Crossroads 04 - The Dragon Isles

by Sullivan, Stephen D (v1. 1)

  Two spartan cabins occupied the rear of the ship, one, Trip assumed, for Lord Kell, and one for Lady Kell. The crack beneath the door of one was dark; the voices came from the other.

  “Anything we find at Jaentarth will only be a stop-gap at best,” said a woman’s voice that Trip recognized as the ship’s healer. “The people of Jaentarth are the descendants of pirates and shipwrecked mariners. They’ve no true medicine. We’ll still have to journey to Berann to save your sister’s life.”

  Trip’s heart soared at the mention of Jaentarth. He’d be meeting some pirates, after all!

  “Are you suggesting we skip Jaentarth altogether?” Lord Kell asked.

  Trip’s heart fell slightly.

  “No,” the healer replied. “I need certain supplies to stabilize her. Even a Jaentarth cow-town should have what I require.”

  “Then tomorrow we’ll stop just long enough to obtain what my sister needs, before setting course for Berann,” Kell said.

  “Milord Kell,” interrupted a third voice which Trip was slightly surprised to recognize as Karista Meinor, “why not ask your dragon friend to take your lady sister back to Berann? Surely Tanalish can fly more swiftly than we can row.”

  Trip scratched his tawny head. It seemed that Meinor and Lord Kell had become quite friendly during the short time the kender had been tied up.

  “In Misa’s condition,” the healer replied, “I would not recommend it. Perhaps if I can stabilize her at Jaentarth.”

  “Do whatever you can,” Kell said.

  “Of course, milord,” the healer replied.

  The cabin door opened, and Trip had to press himself back into the shadows against the bulkhead to avoid being seen. The healer exited Lord Kell’s chamber and went into the room next door. In the brief moment before the healer closed the door, Trip saw that it was indeed Lady Kell’s room.

  Karista Meinor shut the door to Lord Kell’s cabin once more, and Trip returned to his listening post

  “I pray that this anchorage may bring your sister much- needed relief from her wound,” Karista said. “And I look forward to returning to your keep on the isle of Berann. Perhaps then we may seal the trade deal between your order and my people in Jotan. I trust the treasure Fve offered as a token of good faith is adequate?”

  That comment puzzled Trip. He didn't think Karista had salvaged any treasure to bribe someone with.

  “Quite adequate—if it exists,” Lord Kell replied. “We shall discover whether it does, in due time. For now, I am pleased that the first key has been returned to the Order. When it was stolen long ago, and the pirates lost at sea, Lord Thrakdar had little hope it would ever be seen again.”

  They were talking about Mik’s artifact! The black diamond—which they’d stolen from Trip’s pocket!

  “Milord,” Karista said, her voice sweet and soft, “I have fulfilled my part of our agreement: I help deliver the treasure to your order; you secure for me a reliable trade route to the isles.”

  “Yes, that is our agreement,” Kell said firmly. “And I will honor it. Now, however, is not the time to consider such things. Misa’s health must come first.”

  “Of course, milord,” Karista purred. “Shall we drink to our success, then?”

  “Aye,” Kell replied.

  Trip’s small head swam with ideas. Karista had claimed Mik’s treasure! She was bribing Lord Kell into giving her a trade route to the Dragon Isles! It didn’t sound like Karista or Kell had have any plans to share the big diamond and the rest of the loot with him, Mik, Ula, or anyone.

  Trip determined then to get off the ship and warn his friend at the earliest chance. How he might find Mik remained elusive. Still, “Every journey begins with a single step,” or in this case, “plunge,” as the kender saying went.

  Sneaking past a sleeping oarsman and peering out the tiny oar hole, the kender saw only the dark, gray sea rising gently before a westerly wind. No sign, yet, of their destination. The thought of going to an island populated by castaways and pirates thrilled the kender. He doubted he’d have much time to look around and make friends, though—not if he was going to warn Mik.

  Cautiously, Tripleknot Shellcracker crept back to his closet and put on his ropes. He’d make his move when they anchored at Jaentarth.

  * * * * *

  Trip woke with a start. The creaking of the ship had changed, and he no longer heard the rhythmic splash of the oars. An unexpected plate of cold food and a tiny skin of water lay at his feet, and he cursed himself for not being more wary. Footsteps on the decks above told him that it would be tricky now to slip out of his small prison.

  Yet there was nothing else for it.

  He shucked his ropes and quickly picked the lock once more. Peering out the door, he found himself in luck; nearly all of the deck’s oarsmen seemed to be working somewhere else—probably on the main platform. Trip slipped out the door and made his way cautiously between the benches.

  New sounds of splashing drew his attention to one of the oar holes. Swimming—the crew was swimming beside the ship. This might have been a break, had the galley been tethered to a dock—which is what the kender expected.

  But when he peered out, he noticed that the trireme lay anchored quite far offshore. In the distance he saw Lord Kell’s skiff approaching the mainland. The town they were headed for was not the romantic pirate village Trip had imagined. Rather, it was a ramshackle collection of rundown buildings clinging to the steep sides of the Jaentarth shore. Huge boulders littered the rocky shoreline near the town, and tall cliffs sprang up on either side of the tiny landing area. The black maws of a dozen tidal caves scarred the cliff face.

  Trip saw now why his captors hadn’t expected much from Jaentarth. Even to a kender it was slightly disappointing. It would have to do, however. He doubted it would he any easier to escape from Berann.

  Ducking around the benches, he made his way to Lord Kell’s cabin. A quick search turned up his confiscated items, including his lucky treasure finder and his daggers. Trip smiled and hung the thong attached to the shiny, pointed rock around his neck. He hadn’t remembered to wear the treasure finder since stowing away on Kingfisher, hut a bit of good luck now couldn’t hurt.

  He tucked the pearl-handled daggers’ sheaths into the top of his hoots and then packed away the rest of his small treasures. His hazel eyes strayed covetously toward the coral lance hanging over Benthor Kell’s bunk, hut he decided there was no way to take it with him at the moment. Rummaging around further, it didn’t take him long to turn up the black diamond artifact.

  Remembering that he had already once failed his promise to keep the ancient key safe, he removed it from the hidden compartment in Kell’s sea chest and tucked the golden trinket even more deeply into his vest pocket.

  Now to find his friends.

  Going on deck to slip overboard seemed out of the question. Fortunately, Lord Kell’s cabin had a good-sized porthole on the starboard wall. Unfortunately, the small window looked directly toward the ship’s landward side— where the crew was swimming.

  Trip guessed that Lady Kell’s room would have a similar porthole in the ship’s opposite hull. Moving quietly, the kender crept from Lord Kell’s cabin and put his small ear to Misa Kell’s door. No voices came from within.

  As he opened the door, though, a quiet gasp came from inside. Trip froze. When no further cry went up, he decided to dare a peek.

  Peering into the darkened cabin, he saw Misa Kell lying on a simple palette near the stem. She was alone. Sweat dripped from her brow, and—despite the freshness of the dressing on her wound—the room smelled of blood and old bandages.

  Trip crinkled his nose and crept silently across the floorboards. Misa Kell groaned and her gray eyes flicked open. Trip froze again; he couldn’t tell whether she was actually seeing him, or whether she was lost in some fever dream.

  She reached weakly toward the kender; Trip backed across the room toward the curtained porthole.

  “The light,” she murm
ured. “I want to see ... the light . .. before I die. Please.”

  Trip nodded and smiled. “Fll be happy to,” he said. “I was going to leave that way anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Misa’s eyes fluttered shut and she groaned again.

  Trip pulled back the curtain and hoisted himself up to the lip of the portal. He checked outside to make sure there were no swimmers below. There weren’t. Before scrambling through, he turned to Misa and said, “Goodbye. I hope you feel better.”

  Lady Kell didn’t reply, and Trip couldn’t be sure if she even heard him. With one final wriggle, he slipped through the port hole and dived into die water below.

  Coming up for air, he checked the galley’s deck, to make sure no one had seen him. The lookout was gazing past him, out to sea; the bulk of the ship hid the kender from the man’s view.

  Cautiously, Trip swam around to the bow. He knew that there might not be anyone watching that direction—while the helmsman would surely be stationed near the stem.

  He paddled cautiously toward the ram, then noticed that some of the crewmen were clinging there, taking a break from their swim. Trip pressed himself against the hull and thought hard.

  The kender knew he couldn’t hold his breath long enough to swim all the way to shore. He also knew that he’d probably be spotted as soon as he surfaced. However, he had few other options. He checked the pockets of his lizard-skin vest and pulled out the last bit of magical seaweed. He stuck it in his cheek and chewed vigorously.

  Nothing happened.

  Either the magic had worn out or there wasn’t enough left to make the spell work. Either way, it was no use to Trip, so he spat it out Drat! He’d have to do this the hard way.

  Taking a deep breath, he dived under the keel of the ship and headed for shore. He watched Kell’s warriors swimming in the clear surf above him. They would certainly see him if they glanced down, but Trip hoped they wouldn’t do that. He also hoped that anyone on deck looking might mistake him for part of the crowd in the water. He prayed that his leg wound wouldn’t open up again and attract sharks.

  He swam as fast and as far as he could, holding his breath until spots danced before his eyes. Then, with a final surge, he broke the surface about fifty yards from the boat A quick breath and he went back down again, swimming for all he was worth.

  The spots came more quickly this time, and he barely made it back to the surface. He sputtered and coughed as he stuck his head out of the gentle waves. For a few long moments, he gasped for breath. As he did, he heard a cry of alarm from the trireme. They’d spotted him.

  He dived back under again. When he resurfaced, the shouting grew louder. Something splashed in the water nearby, and Trip realized they were shooting at him. He ducked back below the waves just as a brass-tipped arrow sailed over his head.

  Again to the surface—nearly out of arrowshot this time. Trip’s lungs burned, and his head felt dizzy and full of cotton. An arrow splashed into the water beside him, barely missing his shoulder. He swam on the surface for a while, trying to clear his skull. Another arrow whizzed past. Gazing ahead, he saw Jaentarth’s rocky shores—still much too far away.

  Once more under the waves. Good thing he was the best swimmer in a family of champion swimmers, if he did say so himself. He saw the rugged shoreline rising up under him now. The clear water made it easy to pick out the jagged rocks and coral lining the bottom.

  On the surface again, breathing more easily now, well beyond the range of the ship’s bowman. Before him, though, another problem. The trireme had alerted the landing party. He saw Lord Kell, Karista, the healer, and a number of brass- armored guards standing on the hillside. They were pointing his way and shouting.

  The shore was close now. With every surge, the breakers carried him forward. “Don’t get smashed on the rocks,” Trip told himself.

  The waves pushed him toward the boulders. Trip twisted his body to avoid being crushed and grabbed with his fingers. He caught a nook on one of the crags and held on. In the lull before the next wave, he scrambled up out of the surf.

  He lay on the rocks for a moment, panting, every part of his body burning with exertion. Blood pounded in his ears, mixing with the crashing of the waves. Then, another noise rose above the sounds of blood and water—yelling.

  Raising his tawny head, Trip saw the landing party coming for him. Every muscle aching, he thrust himself off the boulder and down the rocky beach. The beach’s stones bruised his feet through his soft-bottomed boots. He ignored the pain and kept running. Good thing he was a champion runner too, from a family as good as running as it was at swimming.

  The shoreline stretched before him, a hundred yards of rocks and coral. Beyond them, the surf again, and a sheer cliff face a hundred feet high. Trip liked to climb, but rock climbing wasn’t his specialty; no, he was a swimmer and a runner and, if it came to climbing, he was far more at home in a ship’s rigging.

  “If I try to climb the cliffs, they’ll shoot me like a duck in a barrel,” he thought.

  The sea caves in the cliff face presented a better option. He was willing to bet that he might be able to lose his pursuers there. And what other choice did he have?

  Trip ran for the caves as fast as he could. He splashed into the surf and took them in turn, peering into each one he passed. He turned down the first two—obviously too shallow—and the third because he heard the sounds of water echoing back out.

  The fourth looked more promising. It angled up, out of the water, and disappeared into semi-darkness. Trip might have explored further, but the sounds of pursuit made up his mind.

  Not daring to look back, he ducked into the cave and ran up the slope. The light grew very dim as the tunnel leveled off, and he found himself squinting.

  He hoped that his pursuers might not have spotted which cave he went into. That hope proved short-lived, though, as shouts from the cave entrance told him that Kell and the others were nearly on top of him.

  Groping with his hands, he moved down the tunnel as quickly as he dared. The walls around him were wet and slippery. He dashed forward, and then stopped.

  It was a dead end.

  He'd picked a dead end.

  The kender wondered briefly what they'd do when they caught him. Being locked in the cabin again wouldn't be so bad. On the other hand, maybe they'd decide that he was more trouble than he was worth. Maybe they'd decide not to take him to kendertown, and just get rid of him.

  A half dozen interesting ways they might kill him ran through Trip's mind.

  Then he noticed something he hadn't before. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness. There was something odd about the far end of the blocked tunnel—some source of vague, greenish light.

  Racing the last few yards, his heart pounding in his throat, Trip gazed at the tunnel floor. He hadn't noticed the passage descending again, but it must have, because there, on the floor at the end of the tunnel, was a hole filled with sea water.

  The opening was about four feet around, plenty big enough for the kender to jump into. The vague green luminescence was reflecting up out of the small pool. Trip looked in and couldn’t see the bottom. Perhaps it was a way out.

  The sounds of voices close behind him made up his mind.

  Tripleknot Shellcracker took a deep breath and dived in headfirst.

  Twenty-Three

  Council & Conflict

  The large moray eel swimming surrepti- tously through the coral canyons of Darthalla was not an eel at all. It darted from shadow to shadow, peering into windows, following its sensitive nose. The scents of the elven city confused it, hut strong purpose burned in its mind: destroy the Veil, pursue those who have pierced it, discover their secrets, find the keys.

  The voice of Tempest hissed sofdy in the eel’s mind; her visage, huge and wrathful, danced before its eyes. The eel who was Mog watched, and waited, and lurked unseen.

  *****

  Mik swam beside Ula and Shimmer as they trailed Lyssara Drakenvaal through the m
aze-like passages of the palace in Darthalla.

  Now that Mik had a chance to look more closely at him, he could see that Shimanloreth was exceedingly handsome.

  His features were strong and well-formed. His hair shone like spun copper, complimenting his orangish eyes. His skin was tanned and smooth. There was an elvish cast to his face: the regular features, the arched brows, the slightly pointed ears—though Mik didn’t think he was actually an elf. Not for the first time the sailor wondered about the bronze knight—who he was, how he came to live in the sea, and what was the secret of his amazing armor.

  Ula’s sister, Lyssara, talked incessantly as they swam down the gently curving hallway. Her words were eloquent, though Ula seemed unimpressed.

  “It’s not just your family,” Lyssara was saying. “This concerns the whole of Darthalla—and even the Isles themselves. Something is wrong with the Veil. Tempest could never have gotten so close otherwise. The weather has been erratic as well. Of course storms don’t affect our people as much as they do the surface dwellers, hut it has hindered shipping—which affects everything else.”

  “The departed gods forbid that Dargonesti should be selfsufficient,” Ula said sarcastically.

  Lyssara frowned. “None of us is alone in this world, Ula,” she said, “no matter how much we might like to he. Ah, here are your chambers. I trust you’ll find them adequate for your brief stay.” She led them all up a short slope, and through a moon pool into a dry foyer.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Mik said.

  Lyssara smiled at him, though Mik didn’t think she liked him at all. “I’ll leave you alone to get settled then,” she said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired. We’ll talk again during breakfast.”

  “Or perhaps we could enjoy our breakfast in silence,” Ula said, imitating her sister’s false smile.