A Meddle of Wizards

by Alexandra Rushe

  He held out his hand and helped Raine up. A longboat rode the choppy waves with Gertie at the bow, like Washington crossing the Delaware, her bulky frame outlined against an afternoon sky tinged orange, violet, and pink. The boat neared the beach and Gertie and Mauric jumped out. They plowed through the surf and raced up the beach with Mauric in the lead. Dropping on all fours, Gertie sprinted past the young warrior, spraying flumes of sand in her wake.

  She loped up. Pouncing on Raven, she knocked him off his feet, then picked him up and gave him a fierce hug. “Don’t ever do that again. You scared the life out of me, jumping into the water like that. You could have been crushed.” She tossed Raven aside and yanked Raine into her arms. “As for you . . . You’ve turned my whiskers gray, gal.”

  She released Raine and stepped back, scowling. “Are you hurt?”

  “A few bruised ribs, that’s all,” Raine said. “Is Chaz all right? And Bree?”

  “Aye. I left them oohing and ahhing over the dead sea beastie.” She rolled her yellow eyes. “Glory drifted out of her cabin after it was over. Said she knew things would turn out fine and decided to take a nap.” She snorted in disbelief. “A nap.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Mauric said. He pounded Raven on the back. “Nice work, killing that monster. That’s what I call a lucky throw.”

  Raven staggered a little under this exuberance of affection. “Lucky, nothing. That was pure skill.”

  Mauric chuckled and tossed a bundle at his feet. “I brought you and Raine some dry clothes.”

  “No need,” Raven said. “I’ll change on the ship.”

  “You’re leaving?” Raine blurted.

  “Not for long. I’ll see to the broken mast and return.”

  Down the beach, the sailors manning the longboat had dragged the craft onto the sand and were plodding toward them.

  “Cap’n,” the sailor in the lead said as they drew near.

  “Odmon.” Raven nodded at the man. “The others and I will go back to the ship. You and Tondel remain on shore.”

  “But we’re in Shad Amar, Cap’n,” Odmon protested. “There be goggins.”

  “Which is exactly why you will stand guard. Stay out of the woods and keep your fire low.”

  He turned and strode for the longboat with the remaining sailors.

  “Wait,” Raine cried, running after him. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. It’s about Doran.”

  “Doran?” A sailor with weathered skin and grizzled hair regarded her in surprise. “Doran’s dead, milady. Mast fell on him and squashed him like a melon, poor sod.”

  “I know. I saw him in the water.” Raine turned to Raven. “I mean, I saw his ghost. He was wearing some sort of medallion, and he kept waving it at me. I think he was trying to tell me something. I’m not very good at reading lips, but I think he was saying something about ‘axel burger.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Raven said. “This was Doran’s first voyage on the Storm. I’ll ask around. Find out what I can about the man.”

  “Thank you,” Raine said with a sigh of relief. “I’d be grateful. I owe this ghost a favor.”

  “You owe a favor to a dead man.”

  “Yes.”

  If not for Doran, she would have given up and drowned.

  Raven gazed at her with an odd little smile, then turned and strode away. Raine wandered back down the beach, where Mauric and Odd were gathering driftwood.

  “You and Raven were having quite the coze,” Gertie said when Raine walked up. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.”

  Common sense warned Raine that she should tell Gertie about the whispering voice and Doran, but she was tired and cold, and she didn’t feel like talking. Doran’s death made her sad and uneasy. Why, oh, why, did she have to see ghosts? Why couldn’t she have a cool superpower, like invisibility or shapeshifting or flying? Instead, she got to talk to dead people. Yay.

  Gertie gave her a hard look. “You’re done in, child. Let’s have a look at those sore ribs.” She picked up the bundle of dry clothes and led Raine behind a tumble of rocks, out of sight of the men. “Now,” she said, dropping the packet at Raine’s feet. “Out of those wet things.”

  It was an order, not a suggestion. Reluctantly, Raine peeled off her clammy dress and stood shivering in the wind while the troll examined her. It was freezing. She could feel her body shrinking in places she hadn’t known she had.

  “Badly bruised, but not broken or cracked, thank Kron,” the troll said with a satisfied grunt. “You’re going to be sore for a few days.” She held up a small crockery pot. “Luckily, Raven had this among his goods.”

  She opened the pot and carefully removed a small amount of thick salve. “Raise your arms.”

  Raine obeyed, flinching a little when Gertie rubbed the cold ointment on her skin. She stared straight ahead and tried to pretend she wasn’t naked on a windy beach being doctored by a creature that looked like a cross between a warthog, a grizzly bear, and a Bouvier des Flandres.

  “Quit jumping around,” Gertie grumped. “It’s like trying to garter a frog.”

  The liniment tingled and grew warm. Given the loathsome nature of Gertie’s tonics, Raine expected the unguent to smell to high heaven, but the odor was pleasant and calming, and vaguely reminiscent of lavender. The hard knot of tension and pain inside her relaxed, and her jangled nerves, rattled by the day’s events and emotions, quieted.

  “What’s in that stuff?” she asked, drawing in a deep breath. “It’s . . . lovely.”

  “Amedlarian windflowers,” Gertie said. “Rare, but highly efficacious.” She cleared her throat. “I’d get dressed, if I were you. Mauric can smell a naked woman half a league away.”

  Raine opened the pack and put on a red wool dress with a high neck and long sleeves. She sat down on a large rock and was pulling on a pair of woolen hose when Mauric appeared.

  “There you are.” He stepped around a clump of thrift abloom with small white flowers. “I was about to send out a search party. I set your boots by the fire to dry, Raine.”

  Gertie gave Raine a broad wink. “Told you.”

  “Told her what?” Mauric asked, trudging through the sand after Raine and Gertie.

  “Never you mind,” Gertie said. “You have the camp set up?”

  “Aye. There’s a tent, of sorts, and the blankets and cook pots we brought from the ship. I’ll grub up a meal, if you like.”

  “I’ll do the cooking. Like to keep my paw in the pot, so to speak.” Gertie draped a hairy arm around Raine’s shoulders. “You can help, pet. You don’t happen to know a good recipe for stewed sea monster?”

  “No, I most certainly do not, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you,” Raine said with a shudder. “I’m not going to eat sea monster.”

  “I don’t see why not.” The troll chuckled. “He certainly meant to eat you.”

  * * * *

  The late afternoon sun was a chill white circle in the sky and the wind off the water was bitterly cold. Raine slogged down the beach next to Mauric, her damp boots sinking deep in the sand. She shivered. Her companion seemed oblivious to the cold, though the leather vest he wore left his muscular arms bare to the wind.

  The lonely stretch of coast was dotted with tidal pools. Within these miniature salty ponds, hundreds of fish swam in frantic circles, endlessly seeking a path to the sea that was a few feet away. Thousands upon thousands more lay dead upon the sand, having beached themselves to escape the sea monster. Wrinkling her nose, Raine stepped over a pile of dead fish and peered into a briny puddle, keeping an eye out for the flash of silver. In the space of a few minutes, Gertie had woven several baskets from sea oats, her nimble claws and a nudge of magic making quick work of the job.

  “Here,” she’d said, handing Raine and Ma
uric each a basket. “Go catch some fish for supper, and don’t come back until the baskets are full.”

  “There are fish and plenty lying about on the sand,” Mauric protested. “Why do we have to catch more?”

  “Eat fish that have been scavenged by gulls?” Gertie said. “Why, when we can have fresh? Besides, the girl has had a terrible shock. Best to keep her busy, or she’ll begin to brood. That goes for you, too. Idle hands breed trouble.”

  “But, mor—”

  “Now, Mauric.”

  And, so, they had taken their baskets and gone down the beach to catch fish. Raine bent over the small pool, careful not to trail the hem of her cloak in the water. She was grateful that Abbah had insisted upon making her a spare. The mantle, like the one she’d lost at sea, was a marvel of craftsmanship, fashioned from lightweight wool, sturdy and warm, and resistant to stains. The same could not be said of Pallan’s boots. They were stiff with salt and already the worse for wear.

  She plunged her hand into the cold water, seized a squirming fish, and threw it into the basket.

  “Gertie has a warped sense of humor,” she grumbled. “She deliberately let me think we were having sea monster for supper.”

  “Aye,” Mauric said. “She’s a right evil old troll.”

  They lugged their laden baskets down the beach and handed them to Gertie. The troll emptied them and promptly handed them back.

  “More?” Mauric widened his eyes. “How many fish do we have to catch?”

  “I’ll let you know when we have enough.” Gertie deftly gutted and scaled a fish with her claws, and tossed it into an empty basket. “We’re marooned until that broken mast is repaired. Might as well salt and dry as many of these fish as we can. Waste not, want not.”

  Mauric glanced around. “Where are Odd and Tondel?”

  “Gathering wood to make drying racks for the fish.”

  “I’ll help them.”

  “No, you won’t. You will gather more fish,” Gertie said. “Back to it, you two.”

  “Tro’s teeth,” Mauric swore as he and Raine moved back down the craggy beach. “This is not warrior’s work.”

  “It’s not my idea of fun, either. We could always revolt.”

  Mauric shook his head. “Nay, if Gertie didn’t skin me for disobedience, my uncle would. He’s that fond of her.”

  “I don’t get it. If he’s so fond of her, why did he change the locks on his ale cellars?”

  “Oh, he did that to rankle her. It’s a game between them. They love to tease one another.”

  They worked in silence, carrying laden baskets of fish to Gertie and going back for more. It was hard work, but Raine didn’t mind. Gertie had been right. She’d needed to stay busy, and she found satisfaction in doing physical work, something she’d lacked the stamina for as an invalid.

  A chilling howl drifted on the wind.

  Raine whirled around. “Was that a goggin?”

  “Nay, that was Gertie calling us back.” Mauric took Raine’s basket from her. “Come, lass. We’re done.”

  Back at the campsite, they found Gertie sitting on a clump of driftwood with her feet in the shallows. The troll was cleaning fish. Fish guts lay in piles around her back paws, and her fur was crusty with scales and goo. Rows of crude wooden racks lined the beach, the result of Odd’s and Tondel’s work. Strips of fish had been salted and laid out to dry on the racks.

  The shore was strewn with carcasses. “Whew, this place reeks,” Raine said. “I can only imagine what the smell will be like come morning.”

  Gertie was cleaning a large tuna with surgical precision. “You won’t notice it at all. Come evening tide, it will wash out to sea.”

  “I still don’t see why we had to catch fish,” Mauric grumbled. “Seems to me, all that work was for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing, boy. For the fish.” Gertie glanced up from her task. “Now, be a dear and set the pans out for supper. Unless you’d like to help with the gutting?”

  “Um . . . no, thanks,” Mauric said, and hurried to do as he was told.

  Chapter 40

  Finn and the Troll

  The sun sank beneath the waves and the stars came out. It was a clear, cold night. The Storm was anchored several hundred yards off shore, an indistinct black shape on the water. Lights burned on the ship, bobbing will-o’-the-wisps as the men went about the business of cleanup.

  Raine sat in the shadows a few yards from the fire. Now that she’d stopped moving, the shock had set in, and she was sad and weary to the bone. She kept seeing Doran’s mangled face. The young sailor’s death weighed heavily on her conscience, as did Trudy’s and Kipp’s. People were dying because a man she’d never met hated her. It didn’t make sense. If Glonoff truly thought she might one day wield the Eye and become some all-powerful badass, why make her his enemy? He’d peed in his wizard oats, for sure.

  “Supper,” Gertie called from the fire. “Get it while it’s hot.”

  Raine scrubbed her hands for the third time in the chill surf and gave up. She stank of fish and there was no denying it. She hurried back to the fire.

  “Here,” Gertie said, handing Raine a plate of fried fish.

  She sat down in the sand and nibbled at her food. Truthfully, she was too tired to eat. Mauric, Odd, and Tondel, on the other hand, tucked away food at an alarming rate.

  “How the Rowan can afford to feed an army of such men is a mystery to me,” Raine said.

  “He doesn’t.” Gertie preferred her fish raw. Snagging a herring from the basket at her feet, she tossed the fish into the air and swallowed it whole. “Finlars are in high demand, so the Rowan hires out warriors to private merchants. The merchants get protection for their ships and the Rowan gets someone else to foot the bill.”

  After supper was done and the metal dishes and pans had been scoured clean in the sand at the water’s edge, they settled down by the fire. The sky was a black bowl dotted with stars. Petrarr, the jagged moon, shone down on them; Una, her twin, hid shyly behind a patch of clouds. From the woods behind them came a series of grunts and snarls. Odd and Tondel stirred uneasily at the sounds.

  “I won’t rest easy until we’ve weighed anchor,” Odd said, looking over his shoulder. “I’ve heard nothing but dark tales about Shad Amar all my life.”

  “It’s them goggins what’s got me worried.” Tondel shuddered. “Ravenous things, they are, or so I’m told. I hope the captain’s right, and they keep to the mountains.”

  “Our stalwart guards seem a bit jumpy, mor.” Mauric sounded amused. “Perhaps you’d best weave a tale to pass the time.”

  Gertie fondled her whiskers. “Hmm. As I recall, I promised Raine the story of Finn.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Raine. “Ages ago.”

  “The story of Finn?” Odd leaned forward, his expression eager. “That would be a fine thing to hear from you.”

  “Very well.” Gertie rose and stood beside the fire. “Finn, as you may have guessed, Raine, was the founder of Finlara.”

  “Like Durn was the founder of Durngaria?” Raine said.

  “That’s right,” Gertie said. “There are numerous tales of Finn, and he is known by many names—Finn the Clever, Finn the Bold, and Finn the Magnificent, to mention a few.”

  “She forgot Finn the Henpecked,” Mauric said in a loud whisper. “The man had fifty wives.”

  Gertie gave him a look of annoyance. “Twenty-three. Not so many, considering the man lived fifteen hundred years.”

  “Fifteen hundred years is a long time,” said Raine.

  “The Rowan is blessed with a long life,” Gertie said. “There have been five in all, beginning with Finn. The present Rowan, Gorne Lindar, has held the throne the past eight hundred years, give or take a few decades. When it comes time for him to step down, the Rowan takes the Walk and Trowyn—that’s the god of Fin
lara—chooses the next ruler.”

  “Takes the walk?” Raine said.

  “Finlara is separated from Torgal by the Gorza Strait.” Mauric spat in the sand, and Odd and Tondel followed suit. “The Torgs are our bitterest enemies.”

  “Worse than the Shads?” Raine asked.

  “Infinitely,” Mauric said. “On the Finlaran side of the Strait there’s a whirlpool called the Churn. When the time comes for the Rowan to step down, a ceremony is held on the cliffs, a sacred rite presided over by Trowyn’s priests, with everyone in attendance. To bear witness, you see.”

  “Bear witness to what?” Raine was confused.

  “The Rowan goes off the cliff.” Mauric made a little diving motion with his hands. “Jumps into the whirlpool and splat—he’s dead. Time for a new Rowan.”

  Raine gasped. “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, though in Finn’s case, it was probably a relief. Thirty-four wives, you know.”

  “Twenty-three,” Gertie said, giving him a warning snarl. “If you’re quite finished?”

  “Yes, mor.”

  Clasping her paws behind her back, Gertie continued, “The story begins when Finn was a boy, before he’d won a god for his people and a country and throne for himself.

  “In the days following Xan’s death and Magog’s decline into madness, the world was in chaos. In the Great Cataclysm brought on by Xan’s murder, whole countries were swallowed up and new continents rose. Thousands were killed, and thousands more injured. Those who survived faced plague and starvation. It was a terrible time, especially for Xan’s people, who were left godless by his death. Some chose to worship Magog, though he had murdered Xan, reasoning that any god was better than no god at all. Others refused to worship the Slayer and left, sailing across the Strait of Gorza to one of the new lands beyond. They named their new home Torgal, which means we abide.”

  Mauric and the two sailors spat in the sand again.

  “The Torgs weren’t the only ones to reject Magog,” Gertie continued, ignoring this ritual. “Others among Xan’s orphaned people became godless nomads, wandering the land, rootless and despised. One day, after many years of moving aimlessly from place to place, a special child was born to them. Blond and blue-eyed among a people with dark hair and eyes, the child stood out.”