by Tim Lebbon
And Namior needed help as soon as possible. She had stopped moaning, and he took that to be a bad sign. He wished he could throw down the oars and go to her, listen to her breathing, check her wound, but he could not. Though he rowed little, he used the oars more to try to steer them, attempting to find the best route through to the harbor.
There were three large ships anchored in the waters outside Pavmouth Breaks. One of them was dark, but the other two were speckled with lights that did not look like candles or lamps. Some of the lights moved.
“Kel…” Namior moaned. Too loud! Kel turned and leaned over her, whispering.
“Namior, be quiet, we’re almost there. Almost home.”
“Kel!” she said again, almost shouting. “They’re coming. They’re coming!”
Kel hated doing it, but he reached out and clasped his hand over her mouth. She moaned and twisted her head, and he dreaded whatever dreams he was giving her. Then she went slack, head dropping to one side, and he could hardly feel her breath on his hand.
He sat up again and rowed, aiming between the darkened ship and the two with lights. That should take him through to the river channel, and from there he could aim for the northern shore.
Is the tide coming in, or going out? he thought, still not close enough to tell. He paid little attention to the rhythms of the sea, the ebb and flow of Pavmouth Breaks’ life, and he regretted that. He regretted a lot of things.
Don’t you die! he thought, wishing his desires could carry weight and import. Some witches, so it was said, were so in tune with magic that they could affect events by thought alone. But they were few and far between, and in Pavmouth Breaks their talents would be as useless as his.
It was not dark enough. They would be seen. The Komadians would be waiting at the harbor, at the end of the mole and around the river mouth. There would be Strangers, clad in their metal suits and wielding deadly projectile weapons or other as-yet-unseen methods of killing. He and Namior would be killed quickly, their bodies weighed down and thrown into the harbor, surrendered to the sea as succulent food for the many creatures enjoying such fare since the waves.
It was not dark enough. They would be seen …
Kel lay down in the small boat beside Namior, hand resting on her shoulder in readiness to clamp down on her mouth should she wake. He held his small crossbow in the other hand, primed to fire, but if they were seen, he knew there would be no escape.
The sea carried them home. They were at the mercy of the ocean, and would go wherever it decided to take them.
The darkened ship passed by close to their starboard side, a huge, looming shadow that the dusky light barely touched. All seemed quiet on board, though Kel was sure he could hear a rhythmic boom, boom as they drifted past. The sound was so low and quiet that he could have felt it rather than heard it. He touched the boat’s hull, its base sloshing with water, and felt a beat.
There’s something in the harbor, the woman had said. I’ve only seen the ripples.
Kel raised his head, tried to correct their course with an oar, then lay back down.
Namior was still breathing, but he could also hear the terrible bubbling of air in her wound. It would take a lot to heal her…but he did not start crying just yet. Things were bad, but defeat was not yet inevitable.
The other two ships were full of life. Light globes floated across their decks or hung in the rigging. Voices carried across the water, some speaking Noreelan, others languages that Kel did not know. They sounded cheerful and unconcerned. They would, he thought. Their love hasn’t just been shot in the chest! He looked up at the towering stern of the closest ship, almost wishing that he could see a head silhouetted there at which to fire the crossbow. A small act of revenge… but it would feel good. But he saw no one, and the rowboat drifted by.
The harbor was before him at last, bathed in false light. People were still digging in the ruins for the missing and dead.
Kel knew what had happened to some of the missing, at least.
He lay still, hoping that if they were seen, any watcher would mistake the boat for a craft set adrift by the storm and waves. As Namior didn’t cry out in her dreams, perhaps they stood a chance.
But the crystal… ?
There was so much he didn’t know that even the vaguest hope seemed naïve.
The rise and fall of waves lessened. Kel closed his eyes and tried to sense the drift of the boat, and when he heard the sound of breaking waves, he knew where they were. Were going the right way! he thought, amazed. The sea has pushed us into the river mouth, and the tide is taking us toward the northern shore.
No shouts came, no explosions of steam weapons, no splashes as the gilled Strangers came for them, and Kel dared hope.
Something nudged the boat. He caught his breath and held the crossbow at the ready. If a shape rose behind him over the boat’s stern, it would stove his head in without his having a chance to fire. But if something came over the bow, or the sides, then maybe …
The wooden hull ground over something solid, and the stern started to swing around.
Beached!
Kel risked raising his head. The tide had driven them through the harbor mouth and against the northern shore, at the place where Pavmouth Breaks had sustained the most damage from the waves. The gentle hillside above him was scoured almost clean of any sign of habitation. No houses remained standing, and what few walls jutted from the ground were piled with debris. He would have to cross a large expanse of mud and filth, climbing steadily, before he reached the first of the unaffected areas. He could see a few houses higher up the hillside, damaged but still standing, and around the curve of the hill heading inland were Namior’s home and the Dog’s Eyes.
“Namior,” he said. “I’m going to have to move you soon. We’re almost home. Do you hear me?” She said nothing, did nothing that hinted she had heard.
He looked across the river mouth at the harbor. There was plenty of activity there, illuminated by floating light balls. He wondered why they were still pretending to search for survivors. Maybe they weren’t ready to make their final move just yet.
They’re waiting until they’ve finished building. It was not a comforting idea, because he did not know how long that could take.
After everything he had seen, Kel resisted the temptation to try another communicator. He only had two left, and he could ill afford to lose another to a place empty of magic.
And then he realized the tough choice he had feared was upon him. Namior would need carrying, if he could find the strength. Slung across his arms would be best, her head resting against his left shoulder, because if he tried slinging her over his shoulder it would crush her wound and maybe kill her. Whatever that thing had fired might still be inside her, and any movement could prove fatal.
That would mean leaving the crystal behind.
The alternative was to take the crystal and try to leave Pavmouth Breaks immediately. Smuggle it out, beyond whatever cordon the Komadians might have established, using all his training and stealth to slip by. The Core’s witches would want to see it, study it, and hopefully learn from it. Beneath his jacket lay one of the most important artifacts on Noreela.
But if he left Namior there, she would surely die.
Kel closed his eyes, but there was nothing to make the decision for him.
He sat up slowly and looked down at Namior, his love. He touched her face, and she was cool, and when he lifted her hand and let go it flopped back down beside her. A tear squeezed from his eye but he rubbed it away.
He grabbed his jacket, wrapping it around the bulky shape of the crystal, and jumped from the boat. He could not look back. Wading through the mud, lifting his legs high to take the next step, and the next, he would not look back, in case Namior had lifted her head and was watching him leave her there. So he strode onward, sometimes slipping in the muck and almost letting the crystal go.
A shadowy shape on the mud resolved itself. Kel paused, breath caught in his throat and
the moment frozen. But the sea wolf was dead. Its flippered legs were stretched around it, torso slumped across the muck, and its head was tilted to one side, blind eye staring out to sea. A slick of insides had spilled from a terrible wound in its underside. Its several layers of teeth were clearly visible, and various claws and spine appendages were wilted in death.
Something had killed it. He’d seen the sea-wolf prints in the harbor soon after the waves, and they were viciously territorial creatures; it was unlikely there’d be two in the same place. He thought of those Strangers with their gills and steam weapons, and the woman who had seen ripples in the harbor.
Kel walked on, and when he reached the remains of an old stone wall, he started digging. He scooped out handfuls of dried mud, streams of sand and chunks of broken masonry, and when he thought he’d gone deep enough he lowered the crystal into the hole and buried it.
He hoped that whatever lay trapped in there found it darker still.
Namior was moving when he returned to her, writhing slowly in the water at the base of the boat. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her chest and stomach were completely soaked with blood.
Kel paused for a beat and looked across the wide river mouth at the harbor and mole. There were several boats within the harbor, all of the Komadian, but no one seemed to be looking his way, and if they did, they were not concerned at what they saw. Could it be that the Komadians on the mainland did not yet know what had happened? It seemed unlikely, but he could see no signs of panic or a search, and letting the boat drift in had been easy.
Or could they be so confident that they did not care?
“Come on,” he said, leaning into the rowboat. “Namior? I need to lift you. It will hurt, but don’t shout, don’t scream. Can you hear me?” She said nothing. He sighed, then tugged the soft sheebok-wool lining from the inside of his shirt. It was damp with sweat. He held it in both hands and spun it tight, then placed it across Namior’s mouth, careful to keep her nose free. He lifted her head and tied it behind her neck. It might not be enough, but it would have to do.
Hopefully, the pain would be bad enough to keep her unconscious.
“Don’t die!” he said, suddenly shaking and sobbing, then forced himself under control. It was not the time. Later, perhaps safety would offer the opportunity for grief. And if she died, all he would have would be hatred, and revenge.
Revenge for O’Peeria, as well.
He had spent a long time trying to shed such bitterness.
Kel leaned into the boat again, left arm under Namior’s knees, right arm working around the back of her neck and moving down, lifting her torso, grabbing beneath her armpit and pressing against her chest close to the wound. His arms and shoulders were weak and numb, but he gritted his teeth and stood.
Namior squealed, and Kel felt the sound come from deep inside. Then she was still again, and as he started working his way up the muddy incline he could hear breath bubbling through her wound once more. He was amazed that she was still alive.
He slipped several times, but never let her fall. The slope increased, and he had to negotiate his way around fallen homes, everything covered in a layer of dried muck from the sea. He felt the dampness of Namior’s blood soaking through his shirt, and a cool sea breeze chilled him.
“Don’t die,” he exhaled with every step.
He walked and climbed and slipped, thinking at every beat that his strength would leave him. As he struggled, night fell across Pavmouth Breaks.
IT STARTED TO rain. Kel had made it up from the ruins by then, and into the winding streets above. But the rain made the cobbles slippery and chilled his overworked muscles, and the time would soon come when he could carry her no farther.
Namior was silent and unresponsive, head hanging back, mouth slightly open as if to catch the rain. On a few occasions he thought she was already dead. But he could feel her frantic heartbeat, and blood still ran from the wound.
He heard the woman before he saw her. “Druke! Druke!” The name echoed along the path before being swallowed by the worsening downpour. She called again, and it had the sound of a name oft-repeated. Kel guessed she had been looking for a very long time.
The woman rounded a corner before him, a study in abject misery. Her clothes were sodden, slumping down from her shoulders, sleeves hauled past her hands by the weight of water, giving the impression that she was melting. Her hair was long and lank, only adding to the image, and her mouth hung open, flexing only as she called that name again. “Druke! Druke!”
She noticed Kel, and Namior in his arms, but her expression did not change. She looked past him. Kel stood aside to let her pass.
“Have you seen Druke?” she asked.
“I don’t know Druke.”
“He was here, but now he’s gone.”
“Lots of people have gone,” Kel said.
“No, no, he was here today. And today, he’s gone. Down at the harbor, helping the Komadians dig, and he never came home again. Never came home to me …”
“Perhaps he’s in a tavern,” Kel said, and he went to pass by.
“Not my Druke,” the woman said with utter conviction. “He wouldn’t do this to me. It’s them. They’ve done something to him.” She came close and leaned across Namior, pressing her face up to Kel’s, tears mixing with raindrops on her cheeks. “Don’t trust them for a minute,” she said. And then she was on her way, calling into the rain and receiving only the echo of a name in response.
Kel staggered on. Namior’s weight pulled him down, and with each step he had to force his knees not to buckle. He passed windows lit by weak oil lamps, and every corner promised capture, every dark doorway could be hiding a Stranger, metal suit discarded but still just as deadly. If the time came, he was not sure he had the strength to fight.
Other dwellings he passed were empty and dark. There was something ominous about that, but he tried to concentrate on walking. That was all that mattered: move on, never stop.
He heard other names being called in the night, and eventually he heard a voice he knew.
“Namior!” It was coming closer, and Kel groaned as he hurried forward to meet it.
Namior’s mother emerged onto the wider footpath, and the first thing Kel noticed was the glint of metal in her hand. She stalks the night with a knife, he thought, and he was thankful that she recognized the danger.
“No!” She saw them and ran, sheathing the knife and helping ease Namior down when Kel’s knees gave out at last. “No, Namior, no …”
“She’s alive,” Kel gasped. “But she needs help. A healer.”
“The last healer’s gone,” she said, never taking her eyes from her daughter. “I don’t know where. She left the Moon Temple and never returned. What happened?”
“Komadian soldier… shot her.”
“What with?” Namior’s mother was already pulling the sodden clothing away from her daughter’s wound, expertly exploring the extent of the injury.
“Projectile weapon of some sort.”
“Where?”
Kel did not answer. And it was nothing to do with the Core, or secrecy, but everything to do with guilt.
The woman looked up at Kel, then glanced over his shoulder and nodded out to sea. “There?”
“Yes,” Kel said.
“Help me. We need to get her home. Magic’s gone, the land talks no more, but I know some of the old magichala ways.”
“She’s going to be—” Kel began, trying to convince himself, but her mother cut in and cried her first tears.
“She’s going to die!”
Kel shook his head but he could speak no more. He helped lift Namior and carry her through the rain, heading uphill toward her home, and the air between him and her mother was thick with unasked questions.
She’s not going to die, he wanted to say, but he could not speak out loud. He had lied enough.
NAMIOR’S GREAT-GRANDMOTHER was sitting close to the groundstone, but not close enough to touch it. She was shiveri
ng beneath several layers of blankets, only her gray-haired head visible, and her face looked older than was possible. Kel could see little in her one good eye save blankness. Even when she blinked, she gave away nothing.
“Grandmother?” Namior’s mother said, but the old woman slumped to her side, muttering and spitting as her hands clawed at the air.
Kel felt so helpless. He knelt beside Namior and closed his eyes against a sudden faintness. Her mother thrust a thick crust of bread into his hand, and he bit into it with a passion. It was seeded with nuts, and he felt the energy nestling in his stomach as soon as he swallowed, ready to spread out through his body. “Thank you,” he said through a full mouth.
“Right now, don’t even talk to me,” she said. She squatted beside her daughter and started feeling around the wound. No questions about the island, what he had been doing there, what they had seen, how Namior had been shot, how they had made it back …
He finished the crust and watched the woman work. First she stripped Namior’s blood-soaked clothing and washed her chest, exposing the wound just below her right breast. There was no matching wound on her back, which meant that whatever had been fired at her was still inside.
She lit several candles and placed them close around Namior, and to begin with Kel thought they were for some sort of ancient magichalan ceremony. But then she placed a wooden spoon between Namior’s teeth, poured a mug of strong rotwine over the wound, and when the injured woman’s writhing and moaning had subsided she went to work with a knife.
“If you can’t touch magic …” Kel began, but he did not want to finish. How can you save her?
“There’s nothing you can do here,” she said. She never once stopped what she was doing. Her knife was in her daughter, and she sprinkled some sort of powdered herb around the bloody wound. “She’s mine to look after the best I can. But you need to go, Kel Boon.”