving him. He’d stripped and washed until at last he felt almost a shadow of his former self.
He survived on meagre berries and such until he found the village. Once there Tarin raided a smokehouse, stowing strips of dried kipper in the pockets of his trousers. These he consumed while waiting for darkness beneath a hut until he could hear its occupants above snoring blissfully.
At that point, Tarin stole out and commenced scanning the beach. He soon spotted a craft suitable for his needs. Next came the tricky part. Tarin was still weak and he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Somehow he got the tub in the water and began thrashing about with an oar. It was challenge enough, even without the cold, wet and dark. He capsized twice and almost drowned, but at last cleared the heavy surge of breaker and paddled out into the deep.
Next challenge had been the short mast and sail. The mast he’d raised without much ado. But the sail was another matter. A triangular soaked pile of cloth with ropes attached. What went where?
As dawn greyed the skies, Tarin hauled the cloth up and got some basic notion of how the ropes worked. Then Tarin produced the lodestone and gaped at it for a moment. Another problem he had to solve. But eventually he fathomed that the needle inside the circle must point north, and so as long as he kept the left side of his boat facing in that direction he would eventually arrive at the shore of Kelthaine. He hoped. It was very tenuous, this sailing business.
During that crossing Tarin had surprised himself at how quickly he mastered every challenge. He soon discovered how to read the sail, adjust the ropes and alter course when the need occurred. He became deft at the tiller and studied his lodestone on the hour.
At last Tarin spied cliffs, distant and dark. Kelthaine, or else Fol—but land for sure.
By some miracle (or perhaps Zallerak’s design) the prince grounded his craft just ten miles north of Fardoris harbour.
Now for the next challenge…
“Return to Fardoris and get the shards,” Zallerak had told him back in the dungeon. “Make sure you gather them all. Once that’s done make haste south to Kelwyn. Don’t tarry there—keep journeying south.”
“Where to?”
And Zallerak had told him and that had been another bad moment.
Chapter 3
Hints and Innuendos
“I’m not going back there.” Corin an Fol had had enough. It had been a crap day. And now Queen Ariane was informing them calmly of her plan to sail happily past her own country and fare further south. To Port Sarfe to be precise and then on to Vioyamis, his former employer’s sumptuous estate.
Of all places. Vioyamis, home of Silon the bloody merchant and his meddlesome daughter. Corin had vowed never to go back there.
“What’s your problem?” Ariane wore that lofty queenly look. Disapproving and vexed. Only two hours ago they had been so close.
“Nothing really.” Corin knew he was defeated. No one else seemed to give a toss, and then Barin made matters worse by suggesting that staying clear from Kelwyn was sensible.
“It will foil His Nibs,” the blond giant insisted later that day. “My guess is that Rael will split up and order they search the harbours between Port Wind and Calprissa.” Barin closed one nostril with his thumb and blew vigorously through the other. He stood with Corin and Bleyne at the prow of The Starlight Wanderer. The meeting was over. They had their orders. The new glinty-eyed Ariane had vanished imperious inside her cabin. Corin had watched her shut the door behind her whilst he wondered which god he’d pissed off today.
And I thought you loved me.
It was the evening of the second day since fleeing Crenna. Close by were Galed and Cale, now fast friends—although that didn’t stop them quarrelling over their dice game. There was no sign of Zallerak.
Barin was his usual cheerful self. They’d had fair weather since the Sea God’s fog had lifted, and the air was warm for the time of year. It helped raise their spirits while they mourned the loss of Roman Parantios, the Queen’s late champion whose self-sacrifice had enabled their escape.
“Will we be able to stay ahead of them?” Corin asked, determined to get to grips with one matter at least.
The Northman rubbed his blond beard and squinted at the sails. “I hope so. I suspect they’ll search the coast as far as Raleen. That should give us a few days’ grace hopefully—thanks to Zallerak.”
Corin scanned the deck but saw no sight of the enigmatic bard/warlock/pain in the arse. Zallerak had kept a low profile lately. Corin asked Barin their best course of action.
“That Assassin’s pride has been dented,” responded his friend. “He’ll not rest until we are in his hands. We’ll need somewhere to hole up for a time and discuss our next move in safety. Silon’s villa is perfect.”
“If you say so.” Corin stretched his back and yawned.
“What is it with you and Silon?”
“What has he said about me?” Corin glared at Barin suspiciously.
“Nothing. He just always looked in pain whenever I mentioned your name.”
Corin barked a laugh. “Can’t think why. You know I was shaft-”
A yell from above brought their conversation to an abrupt end.
“Arseholes in sight!”
“Where away, old chap?” demanded Barin, shielding his eyes.
“Far to the northeast!” responded Cogga, hidden by a flourish of sail. “Six of the fuckers!”
“Cheer up, Cogga, at least it’s not the whole bloody fleet.” Barin handed the wheel to Corin. “Hold steady on this course,” the Northman told him.
Corin watched Barin stride across the deck, grab the rigging, and heave himself up the mast with an agility that defied his bulk. In minutes the ship’s master had disappeared in the mass of taut sailcloth above. A few minutes later he returned, his expression resigned.
“There are six, Cogga’s right. And they’re led by The Black frigging Serpent herself.” Corin shielded his eyes and followed Barin’s directions.
“Do you see them?”
“No.”
“Over there! Follow my hand!”
“You keep waving it about…oh, I see now.” Corin could just make out six triangular shapes lifting above the waves.
“Sure it’s them?”
“Who else?”
“Shit.” Corin scratched his scar and pictured Rael Hakkenon’s face with Biter imbedded in it.
I’m still here, Assassin.
“We’ll change tack,” responded Barin, “head out to sea for a while. I doubt they’ll follow too close; the swells are bigger out there. Their small crappy ships could flounder.” Barin grinned, impressed by his own wisdom. “We’ll hold a western course while the light holds out. Then we’ll turn south east and make for the coast of Raleen.”
“Simple as that,” Corin couldn’t help saying.
Barin yelled at Fassof to change course. Swiftly, and for once without backchat, the mate passed the orders on. Within minutes the trader had swung to face the setting sun.
“Can you work the wheel for a while?” Barin asked Corin. “I need to go below, void my bowels and consult my charts.”
“Oh sure.”
Somewhere above his head, Fassof was swearing at Cogga and Cogga was swearing back. Bleyne was nowhere to be seen, and Cale and Galed had retired below after hearing about the ships. The decks were empty. Most of Barin’s lads were either dozing or dicing, saving a couple up above with the mate and Cogga.
Corin was content alone with his thoughts. The salt breeze whipped his shaggy locks. He grinned, relishing its cold embrace and enjoying the responsibility Barin had awarded him. It felt good to be doing something useful. Lethargy pulled him inwards. Made him think about her.
>
An hour passed. Fassof told a couple of lads to keep watch and retired below with the rest, Cogga included. Corin watched the lodestone as he worked the wheel westward. He thought of his father long ago on those fishing trips. Had he felt like this? But he wasn’t Corin’s true father. Corin didn’t know who his father was. He heard footsteps behind him and turning saw Ariane standing there.
It was almost dark and he could see little of her face. The young queen had the green priest’s cloak draped over her shoulders with its hood pulled low, shrouding her features. For a time she stood beside him. Neither spoke. Corin shuffled awkwardly and feigned concentration. His leg brushed her thigh and quivered. He felt his face flush as something stirred below. Too late for that, she’s promised to another.
“I need to speak to Silon,” Ariane announced as though that explained everything. Corin grunted, feeling acutely aware of those dark eyes burning into him. He fiddled with the wheel and stared hard at the horizon.
“Look at me, damn you.”
Corin turned. “Why? When all that brings me is pain.”
Ariane sighed. She took a seat on a bench close by and tossed the hood. Corin noticed how the night wind ruffled her hair.
“This simply won’t do.”
“What?”
“All this moping and whining. I need you strong, Corin an Fol.”
“I’d die for you—how can you say that? Like this is some business agreement.”
“Well, it was to begin with.”
“That was then.”
Ariane’s gaze softened. “Yes, and this is now.”
Corin couldn’t stand this any longer. “Bollocks is what it is. I love you and you love me. Bugger the Sea God!”
“That’s not an over bright statement, considering where we are,” she almost smiled.
“Well I’m not overly bright, as you know. But I do know what I want and it’s you.”
“We’ve had that discussion.”
“Yes I know—we both have separate tasks. All part of some bigger fucking plan. All…total bollocks.” Corin sighed like a venting kettle.
Ariane flashed him a grin. “You’ve such a way with words.”
It was his time to grin. “And you’re a fine one to talk, Queeny.”
Ariane stood and rested a pale hand on his arm. “Hold me.”
Corin tensed. “Is this wise?”
“Probably not, but at this moment I really don’t care.”
Corin reached for her but a noise behind stopped him.
“Don’t mind me.” Zallerak wore an amused, slightly smug, expression.
It had to be you.
Corin thrust Ariane away as though she were a serpent and glared hard at the bard. The queen said nothing but her eyes were lit coals. She swept Zallerak a frosty gaze, and ignoring Corin, left them to it.
“Ariane I –” Too late. She’d vanished below.
“Thank you.” Corin awarded the bard a bleak stare and then cursed, noticing he’d strayed some way off course.
Corin savaged the wheel until he was back on course, ignoring Zallerak. Corin could feel that uncanny gaze upon him. Enough. He rounded on the bard.
“What do you want?”
Zallerak raised an eyebrow. “Why should I want anything?” He was dressed in his finery again, the magnificent sky-blue cloak lifting slightly in the night breeze.
Corin was suddenly very angry.
“Just piss off.” He bit the words out as though they were hot chunks of bile. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ariane below in her cabin. What was the matter with him? Corin wanted to go below, bang on her door, apologise. He hadn’t meant to shove her away like that. Again—too late. Corin checked his anger. It was a useless emotion when dealing with Zallerak.
“You must want something,” he added in a quieter tone. “Why go to all this trouble helping us and that fool prince?”
“I want many things, actually,” responded Zallerak, unperturbed by Corin’s hostile manner. “Few of them concern you.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” Corin gripped the wheel with sudden violence as if he meant to break it.
“Relax, you’re too hot-headed, boy.” This time Zallerak’s voice held none of its mocking tones. Instead sounded reflective—honest even.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your… tryst,” he coughed.
“We were just talking.”
“Yes. Well, we need to talk too. I know this business is hard for you, Longswordsman. It’s always hard when the powers intervene with our little lives.” Corin raised a quizzical brow but Zallerak continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “It is bothersome having those Fates and old Oroonin lurking about, not to mention the other lot.”
“And what would you know about all that?”
“Quite a bit. Your path is not what you believe it to be, longfellow. That young queen is not for you, my boy.”
“So everyone tells me—including her.”
“So…listen to them.”
Corin was close to striking the bard, but something in Zallerak’s cold, clear stare stayed his hand.
“I’m sick of your hints and schemes, wizard. Why are you helping us—really?”
For an answer Zallerak stared up at the starry sky above. He sighed as though this conversation was hard for him too.
“Everyone has to take sides,” Zallerak said eventually. “We are all flawed children of the Weaver, the creator of the multiverse. The High Gods, my people, you young folk, all of us make mistakes. And some of us make big ones.”
“So?”
“Every one of us is a tiny strand in the cosmic web, Corin an Fol. Most never know it. They are allowed to stay ignorant and content. But you, my friend, have been chosen for greater things. I know why Oroonin watches over you, boy. I also know that Morak fears you and has reason to do so.”
Corin blinked. “Please enlighten me,” he replied.
“We are all of us connected.” Zallerak was waving his arms about in wild demonstrative gesticulations, but Corin’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Every action demands reaction,” Zallerak said. “The Weaver’s thread is very sensitive. He hears every thought.”
“Alright, don’t enlighten me. But answer this.”
“Go on.”
“That dog-thing… Morak.” Corin spun the wheel again, the ship was drifting to port. “The Huntsman, the Fates. Why pick on me?” he demanded.
“I would have thought that obvious.” Zallerak was staring up at the sky.
“Not to me.”
“Where were you born?”
“You know where I was born. What nonsense is this?”
“And what happened the day you were born?” Corin looked blank and Zallerak summoned patience. “In Finnehalle and along the south Fol coast.”
“There was a storm, they do say. A bad one.”
“Ships were wrecked.” Zallerak winked at him.
“I daresay.”
“One ship in particular.” Corin felt a shiver.
“What of it?”
“Your mother..? Your older brother… your aunt…”
“So what? They all died on a ship, I was washed up and reared as an orphan by the fisherfolk of Gol. And then they all died too. Happy fucking story.”
“Your father isn’t dead, Corin.”
“I’m not listening.”
“You never fucking do. But one fine day, my bonnie lad, you’re going to have to wake up to who you really are. Any more questions?”
“Not for now.” Corin’s head was churning. Zallerak was right, he did shut things out. His childhood was a blur. No one had ever spoken much about that storm—why?
“The High Gods seldom reveal their intentions.” Zallerak’s tone had softened. He knew he had struck a nerve. “Oroonin is cunning. I suspect he has some glorious part for you to play in the ensuing war, but the Huntsman never shows his hand.”
“Not unlike yourself,” Corin couldn’t help replying.
Zallerak turned t
oward him. Corin held those beguiling eyes in his steely gaze for a moment before turning away. Corin wondered what manner of being stood before him.
“Who are you, Zallerak?” Corin’s gaze surveyed the glossy, black waters, shimmering beneath the stars. It was a beautiful night to be on deck. But that beauty was lost on Corin.
“You, Corin an Fol, are a persistent pain in the arse,” Zallerak chuckled. “Wear anyone down, you will.” He adjusted his cloak. “But then so was your ancestor when I met him.”
Corin shut that out too.
“I am many things, Longswordsman. And yes, I too have a role to play in this situation we find ourselves thrust into. I can say no more at present, lest I send unwary words into the ether and alert our foes. They are always listening in.”
Corin scratched an ear and yawned. “You sound like Silon—all glibbery and riddles.”
Zallerak waved a dismissive arm. “If you survive the months ahead you will doubtless learn more. Suffice to say our paths run parallel for a time. Your enemy is my enemy—hence we are allies, if not friends. I would rather be friends. There is too much distrust in this world, and even I get lonely from time to time.”
“You don’t say.” Corin guided the wheel. “But what’s Caswallon’s dog gang done to upset you?”
“You know there’s more involved here, Corin, so don’t act obtuse. My enemy is vastly more powerful than Caswallon, although he is not as he once was—thank the gods.
“Dog Face Morak. Of course, how could I forget?”
“I gave him a hiding back there on the island.” Zallerak was waving his arms again. “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if he’d had Golganak with him. His nasty spear. He’ll rally though; Morak’s not one to give up.”
“I assumed you’d encountered that bastard before.”
“Many times,” Zallerak grinned suddenly. “We are veteran adversaries, the Dog-Lord and me. I could destroy him easily if he wasn’t hiding in limbo. I cannot reach him there and to try to do so would prove my undoing. He is a creature of chaos and so limbo’s void suits his purpose whilst protecting his ghost from any attack. Morak serves Old Night, the lord of chaos, and I serve -”