Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “But what of our journey to Rwn?” asked Aylis, glancing at Alamar then looking at Aravan, her voice filled with distress.

  “Chieran, I know thou art concerned for thy sire, and so, too, am I. Yet Alamar is right: can we thwart Durlok, then we set his plans in disarray. But this I do promise—can we not think of a way to hinder the Black Mage, then will we sail on to Rwn by ‘rounding the Silver Cape.”

  Jatu started, and dread sprang up behind his eyes. “But, Captain, the Silver Cape—we’ll be crossing in the dead of summer!”

  Aravan’s look was grim. “Aye, Jatu, yet heed: if any ship can ‘round that horn in summer, ‘tis the Eroean.”

  Jinnarin’s own heart was hammering with fear, and she squeezed Farrix’s hand. He looked at her with surprise and whispered, “What is it, love? What is so dreadful about the Silver Cape?”

  “The seasons,” she whispered back, “they are reversed down here south of the midline. Though it is called summer, it will really be the dire dead of winter if or when we try to go through the straits—howling blizzards, crushing ice, thundering winds, no day, no Sun—and I’ve been told by crewmen that it cannot be done.”

  Captain Aravan called a shipboard meeting and stood Farrix on the wheelhouse so that all could see him, the Elf declaring that that part of the mission had been accomplished—Lady Jinnarin’s mate had been found. After the cheers subsided, Aravan then spoke of Durlok and the black galley, and of the unknown threat the Black Mage represented. As was his wont, Aravan then admitted the crew into his confidence and spoke of the plan to pursue and if possible to destroy the Black Mage. The crew took this all in stride—until he came to the part concerning the possibility that they might need to sail ‘round the Silver Cape in the dead of summer. A stunned silence greeted this news, sailors and warriors alike looking fearfully about, for it was common knowledge that this had never been done. Finally someone, Lobbie it was, called out, “Cap’n, I mean, it’s hard enough in the dead o’ winter, when the air is shriekin’ mild and gentle compared to the rest o’ the seasons—but in the summertime? Might as well try to sail in and out o’ the depths o’ Great Maelstrom in the Boreal, wot?” But someone else, Artus, spoke up. “Ar, Lobbie, has the Captain ever asked us to do what couldn’t be done?” And then Jatu’s voice called out, “There’s always a first time for everything—after we’ve done the cape, Lobbie, then we’ll think on doing as you say and sail the Maelstrom next,” and then the big black Man bellowed with laughter and soon all the crew was howling along in glee.

  In mid afternoon the silks were haled about and the Eroean was set on a course due south, for she was yet in the marge of the Great Swirl and must needs run out of the weed before turning to pursue the black galley.

  Jinnarin took Farrix about the ship, introducing him to the crew. And when she came to Rolly and Carly and Finch and Arlo, these four seemed to look down at Farrix with suspicion in their eyes, as if wondering if he was good enough for their Pysk—Lady Jinnarin. In the end, it seems, Farrix passed their muster, for Arlo set about making a larger pallet for Jinnarin’s under-bunk quarters for both of the Pysks to sleep upon, and Rolly, Carly, and Finch began fashioning a tiny sea chest in which Farrix could store his things.

  That evening, Jinnarin arranged with Ship’s Cook Trench for hot water for baths for Farrix and her. Tink and Tiver delivered a washbasin full of hot water to the under-bunk quarters, the cabin boys supplying as well chips of soap and scant cloths and towels. Jinnarin sent Rux to hunt for rats, the fox happily complying, for he had been cooped up in a tiny rowboat for the last seven days running. And the Pysks stripped off their leathers and climbed into the bath, luxuriating in the warmth and water. Soon Farrix was washing her and she him, and alone together at last, Farrix took Jinnarin in his arms and kissed her tenderly, and they clambered out of the basin and hurriedly dried off and then lay down together and made love.…

  …And then again, for it had been two and a half years since Farrix had set off to find the plumes, two and a half years of loneliness, of reaching out to someone who was not there.…

  …And once more…this last interrupted by Alamar stomping across the room and banging on the wall of their under-bunk quarters and querulously demanding quiet—“I’m trying to sleep, you know!”

  Aylis sat up in the bed, her fine brown hair tousled, a knowing smile on her face. Aravan was gone somewhere, though the stateroom yet breathed of his elusive scent. Yawning, she stretched, full and long, then leapt out of bed and dashed water on her face then swiftly dressed, and ran a quick comb through her hair. When she entered the salon, Alamar was sitting at the table and cursing. “What is it, Father?”

  The elder looked up at her. “Eh, it’s not enough that there was all that ruckus under that bunk last night, but this morning when I woke up, there was a dead rat in my shoe.”

  Aylis heard the hint of a giggle, and when she looked, a dark cluster of shadow ducked back into the corridor. Alamar, too, heard it, and the eld Mage swung about and pointed a quavering finger at the hallway. “All right, you miscreant. Show yourself.”

  Nonchalantly, Farrix strode into view, innocence written all over his face, though his ice-blue eyes danced in glee.

  “Don’t play the innocent,” snapped Alamar, “you’re not fooling me.”

  “What?” Farrix clapped a hand to his heart, his eyes wide. “Is something wrong?”

  “There’s a dead rat in my quarters, Pysk, and you know it.”

  “Oh?” Farrix’s eyebrows shot up, then back down in frowning concentration. “It must be Rux, that scoundrel.”

  “Rux, my foot!”

  Uncontrollable titters bubbled from Farrix’s mouth. “I think, Alamar, you meant to say, Rux, my shoe!” Farrix doubled over laughing.

  “You dratted Pysk,” gruffed Alamar, now grinning in spite of himself, “you haven’t changed a bit!” Alamar looked up at Aylis. “This Pysk, Daughter, even when I was lying there pig-wounded, my leg about to fall off, would use stink bugs to wake me up! And that’s not all. Why, once he ‘accidentally’ dropped a diuren leaf into my tea—”

  “That was an accident, Alamar!” protested Farrix.

  “Ha! I about piddled myself to death.”

  Farrix laughed. “But I was the one who had to lug all that water up the hill for you to piddle away! I think you did it just to watch me work.”

  Alamar cackled. “But if you remember, Pysk, I got even for that diuren leaf—”

  Gladdened to see her father in good spirits for a change, Aylis interjected, “I’ll let you two renew acquaintances and dredge up memories of suitable revenges for foul deeds done.” Smiling, she left them behind, her heart lighter.

  On deck she found Aravan at the wheel, the ship now running south-southeast on Durlok’s track. Aravan, though, had a frown on his face. “The air is light, chieran,” he explained. “We are barely making six knots.”

  “Perhaps it is light for Durlok, too.”

  Aravan shook his head. “Wind or no, for him it matters little—he has the Trolls to row.” Aravan looked up at the silks. “The Eroean is the fastest ship in the world, but only when she has the wind.”

  Over the next week the wind was light and shifty, and at times it died altogether. The following week it blew straight at them, and the Eroean tacked a zigzag course, Aravan fretting, for the black galley could run a straight line no matter the wind, while the Elvenship could not.

  During this time, Aylis read from the Black Mage lexicon, the seeress casting a spell to do so, noting phrases and words in her own journal, noting how they were spelled, their meanings, and their pronunciations. Often she would sit with Farrix, saying words to him, seeing if any sounded familiar to the Pysk. Farrix would listen and shake his head, No, the words striking no chord of memory…until one day—

  Aylis sat in the lounge reading the book aloud, Jinnarin and Farrix listening.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, turning a page, “these are names of gemstones: adamus is diamon
d; erythros is ruby; smaragdos is emerald; oh, here is one that at least sounds familiar, sappheiros is sapphire.” Aylis glanced up at Farrix, but he sighed and shook his head. Her gaze returned to the page. “Crystal, too, is a sound-alike: krystall.”

  “I say,” piped up Farrix, “something about that last rings a note.”

  “Krystall?”

  Farrix frowned, seeking an elusive memory. He cocked his head, his gaze lost, and finally muttered, “Perhaps.”

  Jinnarin smiled at Farrix as Aylis jotted a note in her journal.

  Then the seeress continued her reading, pronouncing many a strange-sounding word, all to no immediate avail for he recognized none.

  Jinnarin and Aylis stood together on the foredeck, the Pysk on the stemblock peering forward, the seeress at the rail looking down. Below, the clear waters slid past.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Aylis?”

  Aylis looked up at Jinnarin and shook her head. “None. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just talking with Boder. He has four sisters and three brothers. Can you imagine being raised in a family of eight? —No wait, ten, counting the father and mother. They had eight children in nine years.…Whereas among my Kind, we have perhaps but one child in nine thousand years…and then only if someone has died—by accident, disease, or foe. But eight children in nine years—I find it quite unimaginable.”

  Again Aylis shook her head. “Humans—that’s the way of Humans. They seem to believe that they can multiply without number. My father was right when he said that the gift of Humanity was fecundity.”

  Jinnarin nodded and fell into silence. After a while she said, “Even so, it must be special to have a brother or sister. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have one.”

  Aylis pursed her lips. “I was raised in a family of two. There was just my sire and me.”

  “What about your mother?”

  Aylis sighed. “I don’t remember her. She died when I was but a few months old.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, Aylis. Everyone should have a mother…a loving mother that is…like mine.”

  “Does she live in Darda Glain?”

  Jinnarin shook her head. “No, she and my sire now live in Blackwood. I haven’t seen them for millennia—ever since the wedding. They went from Darda Glain to the Blackwood, seeking a larger forest, more space.”

  They stood in silence for a while, then Aylis said, “Your mother, she was nice, neh?”

  “Oh yes. I always felt loved.”

  Aylis nodded, then sighed. “I wished that I’d known my mother. Father seldom speaks of her. I think it hurts him to do so. He says I look like her, like Lyssa…all but the eyes. I have my father’s green eyes. He tells me hers were blue.”

  “How did she…?”

  Aylis’s gaze turned grim. “Ravers slew her. Foul Folk. During the War of Rwn.”

  Jinnarin glanced up at Aylis. “Many were lost in those battles. But the Foul Folk, we took their measure in Darda Glain and they were afraid to enter thereafter.”

  “So I heard.”

  Again a silence descended between them, each lost in her own thoughts as the Eroean cut through the waters. At last, however, Jinnarin softly asked, “Will you be my sister, Aylis?”

  Aylis turned and looked at the tiny Pysk, and tears welled in her eyes.

  Adverse winds continued to plague the Eroean, and every day the black galley drew farther away. Out of the Sindhu they sailed and across a short stretch of the Bright Sea, and then they fared south of the Great Island and into the waters of the Polar Ocean. And each day the Sun rose later and set earlier as they came into the frigid mar, for summer drew nigh and in these south polar seas that meant the coming of the days of no Sun whatsoever, the coming of the long night. And toward the dark they sailed, into stormy waters.

  As the ship plunged through the hammering waves, Aylis sat at the map table, dealing cards from her seer’s deck. “Oh my,” she murmured, her lips drawn thin, “the Drowning Man.”

  Quill in hand, Aravan looked up from the ship’s log. “What is it, chieran?”

  Aylis turned to him, a stricken look on her face. “The Drowning Man”—she gestured at the spread of cards—“a harbinger of disaster. Although I cannot break through Durlok’s shielding, it may mean the Eroean and all on her are heading toward ruin.”

  “But thou art not certain?”

  Aylis shook her head. “No. I am not certain. It could mean disaster for but a few on this ship…or for someone else altogether.”

  Aravan came and stared down at the card, his hands kneading the knots loose from her taut shoulders and neck. At last he said, “I shall warn the crew to make certain to clip to the safety lines.”

  “Hmm, this is strange.”

  “What is it, Daughter?” Alamar looked up from the tokko game. Jinnarin, too.

  “Father, Durlok has circled a word, see?”

  Aylis passed the lexicon across the table to Alamar. The eld Mage took it up in palsied hands, and then laid it back to the surface of the table. Both Jinnarin and Farrix stepped to the side of the book and peered down at it.

  was the encircled word.

  “How do you say it, Daughter, and what does it mean?”

  “Well, it could take on either of two pronunciations: Krystallopŷr, or Krystallopýr.”

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Farrix. “That’s the word Durlok used to draw down the plumes!”

  “Which?” demanded Alamar.

  “The last one: Kry-kr—”

  “Krystallopýr?” asked Aravan. Something about the word rang a faint echo in Aravan’s mind, but he could not dredge up the elusive memory.

  “Yes. What you said. Kry-krys-rystallo— Oh, I give up!”

  “Ha!” barked Alamar. “One is what it is; the other is its Truename!”

  “What what is, Alamar?” asked Jinnarin.

  “The crystal that Pysk told us about, Pysk.”

  “Oh,” said Jinnarin, enlightened.

  Farrix looked at Alamar. “You mean the crystal itself is called, uh—”

  “Krystallopŷr,” supplied Jinnarin.

  Farrix nodded. “Yes, what she said. But about this Truename…”

  “Krystallopýr,” said Alamar, “that’s the way it is invoked, the word used to call the . Ha! I knew that it wasn’t a casting!”

  “Hoy now, just a moment,” said Farrix. “If it wasn’t a casting, then why did Durlok need to—to horribly sacrifice someone? When I was captive on the black galley, I learned that by torture and maiming and mutilation he could somehow use a victim’s agony to power his castings.”

  Alamar stroked his thin beard. “Hmm, good question, Pysk. As to why, I can’t say for certain…but knowing Durlok, he probably did it just for the sheer pleasure it gives him.”

  Aylis shook her head. “More likely, Father, he did it to protect himself from the crystal. Invoking its Truename may have made it dangerous to hold.”

  Alamar shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that, Daughter, but this I do believe: Durlok found the crystal and somehow teased its Truename from it.”

  Aylis shook her head. “No, Father. Truenames are embedded into things during the forging, and unless Durlok is a seer, he cannot discover such. He must have created the crystal and given it its Truename.”

  “Well he didn’t forge it, Daughter!” snapped Alamar. “He does not have the training.”

  “Then, Father, he must have read it in a scroll, or else someone told him the crystal’s Truename, or someone of knowledge and forged it for him.”

  “Bah! He has no friends. Who would do such a thing?”

  Silence fell upon them, Alamar’s last question ringing on the air. Moments later, “How about Gyphon?” suggested Jinnarin.

  On the eighteenth of June the Eroean at last came full into the South Polar Sea, and a shrieking wind howled easterly, hurling snow and ice and the Elvenship before its brutal blast. Great greybeards loomed over the ocean, dwarfing the tall
Eroean, and though her sharp bow cut through the peaks of the towering crests, her hull jarringly boomed down into the troughs beyond. The Sun no longer rose, day now as dark as night, and the screaming air was frigid beyond endurance. By Aylis’s casting and Aravan’s charting they knew that their quarry sailed eastward far ahead, some twenty-eight hundred miles in all, the black galley seemingly on a direct course for the Silver Cape, Durlok yet some twelve hundred miles from the straits, the Elvenship nearly three thousand.

  “Kruk!” cursed Bokar, slamming his fist to the table. “I had hoped to catch him before the pinch of those dire narrows.”

  At Bokar’s words, Aravan’s eyes lighted up and he glanced down at the map. The ship whelmed down into the brine and slid into the trough below, then began a climb up to the crest ahead. None said aught as the lantern cast swaying shadows in the rocking salon, and by its yellow light Aravan gauged the distances. At last he looked to Frizian. “What silks are we running?”

  “Nought but the mains, Captain, and those goose-winged.”

  “Then, Frizian, set the mains at full, all topsails, too. Fly the jibs and stays as well, yet mount not the gallants and above.”

  “But, Captain,” protested Jatu. “This air. It blows. Oh how it does blow. And that much silk endangers the masts.”

  Aravan turned up a hand. “Mayhap, Jatu, yet I deem she can withstand the press.” The Elven captain then glanced at the others. “Heed me, all of ye. We’re going to try to ride the Hèlbent wind and catch the Black Mage in the straits.”

  “In the straits!” exclaimed Bokar. “Are my ears deceiving me? Did I hear you say in the straits?”

  “Aye, Bokar. What better place to take him by surprise?”

  And the hull of the Eroean boomed down.

  In the dark thundering wind, sailors in polar gear clambered up the ratlines to unfurl the silks. Even though dressed to withstand the blast, still the Men spent as little time aloft in the savage blow as completing the task allowed; no sooner would one crew finish and come running back into shelter, than another crew would charge across the deck and up to a given yardarm to loosen ties and lashings, then scurry back down as mates on the deck haled the halyards about and set the silk to the wind. In short order the mains and tops were deployed, the jibs and stays swiftly after. And the masts groaned and ropes thrummed under the shrieking burden as great greybeards hurtled through the night across the frigid polar sea.