by Jon Kiln
Beaten and battered near unto death, nevertheless the tired old woman in the dungeon smiled to herself.
28
The desert night was still and quiet. Artas lay stretched out on his belly at the dune crest, his bow and quiver of arrows close to hand. There was nothing for him to do now but wait.
Zander and the other two had slipped away perhaps half an hour earlier, melting into the night. Their borrowed robes blended with the shadows, and Artas had lost sight of them almost immediately. Left to his own devices, the young archer tried to stay alert and keep his eyes trained on the expanse of sand before the shipwreck below. But his thoughts wandered as the minutes slipped past.
Ector and Dristan were circling around to approach the wreck from the sides. Zander himself had gone off to the left before heading down the face of the dune. The flickering firelight visible from the wreck emanated from a gaping hole in one side of the hull, and that hole faced the direction from which Zander planned to approach. Zander intended to draw out the bandits, or whomever was waiting within, before Ector and Dristan swept in from the sides in an ambush.
The plan was simple and straightforward. If anything went wrong, of course, Artas would be ready to lend support from the height and distance of this dune. The enemy would be unable to contend with him in these conditions. At least, that was Zander’s assumption.
But Artas still had his doubts about who they would find at the clandestine encampment. The idea of rival tribesmen didn’t sit well with him. He wished Zander had committed to a thorough scout. He could have sent Ector or Dristan, either one, or both of them. One man could sneak into the wreck, possibly from the other side, and scope out what they were about to face. But Zander was confident and impatient.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced Artas became that he was about to witness a disaster.
He should have argued further with Zander. He should have insisted. But the older man was far more experienced with this sort of thing. Ector and Dristan had accepted his instructions as a matter of course. They trusted their commander. Artas had not felt confident enough to push the issue. He wished that he had now.
What was taking them so long?
The young archer glanced up at the moon with a sigh. He was not sure how much time had elapsed. It was impossible for him to gauge the passage of time. Had the moon moved far across the sky?
A flicker of motion below caught his eye. Artas strained to see in the dim light of the moon. A dark, crouching shape moved near the wreckage. It was Zander, creeping forward. Artas looked about but could see no sign of Ector and Dristan. Had they already reached their positions? Without taking his eyes off the ship, Artas reached for his bow. His heart pounded in his chest. He could not dismiss the niggling sense of foreboding he still felt.
Far below, Zander reached the leaning hull of the ancient ship. Pausing to cast off the concealing robes, he moved to the nearest breach in the hull. Artas held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
***
The wood was smooth to the touch, almost slick. Centuries of wind-blown sand had scoured and polished the wreck. It was warm, still retaining the latent heat of the day. Zander placed his palms against the hull and rose slowly from his crouch to peer through the breach he had chosen.
Not much remained of the compartment within. Loose sand had blown in, piling up in a deep drift just inside the breach. Beyond that, the canted deck was bare but for a pile of debris off to one side. The slanting of the deck had caused everything to fall or roll that way, landing against what had once been a forward bulkhead. Zander saw shattered cargo barrels and the rusted remains of lanterns, the glass long since shattered. A few wisps of fabric and rotted rope were all that was left of the hammocks that had once been slung from the ceiling. This compartment had been where the crew bunked down.
The firelight was brighter inside, but it was not coming from this compartment. Whoever was using the wreck for a campsite was further within, concealed by the inner bulkhead. It appeared as though the innards of the wreck were largely intact. Zander frowned to himself and retreated a step from the splintered hull.
Still frowning, he glanced over his shoulder to the dune top where Artas waited in concealment. Then he looked to either side at the low mounds against the hull that might have been taken for sand drifts, but which Zander knew were his two men, Ector and Dristan, crouched motionless in wait.
His plan had been to enter the hull and draw out the men within. Zander was certain they were desert tribesmen from some clan feuding with the people of Rock Eagle. He did not expect to face much cunning or tactical experience. They would see an intruder, a stranger alone, and of course they would give chase. Emerging from the wreck, they would be exposed. Zander would then turn, and the other two would join him with blades bared. Artas would give cover from above.
But the interior of the ship looked treacherous. He thought the camp fire was just in the next compartment, but he could not be certain. The slope of the deck, coupled with the loose sand and grit, might make it difficult to maneuver around inside. Especially if he had to move quickly. Silently, he debated with himself.
After a moment, he shook his head. Time was wasting, and he saw little need for caution. It was not as if these were Palaran soldiers waiting in ambush. Tribesmen, he reminded himself. Motioning Ector and Dristan to move closer, he returned to the broken hull and climbed inside.
29
Several minutes had elapsed since Zander disappeared into the wreckage. Dristan and Ector had moved closer to the gaping hole through which their commander had climbed, but they did not follow him inside. Watching from above, Artas felt his tension mounting.
He wanted to signal the others, to ask them what was going on. But Zander had been explicit and insistent that he was to remain concealed. Not that he could do much good up here when the older man was inside the ship. As more time slipped by and there was still no sign of Zander, the young archer wrestled with himself over what to do.
Apparently he was not the only one. After what seemed to Artas like an hour, but could not have been more than fifteen minutes, the two warriors waiting beside the ship leaned closer to one another. The archer could not hear their quiet exchange, but he could guess what passed between them. After a moment, Ector and Dristan shed their loose robes and climbed up into the ship after their leader.
Artas was alone in the desert night.
Though it was cold out, he felt sweat trickle down the sides of his face. His hand ached where it gripped the bow. The fingers of his other hand dug into the loose sand. What was happening down there? The minutes ticked past and his companions did not reappear. Artas cursed under his breath. Something had definitely gone wrong.
Jumping up, he grabbed up his arrows and started down the loose slope. His running steps bit into the face of the dune, feet slipping and sliding as he raced down. Nearly to the bottom, he lost his footing and tumbled the rest of the way. Harsh sand scraped his arms and legs as he rolled to a stop.
Artas scrambled to his feet in a panic. Fitting an arrow to his bowstring, he drew and prepared to release. Turning this way and that, he scanned the night for a target. There was none. Releasing the tension on his string, Artas chided himself for his blind panic. His fall down the dune had not made much noise, and no one had come running out to attack him. Taking several deep breaths, he forced himself to calm down.
The others were still inside, and Artas remained convinced that Zander’s plan had fallen apart. He jogged over to the irregular aperture the others had used to gain entrance to the wreck. Peering inside, he saw an empty compartment with debris piled at one end where the deck was lower than the other. There was no one there.
Artas climbed aboard, setting his feet carefully down on the sand drift within. Crouched low, he moved stealthily deeper into the slanted compartment. The flickering light came from his left. The deck sloped up in that direction, and the footing was treacherous.
Taking gre
at care not to slip or fall, Artas made his way to the inner bulkhead. At the aft end of the compartment was a hatch. That was where the light came from. Artas made his way to the hatch with as little noise as he could manage. Reaching it, he leaned around the edge of the hatch to peek into the next compartment.
This compartment might once have been a mess deck. Artas, who knew little of naval ships, could not tell. It may just as well have been a cargo deck. Whatever the compartment had been in that forgotten long-ago, it was being used now for a very different purpose.
The canted deck was shattered from about the middle of the compartment to the fore bulkhead. Beneath the broken and splintered timbers was bare sand. On the sand, in a broad, circular pit of medium-sized stones, there burned a small bonfire. The barely controlled flames licked at the overhead, snapping and crackling and threatening to overflow the stone pit.
A group of men in cowled gray robes stood in a semi-circle near the broken edges of the deck, their heads bowed. Their voices were raised in a low, harmonious chant. The man in the center, taller than his fellows, held his two hands aloft over his head, clasping a large and ornate dagger with a sinuously curved blade. Its hilt was fashioned into a dragon’s head with tiny garnet stones for the eyes.
The air was thick with the heavy scent of incense. There was another odor that stung the young archer’s nostrils, a scent that was somehow familiar. He wrinkled his nose and tried to place it. The aroma put him in mind of Castle Locke for some reason he could not specify.
Artas spared little thought for the peculiar smell. A far more pressing concern took precedence in his mind. For there before him, unconscious on the deck and bound with thick ropes at wrist and ankle, were his three companions.
He looked again to the hooded men who still stood chanting at their fire. With a shock, he realized who they were. Zander had led them into the western wastes on a quest to find the Druids of Marawi. Here they were.
But what was their purpose here in this ancient wreck?
Artas dared not wait to find out. He disliked the look of that dagger in the druid’s hands. Eyeing the chanting druids, he weighed his chances. He had his bow, but there were too many of them to be felled quickly enough that way. His eyes went back to his unconscious companions.
Slipping the knife from his belt, Artas gauged the distance. If he could creep out without being noticed, he should be able to free the others. But could he wake them, and silently, before any of the druids happened to turn around?
The answer came sooner than he would have hoped. Just as Artas began to inch forward through the hatch, the circled druids turned their backs to the fire in unison. Artas jerked back, hoping he had not been seen.
“Bring that one,” said the druid who held the dagger, gesturing toward Ector. Two of the other druids moved at his command, moving unhurriedly to Ector and lifting the unconscious man by his arms. Dragging him along, they returned to the edge of the broken deck.
Artas peered cautiously round the frame of the hatch where he was concealed. His heartbeat raced. In a flash, he realized what was about to happen. He had to do something to stop it!
He never got the chance. Without preamble, the lead druid reached out and used the sinuous dagger to slit Ector’s throat. The man stepped aside to avoid the first gout of blood. The two who held Ector’s arms shuffled forward and gave the dying man a shove.
Blood still pouring from his ruined throat, Ector tumbled forward and fell straight into the fire. The moment he reached the flames, there was a brilliant flash. Blinded, Artas turned his head away and blinked to clear his eyes. When he turned back, there was no sign of Ector.
No body lay within those flames. There was only ash and thick smoke, and the roar of the fire. The druids had resumed their chanting, and the leader once again held his bloodstained dagger aloft as he led the prayer.
Artas had seen enough. The blood felt hot in his veins, hot with anger. He broke the spell of his astonishment, surging into action. All thoughts of danger to himself were forgotten, abandoned in his moment of outrage. The druids had murdered Ector. They had cut a man’s throat and sacrificed his body to the flames, and for what? Artas had no answer to that, but it didn’t matter. There could be no justification. Nothing could excuse what he had just seen.
Flying around the corner of the hatch, Artas drew and released. He was already fitting the next arrow to his string when the first missile found its mark. With a solid sounding thock of impact, the first arrow buried itself in the back of one of the two men who had thrown Ector’s lifeless body into the flames. Artas fired again. The second druid, caught in the surprised act of turning toward his companion, caught the arrow in the side. Both robed men staggered and fell into the fire.
Artas didn’t stop to watch. Continuing on in a crouching run across the compartment, he whipped another arrow from his quiver. The remaining druids - there were four of them still standing - spun about, shouting in consternation and fury. Their ceremony, whatever it was meant to be, had been disrupted. Their cowled faces twisted in rage. The leader brandished his sinuous dagger. Artas planted the shaft of an arrow in his throat.
Blood welled up in the druid’s mouth and spilled over his chin. He tried to speak and then toppled backward. The sinuous dagger fell from his limp fingers, giving a dull clatter as it bounced on the deck. The druid’s body tumbled over the edge, and the high priest joined his fellows in the fire.
Artas fired again. His arrow struck one of the remaining three druids in the shoulder, spinning the man back but leaving him alive. The other two charged toward him. But by now, Artas had reached his companions. He whipped out his blade and sawed at the ropes binding Zander’s arms. The rope was thick and coarse. He looked up, and saw the druids bearing down on him. There was no time. Gritting his teeth, Artas glanced about.
Zander’s sword lay discarded within reach. Throwing down his bow, Artas took up the sword and spun to face his foes. The third druid, the one with the arrow in his shoulder, was cursing and tugging at the shaft. The others were almost within reach. Artas brandished the blade.
“Back!”
“You fool!” hissed the druid to his right. The one on the left spat at the deck, as if in disgust. “You know not what you’ve done!”
“I said get back,” snarled Artas, slashing at the air with his sword.
Behind him at his feet, Zander moaned as he began to come around. Artas felt his heart surge. At least the man was still alive. He wished he had acted sooner, done something to save Ector. But at least these bastards wouldn’t get the chance to do the same to Zander and Dristan.
“Fool,” the druid said again.
A burst of sparks exploded upward from the bonfire behind the druids. The piled wood shifted and collapsed with a crashing sound, sending up even more sparks. A shared look of fear blanched the features of the two druids facing Artas. One of them, the one who had spoken, turned toward the fire.
“No!” he cried in alarm. “No, it is too soon! The binding…”
Something moved within the flames. Something enormous. Artas narrowed his eyes, wondering what fresh danger the druids had summoned forth with their arcane ritual. Squinting against the burning light, he did not see the other druid move until it was too late. The robed man threw up his hands, casting them forward at Artas as if throwing a ball.
A stream of cold flame shot across the compartment, striking Artas in the chest and knocking him from his feet. The world went black.
30
Parsival threaded his way through the streets of Villeroy town, the castle a looming shadow against the moon at his back. He had bribed a guard at the western gate to let him through the wall without recording it in the log. It would cost him again to get back into the castle without leaving a trail, but he could afford it.
He could not afford what it would cost him if the Mad Regent found out what he was up to this night. Harald would call it treason, and take Parsival’s head.
There had been another exe
cution that afternoon. Some soldier or squire or other, little more than a boy. Arxos, Rexos, something like that. Parsival had never heard of the lad. No charges had been made public. The guards simply marched the boy to the headsman and the axe fell. Harald had assembled the court to bear witness, and another head was added to the spikes.
How many did that make, since the old king died? Parsival had not bothered to count. Counting seemed ghoulish. A lot of things in the kingdom of Palara seemed ghoulish these days. Harald was mad. Maybe he had always been mad.
A sound behind him made Parsival whirl about, one hand flying to the dagger at his belt. Crime was rare in the town that clung to the castle walls, but not unheard of. There were footpads in the night, toughs lurking in alleyways to bust a head and cut a purse. But there was no one behind him. The sound came again. An owl, hooting in the distance. Parsival forced himself to relax. No good jumping at shadows. He’d be as mad as Harald if he kept that up.
Turning back around, the young lord of Ival Hold continued on his way. He took the next turning and there was the tavern, exactly as Leonie had said. It was a low place, the kind of cheap taproom where there would be brawlers, thieves, and slatterns. A low stone building with no glass in the two small windows that flanked the door. Inside, it was much as Parsival had feared from the facade.
One long common room with straw and sawdust on the floor. Mismatched tables and chairs. A few lanterns on the walls, their glass so stained with smoke and soot that Parsival could not tell whether their wicks burned or not. Slouching drunks and lolling strumpets. Two harried serving wenches moving from table to table and back to the solid-looking bar that blocked off the back portion of the room. A fat man sweating behind the bar, pouring ale from barrels and wiping his face with a grimy rag.