Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Three months after the galley had come to the island, Durlok took his prisoners and his ship southward, down to the southern aurora, where he resumed his terrible practices, drawing down plumes.

  Finally he returned to his understone hideaway, to his temple to Gyphon. And there he conceived a cunning plan should Alamar establish a link and come looking for his pawn. And in unholy glee he sacrificed victim after victim, gathering hideous energy to power a terrible spell, to summon a demon, to lay a trap, to cast Farrix into a coma, into an enchanted sleep.

  CHAPTER 35

  Questions

  Spring, 1E9575

  [The Present]

  And then you came and freed me from Durlok’s enchanted sleep,” concluded Farrix, his eyes sweeping across all those in the dinghy, Dwarves, Man, Lady Pysk, and fox, “for which I will be ever grateful.”

  Jinnarin leaned over and gave him a kiss but then sat back, a pensive look upon her face. Yet it was Jamie who expressed the thought that each of them were thinking. “Lor, Master Farrix, what a horrible time you’ve lived through, what with the torture and sacrifices and all. Brrr, gives me the blue willies it does, and I mean the deep blue willies, I do.”

  Koban slammed a fist into palm. “Damn Durlok! Would that I could caress his neck with my axe.” A rumble of agreement muttered throughout the warriors aboard.

  After a moment of silence, Relk looked at the others. “Why does Durlok invest the plumes in the crystal? What is his purpose?”

  All eyes swung to Farrix, but he turned up his hands. “If I knew, then I would say. Yet it is as much a mystery to me today as when I first saw him do it.”

  Throughout the day the craft fared westward across the pale green sea, the boats impelled by a wind abeam blowing from due north, rare in these latitudes no matter the season south of the Calms of the Goat. Past half sunken hulks they sailed, derelicts covered with moss and fungus and rot, steering well clear of many, Aravan’s stone running chill in their presence.

  In mid afternoon the wind began shifting about until it blew directly from the west, and into the teeth of the blow they tacked to and fro, the flat-bottom boats slipping sideways as well, now running twice as far to cover half the distance. “If we only had a keel, we could make better of it,” grumbled Jamie, clearing sea moss from his steering oar. “Of course, had we a keel, the weed’d snag us right up, ‘twould, then we wouldn’t go anywhere. Drat! Can’t win for losing.”

  The rest of that day and the next as well, the wind blew in their faces. And throughout it all, Jinnarin sat in abstracted silence, speaking only when spoken to, her mind worrying over Farrix’s tale as a fox would worry a bone, the Pysk seeking some clue as to the Black Mage’s intentions, her thoughts running in circles of surmise and conjecture and speculation. Finally, late in the night she said, “Farrix. Tell your tale to Alamar. He’s a Mage. Perhaps he’ll discern what Durlok intends.”

  “Ha! I was right then about the lightning,” quavered Alamar in a reedy voice, the eld Mage nodding unto himself.

  “Lightning?”

  “Your dream. The sending. The lightning, Pysk. It was the plumes.”

  Farrix now sat in Alamar’s boat, having transferred there mid morn. It was the third full day of sailing westward, and above, the skies were overcast, roiling with dark clouds. And still the wind blew from the west. “What else, Alamar? What else did you glean from my tale?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know, Pysk. The sacrifices, well, they give Durlok the unholy he needs for his blasphemous rites. But why he draws the aurora into the crystal…eh, I don’t know. —Say, did you overhear the he used when he drew down the ? That might help.”

  Farrix shook his head. “Kry—krsp—loper— Oh, if I heard it, I would probably recognize it. But it was in a tongue strange to me. Not Slûk. I heard enough of that foul speech to know how it sounds. Instead it was—it was—”

  “Probably the Black Mage tongue,” interjected Alamar, running a palsied hand through the thin white wisps of his remaining hair.

  In that moment it began to rain, the chill downpour drenching all. After they had pulled the silks of the spare sail over them, Alamar said above the drumming of the drops, “Tell this tale to Aylis. She’s a seer, and seers are used to ferreting out things hidden, things mysterious. Go tell Aylis.”

  Alamar began coughing.

  The remainder of that day and part of the next the rain poured down unremittingly. But at last it turned to a drizzle and finally stopped altogether, though a chill westerly yet blew. Throughout that night Alamar’s coughing worsened, and by the next day he was racked with fever. After brewing a hot herbal tea over the flame of a small oil lamp, Burak directed Alamar to inhale the pungent fumes as he drank it. Alamar took one smell—“Gack!”—and tried to push the cup away. But Burak snarled, “If you would live to see Fager aboard the Eroean and receive proper treatment, then by Elwydd, Mage Alamar, you will drink this tea!” And he forced the drink upon Alamar, the elder too feeble to resist, though not too feeble to execrate the Dwarf and all of his Kind.

  When came the fifth dawn of travel, the wind died altogether, and Farrix transferred to Aylis’s boat and told the seeress his tale as the Dwarven warriors rowed. Yet during the telling she seemed to be but half listening, her mind instead on the sick oldster cursing in the boat behind. Even so, at the end of his tale, Aylis murmured, “It is probably when you were caged and thinking of Jinnarin that the seeds of the sending were formed. And when Durlok cast you into a deep sleep within a sleep—a trap, we know—it was a casting with an unintended side effect, for your dream reached across the world.”

  Farrix protested. “But my dream was of a crystal castle, a lightning-stroked ship, a pale green sea, a spider and a web. All in all, not very accurate, if you ask me.”

  Aylis smiled, her eyes lost in thought. “My father often told us that dream images are not what they seem. Yet, your images served well enough, for did we not find you?”

  Farrix laughed. “Yes indeed, that you did. But it was through your cleverness and skills, and not any effort on my part.”

  Aylis sat without speaking for a moment as the oars plashed in the water. But then she asked, “Did you overhear the Durlok used to summon the to the crystal?”

  “Your father asked me the same thing, Aylis, and I couldn’t tell him either. Strange it was, and at times it seemed harsh and at other times sibilant, and if I heard it again, I could say yea or nay.”

  Aylis took Durlok’s lexicon from her pocket. “Farrix, I have here a listing of Black Mage words, and when we reach the Eroean and start for Rwn, I will read to you from it, and when you hear the word, then we will perhaps have a clue to Durlok’s aims.”

  The following day, it rained again and a gusty wind blew strongly and shifted about without warning, and Farrix and Jinnarin sat in their craft and watched and listened as Jamie cursed and fought for control of the flat-bottomed boat skittering across the choppy waves, and the Pysks learned several new words of interest.

  When came the seventh dawning the skies cleared and wind again blew from the west, and Farrix transferred to Aravan’s boat and told the Elven captain his tale as the dinghies tacked across the pale green sea. At the end of Farrix’s story, Aravan was just as puzzled as all the rest, though he did clarify a point:

  “Even though Trolls rowed Durlok’s ship, it is not strange for them to fear the ocean. The bones of Trolls are as hard and as dense as iron, some say even denser. They cannot swim a stroke, plummeting to the bottom like rocks cast into a pool. And that, Farrix, is why they fear the sea, for should the black galley founder, then they would be lost, drowned.

  “Yet heed, although they might fear the sea, they are even more afraid of the Black Mage, and with good reason, as thou thyself hast seen. He is more powerful than they, and that is a great power indeed, for it is as Bokar says, Trolls are a fearsome foe, and twenty-eight Trolls have power beyond measure.

  “But
as to the rest of thy tale, Farrix, I have no mark of what Durlok has in mind. Yet of this we can be certain: it is evil beyond measure.”

  Farrix sighed and nodded. “Perhaps the Mages of Rwn will know.”

  In that moment a voice called out, “Ship ho! Ship ho on the starboard bow!”

  Farrix looked, and a magnificent tall ship bore down toward them, silken cerulean sails flying in the breeze, dark blue hull heeling over, silver bottom glimmering through the waves.

  It was the Eroean.

  They had come to the Elvenship at last.

  CHAPTER 36

  Pursuit

  Late Spring, 1E9575

  [The Present]

  I tell you, Father, we must get to Rwn!”

  “And I tell you, Daughter, we’ve got to stop Durlok. He blatantly spoke of a wedding gift, taunting us all, believing that we are powerless to stop him.”

  “Wedding gift?” Jatu raised his eyebrows and he leaned forward on his fists. “What is this wedding gift?”

  Alamar glanced across the map table at the big black Man. “I think he hints at an alignment…and one is coming soon, and whatever he’s got planned is certain to be deadly.”

  Aravan nodded his agreement, but Jatu asked. “Alignment?”

  Alamar groaned with exasperated impatience. Aravan looked briefly at the elder then said to Jatu, “It’s when the wandering stars are all in the sky at once. The closer they are to one another, the stronger the alignment. Once in a great while, they all seem to gather at virtually the same place, and this is called a grand alignment. If the Moon is in the heavens and clustered with them, it is even more portentous. Periodically one or more of the wanderers march across the daytime skies, when they cannot be seen, and many people know not they are there, but—”

  “Eh!” snorted Alamar. “Any stargazer worth his salt knows exactly where they are, whether or not they are visible.”

  Aravan inclined his head in agreement, then said, “There are times, Jatu, when the Sun, the Moon, and the five wanderers are all present in the day, though the eye sees only the Sun.”

  “Kruk!” spat Bokar, glancing at the others in the captain’s lounge. “What does this have to do with a wedding, Captain?”

  “A so-called wedding alignment is when the Moon and Sun kiss one another while all five wanderers watch—that means all are in the day sky at the same time, though not necessarily clustered tightly together, not a grand alignment.”

  “Kissing one another?” blurted Jinnarin, sitting next to Farrix on the tabletop. “What does that mean?”

  “Just what he said, Pysk!” snapped Alamar. “The Sun and Moon are touching.”

  “Oh,” said Jinnarin, “like the occultation we saw at Rwn on the day of Year’s Long Night.”

  Farrix looked at Jinnarin in startlement, silently mouthing the word, Occultation?

  “When the Moon eats the Sun,” she whispered to him.

  “It doesn’t have to be a full occultation, Pysk,” muttered Alamar, running an age-spotted hand through his wisps of hair. “The only thing that matters is that they touch.”

  “When will this so-called wedding occur?” asked Frizian.

  Alamar slapped a hand down on the table. “That’s just the problem! There’s a wedding due each month for the next several. The first one comes…” Alamar pursed his lips in thought—

  “June fourteenth,” said Aravan quietly.

  “Yes,” agreed Alamar, an eyebrow cocked at the Elf, adding, “and then they occur about once a month until…”

  “The last wedding this year,” interjected Aravan, “occurs November ninth, and that one just barely, for even as the Moon kisses the Sun, one wanderer is just setting as another is rising. The following month there is no—”

  “Do you always have to interrupt, Elf?” snapped Alamar.

  Farrix looked at Alamar. “I seem to recall that Durlok said it was a grand wedding gift. It occurs to me that the words ‘grand wedding’ might make a difference, neh?”

  Alamar’s face lighted up. “Heh! Out of the mouths of babes— Of course they make a difference, Pysk. A grand wedding is when the kiss comes near midday, preferably at noon, though a bit to either side is perfectly good. And that will occur in”—Alamar threw up a hand to stop Aravan from saying anything—“in…hmm…in…”—he glared at Aravan and snapped. “Well aren’t you going to help?”

  “The next four will be grand weddings,” said Aravan, “September the eleventh, the last.”

  Alamar turned to Aylis. “And that, Daughter, is why we must go after Durlok. To stop him from delivering his grand wedding gift to—how did he put it? ah yes—his gift to all of my ilk.”

  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” asked Frizian. “Just who are those of ‘your ilk’?”

  Before Alamar could answer, Bokar growled, “If we go after Durlok, what do we do about the Trolls? After all, they yet ward him.”

  “I know!” piped up Farrix, glancing at Aravan. “If we can sink the galley, they’ll most certainly drown, heavy bones and all.”

  “But wait,” muttered Frizian, “we don’t even know where Durlok and his black galley are.”

  A grin creased Alamar’s aged face. “Aylis can find him. She has his lexicon.”

  “Even should we discover his whereabouts, Father, still he is a Mage, a powerful Mage and a Black one. We have no way to counter his castings, and even if we did, it is questionable whether we could capture him.”

  “Capture him Hèl, Daughter, I mean to kill him!”

  Bokar stroked his beard. “If we could take him by surprise, sink his ship…”

  “If I remember correctly, Armsmaster,” said Aylis, “we talked about this before. To surprise him is unlikely, and to sink his ship, well, he would simply walk away.”

  “Mayhap, Lady Aylis, but as Master Farrix says, his Trolls would not.”

  Aylis shook her head. “I think we here do not have the wherewithal to destroy the Black Mage, and instead of pursuing him we should go to Rwn and tell our tale to the Master Mages and let them deal with him. Besides, my father must cross over to Vadaria.”

  “What of the grand wedding, Daughter. The next four are critical. Whatever Durlok has up his sleeve, he has but four separate days in which to perform it. We don’t even need to confront him directly, but merely distract him, turn his energies aside. Can we just divert his attention at mid of day on each of those days, a total of four or so hours altogether…well, we will have thwarted him. Then we can go to Rwn.”

  “What do you propose, Father? How will we distract him? And should we succeed, how will we keep him from destroying the Eroean and all who sail upon her?”

  “Look, Daughter, I don’t claim to have all the answers. All I know is that Durlok has said that he needs to conserve his energies for whatever it is he plans. That should protect us somewhat from his ; he will save it for his vile scheme, hence will not loose it upon us. As to how to distract him”—Alamar shrugged—“we’ll think of something.”

  Silence fell, and all eyes swung to Aravan, for he was their captain. He looked at Aylis. “Canst thou find the whereabouts of Durlok?”

  Sighing, she nodded.

  “Then do so, chieran. Tell us where he fares. Mayhap it will affect our decision.”

  Aylis looked about the salon. “A darkened cabin would help. Less distraction.”

  As the seeress sat down, Jinnarin stood and quietly pulled Farrix to his feet and led him to a far corner of the table, whispering, “I think we need to get out of her range, for at times she faints and falls forward.”

  They drew the curtains over the portholes and lit a single candle. Aylis took the lexicon from a pocket and held the small book in both hands. When all motion and shuffling of feet stopped and silence descended, she took several deep breaths as if to calm herself, then closed her eyes and murmured, “Cursus.” She sat without moving for a while, then raised one hand and pointed. “There. There is where fares Durlok.”

&
nbsp; “Sou’sou’east,” muttered Frizian, “toward the polar lats.”

  “How far, Daughter?”

  “More than a thousand miles, but less than two,” replied Aylis, her eyes yet closed.

  “Where bound?” asked Aravan.

  Aylis frowned, as if seeking, and finally said, “Where bound? I cannot say. Only where is.” Then Aylis’s shoulders slumped, and slowly she opened her eyes, her casting done.

  As the drapes were pulled aside to let daylight in, Aravan selected a map and spread it upon the table. “Here we are in the Sindhu Sea on the west marge of the Great Swirl. Durlok’s ship is somewhere between”—his finger stabbed down to the map twice—“here and here. He could be bound for”—Aravan touched several points on the map—“the Great Island continent in the south of the Bright Sea, the polar land, or east to the southern continent and beyond.”

  “A thousand miles is quite a lead,” said Farrix. “We may never catch him, wherever he is bound.”

  “You forget, tiny one,” rumbled Jatu, “the Eroean is the fastest ship in the world. A thousand miles or a thousand leagues, it matters not. Given that he runs long enough, we will surely catch him.”

  As Farrix nodded, Frizian looked at Aravan. “Well, Captain, if the black galley is somewhere sou’sou’east, where do we run?”

  Aravan glanced at each and every one and finally said, “Set our course south-southeast, Frizian. We’ll follow Durlok, and if we can sink him we will.”

  A pent-up exhalation sounded throughout the room, as if all had been holding their breath until a decision was made.