Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  Welstiel climbed back up on deck. One sailor was nearly slapped from the rigging by the whipping sail, and the rest redoubled their efforts. Welstiel slipped along the rail toward the nearest forward hatch.

  Twice he ducked aside for a hurrying deckhand, but all the others were too preoccupied in getting the ship under control.

  He inched along until he fingered the hatch open and then dropped down the short, steep steps to find the captain’s small, cramped quarters—just a bunk, a table, two chests, and a porthole in a room below the ship’s prow.

  His globe of flickering lights rested on the table, and Welstiel began searching through papers for a navigation rudder or a map. He found nothing, but was not surprised. The favored hunting grounds of Ylladon crews never remained secret but were guarded as such for as long as possible. It was not uncommon for a crew member to buy favor and advancement on another ship with such information.

  Welstiel found a small drawer under the table’s edge. Inside it, a cracked leather journal lay atop parchment scraps and worn-out quills. He could not read the entries, but he scanned for any place-names of common stops to reference against those he might find on a map. It was the only way to know how far abroad this ship was traveling, in case Magiere headed for a habitable port. He guessed she would journey far south before searching the heights, for the Blade Range separating the western nations from the eastern coast was impassable. Welstiel briefly scanned the parchment scraps but found nothing useful.

  Where would the captain hide his maps and charts?

  Welstiel paused, sharpening his hearing. The crew still called to each other above deck, so he had time left to look further for niches or cubbies— any hiding hole known only to the captain and helmsman. But the walls sported no closets or shelves. He picked up the globe and crouched to peer beneath the bunk. There was nothing of note, so he flipped open the unlocked chest and rifled its contents without success. The second chest was locked, and he could not break it without leaving evidence of his passing. In frustration, he returned the globe to the table and grabbed the door to pull it closed behind him.

  He caught an odd shadow on the wall beyond the table, and swiveled about.

  The shadow looked like a faint warp in the wood. He stepped quietly around the table, but not so far as to block the globe’s flickering light. The shadow intensified, as if the aged planking flexed inward.

  Such a weakness in the hull would never be left unmended. When he ran a hand over it, he found no seams but those where the plank ends met squarely. He went all the way down before spotting a small square of wood in the floor, flush against the wall’s edge. When pressed, it gave slightly. Welstiel stood up and stepped on the square with his boot heel.

  The square’s outside edge sank down into the floor.

  A piece of the faintly warped wall tilted inward and lifted from the floor seam. Welstiel shoved the panel with his palm.

  The panel tilted farther inward, but not all the way, and Welstiel inspected its lower edge. The panel rested in some cradle beyond the wall, for he saw heavy iron strips extending from under the foot plate to under and beyond the wall. He pushed one side of the panel, sliding it away and behind the surrounding wall, and then grabbed the globe of lights. Crouched to step into opening, he straightened up as the globe filled the hidden space with soft light.

  To the opening’s right, iron bars partitioned half the space and broke the globe’s light. Black shadow stripes obscured what lay beyond them. But between them and the bars, light sparked in two pairs of amber irises too large for any human.

  Two elven women were locked inside the hidden cell—one fully grown and the other no more than an adolescent. They stared at him in silence. In spite of tangled hair and torn clothing, both were lovely and slender, with their smooth tan skin, lithe bodies, and large amber eyes. Both were tied and gagged with knotted cord.

  This was why the Ylladon had been so far north. Perhaps the captain indeed desperately needed to make up losses. These two women, offered up in a Ylladon market, would each be worth far more than his globe of lights. Such exotic “items” would create a frenzy of bidding.

  He remembered mention among the men in the cove of need to replace their water. Had one of these women managed to get loose and contaminate the ship’s supply?

  And the prisoners had seen him here, nosing about.

  How much would they think such information was worth in bargaining with their captors? It would do them no good, but that would not stop them from trying.

  Welstiel gritted his teeth. Killing these women would not serve him either, for their bodies would be discovered within a day.

  Both women continued staring at him, examining his clothes, for he dressed distinctly different from the Ylladon. Could he use this to his advantage? But he could not speak Elvish.

  “Do you . . . understand me?” he whispered in Belaskian.

  Neither responded, and he repeated himself in Droevinkan.

  The adult female perked up.

  Welstiel focused his will, calling upon the latent talent that had grown in his years as a Noble Dead. Staring into her eyes, he raised his voice above a whisper, and its low thrum reinforced his words as clear and true in the hearer’s mind.

  “Not yet . . . when we near a place close to shore . . . I will come for you.”

  She blinked twice.

  Had she understood? Did she comprehend enough Droevinkan for his suggestion to take root deep in her mind? He repeated more slowly, word by word.

  The young one craned her head, turning frightened eyes upon her companion. The adult frowned and blinked, and glared suspiciously at him.

  He looked different from her captors, but was human nonetheless and not to be trusted. Then slowly, she nodded.

  Welstiel returned her nod with a soft smile and placed one finger to his lips. He slipped out, sliding the wall panel back into its floor bracket. It took a moment to figure out how to close the portal fully, until he realized stepping on the floor’s wood square lifted the panel back into place. He placed the globe back on the desk and stepped out of the captain’s quarters.

  He was not clear of danger as yet.

  Hopefully the adult female would keep her young companion quiet. He had heard tales of human ships trying to round the northern peninsula into elven waters, but in these stories, not one had ever returned. The elves were savage in protecting their own. More than likely, he was not the only one who knew of the two stolen women. Magiere came south at a fast pace, and her vessel had its own purpose.

  As Welstiel crept back along the ship’s rail toward the aft, and slipped down its steps, the smell of blood rose around him again. His patience was already taxed to its limit.

  What had Chane been up to now?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The moon rose as Chap paced the deck amid the sounds of wind and wave, but his thoughts drifted. He had forsaken so much to protect Leesil and Magiere, yet now felt uncertain of the correct path—again.

  How had the Chein’âs known of Magiere? What did they want from her in exchange for their gifts of a dagger and what Wynn called a thôrhk? Something beyond vengeance, most certainly. And in the great scheme of things, what was the purpose for the artifact which Magiere sought?

  She and Leesil only wished to finish this last task and go home. With all Chap’s mortal heart, he wished this might be. But amid worry for them, something more nagged him tonight as he paced near the ship’s rail-wall. He felt a strong sense of something out there, coming closer—like a hole in the world he could not pinpoint.

  Chap hopped upon a storage chest near the rail-wall and stared ahead into the dark.

  Several elven crew members watched him curiously. They found it unnatural for a majay-hì to willingly leave its homeland. The young woman with the thick braid and oversized boots studied him like a mystery to be unlocked. But the crew’s discomfort did not matter, and he watched only the sea.

  “Chap, where are you?” Wynn called out.
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  He glanced back as she emerged from the hatch below the forecastle, dressed only in her white shift, boots, and Chane’s old cloak. Chap sighed, concerned for her as well.

  His kin, the Fay, might still want Wynn dead. Not only for her ability to hear and perceive their presence, but also because she knew they were up to more than just sending Chap as a guardian to Magiere. And why did Wynn keep wearing that old cloak instead of her new coat?

  Her preoccupation with Chane worried him—no, it was outright disturbing. He looked out across the rolling water rushing around the ship’s prow and tensed, looking for . . . something.

  “There you are.” She scurried to his side. “It is getting late.”

  Being treated as her charge—instead of the other way around—was annoying, but it still warmed him at times. Normally, Wynn did not come on deck without Osha or Sgäile. He was surprised to find her alone and knew he should take her back downstairs. But that hollow in the world that he could not quite find began to make him ache. To make him want to . . . hunt?

  Chap inched to the storage chest’s far end, but his sharp eyes saw nothing upon the ocean ahead.

  “What is wrong?” Wynn asked.

  Chap hesitated. Something is out there.

  Wynn put a hand on his head and slid it down his neck. “I do not see anything.”

  You are only human.

  “Only?” she answered indignantly.

  A wink of light rose ahead in the dark.

  Chap reared up with his forepaws perched on the rail-wall.

  “Vessel ahead!” someone shouted from up in the rigging.

  Chap already saw it. The distant wink came again, catching upon sails, and the hackles on his neck stiffened.

  Chane sat upon an old canvas tarp spread over the stained floor. He had propped open the hatch, but the hold still reeked of blood. All was quiet above on deck.

  Welstiel stepped in, glaring at him.

  Chane climbed to his feet, half-hoping Welstiel would make some self-righteous demand for an explanation. He was sick of this existence and spoiling for confrontation.

  Welstiel turned his eyes on each monk, one by one.

  The ferals were markedly better off than when Welstiel had left—more aware and curious about their surroundings. The one Sabel had called “Jakeb” was especially improved. His face had nearly healed of her scratches, and he studied Welstiel calmly. Sethè was also less agitated.

  Yet all the monks were smeared or splattered with blood.

  But Welstiel said nothing.

  He crossed to a bare space below the open hatch, dropped to the floor, and immediately pulled out the brass dish to scry for Magiere. Perhaps he was relieved that Chane had taken care of feeding the ferals. Or he was just lost in his own obsession yet again.

  Either way, Chane did not care.

  A loud call from above vibrated through the hold’s ceiling. Welstiel looked up, having barely nicked his stubbed finger, and only one drop of black fluid had fallen onto the plate.

  “What is it?” Chane asked.

  “Something about a ship . . . ,” Welstiel began, but his gaze dropped to the brass plate.

  Welstiel spun up to his feet and rushed back out of the hold. As his pounding footfalls filled the outer passage, Chane glanced down at the brass plate.

  The one droplet of Welstiel’s black fluids bulged at the center of its domed back, and the droplet had not moved at all.

  Chane bolted after Welstiel.

  Magiere’s ship was nearly on top of theirs.

  Welstiel burst onto deck and looked up to see the loose sail secured. Chane came out behind him, searching about in confusion.

  “Where is it?” Chane rasped. “Do you see the other ship?”

  Welstiel spun toward the ship’s aft.

  Both the captain and Klâtäs stood beyond the helm, exchanging quick, sharp words. He looked past them, senses widening, and caught sight of distant sails shimmering in the moonlight. Chane had followed, and Welstiel grabbed him roughly by his shirt.

  “We must drive Magiere to ground!”

  Chane scowled, but his gaze fixed into the distance behind their vessel.

  “How?” he hissed.

  “We sink her ship.”

  “No!” Chane spit back, swatting off Welstiel’s grip. “Wynn is on board!”

  “We must get them back on land,” Welstiel insisted. “It is the only way we can follow them now. They will have time to abandon ship . . . including your little sage!”

  He strode for the stern before Chane could argue.

  Klâtäs saw him coming and shouted, “Go down in hold!”

  The captain began calling to his men, and the tall, helmed man’s voice was tinged with fear. He walked past Klâtäs toward the bow. Welstiel ignored the helmsman’s order and followed the captain from a short distance with Chane close behind.

  Ylladon sailors rushed about at the captain’s orders. Two raced aft and uncovered the stern ballista. One by one, all the deck lamps were doused. Darkness enveloped the ship as Klâtäs suddenly threw his weight into turning the wheel.

  Welstiel grabbed the rail as the vessel listed sharply, turning from the shore for the open sea. Men in the rigging worked madly to raise more sails.

  “He’s running,” Chane said, watching the captain clinging to a rigging line at the ship’s side.

  “Obviously!” Welstiel returned, and then thought of what the captain had locked in his quarters. “We will change his mind!”

  He ignored the captain standing midship and headed back to the helm.

  “Get below!” Klâtäs yelled, still clinging to the wheel.

  “You cannot outrun that ship,” Welstiel said in a low voice.

  The helmsman spit at his feet, eyes on the ship’s arcing course. “What you know of it?”

  “I know it is elven,” Welstiel answered, inching closer. “And I saw what your captain has locked in his quarters. That ship will never stop coming for you—and the two women you have taken. It is faster than your vessel, and your only chance is to turn and fight.”

  Klâtäs shook his head but did not respond. It was clear the captain feared pursuit, as did the helmsman. Klâtäs spit out a stream of words that Welstiel could not follow, but he spun about at the sound of running footsteps.

  The captain closed on him, his heavy shortsword in hand. Chane drew his longsword at the sight.

  “Tell him that he must turn and fight!” Welstiel shouted at the helmsman.

  Another sailor grabbed the wheel as Klâtäs let go, still speaking loudly to his superior. The captain slowed, listening, then eyed Welstiel as he barked a short phrase.

  “If is battle vessel, we not can fight,” Klâtäs said to Welstiel. “Their ship keep going fast . . . even crippled and sails down. Something under waves can break our hull, sink us.”

  An elven battle vessel? Welstiel had never heard of such, and the idea of something beneath the water that could sink its enemies sounded like nonsense.

  “Load your ballistae with burning quarrels,” he said. “Set fire to the sails, and its crew will abandon ship. But you must come about. If we charge, we have the element of surprise.”

  Klâtäs shifted anxious eyes toward his captain. The fact that he was even trying to convince his superior—on the word of a foreigner—meant he feared they could not escape. The captain snarled back, grabbed Klâtäs by the hair, and shoved him away.