Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  By now, the hkomas would have ordered the crew into the skiffs. The Ylladon vessel had been damaged as well, and listed deeply to one side. It was so far away, how could he do anything to save this woman’s sister?

  A thundering crack rolled across the night swells.

  The Ylladon ship rocked, and its stern shifted suddenly toward the open sea.

  “No . . . ,” Sgäile moaned.

  Another thundering impact filled the night. The marauder ship’s prow dipped sharply into the sea and did not come up again. It was sinking.

  The hkœda had released his shävâlean—the “swimmers.” They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.

  Sgäile looked away as the woman tried to lift her head to see.

  “Do not,” he said.

  He pulled a stiletto to sever the rope, then grasped the back of her tunic and towed her as he swam. Another crack sounded in the distance from the hull of the Ylladon ship.

  All Sgäile could do now was try to reach the shore.

  Chane watched helplessly as oil globes struck the elven ship and flames erupted across its deck.

  “Wynn,” he whispered.

  He lunged across the ship, searching to slaughter whoever had flung those globes.

  “Stop!” Welstiel shouted.

  Chane turned, sword in hand.

  Sabel came behind Welstiel, along with the other ferals, all laden with canvas and ropes and packs.

  “You said they would have time to escape!” Chane rasped, and his throat turned raw.

  Welstiel’s lips curled angrily. He opened his mouth to spit a response, but Chane never heard it. The sound of wood smashing filled his ears.

  The Ylladon ship lurched sharply, and seawater sprayed over the rail, driving debris across the deck. Welstiel clutched the mast, glancing about as half the ferals were thrown from their feet.

  “Take the packs and gear from her,” Welstiel said, pointing to Sabel. “Tie the canvas to your back.”

  Chane glared at him and did not move.

  “We have to swim,” Welstiel snapped, “as far north as possible before going ashore. We cannot risk Magiere or the dog sensing us.”

  “Swim?”

  “We will be too visible if we take a skiff,” Welstiel answered. He turned to Sabel and the others. “Leave no one here alive, and then follow us.”

  Another thundering crack sent the ship spinning sideways, and the bow dipped sharply.

  Chane grabbed the rail to keep from sliding. The ferals snatched at anything they could hold on to. For once they showed little eagerness for feast or slaughter. And Chane’s own hate faltered under his instinct to survive.

  “We all go now!” he hissed. “Any crew left would never let themselves be caught by the elves. We are hardly in danger of them revealing you!”

  He pulled himself up the slanting deck and took Sabel’s bundled canvas. He tried to wrap it tightly about his own pack, to protect the precious texts from the monastery, before tying the bulk across his shoulders.

  Welstiel never answered him, just threw his own pack full of arcane objects over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he shouted, “Come!” to his monks and vaulted the ship’s rail.

  Another loud crack exploded into the hull. Chane clutched the rail, waiting for the ship to settle, and then jumped overboard.

  In a brief glimpse of the burning elven ship, his thoughts filled with the image of Wynn’s oval, olive-toned face. Then he sank beneath the cold, dark water.

  “Sgäile!” Leesil shouted from the skiff’s front, one hand gripping its upturned prow.

  He searched the ocean swells with Osha crouched beside him.

  Magiere and Chap sat in the back with Wynn, now wrapped in her coat, as two elven sailors pulled on the oars. At least two other skiffs headed for shore, but not this one. Leesil had turned their small vessel southward, parallel to the coast and back along the marauder vessel’s course.

  “He’s got to be out here,” Leesil said tightly. “He’s too much of a pain in the ass to end up dead.”

  “Yes,” Osha answered. “We find him.”

  But the young elf looked no more certain of his claim than Leesil. And Sgäile was indeed a pain in the ass.

  Leesil was sick of the way the man looked at him, as if he was supposed to do something that Sgäile wouldn’t actually say. All the man’s superstitious nonsense about ancestors and his people’s old ways did little more than complicate Leesil’s life—or hint at a life he wanted no part of. Now that self-righteous, long-boned, sour-faced throat-cutter—that idiot—had thrown himself overboard to save someone he didn’t even know.

  But . . . Leesil couldn’t let him die out here.

  Chap barked, and Leesil’s grip tightened on the prow as the skiff crested another swell.

  “There!” Wynn cried.

  She pointed beyond where Chap clung to the skiff’s edge with one fore-paw. Out in the water, Leesil caught a flash of white.

  “Sgäile!” he shouted again, and looked down to Osha. “Tell the crewmen to turn us that way!”

  Before Osha finished rattling off instructions to the elves, that light spot in the water rose again.

  Sgäile swam on his side as he towed the elven woman floating on her back. He looked exhausted and pale, with his wet hair flattened around his head and face.

  “Here!” Leesil cried out. “Osha, get us alongside of him.”

  Sgäile paused, lifting his head. When he spotted the skiff, he redoubled his efforts.

  Osha pressed in beside Leesil, speaking Elvish to the two oarsmen.

  “We’ll take the woman back here,” Magiere called out, and pulled Wynn and Chap from the side. “You take Sgäile up front.”

  The elven crewmen turned the skiff sharply as it rolled down a swell, and then shipped their oars. Sgäile closed with two final strokes and reached for the skiff.

  Magiere leaned over the side, but the woman hardly moved, unable to help herself. One elven crewman knelt to assist, and they pulled her over the edge.

  Leesil grabbed Sgäile’s arm as Osha took hold of his belt, and they dragged him in. He collapsed on the skiff’s bottom, soaked and shivering.

  “Blankets, coats!” Leesil shouted. “Get me something to cover him!”

  Osha stripped off his cloak and threw it over Sgäile as Magiere dug among their belongings. She tossed Leesil his coat then spread her own over the woman. Wynn started to remove her coat.

  “No,” Magiere said. “All you’ve got is your shift under that.”

  The crewmen took up the oars and began rowing hard for the shore.

  Leesil struggled to pull off Sgäile’s soaked tunic and wrap him in the coat. He spread Osha’s cloak over the top as Sgäile leaned back into the prow’s cubby, still shaking uncontrollably. Sgäile snapped a long string of Elvish through chattering teeth.

  Osha stared back at him, stunned motionless. Leesil couldn’t follow Sgäile’s words, but he understood the tone.

  “It is not Osha’s fault!” Wynn cried out. “And he was protecting us!”

  “Yes,” Osha added sharply. “We find you . . . jeóin.”

  “Don’t blame him!” Leesil snapped at Sgäile. “You’re the fool who jumped overboard in the middle of an assault. And he wasn’t the only one who chose to come searching for your waterlogged carcass.”

  Sgäile struggled to sit up. His gaze slipped from the rowing crewmen to Magiere. He seemed to look her over, or look for something in her face; then he settled back, exhausted.

  Leesil plopped down beside Osha, shaking his head. For an instant, he entertained the notion of tossing Sgäile back overboard.

  The notion passed.

  Wynn huddled with Magiere and Chap in the skiff’s rear. The thundering cracks behind them had ceased as the other ship sank below the surface. But the elven vessel drifted slowly, still burning alive.

  She pressed
her hands over her face, trying not to cry.

  When she dropped them down, the others were repeatedly glancing behind the skiff with somber eyes. She heard the hissing crackle of water meeting fire but could not look.

  The elven woman lying at her feet coughed and sputtered but looked as if she would survive. She curled on her side, closed her eyes, and began to sob softly. Her tears were lost in the seawater clinging to her long triangular face.

  No one spoke the rest of the way to shore.

  When the crewmen shipped the oars and jumped into the surf, Wynn spotted three other skiffs on the beach. Torches had been lit and planted nearby. Leesil and Osha jumped out as well. Other elven crew came out, and they all pulled together until the skiff came to rest upon the gravelly shore.

  Chap hopped out, and Wynn climbed after him.

  She saw familiar faces among those present, though she knew none of the crew’s names. She was relieved to see that the hkomas had survived. His left arm and one side of his face were seared, but he appeared not to notice. Two of the crew hurried in to help the rescued woman from the skiff.

  One bowed his head slightly as Sgäile staggered out and Osha helped him to a dry spot on the beach.

  Wynn tried to count those who had survived. Just beyond the hkomas stood the girl with the thick braid and oversized boots, whom Wynn had learned was his steward.

  “Sgäilsheilleache . . . ,” the hkomas said and faltered.

  He gave no thanks for Sgäile’s actions, nor did he commend him for his courage. Anmaglâhk did not expect thanks—that much Wynn had learned from her time in Sgäile’s company.

  Out in the distance, lingering flames from the elven ship flickered upon the water. And then they were gone. Wynn felt the mood around her change as relief sank into mourning.

  “May your ancestors take you and watch over you,” the hkomas whispered, looking out over the surf and into the empty darkness.

  Feeling helpless, Wynn mouthed this same Elvish epitaph for the living ship.

  The hkomas’s face darkened as he turned upon Magiere.

  “Who were they?” he demanded. “Even Ylladon do not charge us in a reckless assault . . . just to kill our Päirvänean at such cost to themselves.”

  Magiere could not follow his Elvish, but she stood her ground, returning his glare. Sgäile climbed to his feet, wobbling as he stepped between them.

  “She knows nothing more than we do,” he said.

  “I saw her on deck!” the hkomas growled back. “She sensed something coming . . . as did the majay-hì.”

  “Such debate will not help us now,” Sgäile countered. “Were you able to send a distress call?”

  The hkomas’s suspicious gaze stayed on Magiere. “Yes. I reached a sister vessel of my clan. She is a scant two days out of Ghoivne Ajhâjhe . . . a long distance north.”

  Sgäile nodded with little relief. “She will send word at the next harbor and locate a closer ship. Our people will come.”

  At this, the young steward fidgeted behind her hkomas and glanced northward.

  Osha stepped in, turning to the hkomas. “We must hide the skiffs and get our people off this beach . . . and see to our wounded. Anything else should wait until morning.”

  Everyone fell silent at this calm but solid counsel, and finally the hkomas nodded. Both Magiere and Leesil silently watched this exchange, and Wynn felt sudden shame in forgetting to translate for them.

  “I will tell you later,” she said. “Osha wants to get the boats off the beach and find shelter further inland.”

  Leesil scanned the waters. “He’s right. Especially if any of the other crew survived . . . and made it to shore.”

  The skill of swimming came back to Chane. As a boy, his father had taught him—if “teaching” was the right word for being tossed into a cold lake, with rope around his waist to keep him from drowning.

  He swam a northward course behind Welstiel several lengths ahead. Hopefully far enough not to be seen when they came ashore—and not to be sensed by Magiere or Chap. His cloak and gear made the process difficult, but neither the cold nor the lack of air concerned him. At first he held his breath, as in his living days. When he finally gasped reflexively, opening his mouth, water surged into his lungs. He choked in panic, but it was only an unpleasant sensation, no longer harmful to a dead man.

  Finally, the sea floor rose into sight.

  Chane followed Welstiel’s lead, clawing along the bottom until there was not enough depth to bother staying submerged. They broke the surface amid the surf, and Chane’s soaked cloak became a massive weight. He was halfway up the rocky beach before he stopped, bent over, and vomited salt water from his dead lungs. As he finished stripping off his pack and cloak, the ferals emerged from the water.

  One by one, pale faces rose from the dark surf as they shambled from the sea to the shore. Sabel had gone over the side just before Chane, but she was last to emerge, just behind Jakeb.

  Chane shook his head and hands, trying to clear some of the seawater, and he turned his gaze south.

  “Are we far enough?” he asked. “Will she sense us?”

  Welstiel stared off along the shore. “Yes, we are safe from detection . . . if Magiere survived.”

  He sounded less than certain, which brought Chane pleasure at first. If Magiere were dead, Welstiel would suffer, perhaps never finding his coveted treasure. Anything that wounded Welstiel was now sweet to Chane, but he quickly lost the taste of it.

  If Magiere had not survived, what chance could Wynn have?

  “Check now!” Chane hissed. “Get out that damned dish of yours!”

  Welstiel turned with a sharp glance. “My exact intention.”

  He crouched, opening his waterlogged pack, and drew out the domed brass plate, shaking it several times to scatter clinging droplets of water. With his back turned, he drew his dagger. Chane could not see anything as Welstiel chanted softly.

  Welstiel lifted his head, facing south and away for Chane.

  “She lives . . . and she is a short distance away.”

  These words only made Chane burn silently.

  “But that says nothing,” Welstiel added, “concerning your little sage.”

  Chane could not go see for himself—not without being detected and hunted. Not without Welstiel’s protection, or rather that of his ring of nothing. And the situation could grow even worse if the ferals came after him or were discovered. He wanted those creatures nowhere near Wynn—if she lived.

  Dawn was half a night off, but they would travel no farther. The mortals would sleep, and tomorrow at dusk, Welstiel would verify which direction Magiere had taken.

  “I will find us a camp,” Chane hissed and stalked off into the trees.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sgäile awoke groggy and weak at the first streaks of dawn, but he remained silent until the others began to stir. To his surprise, the fire was still burning—someone had fed it regularly during the night. He sat up and found Osha squatting beyond the circle of bedrolls, keeping vigil.