Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  She drew him back to her, resting her head on his shoulder. “I am afraid. Aravan, afraid for my father.”

  Aravan stroked her hair. “Dost thou wish to speak of it?”

  Aylis sighed and then pulled away and moved to the bed and sat. Aravan swung a chair about and threw a leg astraddle and sat facing her.

  “Durlok is a Black Mage,” began Aylis, “and they get their not from within but rather from without. They use the pain and agony and sufferings of others, their hatred, their fear, their terror, whatever, to power their vile castings. Hence, given that they have enough victims, their energy is without bounds.

  “My father, by contrast, uses his own internal energy for his castings. And he is at the end of his ebb, or nearly so. Hence, he has only a limited number of castings ere he will be past redemption, and should he use all of his , he will perish.

  “And the terrible thing is, I cannot aid him, for my strength lies in the gathering of information, though at the moment I am blocked. I cannot even lend him some of my , for I know not how. Oh, there are spells which would transfer from me to him, but I am not privy to such…nor do I believe is my father. Yet even did we know them, it is questionable whether he would employ castings of that kind for they are much too similar to the lamia-like drainings the Black Mages use to empower themselves.

  “And that is why I am afraid, Aravan, for should we meet Durlok face-to-face, I know my father will not hold back. He will pit his limited ‘gainst the inferno of a Black Mage. And he will die does he do so.”

  The wind continued to shift from southwesterly to south, and as it did so, its force began to abate. The air itself was somewhat warmer, though only slightly so, for it was yet deep winter there on the marge between the wide Weston Ocean and the great Northern Sea. And onward sailed the Eroean, easterly ever easterly, Rico now piping the sails about to catch the failing wind abeam.

  Early mid morn Captain Aravan, came on deck and the entire crew gathered for a simple ceremony, a burial at sea for Durlok’s victim. As all stood assembled beneath silken sails, the captain uttered a prayer, asking that High Adon gather the soul of the slain Man unto Himself. And with Rico piping farewell, they tipped the funeral plank and let the canvas-wrapped body slide down into the waters, the ballast dragging it under the cold grey waves.

  Hours passed, the low winter Sun crawling across the sky, the wind continued to diminish, the Eroean making the most of the breeze, yet creeping across the water.

  “What be our speed, Boder?”

  “Six knots and falling, sir.”

  Aylis came on deck, seeking Aravan. And when she found him she said, “I have been thinking, love, about the rede I uttered while trying to divine your cards. It seems to me that I should begin teaching you some of the tongue of Magekind, for if you are to draw fire into a dark crystal, you will need the words to do so.”

  Aravan gazed at the seeress. “Chieran, it is not at all certain that the rede was meant for me. After all, thou wert not looking at me but through me instead.”

  “Nevertheless, love, I would teach you words which you might need in speaking an object’s Truename.”

  Aravan acquiesced, and together they strolled toward the bow, Aylis speaking softly, Aravan repeating her words.

  And still the wind diminished.

  Jinnarin and Alamar sat in the ship’s mess, breaking their fast, Rux lying under the table, gnawing on a slab of dried jerky. As they ate, from the galley came Trench the cook. “Oi’ve got somethin’ special ’ere for y’, Laidy Jinnarin. A bit o’ a sweet, if Oi do say so m’sel’. ’Ere y’ be, Laidy—a dab o’ a ‘oney comb. It ought t’ go roight nice on th’ bit o’ y’r biscuit, naow.”

  As Alamar eyed the honeycomb, his mouth watering, Jinnarin looked up at Trench. “Why, I thank you, Trench, but tell me, what did I ever do to deserve such a treat?”

  Trench shuffled his feet then said, “Well, miss, y’see, y’ won th’ plume lottery f’r me, y’ did. Two underd coppers, ‘twas, one f’r each slip pulled out o’ th’ ‘at. And when y’ spotted that first plume, wellanow, it were Oi ‘oo wos th’ winner. Two ‘underd coppers, it ain’t much naow, but it were th’ prestige o’ winnin’ wot counted. Oi c’n crow it over m’ shipmates, Oi can, ’n’ f’r naow Oi’m known as ‘Lucky Trench,’ ’n’ f’r that Oi thank’ee. Y’see, th’ crew, wellanow, they think m’ cookin’ is even better, naow that Oi’m a proven lucky charm ’n’ all. ’N’ that’s why Oi’m givin’ y’ th’ bit o’ th’ comb Oi’ve been savin’ j’st f’r a special occasion, ’n’ this wos it.”

  “Why, I thank you, Mister Lucky Trench. I will savor every scrap of it.”

  Trench bobbed his head and strode back to the galley, a spring in his step.

  “Are you going to eat all of that?” Alamar’s voice was plaintive.

  “As much as I can, Alamar,” answered Jinnarin, stuffing her mouth. “Yb cn mrv htvr ss lft.”

  “What? What did you say, Pysk?”

  Jinnarin’s jaw worked up and down as she chewed and chewed and finally swallowed. “I said, you can have whatever is left.” She smiled wickedly and took another big bite.

  When Jinnarin and Rux and Alamar came up on deck, Aylis and Aravan were amidships, the seeress yet teaching the Elf the words of Magekind. Alamar, licking his lips yet sweet from honey, stood and listened for a while. At last he said, “I wish we knew the Black Mage words for the various gems. You could learn those, too.”

  “How did you learn their word for fire, Father?”

  “Pŷr? It was in the duel with Durlok. He yelled pŷr several times, trying to set me aflame. Succeeded once. I quenched it the other times.”

  Jinnarin’s eyes flew wide. “You were on fire?”

  Alamar nodded, then made a negating gesture. “Oh, it was not me that was on fire, but my clothing instead.”

  “Oh,” said Jinnarin. Then her eyes flew wide again, and she gasped, “What did you do? Didn’t you get burned?”

  “What a question!” exclaimed Alamar. “Of course I got burned, Pysk. You can’t have your clothes on fire without getting burned.”

  “But what did you do?”

  “What do you think I did? I set his clothes on fire, too.”

  Jinnarin stamped her foot. “No, Alamar. I mean, what did you do about your own clothes being on fire?”

  “Well why didn’t you ask that in the first place? I sent them away, that’s what I did.”

  “Sent—?”

  “Yes. Made ’em go elsewhere. Finished that fight stark naked, I did.”

  “Oh.”

  Aravan was laughing and holding onto giggling Aylis, and when Alamar glared at them, Aravan said, “Forgive me, Mage Alamar, but I cannot help myself. Thy plight was dire, that I do not doubt, but the sight of thee with thy clothes afire and then standing naked, well, it must have been a wonder to behold.”

  Alamar’s chin jutted forth—“Being on fire is nothing to jest about”—and he spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Aravan turned to Aylis. “I will apologize to him later, chieran, when he has had time to cool somewhat.”

  Aylis glanced down at the Pysk and Rux. “Jinnarin, would you go to him and try to soothe his ruffled feathers? In spite of his manner, he cherishes you.”

  Jinnarin sighed and turned to go. A step or two later she turned and grinned. “You know, I cherish him, too, despite his ways. —And, oh, by the way, I had the nightmare again yestermorn. It’s coming now every three or four days.” Turning once more, Jinnarin strode in the direction Alamar had gone, Rux at her heels.

  Behind, Aylis turned to Aravan. “I asked her to tell me when it came. With her awake at night and sleeping during the day, well, I wondered if it changed anything.”

  “Mayhap we could call it a daymare, now,” said Aravan, smiling grimly.

  Aylis winced mockingly. “Ah, Aravan, iocatio in the midst of all.”

  “Iocatio?”

  Aylis nodded. “Ano
ther mageword, and it means, sirrah”—her smile answered his own—“that you lack appropriate seriousness in these matters grave.”

  “Ah but, chieran, I would rather smile in the face of adversity than to become glum and dour, no matter the stakes.”

  Aylis reached out and took his hand. “I know, love, and so would I.”

  Aravan raised her fingers to his lips, his sapphire gaze holding fast her emerald eyes. Her own gaze softened, and she said, “First, love, more lessons, and then will we take reward.”

  Aravan’s grin widened. “Then on with it, Lady. Delay not.”

  Aylis retrieved her hand then said, “When you combine two magewords, usually you change the ending of the first, sometimes adding an ‘o,’ at the other times adding…”

  The south wind died just after sunset, and the sails on the Eroean hung slack. Frizian turned to Aravan. “Caught on the horns of a winter calm, Captain. Shall I unship the gigs?”

  Aravan glanced at the stars. “We are some leagues short, Frizian. Too far to row and hale the ship. Ahn! too far to row, regardless, towing the ship or not. Nay, leave the gigs aboard.”

  “Kruk!” spat Bokar. “That means Durlok is likely to work his evil again.”

  Boder strode to Aravan’s side. “Cap’n, there’s a mist forming on the sea.”

  Aravan and Bokar and Frizian stepped to the taffrail and peered over, the second officer holding high a lantern for his Human eyes to see the waters below, though neither Aravan nor Bokar needed such. “Garn!” exclaimed Frizian. “Warm air over cold water. I knew that a south wind boded ill. There’ll be fog tonight, Captain.”

  “Kala!” crowed Bokar. “If the fog is thick enough and reaches far enough, the Black Mage will see no aurora tonight.”

  Aravan turned to Bokar. “Armsmaster, if Durlok is indeed behind the plumes, then mayhap thou art correct and a fog will set his plans awry. Yet heed: it is winter and we are on the marge of the Northern Sea, and a fog will clad the Eroean with ice.”

  Frizian glanced up at the silken sails. “Captain, shall I reef her tight? Keep ice from the ’spanse?”

  Bokar growled. “But if the wind returns, then we’ll be just that much longer getting underway.”

  Aravan nodded, then said, “Frizian, if the fog starts climbing up the masts, then pipe the crew and reef. I’d rather take time raising sail than to try to shake loose ice.”

  “What about the sheets and pulley blocks, Captain?” asked Boder. “They’ll ice up, too.”

  “That can’t be helped, Boder,” replied Aravan. “We’ll have to work them often to keep them running free.”

  Bokar glanced back at the mist rising. “Bane and blessing,” he grumbled. “Bane and blessing alike.”

  Slowly, steadily, the fog rose up from the surface of the sea, gradually enveloping the Eroean. Frizian had Reydeau pipe the crew, and up the ratlines they clambered, taking care, for even now a thin coating of ice covered the rope-ladder mesh. They reefed the yardarm sails to the full and haled in the jibs and stays, and now the Elvenship drifted free, no silks flying on her masts. Up and up rose the icefog, obscuring the stars above, until nothing of the heavens could be seen. Lanterns were lit, ghostly yellow halos in the stirring grey. The mist breathed a clear crystal sheath to lie over all, and the decks became hazardous, nearly too slippery to walk upon, and deck lines were strung to aid the crew, though all but the lookouts now quartered below. All sound became muffled in the cloak, and only the lapping of water against the hull broke the silence…that and the stamping of the deck watch, tromping in place to stay warm.

  Mid of night came and then passed on, and still the fog thickened, layering the drifting ship with its icy grasp. And the Men on watch could but barely see a foot or two beyond their reach. Even so, the Elvenship lookouts remained alert, listening, depending upon their ears more than their eyes to detect if anything was amiss.

  Below decks, suddenly Aravan wakened from a sound sleep, jolting upright, his hand clasping the frigid blue stone amulet about his neck. Beside him, Aylis looked up, her eyes muzzy with sleep. “Wha—?”

  “Get dressed!” hissed Aravan, throwing on his pants and boots. “Danger!”

  Lobbie amidships cocked his head for it seemed he heard a plashing above that of the waves lightly slapping against the hull. Starboard, he thought, and using a deck line, across to that side he went. He leaned over the railing and listened with care, trying to hear through the muffling fog. There! a splash, another, many, and of a sudden in the darkness, black on black, something immense loomed forth, swirling mist driven before it.

  “Iceber—!” shouted Lobbie, but his bellow was lost in the crash of timbers as the great, dark mass plowed into side, and the hull of the Eroean was breached. Lobbie was hurled over the rail but managed to grab a frozen stanchion. Grimly he hung on, yelling for help, his gloved hands clutching ice, slipping. The ship juddered, timbers splintering, and Lobbie’s right hand was jolted loose from the ice-clad bronze—he was going to fall. Suddenly someone gripped his wrist and he was dragged up and over the wale, giant Jatu hauling him to safety midst the sound of splitting beams and a pounding of a drum and a great splashing and churning of water.

  As the ship juddered and jolted, Lobbie grabbed the railing and dragged himself to his feet. “Iceberg!” he shouted again, pointing at the blackness abeam. But even as he called it, he knew that it was not so.

  Boom!…Boom!…Boom!…Boom!…sounded the beat of the drum, and amid the splintering of hull planking, slowly the dark mass withdrew, the Eroean jolting and jarring like a ravaged hare in a savage hound’s mouth.

  Of a sudden the Elvenship rolled free, the darkness abeam turning her loose and backing away to disappear in the fog. And amid the shouts of Men and Dwarves the Eroean began to sink, her hull holed, icy water pouring in.

  And out from the frigid mist, mid the beat of a drum and the splashing churn, there came the sound of cold laughter.

  CHAPTER 19

  Gelen

  Winter, 1E9574–75

  [The Present]

  Man the bilge pumps!” roared Jatu. “We are holed!”

  In the icefog, crewmen slid and slithered across the glassy decks. Someone somewhere began ringing a bell, while someone else winded a brass bugle, both bell and trump sounding a needless alarm, for the ship had been struck a murderous blow, shivering timbers, slamming Man and Dwarf and Mage and Pysk and Elf and fox into whatever stood in the way. Below decks, water thundered in through the gaping cleft where something massive had rammed through and then had withdrawn. Men and Dwarves alike regained their footing and led by Frizian they charged down the ladderways, hurtling past the lower deck and into the main hold, where icy brine of the cruel Northern Sea relentlessly poured inward, inundating all, the water so cold that it burned. Men cried out from the deadly chill, and even hardy Dwarves gasped as they fought their way toward the breech through the frigid rush. Taking up planks and hammers and long, heavy nails, and saws and axes and mauls and wedges, toward the break they struggled, the bitter sea washing them back, knocking Men down and dragging them under, Dwarves as well, trying to freeze them or drown them in their very own hold. Dwarves reached out and grasped struggling Men, pulling them up from beneath the flow, the Men benumbed and in shock from the merciless cold. And the frigid Northern Sea continued to roar inward.

  Aravan now among them gathered together a crew and up the ladderways they raced.

  “Cap’n!” panted Hogar, “we’ve got t’ ready th’ boats! If we go down in this sea, we won’t last ten heartbeats in th’ icy water!”

  “We are not going down, Hogar,” gritted Aravan, in the lead.

  Pausing only long enough to light lanterns, onto the slick decks they scrambled and through the fog to the main hatch. “Get it open, Arlo!” commanded Aravan. “You three help. And, Arlo, bring up a crossjack! Lay it out flat on the starboard side, lengthwise to the ship, above the breech! The rest of you, come with me!” And toward the bow he skittered, han
ging onto the deck lines to keep from falling, and Men and Dwarves struggled after their captain, all of them drenched to the bone and freezing in the harsh winter air, the lanterns they bore casting luminous halos in the clinging ice-crystal mist.

  Opening the forward deck lockers, Aravan heaved free a heavy hank of rope, shouting, “To me, Dokan! Hogar and Hegen, fetch a second halyard! Artus and Dask, fetch a third!” And as the crew sprang forward to follow the commands, Aravan unknotted the hank and handed one end to Dokan. “To the bowsprit!” he barked. “Ye others, follow after! Do as Dokan and I do!”

  “Captain,” rasped Dokan, as up the foredeck ladder they scrambled, “what be the plan?”

  “We are going to keelhaul the leak,” gritted Aravan. They came to the bowsprit and Aravan slithered onto the ice-laden outjutting mast and called, “Hang on tight to thy end, Dokan,” and he hurled the bulk of the halyard into the sea while clutching the other end. As the line uncoiled and struck the water, Aravan dangled his end down two yards or so and whipped it under the bowsprit and caught it on the opposite side. He then slid back onto the foredeck, the Elf clinging tightly to the cordage, the halyard now a great loop under the bow. “Now we must drag the line back amidships, Dokan, thou on the larboard, I on the starboard. Keep a firm grip. —Hogar, Hegen, Artus, Dask, take care, the sprit is slick. Cast thy lines over as did we, and follow.”

  Dragging the halyard under the keel, they struggled back amidships, each clinging tightly to his end of the rope, passing it out and around ratlines and deadeyes and other such, Dokan on the larboard, Aravan on the starboard. When they came to the main hatch, Arlo and his helpers were back up from below, the unfurled crossjack lying out before them.

  “Arlo, to me. Ye others, get three more lines,” Aravan ordered, the crewmen shuffle-sliding across the ice to lockers to fetch them. “Hold tight, Dokan!” Aravan called to the Dwarf ‘cross ship. Swiftly Aravan and Arlo clipped the halyard to the lower left-corner eyelet in the crossjack border.