“But take the case where one steals to feed his family. Or lies to protect his King. Or steals to save the lives of others. Then I think that perhaps evil is not being done, although in some cases the doer is accomplishing wrong.…
“Is that possible, Alamar? Is it possible to deliberately do wrong without doing evil?”
“Ah, Jinnarin, this is a question the philosophers have long pondered: the degree that motive ameliorates wrong. But I will let you search for the answer on your own, for it is a deep question deserving much thought.
“Instead, Pysk, let me ask you another: what about the control we exert over criminals? We lock them away. At times we put them to hard labor. At other times we exercise the ultimate control and take their lives from them. Is it not evil to control another being so?”
Jinnarin thought long ere answering. “We do those things because, just as the dominant Wolf cares for the pack, so too do we care for our own. To let an evildoer run loose is to allow an unfettered ravager into the midst of our own social order. Hence, because the criminal has demonstrated that he is a ravager of others, he must not be permitted to run free to the ultimate harm of any one of us, or to the harm of us all.”
“Well said, Pysk. But now let me ask you this: What about the control of children? If domination is evil, then is it not evil to dominate their lives?”
“Oh, Alamar, the young are a special case. They need to be given as much liberty as their experience allows, or perhaps even a bit more. When they are young, they have little or no knowledge, in which case they need looking after and guidance. As they grow older, they can and should be allowed more and more freedom, for after all, they are coming closer to adulthood. Here, if they’ve been nurtured to think responsibly for themselves, if they’ve received loving guidance, if they’ve been allowed to accumulate experiences that will stand them in good stead throughout their lives, then they will act more and more like the independent adults we would wish them to be. And, of course, there comes the time when we must let them go, to be the masters of their own fates, to control their own choices and thereby their own destinies.
“And so, the control of children is not an evil thing in and of itself unless the one doing so seeks only dominion, and that for his own pleasure, his own satisfaction, for his own sense of control of another being.”
Alamar nodded, agreeing. “Tell me this then, Jinnarin. What is the nature of evil?”
Jinnarin stood and paced the floor. “This, Alamar, this I think lies at the heart of evil and defines its nature: Each of us should be free to control our own destiny. Only under very special circumstances should we yield limited control of our individual destinies to others, circumstances such as, say, defending one another against a common foe, circumstances where someone must lead and others follow. In the absence of those special circumstances, no one should be allowed to willfully interfere with the life of another, unless that other seeks in some fashion without our permission to exert control over one or more of us. Then and only then should steps be taken to stop this interference, and then in a minimal manner to do so. Evil is when a person or persons or thing for its own satisfaction seeks to wrench our destiny from our own hands, seeks to take away freedom of choice, to take away our physical, emotional, spiritual, or intellectual life, seeks to force us into a mold of his choosing and not our own.
“And that, Alamar, is the nature of evil: power, authority, dominion, command, control, obedience, removal of choice, suppression of freedom, usurpation of the destiny of others—all for the gratification of the wielder.”
Alamar smiled and slowly shook his head. “Adon, but you would make a wonderful apprentice.”
Jinnarin blushed. “I take it then I’ve well defined the essence of evil, neh?”
The smile vanished from Alamar’s face, and he barked, “Don’t get uppity, Pysk. It’s a start. That’s all. Just a start.”
Jinnarin drew herself up to her full twelve inches. “What did I leave out?” she demanded.
“Why, much, child, much.”
“Such as…?”
“Well for starts, you spoke of giving up the right of self-determination under ‘special circumstances,’ yielding control of your life to someone else, someone you called a ‘leader.’ Yet you did not mention the fact that here you have stepped upon a very slippery slope, and that one person’s view of special circumstances is another person’s view of unneeded interference. One must always ask, ‘Who is naming this a “special circumstance”?’ and, ‘Are these circumstances truly dire enough to surrender my free will to the judgement of another? And if so, then whom?’
“That is but one issue; here are others:
“Although you talked of lying, cheating, and stealing, you spoke not at all of lust, greed, avarice, gluttony, addiction, and other such; are these in and of themselves evil things? What of waste and want, and of neglect—benign, deliberate, vengeful—are they always vile, or instead are there cases where they are warranted? What of hate, fear, envy, sloth, jealousy, prejudice, and the like? And what of coldly taking of the life of another? Is it ever justified, is it evil here but good there? And what of religions or societies that attempt to control, to regulate even the finest detail of everyday living—of course, for the benefit of all, or so it is claimed—are these inherently evil? And the debate between Adon and Gyphon—was one side good and the other evil? Were both sides good? Both evil? What does this debate say concerning the nature of Adon, of Gyphon?
“And lastly, child, we circle back to your original query: what about gods who never answer, or who always answer? Gods who ignore their creations, who let them be or who seldom interfere or who interfere continually? Gods who exert no control, or some control, or continuing control? Are we like children who need godly guidance, or are we instead adults who should be on our own, who should be allowed to make our own decisions and live with the rewards or consequences of such? And what of guidance that is not loving but instead has its origins elsewhere?
“Does your definition of the essence, the nature, of evil cover all these cases and more?”
“But, Alamar,” protested Jinnarin, “you are asking me to practically define the entire body of ethics, of religion, of philosophy, of—of all!”
Alamar nodded. “I know I am, Jinnarin, but heed: any definition must be tested against all relevant cases and modified where found lacking.” Alamar smiled sadly unto himself. “Perhaps, Jinnarin, you will ultimately circle back to your original definition of evil, concluding only that evil is bad.”
They sailed into Arbalin in the middle of the night fifty-six days after departure from Rwn. Alamar bade his good-byes to Captain Dalby and the ship’s crew, and carrying his knapsack and dragging Rux after—the fox lying on his side and thumping down the gangway while growling and snapping at the rope tied to his harness—the Mage and his familiar disembarked from the caravel.
“Lumme, didja see that?”
“Wot?”
“‘E was talkin’ to ‘is knapsack.”
“‘E wos? Wot’d ‘e say?”
“Somethin’ about being glad ‘e’d not ‘ave to clean up no more fox poop.”
Alamar rented an isolated cottage set on the marge of a wood. The Mage also intimated that Rux was his familiar…and abruptly, almost instantly, fox hunting became a lost art throughout the whole of Arbalin Isle.
Alamar soon was a well-recognized figure down on the docks of the bay, for every day he trudged into town seeking word of Aravan and his swift Elvenship. But no one knew when the Eroean was due, nor even its ports of call. All they could say was that there had been times when the ship had been gone for years. And the last that it was seen in Arbalin was two years agone, and then it had laid over but a week ere it had set sail once more. But as to when it might again drop anchor in Arbalin Harbor…well, that was anyone’s guess.
And so in the cottage on the marge of the woods, Alamar waited and worried, for Jinnarin’s dream yet haunted her—a dream of a lofty
crystal castle above pale green sea, and a lightning-stroked ebony ship…and of something dreadful drawing nigh.
And throughout the next months, often in the night did the old Man, the old Elf, the old Mage, pace in front of his cottage and stare down at the distant bay or up at the glittering stars remote and mutter aloud:
“Where away, O Elvenship, and your master Aravan?”
CHAPTER 7
Passage
Summer, 1E9574
[The Past Three Months]
Aravan turned his head this way and that, trying to locate the source of stealthy plashing muffled by the dense fog. Overhead the silken sails of the Eroean hung slackly, not a breath of air stirring in the morn, the ship slowly drifting, impelled by the remnants of the current of the distant river whose mouth lay easterly an uncertain way. Somewhere nearby stood the Dragon’s Fangs, sharp rocks jutting up from the sea, and Aravan knew that soon he must either drop anchor or lower towing gigs to spare the aimless Eroean from foundering upon this cloaked hazard…but not yet, not yet, for another deadly danger drew nigh.
Aravan gestured silently to Bokar, and the axe-bearing Dwarf stepped to the Elven captain’s side. Bokar at four feet six inches was considerably shorter than Aravan, though the Dwarf was half again as broad in the shoulders as was the Elf.
Without a word, Aravan pointed slightly astern of starboard. Bokar nodded and trod away, moving down the line of Dwarven warriors and Human sailors, speaking not but instead pointing to where Aravan had indicated. And armed to the teeth they waited—the Dwarves wearing boiled-leather breastplates and dark steel helms fitted with cheek and nose guards and adorned with horns or studs or spikes or with metal wings flaring; the Men unarmored but bearing cutlasses.
A week past the black-haired captain and his Elvenship and crew had been in the port of Janjong, taking on a cargo of nutmeg and cinnamon, laded o’er a ship’s ballast of porcelain tableware. South they had sailed, bearing slightly west, through the Jinga Sea, favorable but light winds abaft. Yet with all sails set—mains and studs, jibs and spankers, staysails, topsails, gallants and royals, skysails and moonrakers and starscrapers—the Eroean had churned white wake all the way to the pirate-infested Straits of Alacca, the long, narrow slot between the shores of Jūng and the rocky cliffs of Lazan…and there the wind had utterly died. A night they had spent sitting at anchor, waiting for the return of the air. But then morning had come and with it the fog, creeping out from the jungles, a fog so thick that nought could be seen more than five strides away.
And in the mist they had heard a voice coming across the waters—a Man’s sharp curse suddenly silenced. Swiftly, silently, Aravan had upped anchor just barely enough to let the ship drift free, the vessel sluggishly changing its position in the torpid flux. And all the crew had taken up arms, for they knew that pirates drew nigh.
Down from the ratlines came creeping Jatu, the huge black Man seeking Aravan. He stepped to the Elf and in soft voice said, “Captain, I cannot see aught of their ship down in the folds of the fog, but they’ve a Man aloft in a crow’s nest, skimming the top of this lost cloud, and he’s guiding them, sighting upon our rigging jutting up out of the mist.”
“Vash!” hissed Aravan, his voice low. “Where away and how far?”
Yon, indicated Jatu, a point or two aft of starboard. “Mayhap a candlemark at the rate they move.”
“Well, there’s nothing for it then except to stand and fight. Even so, wert thou sighted, Jatu? Nay? Hai, then they may yet believe to surprise us, knowing not that we know of them. Take two Men and ease the anchor back gently to the bottom.”
Aravan strode down the line, coming to wing-helmed Bokar. “Armsmaster, ready the boarding ropes and a corvus or three. We shall carry the fight to them.”
Through his red beard Bokar grinned fiercely, his dark eyes alight, then passed the word to his Dwarven fighters as well as to all the Men. Yardarm ropes were loosed from their belaying pins, there on the starboard side, warriors and sailors grasping the lines. And in three separate places, broad, lengthy planks ending in long curving hooks were affixed to the Eroean’s toprail, devised to fall as would a drawbridge—the iron hooks set to grasp the enemy vessel—each plank a corvus for invading ship to ship.
Again Aravan strode the length of the line. “Down and hide, let them draw alongside thinking we yet sleep.”
Moments passed, and now all could hear the stealthy dip of oars. And through the runoffs they could see a vague shape darkly loom forth from the fog, drawing alongside the larger Eroean. Yet at last an obscure silhouette could be discerned: it was a two-masted junk, high sterned and low prowed, raised lugsails fore and aft with battens running across.
“Wait,” breathed Aravan to the Dwarven armsmaster.
Now the junk came up amidships, and at a soft command the vessel’s oars were shipped as the rowers ceased rowing and took up weaponry, and on her decks could dimly be seen moving figures readying for boarding.
With a muffled thmp-tmp of fenders between, softly the hull of the junk came into cushioned contact with her intended prey.
“Wait,” breathed Aravan yet again.
Thnk. A cloth-wrapped grapnel was lobbed up over the Eroean’s rail, swiftly followed by three more, and the junk was haled snug and cinched against the hull of the Elvenship.
“Now,” hissed Aravan—“Now!” roared Bokar—NOW! howled all the crew—and with thunderous crashes the boarding bridges slammed down on the decks of the pirate vessel, long iron corvine claws clutching and holding, trapping the coastal raider against the Eroean’s hull. And bellowing the ancient Dwarven battle cry—“Châkka-shok! Châkka-cor!”—a shout echoed by all the Dwarves—axe in hand Bokar thundered down and across a fog-shrouded bridge, giant Jatu at his back, with Aravan in his grey leathers swinging on a rope above them like a ghost in the mist, steel glimmering in the Elf’s grasp, while at one and the same time, with bloodcurdling shouts and savage wordless cries, Dwarven warriors and Human sailors, weapons clenched, charged across the spans or swung through the mist-laden air on yardarm ropes to assail the beclouded Jūngarian ship.
Bokar slammed into a mass of shocked reavers, the Dwarf’s double-bitted axe reaping foe, cleaving flesh, blood flying, while Jatu’s warbar smashed pirates aside, skulls crushed, bones broken. Like some mist-wrapped demon, Aravan hurtled out from the fog to land square on the poop deck, the grey cloud swirling, mist tendrils clinging, his sword licking out to fell the startled steersman. The Elf turned in time to fend a whistling blow from a tulwar wielded by a cursing swarthy Man, the pirate in a leather vest, copper plates sewn thereon. Shing, shang, skirled steel on steel, and Aravan pressed the enemy hindward, the Man to topple howling over the taffrail and fall yowling into the sea below.
The mass of the Eroean’s crew poured aboard the junk and hurled the reavers back. Pirates were felled by Dwarven axes, hewn down in frightened surprise, and raiders were cut to ribbons by the cutlasses of the Elvenship’s Men. The fight was over and done almost before it had begun, the brigands slain on the decks or driven overboard by the furious onslaught, some to escape in the fog, others to drown thrashing and shrieking until dragged under the brine.
And when the junk was cleared of enemy—“Take stock of our wounded,” cried Aravan, his call echoed by the bull voice of Bokar. And the Men and Dwarves turned to one another, seeking to find any who were injured.
Of the Elvenship’s crew, only five had taken hurt, and of those, just one required more than superficial aid. “Hegen, thou wilt be up and about and back at the wheel within a half-Moon,” said Aravan, the Elf standing by as the chirurgeon put needle and gut away then poured a clear liquid over the side wound, the steersman drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
“Aye, Captain,” Hegen managed to grit out, “two weeks or less, I’d say.”
As Fager bound the now-sewn gash with a clean cloth wrapped ‘round Hegen’s waist, dark Jatu stepped to Aravan’s side. The Man was huge, o’ertopping Aravan�
�s own six-foot height by a good seven inches. Three hundred pounds if he was an ounce and none of it fat, his skin was so black it seemed tinged with blue, a color not found in his dark brown gaze. He was garbed in dusky leather, and brown goatskin buskins shod his feet. He cleared his throat, a deep rumble, and then said, “Not much in the way of booty, Captain—a bit of silk, some copper utensils, a few weapons, all inferior…and, oh yes, powder of the poppy, not very pure, the kind meant for smoking.”
Aravan turned to the Man, the Elf’s blue gaze grim. “Burn it.”
“The poppy?”
“The entire ship, Jatu. Burn it all.”
Jatu grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain. But shouldn’t we cast off before setting it aflame?”
Aravan laughed a full-throated laugh. “Aye, Jatu. Burn it when we’ve a wind in our sails again.”
The fog lingered for nigh half a day, burning off in late mid morn. Even so, the winds yet failed to blow, and the ship and her prize lay at anchor, a safe distance from the Dragon’s Fangs. Another night the doldrums loitered, but just ere dawn the silken sails of the Eroean belled outward, heralding the return of the air. Easterly it blew, a light westerly, the breeze channeled down the strait.
Jatu looked up at the billowing cloth and smiled. “Bo’s’n, pipe the crew on deck. And have Tink wake the Captain.”
“Aye, aye, Meestan Jatu,” answered the Man, a Tugalian by the name of Rico.
Moments later, Aravan emerged from the aft quarters, turning his face to the breeze. He stepped to the wheel and grinned at his first officer, the giant black grinning back. “Jatu, set the spanker to help her to come about, manage the sails for a larboard run, then up anchor.” In the starlight, Aravan eyed the distant rocks jagging up from the water. “We’ll take her close-hauled into the wind for we’ve a bit of short tacking to do.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied Jatu. “And the junk? Set her afire and cut her free, right?”
Aravan grimly nodded. “Aye. She’ll not raid these waters again.”
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 6