by J. W. Webb
“What about the girl?” Shallan had been desperate to ask about the wild-looking Zukei, but until now hadn’t had the chance.
“Hmm. I don’t know about her. A strange case. She’ll probably prove trouble, just another reason to be grateful to my nephew. Stay clear of her, milady.”
“I intend to.” Shallan didn’t. Rather, at first opportunity she wanted to speak with the black girl and learn all she could from her. They might be worlds apart but having another woman on board lifted Shallan’s spirits. And what a fascinating woman too. Zukei kept to herself. But oddly she and Fassof the mate seemed to get on. The girl had worked close with Fassof of late and Shallan and noted how rarely he scolded her. Unusual, that.
Barin scratched his nose. It had become quite red and bulbous of late. Another legacy of the humid atmosphere of Golt, he insisted, and nothing at all to do with the copious draughts of ale he’d quaffed since their unhappy arrival at this place.
He wiped his chin and burped. “And now my lads are faced with a voyage across the ocean in winter.”
“What chance our passage?
“We’ll be fine as long as our provisions hold out and Cogga’s repairs don’t leak. And we’ll have to be sparing with the food of course now it’s a longer trip.”
“And the beer,” Shallan smiled.
“That too.” Barin looked glum. “But not tonight—I need something to keep me sane in this bloody swelter.”
Shallan watched Barin drain his tankard and immediately pour himself another. The captain was drinking way too much, she thought, even by his own capacious standards. Indeed they all seemed in poor shape, these tough islanders; as if the gloom shrouding the nearby coast had settled on board ship. The new recruits were more cheerful, except fisherman Haikon and the black-skinned Wogun who kept praying to Telcanna the Sky God.
Shallan, (often watching the crew of late), had noticed how Wogun shunned the girl, Zukei. Sailors were a superstitious bunch at best, and many didn’t like having women aboard. But this was something else. Wogun—as tough a brute as could be imagined—appeared terrified of Zukei. Another story for another time.
Most the crew were dour and curt, Fassof spent every waking hour swearing at them whilst Barin looked glum, and her father frailer by the minute.
But Shallan would not be downhearted. She thought of Corin and wondered how he fared beneath that hostile desert sun. Silon’s words haunted her from time to time but she didn’t dwell on them. What would be would be. Corin had pledged to return to her and she would hold him to that. Until then she could wait.
Shallan politely excused herself from the brooding Barin. She checked in on her father who was sleeping soundly, and climbed on deck to get what little air there was.
Shallan wandered over to the prow, still her favourite place on the ship. She passed some of the crew who were playing dice, one or two nodded at her. She noticed how their faces looked uneasy—strained. There was none of the usual banter that accompanied dice.
Shallan leaned on the bow rail and let her gaze take her where it would. She watched the white moon rise like a ghostly face above the fog-shrouded trees. She shivered, feeling a slight breeze ruffle her shift. Shallan could hear the weird noises ashore but they did not sound evil to her, only strange. It was as though they had encountered another world here in Golt, and Shallan felt oddly drawn towards it. The crew retired and left her to it. Fassof sent a man aloft to keep an eye out, and then bid her goodnight as well.
Shallan watched the mate descend below deck. She was about to follow, for the hour was late. Instead she hesitated; something compelled her gaze to sweep towards the shore. Shallan’s eyes widened at what she saw there. Pale figures waited at the water’s edge. As the mist withdrew and moonlight settled on their forms she saw them clearly.
Shallan’s heart raced. There on the shadowy shore stood three of the strangest figures she had ever seen. They were women; though their hair gleamed silver and their naked skin glistened with a pale blue light. Behind them were other figures harder to define, these watched from the mist-draped edge of the trees. She saw pale eyes in that mist and great horns that curled above its smoky veil.
And from somewhere close the lonely sound of a solitary harp drifted out reaching her across the water. It was melancholy and strange. The music filled her soul, reminding her of Zallerak playing in the gardens of Vioyamis. But this was different. More alien and remote and infinitely more melancholy. She felt sorrow accompanying every note.
The maidens were singing, their voices soft in the moonlight. Shallan could hear them calling her, beseeching her to come ashore.
“Shallan, Shallan! Come to us, sister,” the women called. “Come home to your people, return to the Faen!”
“What do you mean?” Shallan heard her voice float across the bay. She hadn’t realised that she had spoken.
“Search your soul, sister, on your father’s side,” the nearest of them answered. “Faerie blood runs deep in you!”
“I am from Morwella; I know nothing of the Faen!” Shallan called to them in an urgent whisper that seemed to carry far over the waves.
“Come to us sister, return to your kin!” The speaker had entered the water. The dark waves caressed her blue nakedness, and her hair trailed like silver thread down around her waist before vanishing in the brine below.
Shallan watched her wade through the waves, her pale, thin arms reaching out to Shallan as she called in that timeless lilting voice. The maiden was a vision of eldritch loveliness; her skin flawless, glistening like polished steel beneath the dreaming moon. She approached, oblivious of the lapping water.
Then the spell broke.
The lookout called out from somewhere aloft.
“Are you alright, my lady?” His shout sounded crow-raw after the beauty of the women’s voices and the enchanting chords of the harpist. “I thought I heard voices!”
“Can you not see them waiting by the shore?” Shallan called up to him.
“I see nothing, lady.”
“They are there!” She pointed to the maiden that had entered the water. She gasped. Both the wading maiden and her sisters had gone, as had the murky mysterious figures behind them. The beach was empty. The only sound the waves restlessly lapping the shore.
“There were beings, strangers calling out to me,” she said, trying to convince herself as well as the lookout that she hadn’t imagined their presence.
“It is a strange place, my lady, I suggest you go below,” he answered, nonplussed.
Shallan nodded and waved thank you. She made to move but froze in dread when a grip like iron locked on her arm. Zukei the wild girl was glaring at her.
“You are faerie.” It wasn’t a question.
Shallan felt flustered and annoyed. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re hurting my arm!” Shallan glared back at the black girl and Zukei released her grip. “Did you see them?” Shallan asked the girl after an awkward moment’s silence.
“That lookout saw them as well, though he’s too shit scared to admit it.” Zukei’s accent was strange and her voice deeper than Shallan had expected. Shallan gazed up through the gloom at the dismal shape of the lookout. He sat huddled in silence. Either he hadn’t heard them or he was choosing not to listen. “Your father must have told them you are here,” Zukei said.
“My father is below and in poor health. You, girl, are talking nonsense.”
Zukei smiled. Shallan was shocked to see that the girl had a front tooth missing. “I wasn’t referring to that sick old man below. I was speaking of the Horned One.”
“You know about The Horned Man?” Shallan was incredulous.
“I know many things.” Zukei flashed Shallan another fierce grin before deftly slipping past her and vanishing in the gloom. Shallan leant on the rail and tried to quell her racing heart. What was going on here? She took one last questing troubled look at the shore and then hastened below deck. Shallan’s sleep was troubled that night. Naked blue-skinned maiden
s called out to her while her father’s coughs shook the cabin next door. And there were shadows in her cabin. Dancing, whirling and whispering shadows. Horned shadows.
Morning found Shallan as relieved as the rest of them when Barin hauled up the anchor and ordered the crew to set sail. By noon the coast of Golt lay far behind.
Chapter 21
The Silver Strand
Silon rode like the wind. Beneath his stolen horse’s hooves the pale sand of the Silver Strand rushed by and behind him the sun broke free of stormclouds, blazing like a fiery ball. Wind whistled through the palms as he spurred the horse on, his head bent low behind the beast’s neck.
To his right, Silon saw more black clouds bunching out to sea. Their ominous anvil heads lighting up in cobalt wrath as Telcanna hurled jagged lightning spears at the churning waters below. Silon hoped that The Starlight Wanderer was not paying the price for his blasphemy in the temple. Telcanna was a spiteful god, capricious in his moods and over-proud. Silon’s yellow robes clung to him like an accusation as he willed his beast ever faster.
The Silver Strand spread out before him, serene and pure. It comprised of mile upon mile of white shells crushed by ocean over millennia and ground into a fine powder, giving the windswept shore its unique argent sparkle.
The beach was over a mile across from the heaving surf to the swaying palms ridging the southern horizon, hemming the desert beyond. The Strand ran for forty leagues from east to west and was compact underfoot, making it ideal for horses. In former times the princes of Permio had raced their stallions across its silver path, risking all in their breakneck speed. Even today the Strand served as the main trade route between the eastern cities and the sultan’s palace in distant Sedinadola.
On Silon rode! Beneath him the horse’s breath was ragged, the poor beast couldn’t go on much further without rest.
High above dark cloud occluded the sun again and heavy drops of rain made chinking sounds as they pattered on the sand below. Then lightning lit the sky, and after the following thunder Silon heard the sound he’d been dreading. Hoofbeats.
Silon reined in. He looked back, saw the silhouettes of cloaked riders hurrying west in his direction. Doubtless the raiding party. They would spot him in moments. Silon cursed his ill fortune.
He spurred the beast into motion again, pressing his left knee into its flank so that the gelding veered sharply across towards the ragged palms. As he rode Silon’s eyes were intent on the horsemen now closing on his left.
The crimson cloaks removed all doubt. There were at least forty of them, each armed with long spears and curved swords, and many had curved bows slung across their backs. A sharp shout announced they had seen him. Silon clung low in the saddle, his heels dug in as the tiring horse struggled on toward the wind-lacerated palms ahead.
“Come on, boy, we’re nearly there!” Silon urged his mount faster. “You’re doing well but don’t falter now.”
It was no good. Silon saw that other soldiers lined the ridge ahead and appeared to be waiting for him, their dark faces grinning beneath the trees and their hands locked around the hilts of broad tulwars.
Silon wheeled the horse about. An arrow thudded into the sand at his feet. Silon was trapped. He knew he had no chance of escaping now. He reined in and waited for the riders to approach. Within moments the sultan’s elite had circled him with a thorn of spears.
Silon was trapped but he wasn’t giving up. There was too much at stake. He waited coolly until the leader had pushed through his spearmen, emerging at last with face arrogant and accusing. Silon gave him look for look.
The officer’s face darkened; he pricked Silon’s stolen yellow robe knowingly with his gleaming scimitar.
“Strange is this,” the officer said, “to find a dishevelled priest of Telcanna in such a hurry to vacate Syrannos. Most priests I know hate leaving the comforts of the city.”
“Well, you must only know the lazy ones, officer.”
The man’s bearded face was hard and clearly he was no fool. He pushed Silon back with the tip of his blade, forcing the merchant from his saddle until he slid from the horse’s back to lie prone on the sand.
“I think you’re a spy!” The rider stamped his steed’s left forehoof inches from Silon’s face.
“Telcanna curse you for a fool, and a blasphemous one at that!” Silon’s dark eyes blazed fury up at the officer. “How dare you assault me?” Close by, pale lightning smote the palms tearing one asunder in a piercing crack. The thunder answered booming like cosmic drums across the Strand. “See how you have angered the Lord of the Skies!”
Some of the troop looked alarmed but their leader merely smiled.
“If the Sky God is angry it’s because one of his priests was struck down in the temple of Syrannos and his sacred robe stolen. I’ve just received word by carrier bird. You, spy, are no priest.”
This officer’s dark eyes were dangerously perceptive as he peered down disdainfully at the prone merchant. He leaned down, stretching in the saddle, and reaching low with his blade prodded Silon’s diamond earring. “A most unusual trinket for a holy man,” he said to his men and they laughed out loud.
“Let me be, fools!” Silon was playing for time, watching as the other men joined the riders from their stations at the trees. Silon counted their numbers as he pretended to cover his face.
There were twenty. He assumed that they had been searching for Barakani’s camp when the riders had spotted him. Silon knew the camp lay close by.
If he could stall them for a time his ally might yet escape and they would at least save something from this disastrous day. Silon counted to three. Now for a few tricks.
“Telcanna blast you all!” he yelled in sudden furious rage that caught his would-be captors off guard. Silon lashed out with dazzling speed with his forearm, cuffing the scimitar away, and then rolled to his feet. Leaping up, Silon gripped the leader’s saddle. He launched himself forward and up, snapping his open palm into the stunned officer’s face, killing him instantly. The leader pitched from the saddle.
Silon caught the reins, straddled the saddle, and launched the beast into motion. His knife was out—he had no room for his scimitar. Still partially stunned, the spearmen closed in again.
Silon blocked a spear thrust with his left hand, and thrust his knife into the eye of another rider with his right. He reached down to grasp his sword hilt when something struck his head and pain exploded in his skull.
Silon slumped to the ground with a thud. A rider loomed over him, hatred consuming the dark face. The man stabbed down with his lance. Silon rolled to one side. The spearman raised his weapon again, and then lurched violently forward with a strangled cry.
And then Silon saw the long arrow sticking in his back.
Barakani—thank the gods!
Suddenly arrows were everywhere. Riders were screaming in agony as they tumbled from their mounts, some were crushed to death in the sudden panicked chaos.
Silon struggled to his feet, grateful that his ochre robes clearly marked him apart from the soldiers. The sultan’s men were in complete disarray. The arrows seemed to be coming from all directions, stinging like vengeful hornets as they struck horse and rider, shrieking like death hail from the storm-wracked sky above.
Silon, forgotten, yanked the robe above his knees and fled full pelt for the shelter of the palm trees. He did not get far. A strong grip seized him from behind and he felt himself hoisted up onto a vacant saddle. A dark face grinned perfect teeth at him as he steadied the spare horse’s reins he was holding.
“Father sends his regards and apologises for missing you at the temple, but the situation was becoming tricky in Syrannos.”
Silon felt a flood of relief recognising Rassan, one of Barakani’s seven sons.
“I was coming to warn you,” shouted Silon as they cantered toward a knot of stunted wind-wracked cedar trees. Rassan seemed in no rush despite the danger. Above them the thunder rolled on, the lowering clouds trawling their w
ay across the angry sky.
Other riders joined them; all clad in the faded robes of desert nomads. To a man they were armed with scimitar knife and bow. Silon glanced behind, the sultan’s finest were regrouping and more were hurrying along the Strand from the east.
“We had best not stick around!” laughed Rassan, his tanned handsome face alive with excitement. “We’ll lead them through these trees towards the rocks that conceal our camp. Once there we can pick them off easily with our arrows!”
“What of your father? I feared I would be too late!” Silon ducked his head as they wove through the pines; behind them the crimson guard were closing, though Rassan seemed unconcerned.
“Father got word the sultan was on the move,” he yelled, “so he ordered the camp be struck and reassembled in the desert by the turquoise oasis. That’s some twenty leagues southeast of here.”
Rassan reached over Silon’s shoulder with his horn bow and calmly put an arrow in the eye of a pursuer. He hooted as the rider pitched from his horse and lay still.
“We’ll join him once we have lost these dogs in the hills,” he grinned. “Make for yonder heights!” Rassan slapped Silon’s horse on the rump and reined his own back to cover their retreat.
The two riders fled with the enemy in hot pursuit. The storm was passing swiftly leaving smoky dragons in its tails. Moments later the sun returned to scorch the sand dry. Rassan motioned Silon follow him into a rocky maze of hillocks strewn above the palms and pines like broken marbles, as if discarded by some giant’s petulant child. Beyond these rocks reared a steep rise. Mounts sweating beneath them, they crested that rocky crown, descending into a broad ledge awarding adequate cover.
Once out of bowshot they reined in, dismounted and took cover behind the sandstone. Other horsemen were emerging from everywhere. Silon borrowed a bow from a rider who kept a spare. He struggled to string it with his sweating hands, but at last got arrow on nock.