by S. A. Hunter
Bridal Veil Falls dropped from a sheer, ten pike lengths height, down to a foaming, turbulent bowl. From there the Spinfisher River ran swift, but navigable, to the ocean.
Alba leaned close and shouted, “The old caravan bridge is around the next two bends.”
Thera nodded and shouted back, “Who built the bridge?”
Alba’s dark brows drew downward and she rubbed a blunt finger across her chin. “I have heard the Salvai Keiris say it be the Cythian Works Masters who built it, by King Erod’s order. That would be in your grandfather’s time. All of the caravan trail was built at the King’s command, in return for some service to do with the Ttamarini.”
Alba turned and walked westward along the rocky verge. The faint path they followed declined steeply. As they rounded the first bend, Alba puffed, “They will likely be moored around the next bend, Lady. The river widens greatly there. The beach is broad and accessible. We will be cautious—in case they left a guard to watch the boats.”
Thera compressed her lips, a slight crease between her brows. Surely this caution would not have been given to a member of the troop; it would not have been considered necessary. The knowledge caused her regret. Thera was surprised to find in herself a great desire to earn the respect of the Elankeep soldiers. Not the deference given due to bloodlines, or position. Something more like the respect her father had from his captains.
Ah, well. Respect must be earned.
They slowed their downhill pace. They were only two pike lengths above the water surface now. Concealed behind the rocks, they gazed down at the two Memteth ships. Thera felt a clenching in her gut as she observed the now familiar lines of a Memteth craft. These black sails were furled, and the decks appeared deserted. They were anchored bow and stern, but on one ship the stern line had broken and she had swung onto the rocks of the river’s shore. The raider ship listed, aground. There was no sign of life.
“Lady, let us not go aboard. Let us burn them. Here and now.” Alba spoke through clenched teeth.
Thera moistened her lips. There was something unsettling here, Thera could feel it too. She placed her hand on Alba’s shoulder and spoke with more confidence than she felt. “We shall burn them, swordswoman, after we have examined their contents.”
There was sweat sheen on Alba’s forehead. Her brown eyes squinted as she studied the scene below.
However, she only said, “I will go down first, then. I do not smell wood smoke, but there may be guards camped near the river’s edge.”
Quietly, Alba slipped away. Thera waited impatiently, her mind probing at her own sense of unease, to no effect. It is probably just a very natural repugnance at being close to anything Memteth, Thera thought.
Thera was just about to descend to the river of her own accord when she saw Alba’s helm appear below. The swordswoman moved further out on the boulder shore of the Spinfisher, and cupping her hands either side of her mouth, she whistled the unique call of a bush skree.
“Come forward,” Thera recognized the signal. “Blessings be.”
Alba waited for her in the shadow of a twisted tree growing out of the riverbank. They stood together a moment, observing. The river rush drowned out most sounds. Alba pointed to the rope ladders over the sides of both craft.
“Shallow here, no more than thigh deep,” she said. “They must all have waded ashore. No sign of Memteth left aboard, or on the shore.”
Thera and Alba waded toward the grounded Memteth boat. The water numbed Thera’s legs and sunlight dancing off the water’s surface dazzled her eyes. She lay her hand on the hull. Dead wood. Not like the ships of Allenholme folk—that wood sang with the strength and spirit of the Elanraigh.
Alba’s brown hand reached past Thera to clench the rope ladder. She straddled the top rail as she drew sword, her head swinging fore and aft. Finally she leaned over, nodding to Thera.
Large numbers of barrels covered the deck, lashed together in the bow and around the pilothouse. Thera saw piles of oily coiled ropes and rusty grappling hooks along the sides.
Alba was approaching the dark opening that led to the pilothouse and, presumably, crew quarters and below deck. She took a step backward.
“Pagh! What a stench!”
Thera, gasping, clapped a hand over her nose. She turned to go back outside, when she saw chests with distinctive markings upon them, piled in the pilothouse.
“Alba! Look, these chests are from South Bole.”
Alba ran her fingers over the markings. “Ahh. I fear they took the caravan, then, Lady. They were a merry crew, the caravaners from South Bole. There was a brown-skinned man with dark, laughing eyes that I took a shine to last Verdimas. I had hoped to see him again. Well…may his gods look upon him.”
Alba turned. “So,” she said brusquely, “what have we here, Lady?”
Alba’s sorrow touched Thera, and she gazed one more moment at the First Sword. Alba’s glance at her was bright and hard.
Understanding, Thera turned and lifted the top from a large barrel. “Oh look!”
Gleaming Bole pottery and plate lay nested in straw. They sifted through the top layers.
Beautiful workmanship! “Why would Memteth bother with such as this?”
Alba shrugged. “For trade, perhaps, Lady. Who knows?”
“Who do Memteth trade with? None in this land know of them as anything but marauders.” Thera gently replaced the jewel-toned pieces. Was it possible that Memteth admired and coveted beautiful things for their own sake? It did not match her understanding of them.
Stacked beside the barrel were four small chests which held a fortune in spices. Thera recognized the stenciling on the stoneware jars. These spices were so costly that Thera’s mother kept them under lock and key, and they were used only on very special feast days. She sniffed experimentally. Hmm.
“Alba…” Alba was not beside her. “Alba?”
“Below.” The swordswoman’s voice was muffled and strange. “Do not venture down here, Lady. I’ll come up.”
Thera rose to her feet, staring at the stairwell where Alba had gone. Amber lamplight appeared on the wall and then a distorted darkness leapt within it. Thera reached for the spear Alba had left with her.
Alba emerged from the narrow door; her face pale and shining with sweat. With slow, deliberate care she placed the lantern on the chart bench by the pilot’s wheel. With a small groan, she leaned, stiff-armed, over the top of the pottery barrel. She sagged a moment, then her somber gaze met Thera’s concern.
“There be bodies down there, Lady. Two caravaners by their clothes.”
“No!” Thera’s face twisted. Her memory of Nan on the beach came again vividly to mind; her memory of...“Are they womenfolk, Alba?” she whispered hoarsely.
Alba lifted off the barrel, and moved to the doorway. She hung there, inhaling deeply of the outside air. “I think not—but you see—something has been eating them.”
Thera’s hand shook on the jar she held. “No…! I have never heard that they…”
Alba’s shoulders shifted, almost impatiently. “Nor have I.” She continued, “It is likely they kept these poor folk to tell them where to find Elankeep. I had wondered how they knew of us. However, some beast has chewed on them. Perhaps the Memteth allowed it, to torment the poor souls into saying what they wanted to know.” She turned and looked at Thera. “What else? I cannot think of any known scavenger beast which could swim water, and climb into a boat, and leave wounds as great as these.”
Alba’s voice grated in Thera’s ears. “Let us give them to the fire, Lady. Burn the boats now.”
Thera’s brow puckered as she glanced about her. “There are great riches here, Alba. We should salvage what we can.”
The swordswoman’s features hardened—she regarded Thera steadily.
Thera did not notice. She con
tinued, almost as if speaking to herself. “You see, a long time ago, or maybe it only seems long, I had an idea to establish a fund so that women could be free to practice a craft or trade of their choosing.
“I’ve heard tell of young folk who love each other but cannot marry because they have not the bride price demanded by father or brothers.
“Or of young women who must run away from their home, to a strange place, because they wish not to marry and have not the price to secure their freedom of choice.
“They are penniless, nameless women who suffer hardship because of it.”
Thera’s fingers clenched around the jar she held. “This fund can make a difference, Alba. These riches could be the start of such a fund.” She gently placed the jar back with the others.
The hardness left Alba’s face and a corner of her mouth tugged downward. “Aye, Lady Thera,” she said softly, “that would be a great thing.”
“It is just the beginning of things I have thought to do,” said Thera earnestly.
Alba folded her arms across her chest and smiled at her. “Aye. A beginning. Our Sirra Alaine said you would be a Salvai different than others.”
The swordswoman rubbed her chin. “Well. If we lay some planks up to the rail, and then down to the beach on the listing side, we should be able to roll or rope most of these near enough to shore that we can pull them in.”
They worked steadily, until the sun was past high. The raiders’ ship was finally stripped of most valuables.
There was now only one box left on board—an elaborate black case. Alba discovered it in a cabinet under the chart bench. She was speechless upon opening it. Inside, wrapped in white silk, was a magnificent sword. The blade was the width of five fingers at the hilt, the handle of some white, smooth substance she had never seen before.
Thera watched Alba turn the blade over and over in her hands, her expression rapt and reverent.
It is as if she communes with the weapon, Thera thought, the way I do with the Elanraigh.
Thera looked to shore, feeling satisfied with the morning’s work. They had secured the barrels and chests up off the beach, under a heavily bushed outcropping of rock. Maps and charts were wrapped in oilskin and tucked into chests and barrels.
She wiped her hands down her tunic. Her hands prickled with splinters; the rough planking of their improvised ramp had to be tediously moved and lifted each step of the way.
Finally released from her sword-spell, Alba exhaled gustily. She carefully replaced the weapon in its cloth.
“Such a prize, I never thought to see.” Alba’s voice became exuberant. “Ha! I can see the Sirra’s face! I have no doubt she be thinking I was somewhere lying under a tree with a daisy stem in my mouth all this time.”
Thera laughed then held her side, leaning back against the wall, she groaned. “Blessings! I ache all over.”
“Aye. Well, I know all about aching. Perhaps you will be joining us in the hot springs after evening meal, Lady?” The invitation was almost shyly given.
The Salvai probably never went into the soldiers’ quarters, Thera surmised.
Thera nodded assent with genuine pleasure. Then she looked about her; the emptied pilothouse looked battered and scarred. Thera’s expression darkened.
“One last trip ashore with this chest and we’re done. We can fire the ship and send the South Bole caravaners properly.”
Alba reached for the lamp and cracked it briskly against the chart bench. She waved Thera out onto the deck as the oil spilled its dark stain against the wood. Thera leaned against the deck rail. There was no warmth left in the late afternoon sun.
Inside the pilothouse Alba moved rapidly, a darker form in its shadowy interior.
Thera felt drawn into the sounds around her, the water sucking at the void in the damaged hull, the restless creakings of the ship’s timbers.
Her eyes flew open, fixed on the pilothouse roof. Something huge! Something slithered across the roof, and then quick as an indrawn breath, it disappeared through the hatch. Thera heard a thump on the pilothouse floor.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alba yelled.
There was a heavy thud against the wall of the pilothouse and a hiss, as of hot steel plunged into water.
Thera’s hand clenched tighter on Alba’s spear.
“Alba!” No response.
Calling on the Elanraigh for a blessing, Thera ran inside.
She had never seen such a creature before. Except for its great size, it resembled a sun-lizard, such as would bask on the castle walls come warm summer days.
She flinched back, heart tripping, as the lizard creature’s huge tail swept past the door. The flat, reptilian head swung slowly toward her. Thera spared a quick, panicky glance over to where Alba lay sprawled.
“Alba…”
Alba stirred, slowly, painfully. She shifted backward, propping her back in the corner. Her left arm dangled to her lap. Her right hand shook with tremors as she grasped her sword hilt. A dark stain spread across the material of her kilt. Blood seeped from under its hem and soaked into the deck floor.
“By the One Tree…” fear constricted Thera’s throat. “Alba, how bad?”
The swordwoman’s voice was flat. “Smacked me against the wall with its tail. Took a bite of my leg…unnnn.” Alba groaned and panted, “…before my sword was even drawn. It seems content to wait now.”
Part of Thera’s mind cringed and wailed its fear of the foul creature, flashing images of death, the reptile tearing at her entrails. Her pulse stumbled then raced.
So. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Thera weighed what she must do. She touched briefly, horrified, at the creature’s mind. Uhh, it is truly beast, not sapient mind. Gripping the spear, she swung it before her in jabbing posture. She must act now. Alba would bleed to death if she stood dithering.
“Hey-a,” she challenged. “You carrion-eating worm!”
The reptile fixed a yellow eye on Thera and its tongue flickered. It shifted on its short, bowed legs.
Thera blinked. As the lizard-creature moved into the dusky light by the portal, she saw flashes of color off its neck. It wore a gold collar, studded with jewels.
A Memteth’s cherished pet beast? Does it sleep at its master’s feet as does father’s deerhound?
The setting sun poured through the portal, flooding the pilothouse in dusty amber. The reptile’s mouth gapped open, slickly red. Fleshy gore clung to its rows of teeth.
It hissed, the pouches under its jaws pumping out the sound like bellows. She was overwhelmed with the stench from its mouth.
Again the debilitating fear constricted her chest. With a deep breath, holding the spear before her, she edged warily along the wall toward the wounded swordswoman.
She remembered the Elanraigh had told her a water elemental held sway here at the Falls. She still sent a quick prayer to the Elanraigh. “I must kill this Memteth’s creature, so that Alba might live.”
It was Farnash’s mind-voice that responded. “You are Clan. Be one with us.”
“Farnash?” What does he mean? Oh.
Thera searched for the predator in herself. Almost wonderingly, she drew this aspect of herself forward. Her body remembered the sensations she had felt while in hawk form, and had felt emanating from the Elanraigh wolf as he battled the Memteth raider. She felt the clanship of hunting with the pack, running shoulder to shoulder. Her heart throbbed with a young hawk’s feral joy, as it stooped to the kill.
Thera’s body tightened. Her vision sharpened, focused on the creature before her. She observed how the light sparked the drops of moisture on its mauve-hued hide, and the hint of red color behind the dark pupil of its eye. One of the lizard’s claws was torn and bled sluggishly. It favored the wounded foot as it turned toward her.
Drawing her
lips back from her teeth, Thera snarled a challenge. Her spear tip jabbed out at the heavy dewlap of skin under the creature’s jaw.
With a furious hiss the beast backed, its massive head swaying. It swung its tail at Thera’s head. She lifted the spear, taking the worst of the blow on the shaft.
Even though the lizard’s movements were hampered in the confines of the pilothouse, the force was enough to break the spear shaft between her hands and drop Thera to her knees.
With a scrabbling of claws, the beast charged her, swift and low.
Alba shouted hoarsely, some word, it was all a roaring in Thera’s ears.
Now! Just as the boar hunters do.
Thera swung the broken, still deadly spear, before her and braced herself. The impact crushed her against the wall. Her head snapped back, and her vision sparkled.
Hissing, the reptile wrenched its body away. The spear shaft, embedded deep in its chest, tore painfully from Thera’s grasp. She rolled as far away as she could get, pulling her dagger from her belt as the creature thrashed violently from one side of the pilothouse to the other.
Finally it lay on its side, skin twitching. Its jaws gaped as it labored to draw breath.
Thera moved immediately, a wary eye on its tail. With her dagger, she cut its throat.
“A mercy stroke,” Thera murmured, “whatever you are.”
She crawled over to Alba, her bloody fingers reaching for the pulse at Alba’s throat.
The swordswoman’s hand grasped her wrist. “I live.”
Thera had felt the cold clamminess of Alba’s flesh.
“The wound…” Thera gasped. “Let me see.”
After a moment, Alba’s hand dropped, and Thera moved the bloody cloth of her kilt away. She sucked in her breath. A vicious wound, flesh and muscle had gone with it, but Elanraigh bless, it seemed the tendons and bone were intact.
“I will splint this, Alba, but your shoulder is dislocated.” She eased Alba down, and was about to rise, when the swordswoman’s hand again grasped hers, restraining her.