Exiles of Forlorn

by Sean T. Poindexter

  “Shhh . . . ,” whispered a familiar voice. “Do not alarm the others. They won’t hurt us.” I turned my eyes as far back as I could and saw Sharkhart behind me, clutching me to his chest. He held me until the glowing form vanished behind a wall of ruins. He gave me a look that said he would let me go and slowly released me from his grasp. He crawled around and sat next to me by the fire as though nothing had happened.

  “What are they?” I broke a tense silence.

  “Spirits. Ancestors of my people who stayed behind and fell to the foul magic of the gluttons.”

  “The gluttons use magic?”

  Sharkhart nodded. “They were once perhaps a nobler race, but they turned to the worship of a fell Daeva of rot and decay. Now, they are accountable only to their wanton hunger.”

  I sat in silence, staring into the darkness after any new spirits. There was no way I was getting any more sleep. Even with Sharkhart’s assurances. “I wish you’d told us this place was haunted before we made camp here.”

  “That is precisely why we chose this place. The gluttons fear it. They have no power over the spirits, and will not enter the ruins. We are safe here, wall builder.”

  I focused my breathing and tried to bring calm, but I knew there was no way I’d feel safe around spirits. I thought maybe I should awaken Gargath. He would probably enjoy this, being in a haunted ruin. Sharkhart was a statue of serenity, staring into the fire as if he found guidance there. I knew the Tallfolk worshipped Daevas of fire; perhaps he saw them in the flames. I looked as well, but all I found was a glowing pile of logs licked by dancing yellow flame.

  “Arn! Arn!” Blackfoot came running out of the woods. Arn lifted his hand to stop our march. Uller and I took advantage of the reprieve to rest and catch our breath. “I’ve found them!” Arn leaned down to talk to him when he caught up to him and Sharkhart. A few second later, he turned and walked back to us on the beach.

  “Blackfoot has found the Scumdogs and Zindet.”

  “That is good!” said Uller, using his walking stick to stand upright.

  Arn gave us a serious look. “They’ve been captured by gluttons.”

  “They have a camp just over the ridge in the trees,” added Blackfoot. “I counted three of them. They have Zindet and two Scumdogs tied up.”

  “It was three that took her,” said Reiwyn.

  “I guess they already et’ one.”

  “What about Ferun?” I asked. Blackfoot shook his head. It made sense he would be too clever to get caught by gluttons.

  “We’ve got to go get her,” said Uller, no small amount of trepidation in his voice. He knew as well as any of us that abandoning her to the gluttons was worse than leaving her with the Scumdogs, so we had little choice.

  Following Blackfoot’s lead, we crept through the dense forest, around boulders and downed trunks, mindful of dry leaves and branches as we crept up on the dull-witted giants. We smelled their camp before we saw it. When we did see it, I could barely look upon it. They’d hollowed out a clearing and sat in the center of it, three lumpy skinned beasts around a smoking black fire full of freshly stripped bones. Two were fat and one was thin and tall; I recognized the burns on his face and chest. A glance at Uller followed by a knowing nod showed that he recognized him too.

  Blackfoot pointed at a clump of three bodies tied together next to one of the fat gluttons. They were covered with slimy black ropes, but I saw a shock of red hair sticking out from under one of the strands. Squinting, I made out patches of freckled skin in some of the gaps, straining under the knots as she breathed.

  Arn turned back to us. “We have to fight them.”

  I had feared he would say that. Quickly, we gathered around as he went over the particulars of the attack. My place in it didn’t require me to move around the camp as it did for Efrot and Sharkhart. They crept away into the trees and moved to the other side of the camp. Reiwyn and Front-Strider climbed trees while Arn and Landis prepared to dive into the clearing. The rest of us held back, and Uller crushed some herbs into powder in a little wooden bowl with a pestle. When his concoction was finished, he wrapped a smelly green powder in a small bladder.

  “Can you make me faster, like before?” I asked.

  Uller shook his head. “I don’t have the right ingredients for that one.”

  “A pity . . .”

  Arn raised his hand and held it there, and for a moment, I thought he might be hesitating. Then he dropped it, and we heard the twang of a bowstring and the clank of crossbow arms. An arrow struck a fat glutton in the back of the neck, causing him to howl in surprise. Front-Strider’s bolt took the other fat glutton under the eye; it staggered as it rose, dumbstruck but aware enough to grab his club.

  We charged over the ridge, screaming and making the most terrible racket we could. The tall, skinny one with the burns spun on his heels and brought his club around, striking Landis across the chest as he roared. Landis flew back and slammed into a tree, breaking open his skull before he collapsed to the ground, motionless.

  Arn dodged a swing from the one with the arrow in his neck and lashed forward with his cutlass. He left a shallow cut across its fat belly, but that barely slowed it. Sharkhart and Efrot joined the fight from the other side, the former lashing out with his whip while the latter raised his axe and charged with a scream. Blackfoot and I ran around the fighting to the prisoners and started cutting away at the ropes.

  Uller faced off against the scarred glutton. I could tell from the exchanged looks that he recognized the mage. He raised his club with one hand and roared in Uller’s face. This time, Uller did not waver. I supposed he was prepared for it this time. When the club came down, he stepped briskly aside and tossed the bladder of green powder into the fire while the glutton pounded dirt. He raised his hand as the flames spiraled into the air, taking on the general shape of his hand. Then, as though directing it with his motions, he whipped the column of fire about and brought it down on the tall glutton from behind. The flames engulfed his screaming body.

  “I didn’t get the chance to finish burning you before,” said Uller, watching the glutton writhe and twist beneath the cloak of flames. “Allow me to remedy that.”

  Reiwyn and Front-Strider continued to pelt one of the fat gluttons with projectiles while the rest of the group faced off against the other. He took two dozen hits, but eventually fell. Sharkhart took care of the other one by jumping on his back while Arn and Efrot assailed him from the front. The savage wrapped his spiked whip around the glutton’s throat and tightened, cutting into his flesh and choking him until he fell to his knees. Arn and Efrot finished him off, hacking him up until he collapsed next to his fallen brothers.

  We were having trouble with the knots, so Arn slashed them open with his cutlass. Once free, Zindet jumped into his arms and burst into tears. He stroked her hair. “It’s fair, Zin. You’re safe now.”

  After she’d finished with him, she ran to Uller, arms open to embrace, until she saw his walking staff and bandaged leg. “It’s nothing, really,” he explained with a smile. Her tears welled up anew as she dove into his arms, almost knocking him over.

  That left us with two new friends: a pair of Scumdogs named Struart and Kloph. The latter was an olive-skinned Kettish sailor. The former was an Illyrvolk known to Arn and Sharkhart, as he’d once been an exile in the colony before being sent up the White Road for theft. We replaced their glutton bonds with our own and dragged them back to the beach.

  “How far ahead has Ferun gone?” Arn asked them.

  The Kettish wasn’t keen for talking, even after Sharkhart threatened him with a lash of his whip. Struart was more pliable. “About a day,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the whip, as though seeing it coming would mitigate its tearing sting.

  Arn left Efrot to watch them as Gargath tended to their wounds. He gathered us further down the beach, but it was Sharkhart who spoke first, “We’ve lost all hope of overtaking Ferun. He has probably reached Drullcove already.” Arn looked at h
im and nodded once.

  “What difference does it make?” asked Uller. “We’ve got Zindet. We return to the colony.”

  “We can’t go back without Ferun,” Arn said.

  “If this is about the key, I can make a new one,” I offered.

  “He must face our justice.” This was personal for him. I wondered what he intended to do once he had him. He had already voiced his disapproval for executions. The most severe punishment he typically allowed was making someone walk the White Road, but condemning Ferun to that seemed redundant at this point. For that matter, what did he intend to do with these two prisoners?

  “We’ll take the Scumdogs to Drullcove and trade them for Ferun,” said Arn, as though reading the question in my eyes. “Lew, Front-Strider and Efrot are with us.” He looked at Zin, who stood next to Uller with his arm wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his chest, and Reiwyn. “The women will remain behind, along with the others. It will not be safe for them there.”

  Zin nodded in agreement, clutching tighter to Uller. Reiwyn was far less amicable about it, but Arn quieted her before she could protest with a voice that brooked no negotiation, “Reiwyn, you will be in command until I return. Take them to the ruins, wait for us there a day. If we do not return in that time, return to the colony.”

  She nodded slowly. I looked at her, realizing this could be the last time I ever saw her. There was so much I wanted to say. Things I felt that I couldn’t bear the thought of taking to the ashes with me, if I would be so fortunate to have that as a fate. I doubted the Scumdogs would be particularly considerate of our burial needs, assuming they even killed us. We would probably be worth more sold to the slavers. I doubted having Arn and Sharkhart with us would be much help if they decided to take us.

  We parted there on the beach, half our number with the prisoners headed north along the White Road, while the others went south along the waterfront. I thought I saw Reiwyn’s eyes meet mine once before she grew too distant, and perhaps saw a reflection there of my own dread. I would have to ask her about it later, if I ever saw her again.

  25.

  Drullcove was aptly named. The White Road came to an abrupt halt at the side of a cliff. When we passed it, we found a deep recess in the cliff face with the water running into its shadowy depths, covered by a ceiling of age-worn rock like a great cave. There was little land to be found in this cove, so the inhabitants had lashed together ships with walkways of worn, weather-beaten lumber. Vessels in similar disrepair served as buildings at junctions and ends. Light was provided only by hanging lanterns and the reflection of sunlight on the water at the entrance of the cove. I imagined this place spent most of its time in darkness, which must have suited the inhabitants just fine.

  We were stopped at the entrance, a great gate made from the deck boards of a ship that slid open with a chain. Four guards with rusty cutlasses and crossbows watched us, while a fifth ran along the deck boards to fetch someone in authority. Arn pulled us close and leaned in, saying, “Let me do the talking.”

  After a while, a new cluster of figures emerged. At their fore was a barrel-chested man with a thick, black beard wearing what might have once been very regal attire—no doubt stolen. To his right stood the biggest Umbrishman I’d ever seen, a great fat man who I might well have mistaken for a glutton if I’d seen him outside Drullcove. Despite the ambient dimness, he wore a pair of dark black goggles, as the Umbrish often did, and his fists were wrapped with thick, black chains. To his left stood a dark-haired Illyrian with a long, pointed beard and a fancy re-curve bow. He held an arrow at the ready. And behind him, sneering like a skull, was Ferun. I wished nothing more than to spit on him.

  “Arn, what brings you to our fair hamlet?” The barrel-chested one put his hands on his hips, right above the blades of a pair of axes hanging from rings on either side of his belt.

  “Burlone,” said Arn, with a nod. “I’m only here to talk.”

  Burlone held his hand up, open. “Then talk, Sand King.”

  “You’ve got one of mine, and I want him back.”

  Burlone’s thunderous laugh echoed off the walls. “He’s not been one of yours for some time, Sand King. I’ll tell you, when he first came to us with the proposition, I was skeptical. I thought surely you’d see through his duplicity, given enough time. How pleasantly surprised was I by your dull wits.”

  Arn stared past him at Ferun. The bastard did little but stare back, still grinning.

  “Do you have any idea how long he’s been helping us? How many people he’s helped us steal from you? How many women? You must feel quite the fool to have learned one of your most trusted men was working for me the whole time.”

  “If you’re quite finished insulting me, can we get to the business at hand?”

  “Business? We have business, Sand King?”

  Arn waved over his shoulder. Sharkhart and I pushed our Scumdog prisoners up beside him. “I have two of yours with which to negotiate. I return them in exchange for safe passage from this place, and for the return of Ferun so he may face justice.”

  Burlone stepped forward to look over the two captured men. They did not seem all that happy to be home. He glanced over his shoulder at the archer, who drew back an arrow and let it fly faster than we could react. The arrow took Struart in the throat, sending him to his knees, spitting blood. The archer drew and loosed a second arrow with a speed that would have made Reiwyn jealous, dealing a similar wound to Kloph. He fell beside the other, gasping for air as he drowned in his own blood.

  “Daevas!” shouted Arn, stepping forward with his hand on his cutlass. Sharkhart’s hand went to his whip, Efrot’s axe came out, and I grabbed Red’s hilt. Several crossbows came up at us, and the Illyrian archer had another arrow poised directly at Arn’s heart. Front-Strider fixed the bead of his crossbow on the archer in a deadly standstill. We stopped, helpless as our prisoners gagged and choked before falling to the dirt, blood pooling around their heads. Life left them as empty husks at our feet.

  Burlone’s laugh echoed through the cove again. This time he was joined by the others, including Ferun. “It seems you don’t have anything to negotiate with now, Sand King.”

  Arn fixed him in his icy blue eyes. “We will not be taken.”

  “Oh, I have no interest in taking you. It’s not you we want. The slave markets are flooded with male workers. You’re barely worth the stowage.” He looked at the rest of us until his big, brown eyes stopped on me. “Except maybe this one. You’re the wall builder, eh? An engineer-trained slave would fetch a fine price in Boxis.” I felt a chill as he looked back at Arn. “And I suppose you would be worth something as a hostage, if I cared to deal in such things.”

  “My people aren’t a threat to you.”

  “I know.”

  Arn looked past him at Ferun again. “We’ve uncovered your agent in camp.”

  Burlone crooked an eyebrow. “You think he was the only one?”

  “Leave us alone.”

  Burlone chuckled and looked at his men. They chuckled too, except for the archer, who kept a steady arrow poised at Arn. Then he leaned forward and said one word, “No.”

  “What will it take?”

  “Take? You think you can offer me anything more valuable than flesh to sell? I don’t care about your colony. I don’t care about your ideals. I don’t care about your wall. You have something we want, and we will take it as long as it’s there. The only question is how we get it. You can give it to us willingly, or we can come and take it from you. Either way, it will be ours.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Five women, each month. Young, preferably. Pretty, if possible.”

  “Never.”

  Burlone laughed and raised his arms. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He turned and walked back toward the gate. “It seems our negotiations have concluded, Sand King. Leave, before my mood sours and I have you killed.” Burlone’s men stepped back into the gate, with the archer moving slowly, not taking h
is arrow off Arn until he was well beyond the walls. Ferun stayed a little longer, staring at Arn and Sharkhart. They gazed back.

  “You betrayed us,” muttered Arn.

  Ferun chuckled. “It was just business. Nothing personal.”

  Arn shook his head. “May the Daevas have mercy on your soul.”

  We left as fast as we could, running once we made the beach and not stopping until we reached the ruins. Not a word was spoken. None needed to be. I’d never been so afraid in all my life. Such men were beyond reason. They lived in a nebulous void, beyond the rules and courtesies of even the most liberal of societies. They were predators, ravening beasts that cared nothing for the suffering of others. That we’d faced them down and lived I would count as one of the greatest blessings of my life. We might have had more luck negotiating with the gluttons.

  We fell against the ground and walls, panting heavily. Even Sharkhart was winded. Gargath and Zin ran to us and offered skins of water. Once my thirst was slaked, I collapsed to the dirt, rested my head against my crumpled cloak, and fell asleep. Arn woke me some hours later with a shake. I sat up and looked around. It was evening, and the stars were already peeking through the dim sky behind the three full moons.

  “I thought you would want something to eat,” he said, handing me a bowl of stew. “Front-Strider hunted some rabbits. At least, I think they were rabbits. We’re not really sure.”

  The bowl warmed my hand, and I dug into it with a big wooden spoon. It tasted bland, but inoffensive. As hungry as I was, almost anything edible would have tasted wonderful.

  “Burlone is their leader?” I asked Arn with a mouth full of stew in the glowing warmth of the fire. Across it I saw Reiwyn, sitting with Zin and Uller, staring into the flames as the other two chatted intimately. It made me jealous. Not because I wanted Zin, but because I wanted what they now had, but with Reiwyn. She didn’t look like she wanted any company though, least of all mine.

  “He was a pirate captain,” Arn explained. “A good one, too good: he became a victim of his own success. Morment, Illyr, even Ket put bounties on his head so great he couldn’t even trust his own crew. So he came here. He was here before we arrived, and built a city out of lost ships for other pirates and slavers too infamous for their own good. He is the worst of the worst of the worst.