Exiles of Forlorn

by Sean T. Poindexter

  “Jetsam!”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  “You’ve had your eyes upon me since I set boots on this junker. I make way for aft deck and you come about on my stern with all the grace of a crippled bear. Why?”

  “I . . . what?”

  She grabbed my arm and pushed me at blade’s edge against the cabin wall. Her body pressed closer, pinning me to the salt-worn wood. My nostrils were at once filled with her scent. Flowery without being weak, female without being gentle. That was to say nothing of her skin, what I could feel of it was soft and taut, like a doll, but ribbed by lines of muscles and tattoos. How could something so beautiful be so powerful and intimidating?

  “Why are you following me?” The words came out as a hiss between her teeth.

  “I confess to the watching, but the following is mere serendipity. I just happened to be going this way.”

  “Fine. Why were you watching me?”

  I made my lips curl into what I hoped was my most charming of smiles. “You’re simply too lovely to ignore, madam. My name is Lew; what’s yours?”

  She narrowed her bright blue eyes and made a narrow slit of her plump lips. It was a look from her I would come to know well in the coming weeks. It did get her to lighten up on the blade. For about a second.

  “I’m not the only woman on this ship.”

  “No, you’re not, but you are by far the lovlie─”

  “Stow that flotsam! How do I know you’re not a pirate hunter come to seek the bounty on me?”

  I crooked an eyebrow. “You’re a pirate?” I felt a sting on my throat as the blade crossed a line in my neck. “I didn’t know you were a pirate, I just knew you were pretty.” Where the Daevas was Antioc? This was exactly the sort of thing he was supposed to prevent. “Let’s think about this rationally: were I a bounty hunter in search of prey, wouldn’t I be better at stalking you?”

  She gave me a pensive stare. Her guard withdrew a bit. “You make a compelling point, Lew. You’re far too cumbersome in the step to be a pirate hunter.” Her eyes tilted to the side a bit. “Unlike your man here.” I followed her eyes to the side and found Antioc looming like a big, sweaty tower. “He was almost quiet enough to get close enough to stop me from cutting your throat.”

  “I am more than close enough. Say the word and I break her neck, Lew.”

  “You want to gamble on that, big one?”

  “No,” I interjected. It was my throat at stake. “He does not. We do not. This is all just a misunderstanding.”

  “He looks strong, your man.”

  “I prefer you not call him that.”

  “But is he fast? Fast enough to cross the stride and break my neck before I slice into yours?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Antioc. Doesn’t matter? How possibly could my neck not matter? It was my neck he was sworn to protect. “Either way it will be the last thing you do, river pirate.”

  At least he knew she was a pirate. Somehow . . .

  “Then come at me, fighter.” She said it to him but looked at me. “Let’s see how it rolls out.” That was the first time I saw her grin. My river pirate had no doubts. The unsure look on Antioc’s face gave me little doubt as well.

  “Let’s reconsider all this.” Sweat ran down my brow and dripped from my nose. “No one really wants to see how all this ‘rolls out.’”

  “Says you,” came a familiar, scratchy little voice. Beyond Antioc, in the shadow of a mast, stood the urchin and my new friend from Magespire.

  Uller nodded slowly. “I put odds on the pretty one.”

  “He’s not so pretty.”

  “I was talking about—”

  “I’m not a bounty hunter!” The edge pressed closer. I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or blood running down the blade as it glided slowly across my throat. Antioc looked as if to advance, but I stopped him with a pair of wide, almost shaking eyes. “What can I say to convince you I’m not a bounty hunter?”

  “Oh, he’s no bounty hunter.” Uller waved his hand.

  “How do you know?” She wouldn’t take her eyes off me.

  “He’s a noble. Or he was. No noble would ever lower himself to collecting bounties.”

  Her eyes became slits. “How do you know he’s not just pretending to be a noble? He could have bought those clothes. Or stolen them.”

  Uller chuckled. “Fair enough, but only a noble would have had private tutors to speak Old Balorahn; or even know what the Tolkirk Sagas were.”

  “You know he knows of these things?”

  “Indeed.” I nodded as hard as I could without incurring the wrath of her dagger. “We had a lengthy discussion about them before I started following you.”

  She grinned and withdrew the blade. I relaxed and grabbed my throat, feeling for cuts. None found, I let out a deep sigh as she slipped the short, thin blade back under her dress. Antioc stepped closer, but I stopped him with a nod. He kept his fingers tight, like handfuls of tense little snakes.

  “I thought you said you weren’t following me?”

  “That was a lie. How by all the Daevas did you get a blade past the searches?”

  She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “There are some places on a girl’s body that give even the most stalwart of searchers pause to tread.” She looked at Antioc. “What’s your man’s name?”

  “Antioc,” I answered. “I thought I asked you not to call him that. You still haven’t given us—”

  “Reiwyn.” She tossed the name from her mouth like she never gave its sound a moment’s thought. Its melody was captivating, but her attention was on Antioc. “You knew I was a river pirate? How?”

  “Your tattoos. I fought river pirates at Breakneck Bend.”

  She nodded. “That was old Snarltooth’s fleet.”

  “I boarded Captain Snarltooth’s ship personally.” He pointed to a scar on his arm. “Took a crossbow bolt here.” He lifted his shirt and showed a long, thin mark across his muscular belly. “Saber strike here. Didn’t even notice until the fighting was done.”

  “You tangled with the crew of the Intolerable Shadow and lived? You must be as tough as you look.”

  A creeping grin ruined Antioc’s countenance. “Tougher.”

  She grinned and ran her eyes over his meaty arms and chest. “I bet.”

  “Well, Madam Reiwyn, it is certainly a pleasure to meet you.” Best I take back the reigns. I gave her a courtly bow, hoping she’d be impressed. She did not seem to be. “I am Lew. This would be Uller.”

  “Uller Unthergoren of Magespire.” He stepped forward and gave his own courtly bow. “Former First Apprentice of the Great Cortis the Undaunted of the Arcane College of Magespire. At your service, Madam Reiwyn.” I saw a familiar glimmer in his eye, one I thought likely to be seen in my own were I to chance upon a mirror. The river pirate seemed as impressed with his bow as mine.

  And so it began.

  “It’s just Reiwyn. No madam.” She leaned over and met eyes with the short urchin, smiling. “And what are you called?” Her voice took on a slight squeak, like my sisters’ did when they talked to a colt or puppy.

  “I’m called a lot of things, pendin’ on the hour and the day.”

  “Well, what are you called today?”

  His grin doubled in size. “Blackfoot.”

  Uller covered his face and deflated with a sigh. It was all I could do to stifle a laugh.

  8.

  The Sand King’s yurt was the biggest residence in the colony. I figured he thought he was important, so he got the biggest house. It was one big room like most of the others. This one had heavy boards elevated from the ground on stakes for the floor. In the middle of the hut sat a rough table flanked by hewn chairs made of bamboo and palm wood. An open trap in the ceiling offered daylight. Nights were likely illuminated by the numerous homespun candles lying around in halved coconut shells.

  There were two small living areas in the room. One was so full of books it looked like there would be no
room for sleeping. That one no doubt belonged to the Sand King. I imagined Uller would be happy to get a look at some of those worn tomes. The other living area was full of bones and animal hides. That must have been where Sharkhart slept. I hadn’t realized they shared a yurt until then. I guess they really were inseparable, much like Antioc and me; he’d accompanied me despite my insistence that only I had been invited. He gave some clapwad about my safety.

  Really, I think he just wanted to show off his new toy. Antioc had taken the rock he’d found in the riverbed, and subsequently brained a glutton with, and lashed it to the end of the wood club he’d taken off the dead body of the same. It had been a short weapon for the giant, but even without the addition of the stone head it almost required two hands for Antioc to wield. The shaft he’d wrapped with a leather strap, which he could unfurl a bit and use as a sling to carry the weapon when he wasn’t using it to crush things.

  “Impressive,” I’d said when he showed it to me that morning. “You’ve managed to improve upon not only the rock, but the club as well. You should apply for a royal patent before someone else muddles one of these things together.” I sounded only slightly sardonic when I said it, so Antioc either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Same result either way.

  “It’ll crush a skull.” Antioc ran his hands over the wood to the tight coils of rope and sinew at the end. “That’s enough.”

  “I thought you fought with a spear?”

  “Only in formation.” He spun the weapon about his arms and shoulders with surprising alacrity. I stepped back instinctively as the stone head whooshed through the air. “When I was sent out as a skirmisher, I always favored a war hammer.” He finished up his flourishes with a step forward and a downward swing. The stone head stopped in the air at the end of the club, his big hands turning red from the grip at the other. That he could swing such a hefty weapon was impressive; stopping in mid-swing like that, without losing his balance, his legs and back holding their combined weight, was even more so. It brought a series of “oohs” and “ahhs” from the more easily impressed colonists who’d stopped to watch him. Antioc grinned.

  “Done showing off your big stick?”

  “I think so.”

  “His majesty awaits.” I gestured to the big straw-thatched yurt at the end of the rutted path. Off we went.

  “I thought we’d had done with you mocking my stone.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke. I don’t think his feelings were hurt, but then how would I possibly know? “You even apologized for it.”

  “Indeed. That was before I knew you intended to mount it on a cudgel.”

  “What difference does the mounting make?”

  “It makes it a whole new device, separate from the rock alone, and therefore must stand merit against fresh derision.”

  “It will exceed merit, and you’ll be humbled into retraction.”

  “We shall see.”

  Arn’s yurt was one of the only ones elevated on poles, and therefore required a short set of stairs leading up to the entrance. It also had a deck that surrounded the eastern edge. It served as a stage on the occasions that the Sand King needed to address the colony. When we reached the stairs, Antioc let me take the first steps.

  We were met at the entry by Sharkhart. The red-skinned savage gave us both a blank look before lifting the hide flap. We stepped in. Our feet made the wood floors creak, more so under Antioc. Sharkhart slipped in behind us, though his bare feet made little noise despite his size. We had a few seconds to survey the contents of the Sand King’s royal abode before we were met by the man himself.

  “Lew, welcome.” He barely looked up as he ushered us to the table, where he stood, propping himself up on his arms and looming over a large piece of parchment unrolled over a thin animal skin. “Antioc, is it? I’m glad you came too. Would either of you care for some tea? I call it tea. What do your people call it?”

  “Un-uo.” Sharkhart’s voice was surprisingly light, almost windy. I hadn’t ever expected to hear him speak, but in the event that he had I’d looked forward to something a little deeper, sinister even.

  “Yes, that. Would either of you care for some?” He lifted an iron kettle from a reed pallet on the table. I nodded and Antioc gave him a “yes, sir.” Sharkhart silently and dispassionately retrieved two wooden cups, which Arn proceeded to fill and set before us.

  Antioc and I took sips of the steaming black liquid slowly. I was immediately assaulted by its harsh, acidic bouquet. Rather like drinking muddy lamp oil. I could barely force the stuff down my throat before gasping. Sweat beaded on my forehead as it heated my core. Antioc seemed to take it better, swallowing and turning a little red in the cheeks. Our reactions earned a ghost of a grin from Sharkhart.

  “It grows on you.” Arn finished his cup and filled another. “It would go well with sugar I think, if only we had some sugar. Lew, look at this.” His finger went to the page. It was a map of the colony and its immediate environs, crudely but effectively drawn with heavy black ink that must have cost a fortune; assuming they didn’t have some way of making it here. He gave me a few minutes to examine the map. The scale seemed to be one hand-span for an acre. “What do you see here?” He took a drink. “What do you see that marks the colony as unique, as compared to the surrounding environs?”

  Oh, a test. Now I was really sweating.

  “Elevation.” I pointed to the small numbers next to salamandering curves that ringed the land. The bumpy oval around the ink scratches that represented the colony were higher than any others on the map for several acres beyond its wall. They only began to climb again as the map crawled into the jungle, all the way up near the parchments tattered edge. “Those are measures of elevation. Strides above sea level. You built the colony on the highest ground.”

  “Indeed. Seemed a fair choice, given the dangers. Unfortunately, it makes access to the sea a bit treacherous.” He pointed to the sketches on the map that represented the jagged rocks that dotted the inlet connecting Forlorn to the sea. As he did, I tried to place his accent. He was of Morment, of that much I was fairly sure. Mierdean, if my ear for accents was worth a damn. That was the capital of Morment, the home of our king. As such, most noble families had a home there. Was he noble born? Most certainly. That made my curiosity burn even hotter; albeit not enough to consume the fear of just flat out asking how I might know him.

  “It does deter the seaborne pirates and slavers, at least.” He took another drink of un-uo. “The wall helps with threats from land, though only so much.” I caught him looking at me from the corner of his eyes. He wanted a reaction.

  I understood at once. “You need a better wall.”

  “Quite badly.” He tapped three positions on the map. “Taller, too. I would like the watches to be able to see trouble coming from as far away as possible before it gets to our gate.”

  “Is this to gaurd against the gluttons?” I asked. “I imagine they would come by way of the trees. No elevation will pierce that canopy.”

  “The gluttons aren’t the problem.” His jaw stiffened. “They’re tough against small groups that stray too far but too stupid and disorganized to conduct a raid.” He pointed up the eastern coast, along the beach. “Pirates called Scumdogs from Drullcove like to sneak down the White Road at night and kidnap our women. They sell them to slavers in Ket and Boxis. It’s the main reason we have the walls.”

  Antioc and I exchanged shocked looks.

  “It has not been made common knowledge,” explained Arn. “We don’t want a panic, and it’s been several months since the last incident. They took four women—two of them barely more than children.” His blue eyes narrowed to slits under a sharply curved brow. “It was their boldest raid. The three raids before that, they only took one or two. We barely noticed, just assumed they’d left of their own accord. That happens, on occasion, though rarely is it the women.”

  “They came for the women? How?”

  “They stole them in the night without a sound, then vanishe
d like ghosts. They were fast, cunning, and professional.”

  “You want me to build a better wall? How long before they come back?”

  He took a breath before continuing. “They seem to come every eight months. Equal to the time it takes a slave barge to cross the Horand Sea, barter their cargo, and return.”

  “How long has it been since the last raid?”

  Arn paused again. “Almost seven months.”Arn put his hand on my shoulder, gave me a serious look and asked, “Can it be done?”

  “Of course it can be done. My only query is why it hasn’t been done already.”

  My smirk vanished when I saw Sharkhart’s cold, dark eyes on me. Arn’s reaction was considerably warmer, though far from jovial. He squeezed my shoulder. “You’re our first engineer. We had some builders before. Even a stonemason once. They had a go at it, but the task was beyond them.”

  “Where would an engineer succeed where builders and masons have failed, sir?”

  That earned another squeeze of the shoulder. “Not an engineer, Lew. You.” He walked me to a window and pulled back a shade of reeds. Sunlight poured in like floodwater. I shadowed my eyes and followed his finger to Threestep’s burial tower. Uller stood sentinel under it, exhausted, pink-skinned and sweating. I cracked a smile.

  “You made that from a drawing. With things you found here. In a few hours. Our resources here are limited. We collect pearls from the oysters, turquoise from the sand and sell it to the merchants who bring the exiles. It goes almost entirely to food, grain, and fowl for eggs and meat. We can’t afford steel for weapons or tools. We’re slaves to our environment.” He pointed at me. “We need someone who can make something from nothing. We need you.”

  I’d always wondered how it would feel to be needed. Now I knew.

  It did not feel fair. Not fair at all.

  9.

  We left the Sand King’s yurt with strict instructions as to our conversations with others. We could talk about the wall; building such fortifications wasn’t inherently suspicious. If nothing else, we could point to the recent glutton encounter as motive for their construction. There was to be no mention of Scumdogs and slavers. To this, we swore an oath to the Daevas.