Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Hogar nodded and sat back down. Aravan looked about. “Any other questions?”

  A Dwarf stood, Dask, one of Bokar’s lieutenants. Gesturing with a sweep of his hand at the other Dwarves assembled, he said, “Captain Aravan, we have made this passage before, both ways, and seldom has it been easy. The weather will be fierce, cold, and the crew on short shift, rotating often to stay warm. If the weather is as it has been, then doubtless all will be needed, Men and Châkka alike. I speak only to remind you that we Châkka stand ready.”

  A rumble of approval swept through the assembly, and without comment, Aravan grinned and cast a loose salute to Dask. When silence returned, Aravan looked about, seeking other questions or comments. When none was proffered, he said, “Jatu, an extra tot of rum for all, for hardy times lie ahead.”

  A hearty cheer rang throughout the forward quarters as the Elven captain stepped down from the sea chest and made his way among the crew, while Jatu poured rum from a cask into the eagerly outheld cups.

  Two days later found the Eroean rounding the shoulder of the cape. And over these same two days the wind had risen in strength and had risen again, and now the Elvenship beat to the windward into a shrieking gale. Great grey waves, their crests foaming, broke over the bow and smashed down upon the decks with unnumbered tons of water, clutching and grasping at timber and wood and rope, at fittings, at sails, the huge greybeards seeking to drag off and drown whatever they could, whatever might be loose or loosened.

  In the teeth of the blow Jatu ordered all sails pulled but the stays, jibs, tops, and mains. And Men had struggled ‘cross decks awash—cold, drenching waves dragging them off their feet and trying to hurl them overboard and into the icy brine; yet the safety lines held fast, and the crew made their way up into the rigging, the frigid wind tearing at them, shrieking and threatening to hurl them away. But the Men fought the elements, haling in the silken sail and lashing it ‘round the spars, while all about them the halyards howled in the wind like giant harp strings yowling in torment, sawn by the screaming gale.

  On the very next watch the wind force increased, and once again the crew was dispatched onto the dangerous decks and up to the hazardous spars, this time at Frizian’s command, and all jibs were pulled and the mains reefed to the last star. And now the ship ran mostly on the staysails and the upper lower topsails, the Eroean flying less than a third of full silk.

  The following watch Aravan took command, and after an hour or so, the wind picked up yet again, and the Elven captain ordered forth the crew to reef the mains and the crossjack to the full.

  “Diantre, Kapitan,” shouted Rico above the wind, “I t’ink if this keep up, soon we be sailing on bare stick alone.”

  Aravan grinned at the bo’s’n. “Mayhap, Rico. Mayhap. But if it’s to bare sticks we go, then backwards we will fare.”

  Tink made his way up through the trapdoor and into the tiny wheelhouse, the lad bearing a tray of steaming mugs of tea. That he managed to carry the cups in the pitching ship without spilling a drop spoke well of his agility and balance. With a grin he passed the tray about to Aravan and Boder and Rico, then disappeared below decks once more.

  Aravan sipped the welcome drink, commenting, “Boder, answer me this: with the galley locked down for the heavy seas, fire extinguished, how do Trench and Hogar manage to brew hot tea?”

  “Well, Cap’n,” replied Boder, “I’d call it cook’s magic.”

  As tons of icy water slammed down on the Eroean, the wheelhouse rang with laughter.

  The moment Aravan drained the last of his drink and started to set the mug aside, as if by divination Tink reappeared, collecting the cups and away. Aravan looked at the closed trapdoor, commenting, “I suppose we’ve just seen cabin boy magic, too.”

  Again the wheelhouse rang with laughter, drowning out even the wrath of the wind shrieking over the furious waves.

  Aravan wiped the frost from the window and peered at the raging sea. “Pipe the crew on deck, Rico,” he called, taking a grip on the wheel on one side while Boder held the spokes across, “prepare to come about. On the starboard bow quarter this tack.”

  At the moment Rico opened the trap to go below and summon the crew, a blinding wall of white engulfed the Eroean, the Cape of Storms living up to its name as wind-driven snow slammed horizontally across the Elvenship.

  Eleven days it took to round the cape, sometimes the valiant Eroean seemingly driven abaft while at other times she surged ahead. And at all times the savage wind tore at her, while the greybeards struggled to wrench her down. Snow and ice weighed heavily on her rigging, and Men and Dwarves were sent aloft to break loose the pulleys so the ropes would run free. Tacking northwest up across the wind and southwest back down, Aravan sailed by dead reckoning, for no stars nor Moon in the long nights did he see, nor Sun in the short, short days. Nor did he see the southern aurora writhing far beyond the darkness above, shifting curtains of spectral light draped high in the icy skies.

  Still, battered by wind and wave, eleven full days it took before the ship could run clear on northwesterly course, free of the cape at last, Aravan’s reckoning true, the crew superb in handling the ship and not a Man or Dwarf lost unto the grasping sea. Even so, all were weary, drained by this rugged pass, including her captain, a thing seldom seen by any of the crew. Yet finally the ship’s routine returned to something resembling normality though the winds yet blew agale. But they were steady on the larboard, and running on a course with the wind to the port, mains and crossjack and jibs back full, up into the Weston Ocean she ran, the log line humming out at nineteen knots, the Eroean flying o’er the waves.

  A week later across the Doldrums of the Goat she fared, this time heading north, the ship laded with all sail set yet moving slowly in the light air—“Slipping past the horns of old billy,” as Frizian had said. Three days it took to cross the calms, three days ere the wind picked up again, now coming from abaft. Nor’northwest she drove, sweeping through the coastal waters of the wide Realm of Hyree.

  Five days under full sail she ran on the northerly trek, the winds steady but moderate, until they came once more unto the Midline Irons, where as before they unshipped the gigs to tow the Eroean across the placid equatorial waters.

  At last the winds returned, blowing lightly down from the northeast, and into these she fared, sailing through the gap between Hyree to the south and Tugal to the north, finally entering into the Avagon Sea along the Straits of Kistan. Easterly into this slot she swiftly made her way, and south lay the great jungle-covered Isle of Kistan, a haven for rovers of the seas.

  A day she coursed as the skies turned a sullen grey, and now to the north lay Vancha, but to the south lay Kistan still.

  “Sail ho, maroon!” called the foremast lookout. “Sail ho on the larboard bow!”

  Frizian’s gaze swept the horizon forward and left, then stopped. A heartbeat later—“Pipe the captain, Reydeau, and stand by to pipe the crew.”

  Reydeau sounded a signal on his bo’s’n’s pipe, and a cabin boy leapt up from the deck and sped toward Aravan’s quarters. Moments later, the Elf came to the wheel, the cabin boy trailing behind.

  “Where away, Frizian?”

  “There, Cap’n,” replied the Gelender, pointing.

  Just on the horizon, a maroon lateen sail could be discerned, the ship heading downwind in the general direction of the Eroean.

  “Reydeau, bring the Eroean to a southwest heading. Put this rover on our larboard beam.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Aravan turned to the wheelman. “Hegen, ready to bring her to the course laid in.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Tivir, fetch Bokar.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” responded the cabin boy and sped away.

  As the Eroean came about, Bokar stepped to the wheel, the Dwarf accoutered for combat. “Where away?”

  Aravan pointed.

  Bokar looked long, then glanced up at the pale blue Elven-silk against the somber skies. Th
e Dwarf turned to the cabin boy. “Tivir, tell the Châkka to take station. We should know within half a glass whether this rover will be foolish or wise.”

  Again the lad sped away, and moments later armed and armored Dwarves poured up onto the decks to take positions next to the ballistas, readying the missile casters for battle.

  Steadily the Kistanian ship ran downwind west-southwest, and just as steadily the Eroean haled crosswind, southeasterly, down and away from the track of the freebooter. Time eked by, and still the rover ran on his straight course, as did the Elvenship.

  “Ready about, Reydeau. Keep her on our beam.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Hegen?”

  “Aye, Captain, I’m ready, too.”

  Gradually the Eroean headed up into the stiff wind, now running on a easterly reach. Still the maroon-sailed pirate fared southwest, running downwind, the vessel now passing abeam, heading aft of the Elvenship.

  Finally Aravan ordered the Eroean back on a heading for Arbalin.

  “Ha!” barked Bokar. “Cowards all. She was afraid to take us on.”

  Aravan shook his head. “Nay, Armsmaster. I think instead she didn’t e’en see us.”

  Bokar glanced again at the cerulean sails against the dark grey skies, and then down at the indigo hull. Finally he looked to his Dwarven warband. “Mayhap you are right, Captain, but then again mayhap not.”

  Nine days later in the heart of the night the Eroean haled into the sheltered port of Arbalin, the citizens of that town being awakened by their own criers ringing out the good news that the Elvenship was back.

  All the next day and the one after the cargo was unladed, and new ballast was taken on to replace the weight of the porcelain ware, for it would not do to have the Eroean turn turtle at the first strong wind or great wave. When the ship was empty of cargo and laded with the proper ballast, Aravan had her tugged away from the docks to anchor in the bay.

  He set the crew free to “do the town,” and knowing the crew as well as he did, he knew that most of them would try.

  It was on the following night that Aravan heard a knock on his stateroom door, and when he opened it, an eld Man, nay Elf—nay, Mage!—stood at the end of a line of wet footprints leading to the portal.

  Astonished, Aravan stepped back.

  “Are you Aravan the captain?” snapped the elder.

  Aravan nodded. “Aye, that I am.”

  “Well don’t just stand there gaping, Elf. Invite me in. We’ve got things to discuss.”

  “A Hidden One, a Fox Rider, thou sayest?” Aravan’s mind flashed back to an earlier time, his hand touching a blue stone amulet on a leather thong about his neck, the Elf remembering Tarquin.

  Alamar nodded, steepling his fingers.

  Passing back Jinnarin’s tiny drawing of the dark ship, Aravan took up his glass of brandy. “I know nought of crystal castles, nor of lightning-driven black galleons plying the oceans of the world. But of a pale green sea, there are several candidates, though in many places elsewhere the waters run green as well.”

  The Mage shook his head, then looked pointedly at the empty goblet before him.

  Quickly, for the third time, Aravan poured a dram or two within.

  Alamar took up the brandy-filled crystal and held it to the lantern light, peering deep within the golden swirl. “Even so, you will aid us, neh?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for all the world,” answered Aravan, his smile wide in delight.

  “Good!” barked Alamar, tossing down the liquid. “When?”

  “The crew returns eight days from now. Is that soon enough?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to do,” grunted Alamar.

  Aravan held up a finger. “One condition though…”

  The Mage cocked an eyebrow, his emerald gaze locked with Aravan’s eyes of sapphire. “And that is…?”

  Aravan did not look away. “Just this, Alamar: I do not ask my crew to do aught without their full knowledge of what it is I would have them attempt. On the Eroean we have this saying: Information is power. And in the sharing of information, many a good idea has come forth—some from where least expected. And so, on this mission, I would take my crew into full confidence, which means they will hear of the Hidden One, of—”

  “Of Jinnarin,” supplied Alamar.

  “Aye, of Jinnarin. I would introduce this Fox Rider to the crew.”

  Alamar got to his feet. “I will ask her…yet unless and until she agrees…”

  “Until she agrees,” said Aravan, looking up at the Mage. “I will speak nought of thy business. But unless she agrees, I will not commit my crew, for I would not have them set forth on a mission in ignorance.”

  Alamar nodded, then spun on his heel, stepping to the door, flinging it open.

  Aravan raised his voice, calling after the retreating Mage. “Need thou someone to row thee to the docks? I will fetch thee aid.”

  Without turning—“Never mind, Elf,” Alamar called back, “I’ll go the way I came.” In that moment, the stateroom door swung to.

  Aravan sat for a while after the Mage had gone, staring at the shut door. Then he tossed down the last of his brandy and stood and made his way to the deck. Of Alamar there was no sight, and Aravan’s keen Elven hearing heard not the plash of oars.

  “Burdun,” he called, the watch hurrying to his side.

  “Sir?”

  “Where away the boat that ferried the eld Man from the docks?”

  A puzzled look came over Burdun’s face. “Eld man? Boat? Sir, there’s come no boat at all tonight. Are you expecting one? I’ll keep a sharp eye out.”

  “Nay, Burdun, yet I thank thee all the same.”

  As the Elf walked back to his quarters—If he came not by boat, then how? Did he swim?—Aravan laughed softly to himself, picturing the elder stroking through the waters of the bay. But then again mayhap he flew, or walked on the waves—once more Aravan laughed at the absurdity, and then his eye fell on the trace of wet footprints lingering in the aft quarters passageway, there where the Mage had stepped.

  CHAPTER 8

  Oaths

  Late Summer, 1E9574

  [The Present]

  He wants what?” The Pysk leapt to her feet and stood with her fists clenched on her hips, beryl fire in her cobalt eyes.

  Alamar sighed. “It is not an unreasonable request, Jinnarin. After all, it is Aravan and his crew we are speaking of, not some Kistanian Rovers.”

  “But to stand before Humanity is to give truth to the legends, and that will lead to harassment of the Fox Riders as Man and Woman alike hunt throughout the world to discover our whereabouts, to reveal us, to seek favor from my Folk. They think we exude magic and grant wishes and live only to do their labor and—and conform in a thousand other ways to their ridiculous beliefs. I know, for it has happened in the past, and likely will do so again should I or any Fox Rider or for that matter any Hidden One be exposed to them. Nay, Alamar, I would not have Mankind see me.”

  “Dwarves, too,” mumbled the Mage.

  “What?”

  “I said,” he growled, “Dwarves, too. Aravan has a warband of Dwarves on the Eroean.”

  “Dwarves!” Jinnarin clapped a hand to her forehead. “Gods, Alamar, I’ve heard they are even worse than Man. ‘Hoy, little one, would you point out where I might find the richest veins of gold? Beg pardon, tiny Fey, but tell me where I might uncover silver and jewels for my treasuries.’ Why, they’d drag me down into a stone hole in the ground or under a mountain and never again would I see the light of day.”

  “You exaggerate, Pysk.” The blood had risen in the elder’s cheeks, and his chin jutted out stubbornly. “Moreover, did you not tell me that Aravan was a—how did you put it? Ah yes—that he was a ‘Friend’? And if so, would he expose you to such—such greed?”

  Jinnarin stopped her angry pacing, though yet she fumed.

  Rux trotted to the door, an irked look in his eye.

  Alamar stood and stepped to the panel, let
ting the animal out. Then the Mage faced the Pysk. “What would you, Jinnarin, stay hidden in my cabin or in the hold as the Elvenship traipses all over the world searching for a pale green sea, a black ship, a crystal castle?”

  “I did so on the Flying Fish,” shot back Jinnarin.

  “That was a short trip!” shouted Alamar. “Not a worldwide voyage.”

  Alamar shoved a teakettle under the pump and worked the handle furiously, water splashing violently over the sides. “He said that he would not ask his crew to take on a mission in ignorance, and he’s right!”

  The Mage slammed the teakettle onto a cook iron, swinging the arm into the cold hearth. Hurling two logs in the fireplace, “Incende!” he demanded, and the wood burst into furious flame.

  He spun and glared at Jinnarin. “Besides, Pysk, it is Farrix we are after. You remember him, don’t you, Farrix the boar killer?”

  At these words Jinnarin burst into tears.

  In the dark of the night came a tap on the door, the soft sound not rousing Aravan. Again came the tapping, and still Aravan’s meditation remained unbroken, his Elvensleep deep, though his eyes glittered in the stateroom shadows. The latch clicked, the lock opening of itself, and inward swung the door. Silhouetted against the passageway lamps stood a figure holding a squirming burden. “Lux” came a soft word, a blue light springing up. And as the fox-bearing Mage wetly stepped into the chamber, Aravan snapped full awake.

  Kicking the door to with his heel, Alamar set struggling Rux down, the fox gnarling a complaint and turning in agitated circles, glaring accusingly. Ignoring the animal—“We would have a word with you, Elf,” declared the Mage, slipping his knapsack strap over his head and setting the bundle to the drop-leaf of a writing desk.

  Aravan glanced from Alamar to Rux and back. “You and the fox?”

  “Of course not!” querulously retorted the elder, fumbling at the knapsack buckles. “And get some light in here; I’m not a blooming lantern, you know.”