Something was seriously wrong, however. The guard on the right was not stunned by his impact against the wall and the guard on the left merely cursed and pushed the youth away. Laron fell sprawling, and was struck smartly across the ear by the butt of a spear.
“Ach, the little bastard bit me!” cried the guard, who then struck Laron’s head again.
Laron saw brilliant stars, and could not get up. It was no act this time. The other guard kicked him in the ribs. They hauled him to his feet again. Laron could not stand unaided.
Dazed and bleeding, Laron was dragged the rest of the way to the watch-house. He was dimly aware that Miral was well and truly down by now, but he was in too much pain to give the matter much thought. What was more, his strength had deserted him. The guards had wrenched him about like a child, yet he should have been able to toss them through the air with ease. Finally he was flung into a cell, and the door was slammed shut.
From within the etherworld, Velander had seen an orange axis suddenly blaze out in the darkness, transfixing a cold, white sphere. Another fire-circle, she realized. Where would it end this time?
Through the invisible ocular tethered to the glass in Laron’s purse, she had seen and heard everything. Laron thought she was dead! He had never been trying to save her. Her survival had been due to Fortune alone. Now Laron appeared to be alive again, restored by Silverdeath. Even though there were other tethers nearby, Velander decided to stay with Laron. She had concluded that chivalrous behavior was worthwhile in a man, even if it was occasionally misdirected to benefit the likes of Terikel.
It was evening before the area near the temple had cooled sufficiently for anyone to approach. Wearing wooden clogs, the ambassadors were given a tour of the destruction. They were then put back aboard the flagship, where a feast was held to celebrate Warsovran’s victory over the last of the Vidarians.
The following morning, surveyors were hard at work with instruments, string measures, and marker pegs. When they had finished, Terikel and the surviving islanders were given shovels and hoes, then set digging sand and rock out of the narrow isthmus that separated the southern part of Helion from the main peak of the island. It was to be an underwater refuge from the next fire-circle, according to one of the rumors. At the end of the first day’s work Terikel was signed off in a register and given her rations.
“Where am I to stay?” she asked when the marines took no further interest in her. “The farm where I used to live has been melted and I had to sleep on the beach last night.”
“There’s the houses of a lot of dead Toreans on the island,” said the marine with the register. “Choose whichever you want.”
Terikel looked around as she walked to Port Wayside. Six dash galleys and twelve battle galleys had been left to hold Helion, along with about a thousand marines.
After selecting a clean, pleasant little cottage with a view of the harbor, Terikel settled down to eat her rations and contemplate escape. The marines had kept good order on the island, so the cottage had not been looted. The beds looked very inviting.
“Terikel?”
The voice was male, and Terikel was not armed. Taking a broom and holding it like a quarterstaff, she emerged from the bedchamber. Feran was waiting just inside the main door, looking back out through the window beside it.
“Where in all the hells have you been?” he rasped. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to raise the Shadowmoon.”
These two sentences and his general attitude told Terikel a great deal. Feran had said nothing about sex, and he was quite agitated. He probably knew where the ship was lying, the marines were probably not aware that he was on the island, and he was obviously anxious to get off the island.
“Good evening, Feran, you’re looking … alive.”
“Norrieav, Hazlok, and D’Atro survived. We have been hiding in a loft near the docks. I saw you returning from the diggings, but I had to wait until it was darker. As soon as the sunset fades completely we can raise the ship and float out with the tide. By the time Miral rises we should be well clear of the island. We can bail it out, repair the masts, and flee to Sargol.”
“Am I to assume that I am invited?” ventured Terikel.
Feran turned from the window, gave her an intense, appraising stare, then smiled and nodded.
“That you are.”
“To keep you company on the voyage west?”
“It’s only fair that you should work your passage.”
“Then the answer is no. Find some other girl or sleep alone. Good-bye.”
“What? If you stay you will be burned to ash by the later fire-circles.”
“Maybe not. If we finish digging that refuge in time—”
“But I’m offering you a chance to escape.”
“And I’m refusing it. Good-bye.”
Feran made no move to go. He took one step toward her. Terikel smiled, opened her mouth, and took a deep breath. Feran stopped. A squad of marines marched past outside. Feran took a step back. “All right, all right, you can have Laron’s cabin.”
“Admirable idea, I know it well. Let me know when the ship is ready.”
“I—That is, we need you to help with raising the Shadowmoon. Like, we thought of you first, even though there are others.”
It was just as Terikel had thought. The sunken schooner was in a highly visible part of the harbor. People seen diving there while they ought to be digging the fire-circle shelter in the isthmus would be treated with suspicion. They would also be treated to leg irons and a shovel. That meant salvage at night.
“You need me, Feran; you need someone who can not only dive, but can also breathe a casting into her hand to light her way below the surface, at night. You have an additional problem because I have evacuated all initiates capable of doing that from this island. Even if there were any others, I also happen to know where the sink-weights are tied, and which ropes to cut to release them. Have I missed anything so far?”
“Need I point out that it was you who seduced me, that last night at Zantrias?”
“And need I point out that you just burst in here pretending to rescue me in return for supporting your weight on the way to Sargol, while you really needed my help all along?”
That had in fact been precisely Feran’s intent. He hung his head, but in resignation rather than shame. “So you won’t help?”
“Oh, I’ll help, but at a price. Free passage for myself and … others. Oh, and remember, the use of Laron’s cabin for the entire voyage.”
Feran brightened, then frowned. “Ah, who might ‘others’ be?”
“They include Laron.”
“Laron? Laron is currently the most heavily guarded person on Helion.”
“Correction. Laron is the only person currently under guard on Helion. Besides, I could have him free within half an hour if there were anywhere for him to hide.”
“I am not anxious to have Laron aboard.”
“Ah, yes. Laron took control of the Shadowmoon and now you want to be boatmaster again. I can speak castings, Laron can speak castings, but you cannot, Feran.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. I owe a lot to Laron, and he has more loyalty and integrity than everyone on Helion put together. I shall not leave him behind.”
“You are endangering your passage off Helion,” Feran warned.
“Oh no, I am endangering your passage off Helion. Do we have an agreement?”
There was no doubt at all that Feran would have to agree. Whatever his feelings of resentment against Laron, there were no others on the island he could trust to help. Terikel wanted the terms and conditions of the voyage absolutely clear before they sailed, however, and that included Feran saying so in quite unambiguous language.
“All right, damn you all, yes,” he muttered grudgingly.
“What was that? ‘Tonight, fan you for less’? I can fan myself for free.”
“I said yes! Yes! Yes! I agree. Get the Shadowmoon off the harbor bottom without
the Damarians noticing, and you can have passage to Acrema with as many others as will fit aboard!”
Terikel approached the watch-house just as the newly appointed island’s constable was relieving the two marines who had stood guard over Laron during the day. She waited in the shadows of a nearby laneway as they stood talking.
“We’ll be back around dawn,” a marine was saying.
“And he’d better still be here,” said the other.
“Else you might end up a prisoner, too.”
“Yeah, but in one of them farmhouses on the other side of the island.”
“When the next fire-circle’s due.”
The two marines walked away in the direction of the main camp. Once they were out of sight Terikel hurried into the watch-house. The constable had been digging all day, and was washing the clay, sand, and grime from his hands and arms.
“Roval, it’s me,” Terikel said as she entered.
“Worthy Elder! Your company’s welcome.”
“Please, not too loud.”
“Sorry. To tell the truth, I was half expecting you here. My new name is Peeler, by the way.”
“How the hell did you get made constable?”
“The Toreans seemed to think that if Banzalo had locked me up for treason, then I was just the man to be put in charge now that Banzalo is gone. I was released and given a contract.”
“Can I see Laron?”
“Aye, but he’s to stay there if my head’s to stay here,” said Roval, pointing to the cell door, then to his neck.
“Actually, I was meaning to discuss precisely that with you before I see him.”
Some minutes later Roval unbarred the door. Laron was lying on the moldy seagrass that covered the floor, dressed only in trousers. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. He had not woken when Roval had unbarred the door, yet Miral was down. Could it be … ? She went down on one knee and shook the youth. He opened his eyes. Terikel sat back as Laron painfully pushed himself up into a sitting position. His face was bruised, and his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused as he sat blinking at her.
“Vampyre, you do not seem yourself today,” said the priestess.
“Worthy Elder?”
“Myself, and nobody else. Thank you for taking my place. That was most gallant of you.”
“My honor.”
“I see that Warsovran has sensibly decided to test Silverdeath on something smaller than a continent this time.”
Laron groaned as he tried to stand up. Terikel helped him to a bench, then he sat holding his head in his hands.
“What was it like, wearing Silverdeath?”
“When Silverdeath was put on me, everything went very calm and cold. Odd voices and thoughts went through my mind, but although I could see everything that was going on around me, I had no control of myself at all. Finally Warsovran launched Silverdeath against the Metrologan temple, and I was released. I don’t understand. It healed my ax wound, yet I am suddenly so weak! What happened? What did Silverdeath do to me?”
Terikel took Laron’s wrist and felt his pulse, then put the back of her hand to his cheek. She went over to the cell’s small window and looked out for a moment, then turned to face the youth.
“Pulse strong, temperature normal, and Miral is down,” she said, tapping a finger for each point. “Laron, in order to make you a proper host, Silverdeath has restored you to life.”
Laron swallowed. “Life?”
“Life.”
Terikel had the distinct impression that he was disappointed.
“You’re joking,” he said hopefully.
“No, I am not.”
“Tell me I’m not alive.”
“You’re not alive.”
“But you’re lying.”
“Yes.”
He fingered his cheeks. Acne pockmarks that had endured for over seven hundred years, and even had individual names, were now gone.
“Life,” he sighed.
“Are you not pleased?”
“In a word, no.”
“Laron, I can hardly believe what I am hearing. You are a perfectly healthy young man of fourteen—or maybe fifteen. Your pimples are gone, your blood is warm, your hearts are beating, and I even suspect that your fangs are not quite what they used to be.”
Laron checked his teeth with his tongue. The etheric fangs were now just normal teeth. He felt for his pulse, and discovered that he had one.
“But why am I so weak?” he protested. “Those marines, I mean they just pushed me around. I was as weak as a newly hatched chicken.”
“You have the strength of a normal fourteen-year-old youth, not the supernatural strength of a vampyre. The average marine is considerably stronger than the average youth of fourteen, so here you are with a cut ear, split lip, a bootmark in your ribs, assorted bruises, and a lot of adjustment ahead of you.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“That is known to mortals as hunger. The constable will bring dinner in once he has cleaned himself up. Meantime, would you care to try the water?”
She took a ladle from the bucket that had been standing by the door all day. Laron eyed it suspiciously, then took a sip. He drained it.
“Strange. It has no taste, but it is so refreshing.”
After another five ladles of water Laron was feeling marginally better, but he was by no means happy.
“Wish I was dead,” he said sullenly.
“It’s ‘I wish I were dead,’ the subjunctive—”
“Stop it!”
“But you have been restored to life! You should be pleased.”
“Life? I’m in a position to make comparisons. I have no strength, yet I am in a world full of people anxious to discuss my past behavior and eating habits.”
“Ah, speaking of people of that type, I have been discussing you with Feran. He is prepared to offer us passage to Sargol aboard the Shadowmoon.”
“Feran? ‘Us’? ‘Us’, meaning to include me with you? After what I did to him?”
“I never said he was happy about it. He will be sleeping alone, too.”
“Then why?”
“I have him by his figurative balls. Only I can raise the Shadowmoon.”
Laron’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure you wash your figurative hands when we reach Sargol. But what is to stop Feran demanding new terms and conditions once we are under way?”
Terikel rapped at the cell door. Roval unbarred it and opened it wide, then stood there with his arms folded and an ax in his belt.
“Constable Peeler, also known as Learned Roval of the SWS, is very good at enforcing existing terms and conditions. Life may not have the same compensations as being undead, young man, but life is all that you have left to you. Should you get yourself killed you will not rise with Miral and prey upon the living, you will remain in your grave, become extremely smelly, and keep the worms company. The alternative is to get out of here and live the next six or seven decades as if they were your last—which they will be.”
“Well, yes, but you have nothing to gain, I shall just be a burden—”
Terikel put a hand to Laron’s cheek and pressed her lips against his. Presently she stood up and held out her hand to him.
“I owe you so much, Laron,” she said, as he sat staring up at her in astonishment. “Do the chivalrous thing and let me assist you.”
Laron hung his head, then reached out without looking up and let himself be raised to his feet. Roval returned his tunic and sandals, and handed him a light ax from the confiscations rack. Laron fingered the large gash in the tunic that Warsovran’s weapon had made.
“Before we go, there is one condition that I do insist on. The Shadowmoon must leave me at Diomeda. I sent someone there I must—”
“Diomeda!” exclaimed Terikel. “Have you not heard? Warsovran conquered the place months ago. He’s even made it his capital. If I so much as show my face on Diomeda’s horizon I’ll be frog-marched off to the headsman’s block so fast the city magistrate will not even h
ave time to sell tickets for the execution. The same applies to you, and the Shadowmoon is known to have been in Metrologan service.”
“I know about Diomeda. You are known to be dead, the Shadowmoon is known to have sunk, and anyway it’s been sailing with the name painted over since we left to return to Torea. I am the only person aboard with anything to worry about.”
“Absolutely not,” declared Terikel. “We are not going to Diomeda.”
“This is a matter of honor!”
“No.”
“A girl’s honor!”
“The defense of honor is for those who have the strength to do it. Your chest measures less than my waist, and I pride myself on a good figure. As for your biceps … ! If someone was to auction you as a warrior in a slave market, there would be strong men rolling about on the ground, helpless with mirth.”
Laron was not anxious to hear any of this, particularly since most of it was true.
“What about—” he began.
“No! The answer is no! If you want to leave Helion at all, it is on the condition that we go to Sargol. Then you can go north to Diomeda and get yourself killed. Understand?”
Damarian warships were everywhere as the Rashih-Harlif entered Diomeda’s harbor, and the pilot who came aboard wore Warsovran’s crest on his hat. By the time they had docked, the master’s unease had abated somewhat. According to the pilot, the refugee navy was behaving itself well, and life in the big trading port had changed little since before the former king had sealed himself in his own island castle.
“Mind, if you know where a Sargolan princess named Senterri might be, there’s a reward of two thousand gold pagols,” said the pilot as he stood with the master on the quarterdeck.
“Why, what has she done?”
“Nothing. She was in Diomeda until a month ago, then she decided to leave, dressed as a dancer. Seems that she was a mite too good at dancing, as her guards sold her to some slavers as soon as they were out of sight of the city.”
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 29