The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith

by Douglas Van Dyke

  Sondra turned around instead, to look in the direction the mages faced. Her blue eyes, empty with loss, saw the middle-aged man undoing the ropes near the bow. Korrelothar was saying his name again to the others, “Jentan Mollamos.”

  Sondra recognized the name. She saw the emblem of the Brotherhood of the Circles on his fancy lined coat. A wand of magic was tucked into his fine belt. This was the rogue mage who ruined everything. Her natural dark red lips frowned as a new description reach her ears, echoing through the recesses of her mind, a mind that had been empty to all else except her loss.

  Turncoat...

  Two warriors had fought this man in the insides of the ship. Korrelothar had provided their names, Trestan and Katressa. Even now, the same two companions were fighting a nightmarish creation on the deck. Jentan had allies backing up his treachery. Sondra saw the dark designs of death on Savannah’s armor. The woman desecrated the divine chariot simply by her presence. She paid little heed to the halfling or the silver-haired elf caster. Her focus returned to Jentan Mollamos. Nothing distracted her eyes from the evil man from then on. Even the high wind whipping her wheat-blonde hair about her face was nothing compared to the gathering storm of fury on the deck.

  Traitor…

  Jentan Mollamos had severed the trust of his own guild. A change came over Sondra’s heart as she considered the hurt he had caused. This man was the likely reason that enemies boarded the vessel of her dreams. He made possible the sabotage of Ganden’s divine ship. In the planks she stood upon, the acolyte could hear the failing mantra of her mentors. Those clerics who hadn’t died yet as a result of this man’s dishonor were bravely facing their final hour to save whomever they could. Sondra’s future and dreams were falling from the skies this night due to this man.

  On her left hip Sondra wore her rust-colored satchel, filled with the healing tools she had devoted herself to during her service to Ganden. This had been her entire life up to this night, in selfless service to heal others. Belted on her right hip was the mace she had been trained to use in order to take lives in defense of herself or others, though she had never needed it.

  Betrayer!

  No longer held on her belt, the mace hung from her right hand as white knuckles gripped the handle. The look of firm resolve appeared on her face as she stared at the man who owed blood for his crimes. Despite the other dangers on the open deck, Sondra marched towards the betrayer.

  CHAPTER 19 “A Clash on the Deck of Doranil Star”

  Lindon’s mandolin rested against his side as he watched the deadly play unfolding at the bow. The chiaso was doing her best to flip or dance gracefully out of range of the flail and the halfling’s sword, but her movements lacked harmony.

  Although the minstrel lacked skill in the martial arts, he knew the movements required a perfect blend of body, mind, and soul. The most graceful martial artists as well as the best minstrels derived the beauty of their talent from some peaceful inner core. Anyone could train to punch, or master the notes on any given instrument. The movements and agility were one of the easier points to master in either profession. Yet for all the training, it was the heart and mind that drove the subject to truly surpass any common limitations. The tranquil mind could adapt fluidly to unusual situations. A strong sense of heart could expand any talent into a translation that was above basic trained movements or music notes on a piece of paper. Lindon had found the harmony in his own soul and displayed his ability to express complex notions into his music. Likewise, he had seen chiaso who were able to transform defensive movements into an effortless dance. When the minstrel looked upon Montanya’s style, he saw limitations. It wasn’t that she lacked training, but she definitely had not taken her calling to heart. From his standpoint he could say: she might be able to play the music, but she could not see past it to make up her own interpretation.

  Lindon shook his head at the fruitlessness of her efforts. Montanya had the muscles and the speed, but she was not in tune with her own heart. She was fighting something within herself as much as the world around her. As good as her dance of agility was she still fell short of the coordination expected of chiaso training.

  It wasn’t hard to spot at least one of the youth’s distractions. The human chiaso could likely outrun the armored woman or the short halfling if she put her mind to it. Instead, the unarmed fighter tried to take shots at the halfling as she moved. At any given moment the chiaso would dance away from both weapons, only to risk closing the gap again just to let loose a kick at the sword wielder. Kemora had begun to allow Savannah to lead the attack. They measured Montanya’s rage to see if she would try even riskier attempts to get at the halfling rogue. From a distance, Lindon could see that both attackers had their eyes on their own prize: the bag in Montanya’s offhand. To the chiaso, the bag represented a hindrance she had never trained to overcome. In order to keep the bag away from her opponents, it kept one hand behind her back.

  The woman needed help but no one was anywhere nearby. Passengers were surging aft, intent on escape. There was a mass of confusion near the lifeboats which crewmen and mages worked to resolve. Of everyone else, Lindon was possibly the closest person to offer a chance at affecting the outcome. Even then, there was a large hold opening on the deck which he would have to circle to get to her.

  The minstrel allowed his mandolin to rest from its sling, while his hand went to his belt. He felt the comforting hilt of his lightweight smallsword at his side. He slid his hand and wrist through the leather loop hanging from its pommel. The loop hung loosely around his wrist as he drew steel. The fine weapon had many qualities similar to a rapier, but lacking certain ornamentation such as a protective basket or any elaborate designs. It favored skillful thrusts rather than heavy swings. Some called it a gentleman’s sword, for it could be smuggled places disguised as a cane. It was known to be used as such at social occasions when insults led to the surprise appearance of steel and the splash of blood from a rival.

  While Lindon didn’t pretend to be a gentleman, he did prefer a light weapon which he could use with deft precision. Blade in hand, but with his left hand still resting on the strap of his mandolin, Lindon of Orlaun began to circle the edge of the hold.

  * * * * *

  Montanya was tempted to extend another kick towards the halfling rogue, instead she wisely danced backwards to avoid that heavy flail. The chiaso wished she could finally rid herself of that troublesome rogue, but the cold, blue eyes behind the skull helm probably harbored the same thoughts in regards to Montanya. The steel head of the flail came terrifyingly close to ending the orphaned daughter of the Westonhout family. Montanya blocked the flail to get in a strike at the human opponent. She regretted the move immediately afterwards since it placed the unknown items in the bag at risk. The cloth bag swung until it tangled with the chain of the flail. The metallic head wrapped in a descending arc until it clanged against the hard objects inside.

  Though Montanya, Savannah and Kemora winced at the sound of the impact, only Savannah knew she was more likely to damage her flail than nick the divine relics. Montanya never flinched from her intended move despite realizing her error. The knuckles of her right hand rapped on the throat of the abbess, in the only open area between the breastplate and the skull helm. Executed properly, the result would be a broken windpipe.

  As Lindon had noted across the deck, Montanya seemed to lack the concentration to execute her moves properly.

  The abbess felt the sting of the blow though she had no difficulty breathing afterwards. Savannah swept her left gauntlet up to shield her throat as she pulled away. Montanya, having already finished the maneuver, also attempted to disengage and focus on the halfling. Both women found they were still entangled by the flail wrapped around the relic bag. Both stubbornly held on to the items in their hands even as they forcefully tried to push apart.

  The cloth bag started to rip as Savannah pulled on the metal flail. Kemora advanced from the side. The halfling led with her sword as opportunity present
ed. Montanya recalled an agile move from her training, but it was something she’d never had to do in combat before. It was her only hope of retaining possession of the bag without wearing a sword through her gut.

  Kemora stabbed forward…but Montanya was no longer there. The human had reversed the momentum of the pull. Instead of pulling away from Savannah, she used the abbess’ pull combined with the strength of her legs to execute a jump. Two feet clad in soft leather slippers came down hard on Kemora’s shoulders, providing the extra lift for the somersault. Kemora fell face forward on the deck while Montanya flipped over the head of the cleric of DeLaris. Savannah’s eyes saw only a red braid of hair slap her in the face before she received a shove from behind.

  The bag and the flail untwisted, separating at last.

  Montanya’s relief was almost literally cut short as Kemora regained her feet and attacked. The halfling was aggravated to the point of recklessness. Her sword chopped back and forth as Montanya sought a proper fighting stance.

  Beyond the frantic halfling, the cleric of DeLaris prepared a trick. Tired of the straight fight, she softly called forth a miracle from her goddess. The abbess took a step to one side…and disappeared!

  Montanya had no time to contemplate the tactic due to the bloodthirsty halfling pushing her back around the hold. The sword actually nicked the chiaso twice, though both cuts were small. The youth remained on the defensive as she waited for an opening.

  Savannah now stood behind the unknowing youth. A hard shove from the cleric sent Montanya pitching forward. The chiaso barely registered the sound of the armored plate grinding behind her at the same time she heard the halfling sword slashing through the wind. A wide gash opened in Montanya’s hip as Kemora’s blade slid past.

  Stunned, Montanya half-turned on her weakened leg to note the cleric standing behind her. She also saw the heavy head of the flail sailing towards her smooth, rosy cheeks. Her view swam with the dizzying spin of bright stars as the crunch of bone rattled her head.

  Savannah and Kemora felt a wave of satisfaction that turned quickly to horror. As the muscular body of the chiaso went limp, momentum carried her over the edge of the deck. Montanya tumbled into the open hold, taking the relics with her. The sack rolled into darkness as the young woman crashed atop a stack of supplies.

  * * * * *

  Claws raked ineffectively at Trestan, sliding across the hard breastplate. The attack pushed the paladin backwards, making his own swing miss the abomination. Cat scored a hit while the creature was distracted. Her silver rapier lanced into its haunches. The creature bled from a number of small stab wounds caused by the two companions.

  The claw on the tail snapped at Cat. The half-elf let out a surprised yelp as it caught the trailing edges of her raven-black tresses. A few strands yanked loose from her scalp as she scrambled backwards.

  Trestan readied an overhand hack at the claw, but Cat shouted, “Keep your sword low!”

  The summoned beast turned to face the adventuress though Trestan forced himself into its path once again. He worried less for his own safety given the protection his armor afforded. He abandoned the overhead slash in favor of more direct thrusts to keep the thing’s attention. Trestan threw a questioning glance her way as she sought to sneak around the flanks of the beast again.

  She answered his unspoken question quietly, trying to avoid the beast’s attention. “I saw how this creature disarmed Salgor.” Trestan had been too busy fighting Savannah years ago to notice the dwarf’s tussle with this same summoned monster. “It waits for you to try an overhead attack, then its rear claw snaps up your weapon and pulls it out of your hands while the front claws rake at you.”

  Trestan nodded his understanding. After a few more teasing movements with his elvish blade, he shouted to Cat again. “Cat, I can take care of this thing. Someone needs to delay them before they slip away.”

  Cat noted the enemy band at the bow. Jentan almost had a lifeboat loose, while Revwar was casting spells to prepare for the onslaught from the mage guild. The half-elf looked back to Trestan. Her emerald eyes flashed her concern for him.

  “Just go, Cat. Slip by this thing while you can.” Trestan urged insistently.

  Trestan’s sword danced with the front claws of the creature, keeping it focused on him. Cat had the chance to try another surprise attack if she chose to do so.

  “I love you, faunlessa. Go before they get away again.” Abriana’s champion implored.

  Cat nodded grimly. The point of her silver rapier finally turned away from the creature as the infiltrator stealthily made her way up the deck. Trestan faced the summoned creature, knowing he had to solve this problem on his own. He put away fears and doubts. This was the life he had undertaken. He championed the goddess Abriana. Trestan would have to face this abomination and kill it quickly, without help.

  He failed to notice Cat wasn’t the only one to sneak by the fight. A young cleric wearing the ceremonial robes of Ganden also slipped by, making her way towards the bow, wielding a deadly mace.

  * * * * *

  Savannah and Kemora stood there a long moment, staring in horror into the blackness of the hold. Revwar’s words shook them. The elf pointed down the deck with his slim finger. “I suggest you help me delay those people down there, or we are all dead.”

  Cleric and rogue looked across the hold to see the gathering throng of angry mages. The guild mages spread out across the width of the deck, holding wands and staves in a threatening manner, aglow with magical shields. The worst that fire, lightening, ice and elements could do would be displayed before them on a par that none of them could hope to defend.

  Savannah and Kemora looked to their own resources. The cleric began to pray fervently to the Goddess of Death. Cold blackness coalesced around her, the tangible expression of death itself. She channeled the darkest nightmares of her goddess into her body. A stench reached the nose of those closest, reeking of a tomb left open to decay in the sun.

  Meanwhile, Kemora searched frantically for any mischief she might unleash to slow the advancing horde. The halfling noted a man with a red beard and a wide-brimmed, feathered hat skirting the edge of the hold. He carried a slender blade in one arm while cradling a mandolin under the other. Kemora had no time to deal with one man when so many others were becoming a threat.

  The halfling rogue saw a pile of alcohol casks lashed on their sides to the front of the bow. Several had been handy to be served upon the completion of the magical show. If she were to cut some of the ropes, the pile would roll apart, sending several barrels traveling down the length of the deck. Kemora started hacking at the lines with her sword.

  Savannah channeled the energy of Death, forming dark orbs in her hands. The cruel miracle from her goddess conveyed the moment when the sands flee an hourglass, and the nighttime cold arising when the sun sets over the horizon. It was the manifestation of time catching up to even the lengthy existence of a divine chariot.

  Savannah aimed high, into the masts of the ship. Some of the mages cowered while many more shifted their spell shields upward to deflect any assaults from above. The dark orbs hit the decaying wooden masts and sent darkness cascading along their lengths. The cracking of timbers heralded the weakening of the masts. The ship had already been decaying from the sabotage of the holy receptacle. Savannah’s spells expedited the process for the masts. Timbers split as age overtook them. Yardarms cracked under the weight of their own sails.

  As Kemora neared the end of her efforts, a thought came to her. It would make much more of an effect if flaming barrels rolled down the deck. As she continued to consider what chaos that could be, it occurred to her there was a ready source of flame nearby. With the last couple ropes barely holding back the weight of the barrels, Kemora asked Revwar for a favor.

  “I need a fire! Right here on these casks!”

  The elf wizard grinned. The halfling jumped away as the wizard sent a cascade of flame tumbling towards the pile. Kemora ducked under the heat as the flames
licked away the last ropes holding the pile in place. Ropes gave way, allowing gravity to do the rest. The barrels rolled down the deck, some crashing into other objects, spreading flames as some of the alcohol escaped the containers. The light from the fires lit up the night.

  Nobles fled the rolling barrels as flames spread. People panicked to get to the lifeboats. Mages unleashed blasts of cold frost against the fire. Some cast spells to affect the alcohol itself, including the effect of turning some of it to water. The distraction kept the mages busy.

  Lindon found himself in the path of the rolling hazard. The minstrel allowed his smallsword to drop from his fingers. It stayed connected to him by the loop of leather around his wrist. He swept up his mandolin and began playing. Waves of sound deflected the barrels coming directly at him, but he still faced the threat of fire.

  * * * * *

  The knots proved challenging to a man who prided himself on his agile fingers and physical condition. He admitted to himself the crewmen probably had a quick way to release the rigging that he hadn’t discovered. The result was he likely caused some knots even as he tried to undo the mess of rope. Jentan finally had the whole thing untangled except for a couple knots that wouldn’t come free. The mentalist resorted to magic. He severed the remaining strands with puffs of intense, controlled fire, avoiding damage to the lifeboat.

  Once free, the levitation boat displayed the reason for it to be tightly lashed down. The large boat proved weightless in Jentan’s hands. The middle-aged human easily maneuvered it away from the rest of its twin constructs. Jentan could imagine how the levitation boats might float around the deck if the divine chariot performed any hard maneuvers.

  A pair of feet on the edge of his vision caused him to pause. The mentalist took half a step back in surprise as he looked up. His eyes scanned over a priestess, standing before him with mace tightly gripped in one hand.