The Balance of Power (Godsland Series: Books Four, Five, and Six)

by Rathbone, Brian

  "There's still the possibility of growing mushrooms in the dark," Miss Mariss interrupted. "Then we only need light to harvest them."

  "Even if we can grow enough mushrooms to feed the hold, we can't live off mushrooms alone," Martik added.

  "Can we at least agree that we should invest more time working on mushroom farming methods?" Chase asked with an edge to his voice.

  The others nodded.

  "On a positive note," Mirta interjected, "our herb- and flower-drying efforts have provided enough medicinal herbs and spices to last at least three winters. Our stockpiles of nuts and dried fruits are also enough to last several seasons with proper rationing."

  Chase tried not to frown, knowing even that success would not satisfy Catrin. If the hold were ever to be truly self-sufficient, they would need to find ways to satisfy all of their needs from within the hold. While Chase understood her motivations, every passing day made it more difficult to convince people that the hold needed to be self-sufficient. A warming weather trend had brought bountiful harvests, and the populations north and south of the wall were growing rapidly. The darkness of Catrin's visions seemed worlds away, and there were few people who believed they would ever need the protection Catrin so desperately sought to prepare. These thoughts weren't new, and he'd yet to find a solution, so Chase set his jaw and committed himself to simply making forward progress.

  "The fishery remains healthy, and we've found a kind of pond moss that grows well in low light. Berman Ross found it in a cave down south, and since we've introduced it to the waters, it has flourished. We may be able to create a sustainable fishery yet."

  This effort at least was one that everyone was behind. If the subterranean lake now known as the God's Eye could prove a reliable source for food and fresh water, then it truly would be a gift from the gods.

  "How about your efforts, Brother Vaughn?" Chase asked. "Have you found anything new?"

  "Not much, I'm afraid. I've found more references that confirm the keep once had fresh water running throughout, but I can find nothing to indicate the source. The basins and channels throughout the hold make it obvious that water once flowed, but what needs to be done to make it flow once again is a complete mystery. This whole keep is enough to relieve a man of his wits. Hidden chambers, hallways that go nowhere, strange runes that seem impossible to re-create--truly the ancients knew a great many things we do not."

  "Perhaps we should consider sending another envoy to meet with Thorakis," Miss Mariss said.

  "We've already sent two envoys, and neither has returned. I think we've already received our answer," Chase said then took a deep breath, preparing himself for Miss Mariss's reaction to that statement.

  "I wish I knew what happened to those men!" she blurted, surprising Chase, who suddenly found himself coughing. "If they're on the Greatland getting fat and leaving us to our fate, why I'll . . ." Miss Mariss continued under her breath, but her words were not meant or fit for the ears of others.

  Chase shared her frustration. Since the end of what was now called the Herald War, it seemed every bit of news from the Greatland was tied in some way to a man most called Thorakis the Builder. Some called him Thorakis the Savior, but that name was less popular here on the Godfist. Regardless, the man's accomplishments were undeniable, and already people around the world, including present company, were trying to figure out how to duplicate some of his feats. The establishment of an enormous fishery had been his initial achievement. Feeding the masses gave him the ability to effect great change. Every achievement brought more people to his cause, and those people further increased his ability to achieve the otherwise unachievable.

  "Whatever the cause," Brother Vaughn finally said. "I don't think we can expect any help from the Greatland any time soon. I suggest we continue as we have been, and we are bound to discover new things over time."

  His statement was greeted by silence. It sounded all too familiar, and since most of their meetings ended on a similar note, it did not inspire confidence.

  "On Catrin's behalf," Chase said, "I'll note that we still have approximately a thousand herald globes. With no sign of Kyrien, we don't expect to have more any time soon. I suggest we hold on to them. If we can't produce more, then we'll need to get more for the ones we have. We've orders for ten times the amount we have, so it won't take long before the offering prices start to go up. I also know that Catrin wants several hundred to remain within the hold at all times, so there really are very few that remain to be sold."

  "We'll have to keep an even closer watch on those we have," Brother Vaughn said. "I know those within the hold are trustworthy, but greed can make people do things they normally would not."

  "Agreed," Chase said. "Based on Prios's last report, there are no places available within the academy, but people continue to arrive on every ship in from the Greatland and the Falcon Isles. Now we even have ships coming from Garaway and Foss. We need to figure out what to do with these people."

  It was an increasingly troubling problem. Most of those who came seeking entrance to the Herald's Academy were turned away, and the majority had no way to return home. The fact was that most of them were misfits and outcasts, sent to the Godfist by their families with the anticipation that they would not return. In the absence of any quantifiable method of judging each person's potential, the academy had simply accepted all those who came until there were more than Prios and his staff could handle. After that, everyone was turned away with few exceptions. Generally only those who had manifested powerful abilities on their own were admitted. In some cases students of less potential had to be excused. It was a difficult and disconcerting process.

  "We also need to figure out who will maintain order until Prios can return to his duties," Chase added, and again silence filled the hall. "And most importantly, we need to figure out a way to help Catrin and Prios. There must be something we can do, and Brother Vaughn, I think you are the man to figure out exactly what that is. Unfortunately I also think you are the man to run the academy in Prios's absence."

  "I'll do everything I can to achieve both, but I'm going to need some help."

  "We'll do what we can to get you what you need," Chase said.

  "I've an idea," Mirta said. "I know I'm no expert, but I remember the tale of Catrin's astral travel to find the Firstland. She had no stone and metal throne, as she had at Ohmahold, and she became lost. Was it not the dragons who assisted her return? Did she not say that they aided her?"

  The rest of the group seemed dubious, but it was Brother Vaughn who gave their concerns a voice. "While our memories agree, I don't see how that will help us at this particular time. Catrin has been calling out to Kyrien for years, and he has not returned."

  "But we could try," Mirta interrupted. "Perhaps this is something the academy could help with. Maybe they can call out to the dragons and ask for help. What harm can it cause?"

  Brother Vaughn nodded slowly, his deep brown eyes thoughtful. "I don't suppose I see any harm in it, and it might help the people to feel they are doing something productive. We must, of course, continue to keep Catrin and Prios's actual condition secret. Perhaps we could just tell everyone that we need them to call the dragons here so we can obtain more dragon ore."

  "Maybe you should just throw the dragons a party," Martik added with a smirk.

  "I hadn't thought of that!" Mirta exclaimed.

  Martik rolled his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Light blinds as readily as shadow.

  --Hurakin the Assassin

  * * *

  Black sails crowded the horizon beneath a roiling mass of darkness. Unlike any storm clouds Pelivor had ever seen, towering formations curled in on themselves and emanated malevolence, as if the clouds themselves wished to destroy him and everyone else aboard the Slippery Eel. Even if the storm were simply a storm, the fleet of black ships drew ever closer, and Pelivor could feel their intent. It made his knees tremble.

  "You just need to believe you can
do it," Kenward repeated, as if those words could somehow convince Pelivor that he could do something that only the most powerful person on all of Godsland could do. Though he considered Catrin a friend, she was the Herald of Istra, and he was nothing compared to her. Though he'd shown the slightest spark of talent with Istra's powers, it had been only that, literally, a spark.

  "I'm trying," Pelivor said, doing his best not to let his annoyance put an edge on his voice. Though Kenward was the captain of the Slippery Eel, he was also a friend. Cold air pressed his loose-fitting silks to him, and his normally tight and deeply tanned skin drew even tighter, making him look as if he were carved from stone.

  "I know, but--"

  He didn't have to finish the statement; both could see the darkness closing in on them. The towering clouds looked as if they would swallow the world, and sudden bursts of lightning illuminated them from within, dark silhouettes standing out against the temporarily lit backdrop. Pelivor took a deep breath and tried to calm himself with no success. Lives depended on him, and he had no reason to believe he would succeed. All he had to go by were Kenward's descriptions of what Catrin had done, and those were decidedly vague. Perhaps if she were here, she could teach him, but she wasn't here. He also didn't have her dragon ore figurine or staff to draw energy from; the only power within his grasp was what he could draw from the air around him. He could feel it, smell it, and even taste it, but he had no idea how to gather it or focus it. He might as well try to gather fog with a bucket.

  Walking back to the bow, Pelivor couldn't help feeling like a charlatan as he spread his arms wide. The crew remained silent, watching him, willing him to succeed, knowing another failure would likely mean death for them all. That thought made Pelivor ill. When Grubb approached with a mug of aromatic broth, it was all Pelivor could do to force it down.

  "It'll cure what ails ya," the ship's cook said, his voice steady and a half smile on his face. Pelivor wished he shared the man's confidence, and it must have shown. "Don't worry. That man's been trying to kill me for years, and he ain't succeeded yet," he said, jerking a thumb in Kenward's direction.

  Handing the empty mug back to Grubb, Pelivor hoped this day would not change that. Ever since they'd left the Greatland bound for the Godfist, loaded with precious cargo, he'd had a bad feeling in his gut, and since the appearance of the black fleet, his fears had only grown.

  * * *

  Kenward paced from bow to stern and tried to avoid making eye contact with Pelivor, knowing the man was near his breaking point and there was nothing he could say to ease the burden. For years the Slippery Eel had been among the fastest ships on the water and had evaded even the most determined pursuers, but she was weighed down, and the ships behind them moved faster than any he'd seen before. He wondered again if the unnatural storm drove them to such great speed or if some new design allowed them to cut the waves faster than ships that had come before. Using his looking glass, he could see nothing that distinguished those ships from any other, and he came, once again, to the conclusion that some malevolent force drove them forward. The sense of impending evil was the most telling factor, and Kenward felt a rare wave of fear overtake him. Despite his efforts to hide the fear from his crew, he knew they could sense it, and that alone was enough to put them all on edge.

  Watching Pelivor from behind, he prayed the gods had not lost patience with him, and after tossing another gold coin into the waves, he hoped it was enough. A dim glow pulsed around Pelivor's hands, and Kenward dared to hope, but nothing happened. Soon after, the glow faltered and the sailor lowered his hands, his frustration clear in his posture. Again Kenward ran through his options, and again he came to the conclusion that nothing he could do would save them. Catrin's stonework thrones, cut from the mines deep below Ohmahold, were too heavy for his men to move without rope, pulleys, and substantial frameworks--none of which would be available until they reached the Godfist. He'd known the risk and accepted it, but now their precious cargo became their biggest liability, and jettisoning the other heavy cargo would destabilize the ship, only making the problem worse. Pelivor was their only hope, and that hope was as thin as gossamer.

  "They're gonna catch us soon," came the voice of Bryn, the bosun, and Kenward turned to him with an annoyed glare for stating the obvious. "I know we can't unload the thrones, but if we just keep going as we are, we'll have to fight them on their terms."

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "Do something they won't be expecting," Bryn said with a wink, the freckles standing out on his reddened skin, which never seemed to tan, and his blue eyes twinkled.

  Kenward grinned, a plan forming in his mind.

  * * *

  Pelivor watched in horror as the darkness swallowed the blue skies above them. Soon the black ships would overtake them, and all of them would die because he had failed them. His friends would die because he was feeble and weak minded. No. He would not give up. Catrin would not have given up, and he let the memory of her drive him. He remembered how she had fought to make him think more of himself and how he had grown to love her. Even if he could never have her, he would always have her in his heart.

  With a shuddering breath, he set his jaw and let his fears melt away. Catrin had believed in him, and he let that belief become his own. Opening himself to the energy around him, he pulled it to him as best he could and let it fill him, slowly and steadily. Before he had let his impatience and fear drive him, but now he tried something different, filling himself with more energy than he'd ever held before. It felt as if he would catch fire or simply explode, but he continued to gather energy and hold it within him. It was like holding his breath, and his body began to burn with need, every instinct telling him to release it before it was too late, but still he held on, knowing that failure meant death.

  The world around him ceased to exist, and he felt as if he might pass out, but he held the image of Catrin in his mind. She became his focal point, and by concentrating on her, his body's urgings became more distant and less poignant, as if he were but an observer of his own form. With her translucent hair blown back by the wind in his mind, Catrin's face held the strength of nations; her eyes, the fire of the sun; and her body, the might of the world. Though she was slender and slight, she looked as if she could pull the moon from the sky and cast it into the seas. When she looked at him, he felt her warmth wash over him, and he smelled her fragrance. In that moment he remembered their kiss, knowing it would be the only one they would ever share, yet it was enough to sustain him and hold him in thrall. Always before he'd let the guilt prevent him from reliving the memory, knowing that she'd given her heart to Prios, but this time was different. She loved him too--he knew it--and something told him that just this once, Prios would not object. Pelivor did not wish to steal her; he only wished to take strength and solace from her love and friendship. She had urged him to believe in himself, and for once he allowed himself to do just that.

  In the next moment, though, everything changed. The deck beneath his feet lurched, pulling Pelivor from his meditation as the Slippery Eel executed a sharp turn. Crewmembers armed themselves and prepared for battle. To his surprise, Farsy and Nimsy held one of the light anchors they used in rocky areas where they were likely to lose the anchor. Angular and pointed, this anchor was nothing like the heavy, rounded anchor used in deep water with sandy or muddy bottom.

  Now charging straight toward the approaching fleet, the Slippery Eel cut through the waves, seemingly pulled closer by a strange inflow, as if the storm itself were sucking them in. Pelivor despaired, his chance lost, and now all he could do was arm himself for the inevitable battle. No more could he hope to save his shipmates or himself; all he could do was hope to die fighting. It was a sickening feeling, yet there was a release in it. A strange and unfamiliar calm came over him as he watched his death approach. Those around him stood silent and stoic as they, too, accepted their fates with honor and grace.

  The ships before them began to separate and turn, only two
holding their course. As they drew closer, Pelivor expected to see men on those greasy black decks, but what he saw caused his fear to return. There were men but beside them were reptilian creatures in crude armor covering skin that looked nearly as tough as the armor. These demons watched with cold eyes as the Slippery Eel approached, and when the two ships flanked the Eel, they began leaping across the distance that separated the ships. Their strength and speed far exceeded that of their human counterparts, who could never have made such a leap.

  Given no more time to contemplate this new enemy, Pelivor found himself facing a towering demon with golden eyes and elongated pupils like those of a snake; the pupils narrowed as the monster eyed its prey. Opening its mouth in what Pelivor could only guess was the equivalent of a smile, it bared its black gums and curved, yellow teeth. The stench of death reached out first, followed by a whistling mace that nearly took Pelivor's head from his shoulders. Taking a step backward, Pelivor wanted to run and hide, his courage fleeing in the face of such evil, but there was nowhere to run. Even jumping overboard would only lead to his death, and he did what he would not have thought himself capable of: he planted his feet and faced the demon.

  Drawing energy as quickly as he could, having lost hold of his previous store, he extended his hand and lashed out with all the power he could muster, hoping it would be enough. A thread-thin line of blue light reached between his outstretched hand and the chest of the hulking demon, and a loud crack split the air, but the attack had no other effect. The demon tilted its head back and issued a barking laugh before raising its mace. Pelivor waited for the killing blow, but the demon suddenly stiffened and dropped to the deck, accompanied by a loud clang and a sinister sizzle. Behind where the beast had stood was Grubb, smoking skillet in hand. He offered Pelivor the briefest smile before both braced themselves.