Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Rhu found a small cave where they denned, and Farrix set him free to hunt. And that very same night the aurora flared and a plume plunged down to fall into the sea…just beyond the horizon! Damn!

  Frustrated at having come all this way and still not knowing a whit more than he had known when he had begun, Farrix began skinning the small animals that Rhu caught to eat—mice, hares, stoats, and the like—the fox looking on with approval, for he didn’t relish hair. And Farrix found a willow tree and cut branches to fashion a coracle frame, though more pointed than round, lashing it together with thongs. He covered the structure with stitched-together hides, including a flexible one to cover the top, with a hole in the center through which he could slip his legs and tie tightly about his waist, making the interior of the craft waterproof. He treated all seams with a pitchy tar he made from pine cones covered with earth and baked. This took sixteen days to accomplish…yet two days before it was finished, another plume plunged beyond the horizon and down to the sea.

  “Pox and plague! But I am not ready!” Farrix cried, shaking his fist at the distant flare.

  Two days later, Farrix dropped two carven double-ended paddles down beside the hide boat and looked at the sky and declared, “Now! Now I am ready!”

  Farrix studied his journal, notes he had been keeping ever since he had first seen the plumes, muttering to himself and Rhu: “Sometimes the skies are cast over. Other times the aurora does not glow. But every two weeks when the skies are clear and the aurora does flare, then a plume falls to the east, as if it is on a schedule. Ah, Rhu m’lad, come twelve days, er, nights from now, if it is clear, if the sea permits, I’m off in my wee boat.”

  The days passed slowly, though Rhu and Farrix found things to occupy their time—the fox hunting or sleeping or watching Farrix with some concern as the Pysk tested his craft in the waters of the ocean, learning how to paddle it, learning as well how to tip it over and turn it upright again, each time emerging spluttering and laughing while Rhu barked and ran back and forth along the beach and seemed on the verge of leaping in to rescue his foolish master.

  The dawn came crisp and clear fourteen days after the last plume had fallen. Farrix drew out his journal and pen and ink and wrote a short note to Jinnarin.

  My love,

  Here I am at the edge of the isle, and the plumes continue to flow easterly. It appears, though, that they arc down to strike in the ocean nearby. I have made myself a coracle, and I plan on paddling a hit out to sea, out to where it seems they might splash, just beyond the horizon, I think.

  I have told Rhu to wait awhile, a day or so. If he returns without me, you will know that I am off on another of my ventures.

  I love you,

  Farrix

  When he finished the note, he packed the hide boat with his bow and arrows, and with a bit of food and two skins of water.

  At mid of day he placed the note in the special pocket in Rhu’s collar and instructed the fox to wait two Suns as trained and then to go home. Farrix knew that he could always countermand the order if he got back to Rhu before then.

  Farrix then launched his coracle, climbing in and lacing the cover tight about his waist. He tied one oar by slipknotted thong to his wrist, the second oar was stowed inside in case he lost the first. And with one last look at the clear skies and a call of good-bye to Rhu, he began paddling out across the rolling sea.

  Some twelve hours later beneath a spangle of stars as night drew near the nadir and still no aurora writhed in the crystal skies above, Farrix stopped paddling well out to sea. He had no idea how far he had rowed, but he could no longer see any part of the headland, had not been able to see it for more than an hour. And so he knew that he was well beyond the horizon, and might in fact be near the place where the plumes mysteriously fell. He did know one thing, though—he was weary beyond measure. He had not anticipated how difficult it would be for someone of his stature to row across the horizon, and every time he had looked back, the headland was yet in view, diminished somewhat, but still visible. And so he had rowed onward, hour after hour, the Sun had set and still he rowed, the night growing deeper. And still by the light of the stars, the headland could yet be seen, and so on he pressed…until at last after long toilsome hours, the headland finally disappeared.

  A thin crescent Moon rode low in the west, and the crisp night air remained clear. And still no spectral lights blossomed above. Spent, Farrix laid his head upon the taut boat cover, his eyes fixed on the northern skies. I will rest but a moment, gather my strength, for who knows when and where the plume will fall should the borealis appear, eh? I might have to row some more. Ha! I know I will have to row to get back to shore, once this is over.

  And so the weary Pysk lay against the yielding cover, his head cradled in his arms, as Mother Sea softly swashed and murmured in his ear, all the while gently rocking the Pysk upon her bosom.

  “Yarrah!” something bellowed, jolting Farrix awake at the very same moment a monstrous grasp seized the boat and smashed him against the hide cover, pinning his arms, trapping him. Reflexively he clutched shadow about him, and Pysk and boat became a dark blot ensnared in a mashing grip. He was hoisted upward out of the water and alongside a looming black wall, and he desperately struggled, trying to get free, trying to reach the thongs about his waist to loose them and snatch up his bow and arrows from inside the craft—but he could not. A netting of some sort enwrapped him, and he could not move—it was all he could do to breathe, clutched as tightly as he was. And as he was swung through the air, he could hear voices yammering words of a sort, though what they cried out, he could not say. Of a sudden he was slammed down, and a voice snarled—“Balaka!”—but it was in a tongue he knew not. Silence fell. Unable to turn his head, he could not see anyone, though he could hear footsteps nearing.

  Adon, I am captured by Humans!

  But then, in the direction he faced, a hulking form moved into view, monstrous, towering, leering—Oh, Adon! Not Humans but a Troll instead! I’ve been captured by a Troll! Farrix’s heart hammered wildly in his chest, and he could not seem to get enough to breathe.

  Above him and behind, the footsteps stopped. Moments passed, and in the silence, just into the edge of his vision stepped a Lok and then a Ruch. Foul Folk! Captured by Foul Folk! His mind screamed for him to flee, but he could not even move, much less escape his bonds.

  Behind him, a voice hissed, “Opsi emoì dós!”

  Then came cold laughter, followed by a whisper, “Eórphne analótheti!” and suddenly the shadow Farrix clutched to himself was gone.

  “Aragh!” grunted the Troll in surprise, his bat-wing ears twitching outward. The bandy-legged Ruch’s serpentine eyes bulged wide and he started to step forward, only to be slapped back by the Man-sized Lok.

  A stream of guttural words snarled out, and Farrix was clutched in rough hands and extracted from the net and jerked free of the boat, the Lok doing so not bothering to untie the waist thong.

  As he was swung up and about, Farrix could see that he was on the afterdeck of a boat of some sort, a ship large and black, lateen sails amidships and fore. Down each side were banks of oars powered by enormous Trolls. Rucha scuttled here and there, Loka among them. He had no time to see more, for the Lok tightly grasping him drew a kris and cut loose the paddle yet tied to his wrist, then held him out toward a Man. —Nay! Not a Man, but a Mage instead!

  His long, angular features were pasty white, his nose long and narrow and hooked; his thin bloodless lips sneered in triumph and his piercing black eyes danced in gloat; he had not a hair on his head, not even eyelashes or brows. Dark robes cloaked him, and he was tall, and his fingers were long and grasping, with sharp nails painted black. He held a tall, straight, dark staff in one hand.

  “Well, well,” he whispered, “what have we here? Do my eyes deceive me, or is it truly a Pysk we have captured?”

  “Let me go, Mage!” spat Farrix.

  “Akahl! So you know that I am a Mage.”

  “O
f course I know,” shot back Farrix. “I have friends who are of Magekind.”

  “Pah! Name one.”

  “Alamar! He is my friend.”

  Farrix was shocked by the reaction to his words, for the Mage’s eyes bulged with hatred and his mouth twisted into a snarl, and he stepped forward, his free right hand raised and clawlike, black nails gleaming wickedly, ready to slash, to pierce. The Lok holding Farrix cried out in terror and flinched back, thrusting the Pysk forward, as if he were a tiny shield, and Farrix braced himself for death. Yet in the last instant, the Mage stayed his hand. “Alamar.” he hissed through clenched teeth, his nails poised a hairsbreadth from Farrix. “What does he know?”

  Farrix’s eyes widened. “Wha—?”

  “What does he know?” shrieked the Mage, striking the butt of his staff to the deck.

  “How should I know?” replied Farrix.

  “Because I am the one you seek, spy. I am Alamar’s nemesis. I am Durlok!”

  “Spy? I am no spy. And I never heard of anyone named Durlok.”

  “You lie!” snarled Durlok.

  The Mage turned to a nearby Ruch and gestured toward Farrix’s boat, guttural words snapping commands.

  The Ruch turned up the tiny boat, shaking the contents out: a two-ended paddle; a ration of food; two diminutive water skins; a wee bow and a tiny quiver filled with minuscule arrows. As the Ruch peered inside the boat to see if that was all, a second Ruch pulled one of the arrows from the quiver and examined it, sneering in laughter at the tiny barb and touching the tip with a finger in spite of Farrix’s warning cry. “Ooo,” leered the Ruch, his mouth gaping in a mocking grin, japing, acting as if he were afraid. “Ooo.” And once more he pricked at his finger, but this time he flinched back as the sharp point penetrated. Then his eyes flew wide in alarm and his mouth rounded in a silent O of horror. He just had time to look up at Farrix before he fell dead.

  Durlok stepped forward and looked down at the dead Ruch. Carefully the Mage plucked the tiny shaft from the slain creature’s fingers and examined it. Then he whirled upon Farrix. “An assassin!” he cried, his eyes glaring in hatred, his black staff raised as if to strike. But then the look on his face altered, shifted, transformed into a sneer and he held up the arrow. “Ha! Do you actually think this would work against me? Pah! You are a fool! And Alamar is a fool for sending you on a fool’s errand!”

  “Skalga!” came a cry from the lookout atop the mid ship mast. “Skalga!”

  Durlok whirled and looked at the sky. High above and to the north, the aurora began to glimmer. He glared back at Farrix and hissed, “We will finish this later, Pysk.” Durlok snarled several commands, and Rucha and Loka scrambled to obey. While two Rucha hurled their dead brother over the rail, another gingerly took the arrow from Durlok and carefully slipped it into the quiver. All his goods were then put back in the boat, and the whole of it carried off. A Ruch appeared, bearing what seemed to be a bird cage, and Farrix was thrust inside and the door latched behind, a tiny hasp lock barring escape. The cage was then hung from the forward railing of the afterdeck and the Pysk was then ignored.

  Farrix could see that overhead, the aurora strengthened, the glowing drapery rippling bright. And down on the decks Foul Folk scuttled, as if something imminent were to occur. And as Farrix watched, a Man was hauled up from below decks, gibbering, howling, weeping, his arm clutched in a Troll’s unbreakable grasp. He was taken forward to the prow of the craft, where Durlok awaited. At sight of the Mage the Man shrieked in terror, and wrenched and jerked, trying to escape, all to no avail. His clothes were cut from him and cast overboard, and screaming, he was shackled to a large wooden block. And from a brazier filled with burning coals, Durlok drew forth glowing tongs, while a Lok stood at hand holding a dark metal cask and another held a rough flint knife. And Durlok took the burning tongs and reached out toward the Man and—

  Farrix jerked his head aside and squeezed his eyes shut, for he could not watch such a hideous thing, and he jammed his hands against his ears, though he could still hear the Man’s harrowing shrieks. The agonized howling went on and on as abomination after abomination took place there in the bow, screams of agony piercing the winter air as the spectral lights above grew bright. And in his cage, Farrix shrilled in fear and rage and loathing, shrieking at Durlok to stop, though the hideous mutilations went on and on. And of a sudden Durlok snatched up the stone knife and plunged it deep into the Man’s abdomen and wrenched it through his flesh, eviscerating him. With a final shriek of agony, the howling stopped as life was hideously torn from the Man…and then stark silence fell, soundless but for the swash of the ocean and the quiet weeping of a Pysk.

  In the stillness, Durlok opened the metal cask and withdrew a dark crystal, long and sharp. And he held it up to the sky, up to the aurora, and muttered a word of , invoking a strange name.

  Farrix’s hair stood on end, his arms atingle, and of a sudden from the aurora a great plume streaked down toward the ocean, toward the ship, toward the crystal, to slam into that mystic stone, staggering Durlok backwards. Yet the Mage managed to withstand the onslaught, and he held the crystal as coruscating light roared and flared, burned, blinded the eye, the crystal blazing with absorbed light. But just as suddenly as it had appeared, the raging dazzle vanished, and now by contrast the ship seemed plunged in utter darkness and silence, though stars yet shined above and the sea rolled below.

  And locked in a bird cage on the aft of the ship, in the quiet a light-blinded Pysk moaned and wept, “Oh god, oh god, oh god. I have found where the plumes are going and I wish to Adon that I did not know.”

  Over the next six weeks, powered by the wind and by Trolls, Durlok’s black galley plied the seas north-northeast to the coast of Thol, and then south-southwest to Rwn. Every night that the aurora flared, he would perform his abominations and sacrifice another screaming victim and draw down a plume into the crystal.

  And in those same weeks he threatened Farrix, vowing to torture him, to kill him, to use him to draw down a plume. Yet always the Mage stopped short of his promises, stating that because Farrix was an assassin spy for the Mages of Rwn, in particular for Alamar, that he, Durlok, would do nothing that might provide a seer’s link to him, and the torture or death of Farrix perhaps would do just that—in fact, Alamar probably planned it that way, planned for Durlok to slay the Pysk and provide a seer’s link to him from Alamar’s very own spawn, a daughter, he believed—and that he would avoid. Instead, he would keep the spying Pysk captive until he found a suitable use for him, perhaps to entrap the very ones who sent him in the first place. That way, not only would Durlok wreak his vengeance upon all of those of Magekind who had banished him, he would also avenge a terrible wrong done to him by Alamar in particular. Yes, yes, the Pysk was of more use alive than dead, of that, Durlok was certain. Hence, locked in his cage and cared for by Rucha, Farrix stopped denying Durlok’s accusations, for should he convince the Mage that he was not a spy, then Durlok would be free to perform his hideous abominations on the tiny Pysk.

  Twice, Durlok sent his Foul Folk on coastal raids and each time they returned with prisoners, victims for his terrible rites, Humans all, for they were of Mithgar and most fit to his purpose.

  Farrix discovered that Durlok used their agony to power his castings—that Durlok was by his own admission a Black Mage, outlawed by the bulk of Magekind. Too, he worshipped Gyphon, and somehow his rites were serving that end. But this meager knowledge that Farrix gleaned paled into insignificance when compared to the terrible knowledge of the things the Black Mage did to the Men and Women he trapped.

  And so sacrifice was heaped upon sacrifice, the mutilated, burnt, gouge-blinded, eviscerated corpses thrown overboard as plume after plume was drawn down. But then spring came and the aurora became sporadic, then faded altogether. Finally Durlok turned his galley southward, heading for his lair, a place he had stumbled upon, hidden from the Mages of Rwn.

  It was during this journey that Farrix discovere
d the Trolls’ utter fear of the ocean, though he did not discover why. That they were on the ship at all seemed a paradox to him; yet it was because of their dread of Durlok that they served aboard the galley. Except for their fear of the ocean, they were ideal for this task, the hulking brutes easily powering the ship a hundred and fifty miles a day. Ordinarily they worked in two shifts of fourteen, seven to a bank of oars, seven to a side; however, when pressed, six more oars were mounted, three to a side, and then twenty Trolls rowed.

  The lateen sails, too, propelled the ship, adding considerably to its forward motion. But with the Trolls rowing no tacking was ever needed, hence the galley could run the very shortest course to a given goal, no matter the quarter of the wind. If the wind aided, well and good; if it did not, it was of little consequence.

  Some weeks later they came to the Great Swirl, and Durlok sacrificed another victim. The weed was no hindrance at all.

  Hidden away in a crystal cavern in a high stone island where no one would think to look, Durlok continued his hideous practices, torturing, mutilating, sacrificing a captive now and then. “Pah! I can always capture more at need,” he sneered…then gloated and gestured outward toward the Great Swirl beyond the stone of the cavern, “There are times, of course, they even come to me, their ships snared in my great green web.” Trapped in his cage, Farrix shuddered at the thought, envisioning a monstrous spider sitting in the center of its lair.

  When his captors were asleep, Farrix tested the bars and the lock of his prison, seeking escape, to no avail. And under Durlok’s vigilant eye, nothing that could be used to pick the lock was ever left at hand. But Farrix waited patiently, for one day, one day, they would make a mistake.…

  And in the darkness when all was still, he sat in his cage and thought of Jinnarin. Oh, if only somehow he could get word to her and tell her of the crystal cavern in the high stone island in the center of the Great Swirl and of Durlok and his black galley of death, then perhaps she could gather together those who could stop this monster once and for all. But that was not to be, for how could anyone locked in a cage get word to someone half a world away?