Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  Rap did not answer. He was shivering and starting to stiffen up, and any minute now Gathmor would be shouting at him to get back to work. Below him the sailors were noisily arguing, cleaning, tidying, repairing, or just sprawled on benches, snoring.

  "Sagorn hoped to find more words in Faerie," Andor said. "Me, I'm a gambler."

  Now Rap did look up to meet that soulful, earnest gaze. "Gambler?"

  Andor smiled triumphantly. "You're a man of destiny, my friend. I don't know what that destiny is, but magic seems to collect around you in a way I've never met before; that none of us have met before. A witch? A sorceress? How about a warlock, maybe? In Faerie?"

  "Go away!" Rap shouted, tearing loose from those hypnotic dark eyes. He stared instead at Andor's silver-buckled shoes; he heard a hateful chuckle.

  "Can't go very far at the moment. But we'll see when we get to Kith. You and I will have a talk then. I'll have to think of some way to get you off this tub, as I did help to get you on. We might encourage our green friend to take up a maritime career permanently, though?"

  "That won't be easy."

  "Perhaps not. But I do think Sagorn was wrong. I think our best bet is to stay close to our friend Rap. That way we'll meet lots of sorcerers, I suspect. And maybe one of them will be willing to lift our curse."

  "Rap!" Gathmor's voice roared from below. "Get busy!"

  Rap rose stiffly and stooped to grasp the accursed oar.

  Andor stood up, also. "That would be easy work for an adept."

  Rap heaved the oar overhead, scowled at his companion, and lowered it back to the deck again. He managed not to whimper at the pain.

  "Come to my cabin later," Andor said. "I'll tell you my word first. I promise that! Mine first, then you tell me yours."

  Again Rap raised the oar, keeping time with the roll of the ship, but this time he closed his eyes. Down . . .

  "I'll tell you mine first. Rap, if you'll promise to share."

  Up . . . And then call Darad, later?

  "You're an honest man, Rap. I'll trust you."

  Down . . .

  "Even if you won't trust me, I'll trust you."

  Up . . .

  Gods, but it was tempting! Andor had been a good friend to him in Krasnegar, when no one else would speak to him. An adept would handle this damnable oar easily.

  Down . . .

  Eventually Andor tired of the game and went away.

  Up . . .

  Blinking sweat from his eyes. Rap watched him go.

  Down . . .

  Had Andor stayed another ten seconds, likely he would have won.

  Up . . .

  Rap could no more resist Andor than he could fight Darad.

  Down . . .

  3

  Year in and year out, Stormdancer shuttled back and forth to Faerie. By playing off the prevailing wind—such as it was—against the prevailing current, on four trips out of five a skilled mariner like Gnurr or Gathmor could manage the run from Milflor to Kith with very little need for oars. But on Rap's second night aboard, a gale sprang up out of the south-southeast, a very rare event. For four days Gnurr held her head as much to the east and north as he could, but no one liked the resulting course, or where it led. Rowing was impossible in that weather. The crew became crabby; the passengers vanished into the hell of seasickness.

  Every day Rap endured longer periods of lonely torment with the oar. As his strength increased, so Gathmor raised his demands, and Rap was amused to find himself savoring nostalgic memories of old Sergeant Thosolin and his petty testings. He was pestered no more by Andor, for Andor was an imp, and imps were poor sailors. Rap had the passengers' deck to himself as he swung his oar up and down in a mindless fog.

  Even Little Chicken rarely bothered him. The goblin, of course, had soon become arm-wrestling champion of the ship, unwittingly earning Kani a year's wages on his first two bouts. No one had been willing to bet on the third. The sailors quickly accepted him as just another nonjotunn curiosity. They assumed that his unnatural strength was a racial trait and joked about raiding the northlands to collect more like him.

  Stormdancer carried seven passengers: Andor the gentleman tourist, an elderly bishop and his wife, a young Imperial playboy who had been visiting his retired parents, a horse-faced, desiccated matron who wrote popular romances and was planning one about Faerie, and a viscount of middle years, honeymooning with a much younger wife. Obviously they must all be wealthy, or they could not have afforded the fare. Obviously they were all either brave or foolish, also, for the crossing from Faerie was never a sure thing. As the days passed, one by one they found their sea legs and emerged again from their cabins.

  Night by night the convoy scattered. By the fifth day the last two sails had gone and thereafter Stormdancer was alone under the blue dome of heaven. On the sixth day the wind suddenly failed, having done all the damage it could. Thereafter Rap made muscles and blisters with real rowing. Real rowing was much worse than exercising, and he was grateful for the extra strength he had gained already.

  Day by day he settled into the routine life of a sailor. When not rowing, he scrubbed and peeled and baited as he was told. He emptied the passenger's slop buckets, he cleaned fish, he polished and mopped. Such simple labor he could handle as well as any man alive, always doing the best he could, because that was his way. As he completed each task he was rewarded with another. He received neither punishment nor praise and looked for neither; he was more than happy to be accepted as just another hand. Somewhere between Hononin's stables and Stormdancer, a boy had become a man. That discovery was enormously welcome, and Rap was determined to do anything at all to live up to his new status.

  He listened to the sailors' talk; he asked questions; they were happy to answer. They borrowed the master's charts and spread them out and showed him. The simplest route to Hub was to sail northward through Westerwater to the great Ambly River, which was navigable all the way to Cenmere. But the winds and currents were treacherous that way. Many a fine ship had been hurled onto the lee shores, or swept into the maw of the Nogids. There were always pirates, and the Imperial navy did not patrol much in Westerwater.

  Safer by far was a course to the south of the archipelago, usually to Kith, the Impire's island stronghold in the Summer Seas. The currents were strong, though, and the winds were fickle. Sailing ships becalmed often turned up years later as desiccated husks being battered by the surf against the rock-bound coast of Zark. Galleys were safer, but they faced dangers, also, and the gale had left Gathmor unsure of Stormdancer's position. In that situation, in the Summer Seas, the only solution was to head north and make landfall.

  Day after day the air remained as calm as rock, the sea flat as well water. Men's muscles urged the ship onward, northward, against the southerly current. The more experienced men grew thoughtful. This might not turn out to be one of their better trips, they muttered. Thirst became a large part of Rap's life. Even the passengers complained at the scanty water ration, and they were not rowing.

  Two men to an oar . . . but only in emergencies would both men row at once. The other would rest as well as he could, curled up on the baggage under the bench, or be off somewhere else doing work for Gathmor. Rap soon learned to sleep on any surface, in any position, lulled by exhaustion and the surge of the ship, by the hiss of water beyond the hull, by the rhythmic creak of oar against thole pin, and the pulsing susurrus of many men breathing in unison.

  And when it was his turn to row, then stroke merged into stroke, watch into watch, day into night, and all into a fog of pain and burning thirst. A sip of water became a lifelong ambition, one moment's rest a dream of paradise.

  Whispers told of ships that had died of thirst, of floating coffins filled with skeletons, drifting for years upon the Summer Seas, but after a while even the whispering stopped. No one had breath or spit to waste.

  Especially not the green hand. At first Ballast did far more rowing than his share. Inevitably Rap flagged near the end of his wa
tch, when every moment had become a torment beyond endurance and the next one worse. Then the big man would appear and offer to relieve him a little early. Rap always refused, but always his partner would simply slide into the harder inboard position and row alongside until Rap knew that his own efforts had become mere show and Ballast was doing all the work. Rap, in fact, became a drag on the oar, but he made himself a promise that he would always keep up the pretense, and he never once released his grip before the bosun rang the bell.

  Then came a watch when Ballast did not arrive to relieve him early, and the officers came at the bell. For a brief moment all oars were shipped and Stormdancer drifted, a lonely speck on a limitless ocean, visible only to the Gods. Trusting that They were watching. Captain Gnurr ritually thanked Them for sending him a new mariner and tipped a glass of wine over Rap's head. The officers shook his blood-soaked hand and the crew cheered. He was very grateful for the wine, because it would conceal any other shameful fluid that might be trickling down his cheeks.

  Little Chicken had been a capable rower from the first, but no one bothered to honor him that way. He had made it look too easy.

  The goblin's bench was port amidships, whereas Rap sat near the starboard bow, and the line of cabins stood between. Of course Rap's farsight was not blocked by mere cabins, and he took a mean pleasure in noting that the goblin's occult talent had not made him blister-proof—but Little Chicken probably enjoyed blisters.

  Rap also knew that the viscount was failing to satisfy his young wife, and that the elderly bishop had the opposite problem with his. And he knew why the handsome young gentleman traveler, Sir Andor, so popular with both crew and passengers, took longer than the others to find his sea legs.

  Andor had not been on board during the worst of the weather. Even in the calm. Sir Andor often pleaded squeamishness and retreated to his cabin. He sometimes even took his meals along with him, which seemed like odd treatment for seasickness.

  More often than not, the man in Andor's cabin was Darad. The first time Rap farsaw that transformation, it frightened him, and made him angry. He suspected Andor was threatening him. He toyed with the idea of telling Gathmor and exposing the whole sequential gang. As he calmed down, he saw that a denunciation would be useless. Gathmor would never spy on his passenger and Andor would deny the charge. Rap knew who got believed when the two of them offered conflicting stories.

  Much of the time, therefore, the occupant of Cabin One was a giant jotunn warrior, who did little except lie on his belly and squirm. His back was a mass of blisters, his eye swollen, and the bites on his arm tumescent and oozing. His agony would not improve his attitude toward Rap, but he did not need to suffer that way. He could simply call Andor back in his place and wait until one of the gang summoned him in some place where medical help was available. His innumerable scars showed that he had endured much healing in the past, and that was what he was doing now. Despite what Rap had been told by both Thinal and Sagorn, the five men did care about each other to some extent. Andor was giving Darad a chance to recover from his injuries, just as Andor's own arm was healing. When the cabal needed its fighter, he would be fit again.

  Two weeks out of Milflor, the danger was extreme. Men were chanting the daily prayers with much greater verve than usual. The air stayed calm, the water barrels were almost dry. Gnurr cut the ration, and men began fainting at the oars—inevitably causing chaos and even injury. The next day the wind rose, but it came out of the north. Stormdancer wallowed and rolled, and the motion made rowing a worse torment than ever. Reluctantly Gathmor was forced to double up the men, two to an oar, and lack of sleep was added to the torture list; as was the salt spray that soaked every garment and bit into sun-scorched skin like acid. Rap suspected that all the men's efforts were fruitless and the ship was being driven backward. To run before the wind meant dying of thirst before they found Faerie again, if they ever did. They might die of thirst in any case.

  On the sixteenth day the lookout saw smoke ahead. Gnurr himself came around with an extra allotment of water, but it was less than two swallows per man. By nightfall, the peaks of the Nogids were visible from the masthead.

  The ensuing darkness seemed to last a whole lifetime. Rowers given a break would simply fall off the benches and lie where they landed until they were kicked awake to start rowing again. The wind had brought no clouds, and the stars shone bright and beautiful and merciless.

  The next day was worse. The volcanic smoke was no longer in sight, but a fringe of brown islands along the northeast horizon was visible even from the benches. Cruelly, the wind had banked to the northwest, and Stormdancer was unmanageable in a crosswind. Rap had an oar to himself now, for the ordeal was taking its toll on the weaker men. When the fear of death itself could not inspire, then the threat of a beating would not, even if it came from Gathmor.

  Fear worked on passengers, also. Rap's sole amusement of the whole day was to observe Andor bloodying his pretty hands on an oar. That was double irony, for Darad would be a much better rower. Hard to explain, though.

  All day the islands drifted past. By afternoon, they were visibly drawing away, as the weakened crew lost its battle with the wind.

  When the sun neared the western skyline, Gnurr handed around the last of the water and called for extra prayers. Those might be the last of the prayers, also. Inevitably morning would find Stormdancer out of sight of land, drifting away into the unknown ocean south of the Summer Seas.

  As the prayers ended, the wind seemed to falter. The crew prayed all over again, forcing the words through cracked lips, and gradually—maddeningly slowly—the breeze freshened again and backed to the southwest. Smiles and laughter and cheers appeared among the holy words. The sail was raised, the oars pulled inboard, and soon the ship was dancing landward. The drab hills approached as the sky dimmed, exhausted men lay in heaps, and Gnurr and Gathmor brought out the charts.

  4

  A white bear had its teeth in Rap's shoulder and was shaking him bodily. He said, "What?" without opening his eyes. Why bother with eyes when there was no light? He knew it was Gathmor.

  But Gathmor did not know that Rap knew that and he continued shaking until he was satisfied that Rap was awake. The ship was plunging and leaping, ropes creaking in a stiffening breeze.

  "This farsight of yours, lad. What's your range?"

  "'Bout half a league, sir." Stupid question—why couldn't it have waited till morning?

  "Thank the Gods! Come along, then."

  Grumpily Rap rose and followed, stumbling aft over the sleeping men, but being gentler than the mate, who had no choice but just to walk on them in the dark. No one complained very loudly.

  By the steering oar stood the master, old and battered, a proud vessel listing in a killer storm. But Gnurr was a jotunn; he would not go down without a fight. Mundane vision would hardly discern him, were it not for his silver hair, fluttering in the dark like a captive bird. The helmsman was almost invisible, and only two white-bandaged hands nearby defined the silent figure of Andor.

  "You may save us all, lad, if you really have got farsight." Gathmor opened a case and pulled out a roll of vellum. "You've heard of the anthropophagi?" His voice was a dry croak.

  "Aye, sir." Rap peered all around. Even to the west, the horizon was barely visible, and forward his eyes could only just make out the humped shapes of hills against the sky. His farsight could not reach those—he sensed nothing out there except waves breaking on a reef to starboard.

  "We're still in danger. We're on a lee shore in a rising gale. We must find water before morning, and the natives are hostile."

  "They really eat people, sir?" Rap had to force the words from his parched mouth. He was becoming more interested, less sleepy, but he had a pounding headache and he felt oddly fragile and unreal. He was shivering, and so were the others, fevered by the endless thirst.

  "Yes. Now look here." Gathmor peered at his chart. He raised it almost to the end of his nose. Then he lowered it and seemed t
o slump back against the rail. "Evil take it! I can't even see well enough to show you."

  "I can see it, sir."

  "You can read?"

  The mate's surprise was both insulting and oddly flattering. "Aye, sir."

  Gathmor muttered what sounded like a prayer of thanks. "Well, look at this, then, if you really can." He thrust the chart at Rap. "We're approaching the channel between Inkralip and Uzinip, or so we think."

  "Aye, sir." Rap was wondering foggily why Andor had gone away. It was Sagorn standing there in the dark, listening—erect and intent, holding tight to the rail. His sparse white hair blew free, like the captain's. Only Rap had noticed him.

  "Well, man—look at the chart!" The mate was starting to sound urgent, perhaps even desperate. He must know about the reef to starboard.

  "I am looking, sir." Rap had not tried to unroll the scroll in that wind. "I've found Uzinip . . . Orphanlover Shoal . . . that's the surf over there, sir?" He pointed.

  Gathmor's fist closed on Rap's shirt and twisted, hauling him closer, almost nose to nose. "You trying to tell me you can read a rolled chart in pitch darkness?"

  "Aye, sir."

  There was a stunned pause. Then Rap was restored to vertical and also thumped hard on a painfully burned, salt-scabbed shoulder. He staggered weakly and grabbed the rail for support.

  "Right, faun. You may save us yet. Follow the channel. It branches. Veer to port—keep left, that is. Several small islands . . . Fort Emshandar . . . can you see it?"

  "Aye, sir."

  "Water, sailor! There's water there. There's Imperial soldiers there. The Gods have brought us to the only Imperial outpost in this stretch of the Nogids. Can you get us to the fort?"

  Rap nodded, remembered it was dark, and said, "Aye, sir." Then he yawned, which seemed to make his headache worse. The channel looked like a tiny wormhole, but he didn't know much about charts. If Gathmor thought it was wide enough, likely it was. Fort Emshandar was on the far side of Uzinip, facing a much wider strait.