The Jewel of Turmish

by Odom, Mel

  Another man screamed, this one closer.

  “They’re coming for us now,” Deich said.

  He shifted, taking up a position to the left and behind Ridnow. The younger sailor’s only weapon was a skinning knife.

  “Aye,” Ridnow growled, “won’t be long now an’ we’ll see if them damned monsters bleed, too.”

  As Deich tried to stand firm and Ridnow made his preparations, Barnaby realized that an unaccustomed silence had descended inside the ship’s hold. The roaring noise of the storm hadn’t quieted, of course, nor the creaking protests of the merchanter as she still managed to dive and glide between the hills and valleys of the raging sea.

  There were no more screams.

  “C’mon then, ye great gout o’ black air an’ pestilence!” Ridnow challenged. “C’mon an’ see if’n ye got the guts what’s needed to take the life of a true fightin’ man!”

  Barnaby glanced around the crate. There, at the other end of the cargo hold, stood Borron Klosk. The light from Ridnow’s waving lantern illuminated the skeletal figure, highlighting the naked bone.

  “I killed your captain, your ship’s mage, and the rest of your crew,” Borran Klosk said.

  The purple tongue flipped out of the grinning jaws and flicked the air.

  Tears leaked down Barnaby’s face, but he didn’t know how he could be crying without knowing it. Pain knotted his guts.

  “Mayhap ye have,” Ridnow acknowledged, “but ye ain’t finished with ol’ Talia yet, an’ she ain’t proper finished with ye.”

  Borran Klosk started forward. Barnaby saw no undue haste in the monster’s movements, but his thoughts were immediately drawn to the unseen spider-woman. Where was she?

  Borran Klosk came on as if unconcerned about the dwarven battle-axe the sailor held.

  Movement high above the cargo, trapped for a moment in the dulled glow of the lantern Ridnow held, captured Barnaby’s attention. He glanced up just in time to spot the spider-woman scuttling across the beams above. She had an insect’s head with only vaguely human features. He didn’t know how he’d ever thought her beautiful when he’d first laid eyes on her.

  He thought only briefly of calling out a warning to Ridnow and Deich, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to save them. Ridnow and Deich were going to die. It was better not to die with them.

  The spider-woman dropped, sliding along a length of gossamer. Her fat body fell over Deich and her eight legs wrapped tight around him. Deich screamed but only once.

  Horrified, Barnaby watched as the spider-woman bent down and seemed to kiss Deich’s neck. When she brought her ugly head away, crimson stained her mouth and dribbled down her misshapen chin. Barnaby clapped both hands over his mouth and tried not to scream. He hoped the muffled noise that escaped him would be lost in the sounds of the storm and the creaking ship.

  “Deich!” Ridnow called helplessly.

  “You lost him,” Borran Klosk said. “Now you stand nearly alone.” His purple tongue flicked the air. “Only one more remains after you.”

  He knows! He knows! The panicked thought filled Barnaby’s mind.

  He was scarcely able to restrain himself from hurling out of the hiding place he’d found and—and—

  Only the fact that he had nowhere to go stopped him.

  “Aye, monster,” Ridnow said fiercely. “Mayhap I have lost me captain and me crew, but I ain’t a-gonna let ye have leave o’ this ship. In case ye ain’t been proper piped aboard, welcome to yer own death!”

  Whirling, he turned and smashed his axe through the end of a barrel. The astringent smell of alcohol laced the cargo hold and burned Barnaby’s nose.

  Ridnow swung the battle-axe again, completely destroying the keg. Amber liquid spilled out across the cargo hold deck, running first in one direction, then another as the ship shifted.

  Watching the reflection of the lantern in the pale amber liquid soaking into the wood, Barnaby realized what Ridnow intended to do. The alcohol would burn hotter and faster than whale oil.

  Something sloshed against Barnaby’s thin shoes, soaking them. At first he thought it was brine, that Mistress Talia had sprung a leak somewhere and the sea was getting in, but the liquid reeked of alcohol. He cursed, drawing the attention of the spider-woman. Her opal eyes shone as she smiled at him.

  Barnaby was chilled to the bone.

  The spider-woman dropped Deich’s lifeless body, but her middle legs still worked busily weaving a web around her prey.

  Without another word, Ridnow slammed the lantern against the deck. The wick inside the lantern dimmed and nearly went out, then the flames licked across the spilling alcohol, filling the cargo hold with blue and gold light as they ignited the amber liquid with a rushing whoosh!

  Knowing he would be dead if the flames caught up to him, Barnaby sprinted out of hiding. He ran past the spider-woman, keeping a line of crates between himself and her. Wide-bodied as she was, she couldn’t get through the hold nearly as fast as he could. He streaked for the back of the hold, toward the small ladder.

  He slipped under another stack of crates, feeling the heated air catching up to him as the flaming alcohol poured across the shifting deck, then vaulted over a line of barrels. The spider-woman jostled and bumped cargo in her wake as she tried to catch him.

  Blood thundered in Barnaby’s ears as he caught hold of the ladder and started up. Permitting himself one frightened glance over his shoulder, he saw Ridnow wreathed in the yellow and blue flames. Even as he was burned alive, the sailor screamed out in defiant song and ran at Borran Klosk.

  The mohrg’s long purple tongue leaped free of its housing and smacked into Ridnow’s head. Barnaby saw the old sailor’s brain’s break through the back of his skull, propelled by the monstrous tongue.

  The ladder shivered. Glancing down, Barnaby saw that the spider-woman had made her way to it and was even now shifting her terrible body again, changing to something more womanlike but maintaining the horrible head.

  Barnaby climbed, hands and feet moving so rapidly it seemed as though he was swimming up the ladder. At the top, he flung back the hatch then pulled himself up and out into the lashing rain sluicing the merchanter’s decks.

  He slipped on the wet deck, going deaf from the howling winds of the storm, and pulled himself back to the hatch and peered down. Flames spread throughout the cargo hold, filling it with reddish-orange light. He only had a moment to think about how very far away from shore he was, and how many sharks might be in these waters—or sahuagin that had been released in the Taker’s War—before a wild gale rose up from below.

  As fierce as the winds were above deck, they were dwarfed by the cyclone that filled the hold. Barnaby squinted against it, his face burning from the blast of heat that rushed out at him. He watched as Ridnow’s flaming corpse flew through the air and thudded against the back wall of the cargo hold. Even as the big sailor’s body started to fall, the winds blew out all the flames and darkness filled the hold.

  From within that darkness that reeked of smoke and death, the mocking tone of insane laughter cascaded out. The obscene noise warred with the thunder that shook the black heavens above the soaked white sails of the merchanter.

  Gathering his courage, feeding on fear, Barnaby slammed the hatch closed. He turned and thought he was going to be sick when he saw the undead sailors crewing the ship. A wall of black water rose off starboard bow and rushed for the ship. Silver-white lightning split the sky in a startling blast of incandescence that turned the foam riding the curler of the wave silver-white as well.

  The undead crew moved slowly, as if they’d forgotten that a ship in a storm had to be waited on hand and foot. The wave of black water slammed into the ship, breaking over the side and washing across the deck. Some of the ship’s crew washed overboard, and it was terrifying to watch the men go without screaming. Normal men who knew they were about to die always screamed, and a man falling into the black sea so many miles from shore was surely going to die.

  The
massive cold that came from the brine surprised Barnaby and took his breath away. He clung to the closed hatch while the ship rode out the worst of it then pushed himself away, pausing only to latch down the hatch. He slipped and slid across the wet deck, bumping into one of the undead sailors.

  The thing had half of its face torn away and was no longer recognizable. Barnaby didn’t know if he’d known the man or not. The boy ducked as the dead man reached for him, its torn, ragged mouth open hungrily. They ate flesh. At least, one of the sailors who’d talked about the undead crewmen among them said they ate flesh.

  Barnaby pushed off the port railing as Mistress Talia caught another bad wave. He caught the rigging just as the ship got caught in the next trough, wallowing and corkscrewing like a fat pig settling into a favorite mud pit. The rope ate at his callused hands as he clung there, breath rasping between clenched teeth.

  Lightning flared again, ripping most of the shadows away from the ship’s pitching deck. The hatch shattered and exploded outward. The spider-woman’s gruesome head and shoulders appeared. The opal eyes reflected the lightning haze as they gazed around at the deck. They rested squarely on Barnaby.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Barnaby started up the rigging. There was nowhere else to go. Even if he could get to one of the freighter’s three longboats and manage to get it cast off the ship, he could never hope to keep it afloat without more crew. He climbed, hands and feet moving rapidly, not minding that the rigging and ratlines were dripping water and the rain falling into his eyes was blinding.

  Fear made him glance back over his shoulder, and things only got worse when he did. He made himself look back up at the lightning-laced heavens and into the teeth of the blinding rain. On and on he climbed, daring to think that the spider-woman wouldn’t climb after him.

  But she did. He felt her moving in the rigging below him even though he didn’t look to make sure she was there. At the very top of the rigging, Barnaby stopped.

  There was nowhere else to go. The sails billowed and cracked around him, and at times they obscured sight of the spider-woman easily climbing the rigging.

  He looked up from her and at the storm above and the black walls of rolling water around him. Mistress Talia rode deep in a trough and if the undead crew didn’t get control of her, she’d founder and possibly break and go down.

  Barnaby gazed around at the threatening expanse of the Sea of Fallen Stars. The spider-woman was only a few feet below him and closing fast. A great sadness filled the boy, overcoming even the fear that had trembled within him for the last handful of hours as the crew was hunted down and killed.

  Gathering the last of his courage, aided in his decision by his own flagging strength, Barnaby timed the pitch and yaw of the ship, waiting until it gave him the greatest motion, then he released his hold on the rigging, letting the arc of the ship throw him far out to sea. He spun in the air, watching Mistress Talia, dangerously close to becoming lost herself, and he plummeted into the Sea of Fallen Stars.

  The cold, black brine closed over Barnaby, and it seemed he could still hear Borran Klosk’s mocking laughter in his ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Haarn came awake with a start, knowing a nightmare had roused him but not able to make any sense whatsoever of what the dream had been about. His body ached all over. Sleeping on the ground under a meager shelter hadn’t been as good to his injured body as he’d hoped.

  Wood smoke tainted the air. The smell would make a few animals curious, but it would scare the majority of them away. Fire generally meant humans, and the animals had learned to be afraid of men. Some would come in the hopes of getting table leavings, and some would come only to watch from afar.

  He lay silent for a moment and prayed, then he meditated and made sure his body was loose and ready to deal with whatever the day offered. The rain that streamed down outside the overhang where he’d fashioned a serviceable lean-to spattered against the ground, creating a lull of background noise. The overhang was on slightly higher ground, so there was no worry about water soaking their sleeping area.

  Haarn rose, feeling twinges and aches that bit bone-deep. He’d used his healing powers to aid his father and had tended to his own wounds as best he could with what herbs he had or could find.

  His father lay at the back of the overhang near the fire, draped in his own cloak and Haarn’s. Druz had volunteered the blanket from her own kit, recovered after the battle in the marshy glade, but Haarn had known she wouldn’t be comfortable in the night without it. The storm had brought considerable chill to the evening hours.

  “You’re awake,” Druz said from her place sitting beside his father.

  She had her strung bow across her knees and her long sword standing against the back of the overhang beside her.

  Haarn crossed the shelter to his father’s side.

  “He’s slept well,” Druz said.

  Tenderly, Haarn lifted the poultices from his father’s wounds and examined them. Blackened, crusty scabs covered all of the burned areas, and with the extra healing Haarn provided through his magic there probably wouldn’t even be any scars left. The healing potion had done remarkable work on Ettrian, possibly even saving his life, though Haarn believed Silvanus was more responsible for that.

  After getting Ettrian settled as comfortably as possible a day and a half before, satisfied that his father’s life wasn’t in any immediate danger, Haarn had seen to arranging the shelter. Druz had helped, and she’d tried to get him to rest, but he couldn’t. Borran Klosk’s name kept echoing through his head.

  Satisfied with the progress Ettrian was making, Haarn sat down beside him. He gazed at his father’s stern face and felt the old confusion gnaw his empty stomach. There were pleasant memories from when he’d been small, from those times his mother had stayed with them deep in the forest, but those had quickly passed when his mother rode away. Haarn had been no older than four or five. After that, his mother’s visits had come less and less frequently, lasting only days instead of tendays, then finally—the last time nearly fifteen years past—only hours. His father had grown sadder and angrier, and with his mother’s absence Haarn had grown aware of his father’s turning away from him as well, as if he was to blame for her leaving.

  Haarn reached out and slapped Broadfoot on the haunch. Covered in herbal poultices that made the animal stench even stronger in the lean-to’s enclosed space, the bear snuffled irritably, raised his wide head for a moment, then put his head back down and slept.

  Sleep would be best, Haarn knew, but nervous energy and the need to be up and moving around filled him. He’d always felt that way around his father as a young man, and even more so since he’d become increasingly independent.

  “Borran Klosk is a fable,” Druz said. “Why is your father here really?”

  Haarn looked at her and said, “After you saw that skeleton claw up from the ground, after you saw that red jewel in its chest and the damage it did to all of us, you want to believe that Borran Klosk is some kind of old wives’ tale?”

  A thoughtful expression filled Druz’s face. She sucked in one cheek as she regarded him.

  “My father,” Haarn said, glancing at him, “is not a man to pass on gossip. He sought me out to bring me the news the Emerald Enclave had sent him.”

  “From Ilighôn? That’s a long way to send a message.”

  “My father is an important man,” Haarn said. “He’s not one of the Elder Circle but his voice carries weight in the Enclave.”

  “Is … is he going to be all right?”

  The pounding rain outside the lean-to echoed in the silence that hung between them. Ettrian chose that moment to take a sonorous breath that lifted his chest beneath the traveling cloaks that served as blankets.

  “In time,” Haarn answered, feeling proud of his father, proud of the way he fought to get better in spite of the injuries that plagued him. There had always, in spite of the other confusing feelings, been a respect between them. “I’ve seen my father r
ecover from far worse than this.”

  A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the crackling sputter of the campfire.

  “There’s a sadness in your voice when you speak of him,” Druz said.

  Haarn said nothing, wanting his private feelings to be his own. People who dwelt in cities, especially humans, seemed to think it a crime for a person to possess a private thought. Still, he’d gotten to know her at least a little over the few days they’d been traveling together. He looked at her, feeling the hot smoke sting his eyes, and wondered what his father must think about him traveling with a human woman obviously of mating age. It had to have reminded him of the woman who’d left them.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Druz said.

  He knew that was false. Whatever other shortcomings she had in the wilderness, Druz Talimsir had certain gifts regarding the paths and trails men’s minds took.

  Ettrian stirred within the pile of cloaks.

  “Haarn,” he whispered.

  The elf turned his head and gazed about with fevered eyes.

  “I’m here, Father,” Haarn said.

  Stretching out his hand, Ettrian said, “I’m cold and … I’m thirsty.”

  With the rain falling in great abundance, acquiring fresh water was no problem. Haarn started to push himself up.

  “I’ll get it,” Druz offered. She got to her feet and went to the lean-to’s edge to retrieve a waterskin. “I just filled this.”

  She handed the waterskin to Haarn.

  Cupping his father’s head, Haarn lifted him up and helped him drink, taking his time and not quitting until his father had slaked his thirst.

  Ettrian glared up at him with his fevered eyes and said, “I’ve been dreaming of your mother again, Haarn, remembering how she left us.”

  Maybe, Haarn thought, they’d been sharing nightmares.

  “Do you remember how she left us, Haarn?”

  “Yes, Father.”