Afterward, Dank turned to him, smiling slyly as a cat. “Go to Degan, Garrett. Tell him we’re his new masters. If he’ll row for us, tell him no Furyon ships will catch us tonight or tomorrow or any day after that. Tell him not to worry, for we’ve Archithrope’s wind at our backs. We have me and we have you, and that’s all we need.”
Five Brave Fools
It was a hard way for Saul to wake, rising from slumber on the rain-slathered deck of a ruined ship. He was first to return to life, first to know he had survived the night. The galley’s wrecked, he knew. And we’re done for.
Victimized by the storm that had erupted just after midnight, the Furyon galley lay trapped against the rocks of a nameless shore. Its steel prow was bent, its oars snapped like twigs, and its hull breached close to the waterline. At least it’s dawn now, and the storm long gone, Saul thought.
He sensed the waves, rolling and endless, slapping against the hull. His eyes bleary, his head still congested by a dream-riddled night, he cracked his eyelids and crawled out from beneath an oarsman’s bench. A lapis dawn greeted him, with skies so blue it hurt to see and a beach so pristine he thought it impossible. He wandered between the waking oarsmen and perched near the prow. What is this place? He wondered. Surely not Furyon.
Eyes wide, he gazed upon a shore of white sand awash with foam. The beach, bright as silver, was sprinkled with an infinite mosaic of shells; oranges, reds, violets, and ivories all glittering like coins in the sunlight. The beach seemed to go on forever, unbroken but for a serpentine river, whose crystalline waters snaked into the sea not far from the broken galley.
As he counted the marvels of the beach, he saw Marlos swagger to the rail and wipe the sheen of sweat and salt from his forehead. “Where are we?” the captain blustered. “Dead?”
“I don’t know.” Saul rubbed the last bit of sleep from his eyes. “Crashed. It could be worse.”
“Oh?” Marlos snorted. “Look around you. All we have are sand and water. Like as not, we’ll be dead in a week.”
Always the pessimist, he thought. Though I wonder if he might be right this time. He looked over the railing, where the shallows were clear as glass and alive with fish too colorful to be real. The galley was so well trapped between the rocks that it remained steady in the waves, motionless at least for now. Following the lead of many of his shipmates, Saul found a chain and tossed it over the railing. “See you in the water.” He shrugged, whacking Marlos on the arm.
He clambered down the chain, gliding into the knee-deep shallows. The water was pleasantly warm, the seabed soft as a pillow. All around him the oarsmen plunked into the ocean, weary and storm-beaten, but glad to be alive. But where are Garrett and Dank? Where is Degan?
Marlos slid awkwardly down the same chain and hit the water beside him. The splash sent a plume into the air, and Marlos’s sputtering drew more than one smile from the oarsmen. “Never again!” The big man shook like a hound returned from the rain. “No more boats, no more water!”
Saul waded a bit farther from the wounded galley. The hulking mass of wood and tangled sails cast its long shadow across him, making him nervous. That we survived is a miracle, he thought as the last oarsmen splashed into the water. That the boat isn’t all floating timbers doubly so.
He and Marlos waded to a safe distance, his legs feeling heavy as oak logs as he plodded through the shallows.
“What next?” Marlos glared back to the ship. “Is this even Furyon? What about the rowers? Dank doesn’t mean to bring them with us, does he? And what’s that damn smell?”
Saul had no answers. He hated the ocean as much as Marlos did, though he complained far less often about it. Squinting against the sunlight, he followed Marlos’s glare to the galley, where he glimpsed Dank perched upon the broken prow and staring out at the beach as though it were a new kingdom for him to rule. Of all the crew, Dank was last to touch the water. The warlock slid deftly down a chain and slipped into the water, which rippled at his waist as though it did not like the taste of him. His blue robes were now gone, exchanged for a forbidding Furyon cloak salvaged from the galley depths. Swathed in his wet new raiment, the warlock seemed entirely out of place in the sea, like a splash of ink spreading through otherwise pristine waters.
“So much for wizardry. One little storm, and he did nothing to stop us from wrecking.” Marlos looked miserable in the water.
“He helped us escape the harbor,” Saul reasoned. “Remember how the wind came and took us to sea. No Furies followed us. It couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Bah,” Marlos grunted. “Luck, I call it. A fortunate breeze and a black fog from nowhere.”
“You don’t think it was magic? I’ve seen fogs before, but none like that one.”
Marlos wrung his sleeves out and grimaced. “As likely Fury sorcery as his. You give the warlock too much credit.”
The debate might have lasted the rest of the day, as so many debates with Marlos do, and so he gave it up. He watched Dank wade through the shallows near the galley, brushing the broken hull with his fingertips, seeming satisfied by something unknown. “It will float again,” the wizard pronounced loudly to the nearest oarsmen. “A good thing for you, my friends.”
“So this is Furyon?” Marlos shouted.
“Yes, this is the place,” Dank waded nearer. “Quite a bit west of where we meant to land, but it’ll have to do.”
“Not what we expected, this beach,” Marlos observed.
“No?” Dank smirked. “What did you expect? Columns of steel towers? Black palaces in the sand? Or maybe a giant pit, smoking and boiling with the eggs of Furyon children? Your imaginings go too far, dear captain. Evil is found in men, not the earth, and our enemies rarely look like we think they will. But if you want to see dark places, I suppose there are a few in Furyon. Malog, for one.”
“The Dark City?” Saul recalled what Dank had many times named the Furyon capital.
Dank shook the wet sleeves of his midnight-hued cloak. “Indeed. Malog will have the look you expect. Black towers, dwellings made of steel instead of stone. And in its center; the obsidian citadel. Now there’s a treat for living eyes. If we survive long enough, we might see it, but not here, not today. Were you wise, you’d savor this little paradise. It may be the last peace we know.”
Dank sloshed past him and toward the beach, where the oarsmen had gathered. Ser Endross was already there, his armor spread out in three satchels and slung over his broad shoulders. He also spied Garrett, stark as a black sword in the white sand, placid and immovable as a tower made of midnight.
“I don’t know this place,” Marlos grumbled.
“None of us do.”
“I was comfortable in Gryphon.” The captain looked pale and miserable. “It was never different. I woke every morning to ride with my men and dined every night in Emun’s keep. But now…now’s different. Everything’s different. I miss my wife and son. Do you even know what that’s like? Did you leave anyone behind?”
“I did not.” He shook his head.
He and Marlos waded through the shallows and toward the beach. He saw Dank patter ashore and stomp across the sand until the little man stood in the center of the oarsmen. Just as he set food upon dry sand, he watched Dank crack his knuckles and listened as the little man cleared his throat. “We’re indebted to you,” the warlock announced to Degan. “There are not enough thanks we can give you.”
Degan’s face was drawn and pale, but his voice deep as a drum. “We’re even, the way we see it. You’d have done the same for us. So now that we’re done, now that we’ve crashed, what’s it all about? What’s the real point of coming here?”
Degan’s sailors murmured behind him, eager to know why they had braved the sea.
“The point?” Dank replied. “The point is that your part is done. Be glad for it. We five mean to strike inland.”
Degan looked unconvinced. “Why? Why not go somewhere else? We can stay together, you know. Splitting up makes stupid sense.�
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“Don’t worry for us,” said Dank. “You’ve plenty to risk on your own. You’ll find the beginnings of a forest just over this beach. You can use the trees to repair your ship, for it’s your ship now, and not the Furyons’. Once you make it seaworthy again, follow the coast westward until you find cliffs. An inlet is there, a way back to Graehelm. Don’t go east, don’t go south. Only go west.”
“West, yes,” Degan replied. “But there’s something you’re not saying. Ten days at sea, and you’ve kept your secrets. Are you spies? Assassins? What good can you do here, and how do you know this is even Furyon? You’re good people. Seems a waste to wander to your deaths.”
“Not a waste. An opportunity.” Dank gazed skyward. “I can say no more. My companions and I will enjoy a last meal and then be off. You’ll be on your own. You’d best prepare.”
At that, Dank pushed past the sailors. He strode inland, climbing the beach’s tallest dune, beyond which lay a tangle of trees and vines spanning northward far as the eye could see.
“Sounded like a eulogy,” Marlos puffed.
“It did.” Saul could not deny it.
The rest of the morning burned briskly by. The oarsman waded to and from the galley, returning to the shore with sacks, barrels, and tools snared from the ship’s hold. They brought food as well, or at least what remained of it, unpacking salted fish, hard bread, and sour Furyon cider. Seated in a great ring upon the sand, Saul and everyone else sank into a small breakfast feast. Marlos will say this is our last meal, he thought he as bit into his bread. Everything’s peaceful, but for how much longer?
The meal lasted a while. The sea lapped higher on the shore as the sun climbed in the sky. The oarsmen laughed and joked, some grimly and some not, but Saul stayed quiet the entire time. He watched Garrett, who remained ominously silent. He knows the truth, he thought of Garrett. The rest of us worry about bad weather, monsters on the mountain, and broken ships, but not he. He sees something the rest of us don’t.
The longer the morning lasted, the more the meal became a somber affair.
Saul saw the galley sagging lower in the water, the sails torn like ragged shirts, and like everyone else he began to believe survival was at best a slim hope. As midday neared, so too did the inevitable descend. Dank returned from his inland trek only to cut short everyone’s sentiments with word that it was time to leave, and the friendships of recent days dissolved. Marlos and Endross said their farewells and went to Dank’s side. Saul was last to leave. He went to the oarsmen, clasping each one close and offering his thanks for keeping him alive. “The storm,” he said when he came to Degan, “should’ve killed us. Whatever you did last night, you did well. You saved us.”
“A small thing,” said Degan. “You chose the right galley to abduct, leastways that’s the way we see it. Seems a shame, you dying soon and all. It’s madness what you’re doing.”
He leaned hard on his battlestaff. “You may be right. We wish there were another way.”
“There is,” Degan countered. “Stay here and help us fix the ship. Even if this is Furyon, none of the bastards are likely to find us here. We’ll be back at sea in a week, back home in three. Sounds better than whatever you lot are up to.”
He shrugged. “You make a compelling argument. But—”
“Yes, yes. I know. Your minds are made up. You’ve dire things to do. No matter which of you I talk to, your answers are the same.”
“Sorry for that. If I see you again, I—”
“You won’t,” said Degan. “But thanks no less for the thought. When I return to my wife and children, I’ll tell them of the five brave fools. I’ll even give the tale a happy ending. I reckon you deserve that much.”
There seemed little else to say. He clasped Degan’s hand and then turned his back to the oarsmen for a final time. Ascending the dune was no easy thing. He walked in silence up the sand like a man meant for the gallows. He heard the oarsmen talking about him, about the madness of his decision, of how the Furyons would carve him up and dangle his bones for the crows. It was all he could do to shut their voices out. To believe what they say is to already be dead, he convinced himself. Let’s see what the warlock has in mind.
Dank waved him onto the dune, atop which a pile of dark metal lay in the sand. The oarsmen had placed it here, netting every shard of Dageni steel they had found in the galley’s bowels. “What’s this?” he asked as he approached.
“Armor,” said Marlos. “The wizard wants us to wear it.”
He halted on the top of the dune, frowning. The trove of Furyon armor was heaped upon the sand, looking like a dark meteor fallen in pieces from the sky. Greaves, plates, and black tines jutted from the oarsmen’s net, scabrous as a pile of scorpions. So this is the treasure Dank mentioned. How do the Furies dress in such things?
“Ugly, no?” Dank noticed his discomfort. “But a better find than a mountain of gold. The only way to enter Furyon is to be a Furyon. These suits will be your second skins.”
Saul knew what he must do. No sense in complaining about it. After a long, cold look at the Furyon items, he donned a set, complete with helmet, greaves, and black carapace, more the raiment of a many-horned beetle than a battle suit meant for a man. He slid one of the weapons onto his belt, a toothy Furyon blade lighter than air and black as midnight. The sword felt like an odd contrast to his battlestaff, clinking against his armor with a sound he knew he would tire of. After he was dressed, he no longer looked like himself. His face was locked behind a mouthless Dageni mask, and all his flesh, even his hands, was hidden behind Furyon steel, which weighed little more than the wind upon his back.
“You look like a lump of coal,” Marlos cracked.
He removed his helm and tucked it under his arm. “Aye. You too.”
He looked to his companions. Their armor was fastened tight, their helms hiding their faces so well he could barely recognize one from the other. He could tell Garrett by the scabbard of Lorsmir’s sword, though he noted the absence of his whitewood bow. He recognized Marlos by his displeasured grunts, the armor ill-fitting him the most. As for Endross, he knew the knight by his eyes, gleaming like white stars through his razor-slitted helm.
Predictably, Dank wore no armor. The warlock instead chose a Furyon shroud, a cloak so black and forbidding it seemed to hold the night inside. “Not so bad, is it?” Dank tapped his fingers against Garrett’s plated arm. “I’ll not tell you how they make it. Suffice to say, it’s an evil process.”
“A comforting thought,” said Saul.
Dank fluffed his cloak, snapped his fingers, and took the first step down the far side of dune. A tangled forest and a thousand slender waterways lay beyond the sand, the rush of a distant waterfall drowning most sounds the same as the Gholesh. “Off we go,” Dank called as he walked. “Each of you, snatch up a sack. The oarsmen were so kind as to give us some of their rations.”
Dank started down the dune, but did not get far. Saul and the rest remained fixed at the top of the sand. This is too sudden, he thought. Feels like more should be said.
“Wait!” Marlos shouted. “Just hold your boots, you who seems to know this place so well. We have questions. What is this shore? Can we really get to Furyon from here? Did we land here by accident, or was the storm just another of your tricks?”
Dank halted with a sigh and clicked his tongue. “An accident? You don’t like the beach? You’d rather have landed in a Fury port? Perhaps you were more comfortable aboard the ship than you seemed?”
“So you crashed us here on purpose?” Marlos scowled. “You could’ve killed us. And then where would your grand old plan be?”
“Our landing was meant to be gentler,” Dank admitted.
“No doubt. But now what? How far’s the Object from here? Furyon armor or no, how do we expect to finish this without getting killed?”
Dank climbed back up the dune and fixed himself at the highest point of the sand, the wind catching his cloak and stretching it out like a black Fury
on flag. “Do you see that forest?” he asked Marlos.
Saul followed Marlos’s gaze. He looked beyond the dune, where the ocean of trees stretched out without end. The trees nearest the dune were tall and sturdy, their trunks like spears, but deeper inland stood a jade jungle, a labyrinth of sword-leafed trees and snaking vines brooking little sunlight to enter. Dank swished his arm, indicating the whole of the realm before them. “The Furyons call this place Esti Nar, or simply; Darken Wood. The trees will hide us well enough for a few days. There are no cities within, and no reason for the Furyons to patrol. After a few days’ march, we’ll come to the plains. The Furyon grassland is vast and pocked with thousands of lakes. There’ll be farms everywhere, villages at every shore. Places to hide will be few and far between.”
“And if we see Furies?” Marlos crossed his black-clad arms.
Dank was unperturbed. “If, once we reach this place, you see a Fury or think one is near, say nothing. Keep your swords at your waists and your helmets on your heads. I’ll speak with the enemy and earn us safe passage.”
“Plain to see you’re not one of them,” Marlos pointed out. “They’ll know you at a glance. They’ll slaughter us.”
Dank smiled beneath his hood. “Don’t worry. They’ll not see me for who I am. Now…any other questions?”
“Yes,” said Marlos. “What comes after the plains?”
Dank glanced skyward, and Saul swore he saw a shadow dance through the warlock’s eyes. “We’ll see when we get there. That’s the best answer I can give.”
A few hours’ march into Darken Wood, and Saul understood why the Furyons had named the forest so.
The shoreline paradise was lost far behind him, entirely forgotten. The breezes, the rhythm of the ocean against the beach, and the crystalline skies felt like things that had never existed. All his thoughts and worries for what horrors might await him in the heart of Furyon began to thicken like clouds within his mind. Darken Wood is deep and stuffed with shadows, he lamented. Why did Dank bring us this way? Angry birds cried out from the hollows of every tree. Other noises, low and dreadful and far more forbidding than any sounds of Velum or Grandwood, split the air like thunder. He hated it all. The summer heat clung to his skin like a stifling cloak, and the mist swirled about his boots like spirits hungry for him to fall. His Dageni mail cooked his flesh, the tines snagging on every surface, the insides of the greaves biting into his ankles. To make matters worse, the deeper into the wilderness he went, the more the clearings between the trees became treacherously narrow. No magic will give us comfort now. It’s almost as if Dank wants us to suffer.
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 67