The Book of Never: Volumes 1-5

by Ashley Capes

  “Your real name, fool.”

  “That’s it, Pabil.” He heaved again. The strain on his back and shoulders was starting already. No surprise, he hadn’t rowed a boat for years. Not since the trouble with the Kiymako in the east. Above and beyond that, there was the toll from the recurring fever.

  “Fate smile upon you then, Never,” Pabil shouted. Never waved back and raised the sail to the top of the mast. It snapped in the wind and he tied it off, then pulled the oars in to rest.

  Bless the wind.

  In the distance, the hulk of the first island in the Grey Chain rose and he steered toward it, a smile on his face. Finally, tangible progress. Each moment that passed was another moment closer. There was a chance the Amber Isle would have little to reveal. No answers, only another frustration. There was always that chance. But it didn’t feel that way.

  He was on the right path.

  Gods, he had to be.

  Chapter 4.

  The afternoon wore down to a warm orange glow on the horizon.

  Before him, the steep grey cliffs of the island grew, tall as castle barricades. He’d pulled the sail in and now rowed along the rock face, searching for a place to dock – and since there’d be no clues on his map, that meant being patient.

  Finally, a rocky shore came into view, almost like a private cove. Only it was crowded with longboats and each had been hauled up the stones. Many lay on their sides, some had been placed within larger boats. He squinted. Several were smashed. By storms or something else?

  Never rowed Pabil’s boat ashore, splashing into the shallow beach. Shard and pebbles crunched beneath his boots and he grunted as he dragged the boat up the stony beach before taking a long drink. He was sweating again – perfect.

  The nearest boat was grey with age, worn by years of wind and rain. Its sail lay in tattered rags in the bottom. A nearby vessel was in better shape but its supplies, spare canvas and pitch were scattered across the rocks. The side of the hull bore a deep gouge, as though it had been hacked into.

  Sabotage from other treasure hunters? Or, something worse. With only the lap of the ocean on stone to compete with Never’s breathing, Pabil’s story of the creatures that did not like music lay heavy on his mind.

  He moved on; boots slipping on stone.

  Each boat was the same. Ransacked and the hull hacked, any gear that might do for repairs scattered and broken. A hammer head was lodged in one mast. Rigging had been cut into tiny pieces and the sail was missing. He leant over the side. At the very bottom of the boat, in a pool of stagnant water, lay a broken necklace. A golden pendant shaped as a circle. He lifted it free; chill against his fingers. On one side the name ‘Petra’ was inscribed.

  He replaced the jewellery and turned a half circle.

  A cold place to die.

  Water lapped at his boat, as if to draw it back into the dark forever. Beyond the wooden cemetery waited a gaping opening in the face of the island. From its shadow no movement, no sound, nothing.

  Never returned to Pabil’s boat and removed the supplies before digging into the pile of stone with a hunk of wood. He didn’t manage to get very deep, but he stowed a few items beneath the surface, above the tide line, and hid the pitch in the wreckage of another longboat. Maybe it would be enough, maybe not.

  Loading as much water as he could carry into his pack, he stood and climbed toward the opening.

  Time to find out what the Grey Chain had to offer.

  *

  The shadowy opening was a natural cave of sorts. It led up via rough-cut steps that were smooth in places where water trickled down. Never climbed with hands pressed against the walls, several times he had to haul himself up, slipping in the dark and cursing beneath his breath.

  The fever didn’t help.

  When a glow appeared above, he scrambled free. Dying light spread across the top of the first chain. It was little more than a windswept stretch of stony earth, wide and open. Stunted trees clung to the barren island, several lining a depression. The island was no giant; he could see to where its edge dropped off and beyond it, the top of the next link in the chain and beyond it in turn, another.

  His vantage point gave him a grand view. Centuries before, the Amber Isle must have been a peninsula. Now the archipelago between he and it had the look of a maze of standing columns of grey brushed with orange. Most were wide, some probably big enough to support a town, but just as many were dangerously thin-looking, even from a distance.

  Damnable things – so many.

  He set off. There was no path but at times the ground appeared to hold hints of a once-paved road, some of the stone had a regular cut or a suspiciously smooth and even surface. But it was always sunken and cracked. Twice he stopped to crouch over a discarded item – a buckle or a shoe, and once a rotting belt.

  At the edge of the island he caught the last of the sunlight, running down the edges of other islands. Some were linked by arches of stone, as if the waves had lapped at the space between for centuries, patient, eroding. Other islands were linked by man-made bridges, rope and wooden affairs, loose ends of twine swaying in the breeze.

  Never rested a hand on the nearest post. It was firm, wide as his chest, and had borne the weather of the strait well. He slid his hand to the rope. Damp but strong. He gave it a thump and the wood creaked.

  Placing a foot on the first plank, Never put some weight on it. It held. He put a little more on and nothing creaked so he set out. Waves crashed below, choppy white. If he fell through, the fall would hardly kill him, but finding purchase on the steep sides of the nearby islands would be a problem. And that was if he managed to get his pack off before it pulled him to the bottom of the sea.

  Or before he was smashed against the island walls.

  Never wiped sweat from his eyes.

  Was the bridge swaying or just his vision? He slowed, one hand on the rope. The sea breeze was cool but it wasn’t helping. He tore at the neck of his tunic. “Gods.” The fever was something else. When would it leave?

  He couldn’t be sure how long it took but once his vision cleared, he walked on, reaching the next link in the chain of islands with a sigh, and with it, the sun finally winked out in the ocean.

  “Spiteful ball of fire, aren’t you?” he muttered.

  In the new darkness, enough was clear that he made it to a stand of trees, slipping between them to rest against a trunk, a mat of needles beneath him. Overnight the cold would be brutal. He needed something more than a grove. He could start a fire but would that attract whatever creatures were said to lurk around the islands? He moved deeper into the grove and found a dip in the earth, the needles still deep, but in the centre lay the charred remains of an old camp. Black and grey, not yet white.

  Someone had camped here and not all that long ago.

  Friend or foe?

  He dug for the driest needles and threw them into the ashes, adding the few twigs and small branches he could find before opening his pack to fumble with the flint and tinder. His head cleared enough that he managed to start a fire, blowing on the needles and twigs, adding more fuel when it caught. Enough light was cast that he was able to find more wood and soon had his back to the blaze. The wind was slight in the trees and the soft crash of waves had faded.

  He had his pot and batena over the flames and a stack of firewood sat beside him but now he strained his ears. Had there been footfalls in the trees beyond the range of firelight? How was it that people always seemed to be stalking him in woods of late? Never drew a knife, then another, rising slowly.

  The creatures that Pabil had promised?

  At a strange but somewhat familiar sound, he crouched beside a tree. Was it a hiss...no...sniffing! Closing at a steady pace. Never glanced at the flickering campfire. Once again, too late to hide his presence. He sheathed his knives and caught a low-hanging branch. His fever-tired limbs were
slow to respond as he swung up a leg, missing his mark. He bit off a curse and swung again, climbing up to conceal himself in the fragrant needles.

  Two men strode into view, one bent close to the ground; it was from him came the sniffing. The other man carried a spear, gaze swivelling around the empty camp. Both wore heavy cloaks with their dark hair cut close.

  “Definitely someone here,” the standing man said, speaking Marlosi.

  The other man straightened. “Told you.”

  The spearman completed a quick circuit but the sniffing fellow entered at a slower pace, as if confused. “The scent doubles around a bit.”

  “Of course it does, Peat.” The spearman glanced into the pot but did not touch it. “He probably needed firewood.”

  “Well, he hasn’t been gone long.”

  Spearman paused to shout. “Ho! May we share your fire this night?”

  Never frowned. Were they planning something sinister? Trying to lure him into a false complacency? They had the look of treasure hunters; lean packs, worn clothing beneath their cloaks, unshaven. Well-armed.

  Peat was turning back toward the tree. “Wait, I think...”

  “What?”

  He stopped, head cocked just so. “Thought I caught another scent but I’m not sure.”

  Spearman spun his weapon into both hands. His voice grew a little hoarse. “Not more of those Godsforsaken things?”

  “Not them, Luis. This is different,” he said. “Human but more.”

  Never held his breath. Could Peat smell him? Was it his blood? And what did the fellow mean by ‘more’ than human? That was something he’d never been called before. Inhuman, cursed, freak, those names he knew well. But ‘more’ was a fair sight nicer.

  “So human or not?” Luis asked.

  “Don’t know,” Peat said. “Different somehow.” He took another step toward Never’s tree, sniffing. “Older.”

  “Older?”

  “I don’t know what it means either – only, I don’t think I’ve caught a scent like this one before. Maybe we should head back to the boat now. Had enough of this bloody place.” Peat stood directly beneath him now, the edge of the firelight illuminating a hand axe but casting shadows across the man’s face. Only his eyes glittered as he looked up.

  Peat leapt back. “Gods, there’s someone up there.”

  Luis ran forward. “Where?”

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Never said. “Pleased to meet you both.”

  Neither spoke.

  “You can say hello if you wish. I can hear you.”

  Luis answered. “What are you doing up there?”

  “Watching. I didn’t want to be surprised by the creatures you keep mentioning.”

  “So you’re a hunter too?” he asked. “Well, if you’re looking for the Sea King’s Jewels you should give up now and turn back, right Peat?”

  Peat hadn’t lowered his axe. “Why won’t he come into the light?”

  “Mostly because you’re standing in my way,” Never said.

  “You smell different, stranger.”

  “I trust that’s meant to be a compliment.”

  Peat grunted. “How do we know you’re not like the creatures?” He turned to Luis. “I say we leave him up there and get going.”

  “I don’t know, Peat. You know how those things like the night. Ferne was right, I think. They hunt in the dark, when we get tired. And I’m tired now. Wouldn’t it be nice to split a shift three ways?”

  “Supposing we can trust him.”

  Never leant down. “We could do this all night, but I’d rather not. I’m happy to share my fire and split a shift with you – if you’ll tell me about your search. And why you turned back.”

  Luis slapped Peat. “See, he’s one of us.”

  “There’s still the smell.”

  Never sighed. “Look, I’m not a creature and I’ll prove it when I get down.”

  Peat finally stepped back. “Fine. But just stay on this side of the fire at first, hear?”

  “Good. I’m getting hungry.”

  The two men moved back to the far side of the campfire and Never climbed down, muttering a curse when his grip burst a bubble of sap.

  He moved to the fire and glanced at the men across from him. “So, as you can see, I’m rather human.” Peat still held his axe ready but Luis leant on his spear, seemingly relaxed. Peat had a broad face, Luis wore a thin moustache, and both expressions were tinged with relief.

  Peat sat across from him and Luis followed. “You still have a strange scent, friend,” Peat said. “Though you look normal enough, have to admit.”

  Luis snorted. “Come on, Peat – put it together. Dark hair, dark eyes, no accent, he’s a local boy, same as us.”

  “Actually I’m from the south of our poor Empire – though I’ve been told my father was Marlosi.”

  Luis nodded. “My uncle took a Quisa wife, a kind woman from a kind people.”

  Peat shook his head. “We’ll all be taking Vadiya wives soon enough.”

  “Any news from the south?” Luis asked. “We’ve been on the chain for weeks now and I keep dreaming that when we get home, things will be better. Especially now that we’ve had to give up a chance at the treasure; a damn shame too.” He grinned. “Foolish, aren’t I?”

  Never smiled back. “Only if you believe it.” He checked on the batena, it had reduced nicely, and poured a cup, took a drink and passed it around. “Batena.”

  Peat blinked. “You have batena?” He took a drink and straightened. “Must have cost two arms and a leg.”

  “The last of it.”

  Luis took a drink and exhaled. “That takes the edge off.”

  Never leant against a log, drumming his fingers on his mug. “The resistance is still recruiting, refugees still swarm north and the Vadiya have the Imperial City. When I left Isacina they were tearing down the statues of Pacela and building those strange black columns.”

  “Filthy bastards,” Peat said.

  “So now you’ve come here, searching for the Amber Isle, hoping for a better life?” Luis asked.

  Never nodded. “But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Well, enough treasure hunters have tried and failed to set the odds against you there...” Luis paused, raising an eyebrow.

  “Call me Never.”

  “What?”

  “My name is ‘Never’.”

  “Odd,” Peat said. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Yes, but you won’t forget it, will you?” Never grinned.

  “Suppose not.”

  “So, you both risked those odds Luis mentioned?”

  Peat took up the story. “We did. There’s this hunter from the mountains just south of the capital. Ferne. Last year he found the Hand of Dinae and sold it to the Empress.”

  Never gave a low whistle. The Hand of Dinae, a glove of black diamonds, supposedly stolen from the palace by the master thief Cantimal. How had Ferne found such a thing? Cantimal was thought to have lost the glove in a great fire. “Impressive.”

  “Ain’t it? Ferne used the gold to buy a ship and put out a call for hunters, claiming he had the secret to the Sea King’s jewels.”

  Luis nodded. “I couldn’t believe it myself. Everyone knows the stories about the Grey Chain, the sea creatures and the maze. It sounded impossible, but imagine – the Sea King’s Jewels. Ferne only wants the Sea King’s Eye – we split the rest. We’d never have to go hungry a single day, ever again.”

  Sea King’s Eye. The jewel which granted safe passage across the seas – with it, a captain could travel anywhere, bring back fantastical goods from lost lands, never fear a single storm or sea beast again. Or so the legend said.

  An impressive catch, if it could be found.

  “Dead folk have the same advantage,” Peat said. �
�We did the right thing by leaving.”

  Luis shrugged.

  Peat continued. “Ferne promised one hundred men. It began to sound a little better at that point.”

  Never whistled. “How many did you get?”

  “Only thirty-odd – but that was still the biggest group we’d heard of,” Peat said. “So we signed up and got out not long before the invasion hit. Nearly went back myself, but it was too late.”

  “And out of those thirty there’s maybe ten left, right Peat?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “The creatures?” Never said.

  A nod, Peat’s hands tightening on his mug. “That and the islands themselves. A few went over the edge during a stupid scuffle, a couple on the bridge between the finger-islands and the rest from them damn creatures.” Peat spat. “Every day we’d wake up and another man would be gone, bedroll empty. We posted guards but somehow the creatures just kept finding a way.”

  Luis sighed as he shifted, stretching his legs out before him. “They soon switched to taking the sentries.”

  “On some islands we’d build up a big fire if there was enough fuel; huge, and that usually kept them away,” Peat added.

  “Did you ever see them?”

  “Luis did.”

  He rested his spear across a knee. “It was only a glimpse on sentry duty. I heard them, mostly. Their feet slapped on stone. Webbed I think. When I turned, a pair were slipping back into the water. They had scales, glinting in the moonlight and they walked upright.”

  “And they didn’t attack you?”

  “No. No idea why they left but I’m happy about it.”

  “And you’ve been heading back, ever since?”

  “Haven’t hardly slept either,” Peat said.

  Never paused. “Did you mean to sail back to the lighthouse in a long boat?”

  “Ferne sent us in on longboats, why?”

  “They’ve all been sabotaged,” he said.

  Peat and Luis exchanged a glance.

  “When I landed, I found a lot of boats ashore but they were wrecked; sails rended, oars broken and hulls smashed in.”