The Wayward Knights

by Roland Green

  Torvik lay, wondering if he was the captive of an enchantress and if so, was this her real form? If the rest of her matched her face, his would be a joyous captivity.

  He tried to move, to see the rest of his captor. His head moved, but his limbs refused to obey his brain.

  "Lie still," the woman said. "You need to regain your strength. I will give you some water, if you can raise your head a little higher."

  Her voice was low for a woman's, and although her Common was fluent, it held an accent he did not recognize. However, he had no trouble raising his head. At her command, he would have tried to dance on his hands.

  He sipped fresh water, with a faint hint of herbs in it, which was all she allowed him to do. He would gladly have gulped the water down by the jugful, the more so when he felt strength creeping back into his limbs.

  But that swiftly proved an illusion. He was glad enough to lie back down, head pillowed on the bundle of sweet-scented weed. It was only then that he noticed that the woman's skin held a faint but unmistakable tint of blue. It was a color he had previously seen only in the skins of the dying or the drowned, but this woman was plainly alive and in excellent health. She had strands of seaweed woven into that glorious auburn hair, rather like a high-ranking Istaran lady's hairnet.

  His lips spoke without waiting for his mind to guide them. "My mother said that it is hard to wear blue and green at the same time," he said.

  The woman smiled. "Your mother was wise. But I am also sure that she was human. What guides your folk does not always hold true for mine."

  "Who are your folk?"

  "We have been called the Dimernesti," she said, "the shallows-dwellers, and other names, some of them not friendly. The minotaur name for us means 'offal with flippers,' and that is not the worst."

  "I suppose it would not be," he said. "The minotaurs are seldom polite, but still more seldom stupid." Minotaurs were the last folk he wanted to talk about now, but he did not wish to lie there with his mouth open like a dying fish.

  Now his wits were beginning to move again, like the rowers of a galley falling into a faster stroke. "Was it you who saved me?" he asked.

  "I did some work. My friends did more."

  "Your friends? Other Dimernesti?"

  She sighed, and for a moment he saw her looking far away toward something not in the world. He also saw crow's-feet at the comer of either eye. This sea-elf was no green girl—and at that last phrase, laughter nearly choked him.

  The Dimernesti woman waited until Torvik got his breath back and sat up before going on. When he had, he missed her first few words. He realized for the first time that she was half a head taller than he, as splendidly formed as he had imagined, and quite unclad except for the net in her hair and a wide belt of fishskin from which hung several bottles and pouches.

  "I am the only Dimernesti on this island," she told him. "But the sea otters and I are friends, and enemies to what Wilthur the Brown has unleashed on these waters. We may not be Wilthur's only foes, but we are certainly the only friends to humans."

  Torvik remembered the sea otters, who must have worked together as if trained to bear him to the surface and the life-giving air, "Did they—have you saved any others of my men?" he asked.

  "All but three," she said. "We saw one hauled into a boat from your ship even before the Creation withdrew into its lair. Two were lost, one torn apart and the other drowned before we could carry him to the air. We have wrapped their bodies and will guide you and your men to them, if you wish it."

  "I do." Torvik also wished to spend the rest of the day, and perhaps all night and the next day, simply staring at the Dimernesti woman, talking with her if she wished it but content to look if she wished silence. As for touching her—he did not think it prudent to even let that thought pass through his mind.

  "Now, let me see how many of your host of questions I can answer," the woman said. "I am called Mirraleen among humans and elves, the Red Walker by the sea otters of Suivinari Island, and probably vile names by Wilthur…"

  As she went on, Torvik wished he had listened more to his mother speaking of Wilthur the Brown, although she knew only what Sir Pirvan had written after the siege at Belkuthas. Still, he realized that he was learning much that neither Sir Pirvan nor anyone else had ever known, would give his eyeteeth to know, and would pry loose his teeth if he forgot.

  When the image of Wilthur enslaving most living things on Suivinari and creating more to do his bidding was fixed in his mind, Torvik found himself growing curious. The question as it first took shape in his mind was doubtless rude; just as certainly he needed an answer.

  "Your pardon, Mirraleen," he said. "But if you think that Zeboim herself does not favor Wilthur, how is it that you sea-elves have not long since cast down the mage? We shall do the work ourselves if needs be, but why is it yet undone?"

  Mirraleen sighed. "Remember, the mage's work would also discommode Habbakuk, Zeboim's rival for domain in the sea. I doubt that she would openly attack one who is an enemy of her enemy.

  "Besides, the Dimernesti, though not as much a legend among the sea-elves as we are among the dryfeet, have never been as numerous as the Dargonesti. On Ansalon, we lost more and more safe shores as the dryfoot folk grew in number. Some centuries ago, most of the Dimernesti swam north to shores even beyond the lands of the minotaur, and do well enough.

  "I lost my family when I was young, and quarreled with those who reared me. So it was no great matter for me to swim south, find a home among the sea otters of this island, and watch dryfoot ships come and go."

  "It sounds horribly lonely," Torvik said. "Like being a castaway."

  "Ah, but I cast myself away—Torvik. Is that how you pronounce the name I heard your men calling you?"

  "Yes."

  "They called it in a way that shows they honor you, for all that they are of two—tribes—and you are young."

  Torvik did not know whether to glow at the praise or flush at the frankness. Mirraleen smiled and laid a finger over his lips. "But hold your peace a little while longer," she said, "for I must finish my tale."

  Mirraleen had not seen one of her own folk for more years than Torvik cared to think about, even though he knew that elves could live the best part of a thousand years. She did well enough, leading the sea otters of Suivinari, speaking to the rare Dargonesti sea-brother among the passing dolphins, healing sickness in others and in herself as needed, and altogether living the life of a contented hermit.

  Then Wilthur the Brown took refuge on Suivinari Island, brought every living thing more than a few hundred paces from the water under his sway, and began creating monsters. The Creation that lurked in the shallows, with aspects of octopus, lobster, and poisonous reef cod, was only the latest. It would not be the last.

  "We survive in the shoals because some power—call it Zeboim—will not let Wilthur intrude too far offshore. Had she done otherwise, I would be dead and my friends likewise, or even worse, slaves to Wilthur.

  "Go back to your people," she finished, "and warn them not to simply debark and march inland. That is putting themselves into Wilthur's hands, and out of whatever protection the sea gods may offer."

  "Such as it is," Torvik muttered. Among human sailors, Zeboim was the Great Turtle, mother of all that was evil about the sea, and protector of no one. Habbakuk was more friendly, but not always free to enter into human affairs.

  Mirraleen stood up, and the sun on her made her so splendid that Torvik's arms and lips tingled with wanting her touch. If Mirraleen sensed any of this, she ignored it, only standing with her head cocked to one side as if listening.

  "I hear a human boat approaching, Torvik. If you will hurry to the foot of the cliff to the left of the cove entrance, you will find ancient stairs there. Climb them, and wave to the boat," she said.

  "Like this?" Torvik asked, looking down at the few tattered remnants of his clothes.

  Mirraleen laughed, as sweet a sound as he had imagined it, "I have nothing you can
borrow, I fear, and your own garb is at the bottom of the sea if not in the belly of Wilthur's pet."

  She ran toward the water, more graceful than Torvik had believed any mortal creature could be. She sprang up atop a rock, then dived. In midair her arms became flippers, her legs a tail, and her body a sleek furry shape. A woman had leaped from the rock, but a sea otter entered the water.

  Torvik wasted no more time. Even before Mirraleen vanished toward open water, he heard the horns and drums of the boat. He had best climb up to where he would be easily seen, as he had no way to make a fire, no mirror to flash signals, nor even a stitch of clothing to wave!

  Mirraleen did not approach the boat closely until she was sure that it held humans, not minotaurs. The Destined Race might fling harpoons first and satisfy their curiosity, if any, afterward. Even after she saw humans, Mirraleen approached cautiously. She was alone, and while a dozen sea otters might raise no suspicions, after last night's events, a single one might still seem a portent, a sign, or something else to make tongues wag.

  If there had been any way to help the humans overthrow Wilthur's enslavement of her island without revealing her own existence, Mirraleen would have chosen it. As it was, she would prefer to remain a secret until Torvik could tell his tale.

  But at last it seemed likely that the boat would pass by, without seeing the small figure perched on the cliff or hearing his frantic halloos. Mirraleen swam up to the very prow of the boat, leaped half out of the water, barked three times, then dived back and away, in the direction she wanted to lead the boat.

  At least last night's events had fixed every sailor's mind on the matter of sea otters. She heard shouts and urgent words from the boat.

  "Hey! Sea otters!"

  "Just one, though. Maybe it's lost."

  "Maybe it's trying to help us!"

  "Oh, you and your stories."

  "No story. Remember what happened to Ligvur last night? When the boat went over, the otters came up under him and helped him to a rock. He'd have drowned otherwise."

  "Yeah, and Jomo said he saw them going down and hitting that thing like sharks all over a dead whale. Wonder if somebody put them up to it?"

  "Might have. Maybe not, though. Sea otters are pretty smart."

  In her sea otter form, Mirraleen could not giggle. Underwater, she could not giggle even as an elf. She popped to the surface again, feeling safe and happy, and barked three times more.

  It was while she was barking that she heard someone shout, "Hoy! Lookit up there! Somebody else from the boat. Get a rope so he can climb down."

  Mirraleen thought kindly of the man who made that last suggestion. If Torvik had to retrace his steps inland, some of Wilthur's animal slaves might be across his path by now. Going down the cliff, facing the sea, he would likely be safe from everything except falling—and she trusted one of Torvik's years, strength, and experience to avoid that.

  Her work with Torvik was done. Mirraleen dived deep and began swimming along the bottom. She might spend the rest of the day rallying her friends, counting their losses, and healing their hurts. It would be as well to find something to eat before she began.

  Chapter 10

  Nothing seemed to move in the world around Pirvan, save fumes trickling from the cone of the Smoker, well below the top. The knight half-hoped that the volcano would erupt in full fury, thereby settling the question of Suivinari's ownership in favor of the god Sargonnas, greatest master of destructive fire next to the Dark Queen herself, and one to whom humans, minotaurs, and any other seafaring race might cede the island with a clear conscience.

  That the possession of the island by a god of evil might leave the mystery of what lurked in its waters unsolved was no matter. Sargonnas would allow nothing save of his own creation—and Zeboim seldom allowed any creation of fire to travel far through her domain.

  Altogether, a battle of the gods over the corpse of the island seemed a fair way of saving humans and minotaurs the trouble of fighting their battle.

  Pirvan shook himself, which made sweat drip faster down his neck and under his arms. It was hot enough for high summer in Tirabot, a damp heat that made one's clothes cling as if glued to the skin. He had endured such heat before, on his first quest with Haimya, but he had not enjoyed it then and enjoyed it still less twenty years later.

  Not a breath of wind broke the stillness of air or water. Save for where the oars left their traces, the sea was as flat as a tavern floor and the color of moss-grown bread.

  Pirvan looked toward the shade under the awning on the afterdeck and saw that it was as filled as ever, with folk who doubtless needed it more. The age of the four knights and Gildas Aurhinius ranged from barely twenty to more than sixty, but all were fitter than most of the Istarans. The minotaurs would surely refuse the parley if the humans gave them even the slightest excuse, such as one named delegate being unfit to speak.

  It would be as well for everyone to reach Zeskuk's flagship fit to do serious work. It had certainly taken long enough to settle on who would represent the humans in the parley. The Istarans did not dispute sending all four knights and Gildas Aurhinius, but they insisted on sending an equal number from their ranks. Then everyone else who considered that he should be ranked equal with the knights, Istar, and Vuinlod clamored for representation.

  If all claims had been honored, it might have been simpler to go to the minotaurs aboard Shield of Virtue herself. No smaller ship could have safely carried everyone.

  After weary hours of debate consumed most of the night, they settled on four knights, four Istarans, two Karthayans, Gildas Aurhinius to represent Vuinlod, and Sirbones and the Istaran Black Robe Revella Laschaar representing the magicworkers. This already sizable delegation promptly grew by one, when word came at dawn that Torvik had been rescued and was returning to the fleet aboard Red Elf.

  Not without protest, however.

  "This gives Vuinlod an extra voice, in the mouth of a sea barbarian's heir who is not yet of lawful age," one Istaran all but gabbled.

  Sir Darin looked for permission from the senior knights, saw it in their eyes, and brought one massive fist down on the table. Empty cups jumped, a half-empty jug upset itself into an Istaran lap, and the very deck planks seemed to groan under the impact.

  "Torvik is captain of his own ship, by which he was declared of lawful age," Darin said. The senior Istaran, Andrys Puhrad, nodded. He was a merchant who had been a law-counselor in his youth and seemed the most level-headed from the city as well as the eldest.

  Darin continued. "Also, he has priceless knowledge of conditions about Suivinari, and Zeskuk will know that he has such knowledge."

  "All the more reason not to risk him," Sir Niebar said, which drew scandalized looks from the other knights.

  "Your pardon. Sir Niebar, but that may not be the wisest reasoning," Darin replied. "Zeskuk may think that we do not wish an agreement, if we do not bring Torvik with his knowledge that may speed us along our course.

  "Worse, he might think we hold back Torvik because we fear minotaur treachery. If he intends none, he will take it as an insult to his honor. He will have to, or some other minotaur will, and either challenge Zeskuk for leadership of the fleet or provoke us into a fight by some act of his own."

  "Ugh," Sir Hawkbrother grunted. In spite of the reproving look he shot his son-by-marriage, Pirvan's unexpressed thoughts were much the same. So were most others', as far as he could judge from their faces. Fighting thirty shiploads (the best count so far) of minotaurs who thought their honor and that of the Destined Race had been impugned would have been an appalling thought in pleasant weather. In this heat it was enough to make a god cringe.

  So Sirbones departed to see if Torvik was fit or could be made fit to join the delegation, and debate turned to picking a ship.

  Some favored Red Elf, but she might be damaged, would be shorthanded, and was not yet up with the fleet. Others favored Kingfisher's Claw, but Sorraz the Harpooner was acknowledged even by his friends to be too
hotheaded.

  One ship after another was offered, usually by someone whose honor or fortune would be advanced by the choice—or at least by the payment for the ship, if she did not return. It was Pirvan who was finally able to at least begin closing the debate.

  "We need something small enough to be no loss and large enough to hold all the delegates and their guards in some comfort, perhaps overnight," he said. "Above all, we need something too large to be sunk by accident. From what I know of minotaurs, their honor will forbid an open attack during a parley. But they will take it as a sign of their gods' favor if—oh, something heavy were to fall overboard and tear out the bottom of our craft during the parley."

  "Will that not also tell them we do not trust them?" an Istaran queried.

  "As with bringing Torvik, it will merely tell them we are not stupid," Darin said, uninvited, "Minotaurs despise dishonor. They despise stupidity almost as much."

  To avoid even the appearance of stupidity, the delegation eventually sailed aboard a Harbor Watch galley from Karthay. Decked over for the voyage and towed most of the way, she was robustly built, light enough to be rowed easily without the rowers collapsing from the heat, and with room enough for everyone appointed to meet with the minotaurs.

  "She even has room enough for Zeskuk and some of his companions to come aboard for the meeting," Darin pointed out. "I do not expect that he will do so, but we should ask."

  "What about a meeting on land?" Andrys Puhrad said.

  Gildas Aurhinius shook his head. "Each race has its own landing site," he said, "considered as much their property as the deck of a ship. The rest of the island—well, one reason we and the minotaurs are speaking to each other is that no one knows what is on the rest of the island."

  From that painful fact there could be no appeal.

  Nor could there be appeal from the old sailors' belief that it was bad luck to rename a ship. So when the luck of the draw fell on a ship named Giggling Wench, all efforts to dignify her with a new name (such as Speaker for Knowledge) fell on deaf ears.