Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  While a contingent of men set up camp along the shore, Farrix and Jinnarin and Aylis trekked in the trail of the cutting crew wending into the forest above, the Pysks and Lady Mage walking the deep slot through the snow that the Dwarves and Men had left behind.

  After taking the measure of several trees, Aravan selected two tall, straight pines, each towering upward some hundred feet. “From these will come a new mizzen,” he said, eyeing the lay of the land. “We will fell them downslope.”

  As the sound of axes echoed through the woods, Jinnarin and Farrix followed Aylis through the snow to come to an outjutting stone on the face of a precipice overlooking the bay. In the distance below they could see the Eroean, Men and Dwarves swarming about, readying the huge timber they had brought up from below to repair the mainmast.

  “Burn me,” exclaimed Farrix, “but like ants they look.”

  “Hmm?” distractedly murmured Jinnarin. “Oh yes. Ants.” She sighed.

  Farrix took her hand. “What is it, Jinnarin? Why the long face?”

  “Oh, I was just looking at Alamar. He seems so alone, so despondent.…So used up.”

  Down through the trees alongside the shore near the campsite they could just glimpse the eld Mage through the branches. Water lapped against the boulder he perched on.

  Aylis looked long, then said, “Used up, yes. The last spell he cast—the one that gave Farrix magesight—well, it took a lot out of him. Giving magesight to another, it was a remarkable casting, but costly.”

  “Costly?” exclaimed Jinnarin. “I thought it was easily done. A natural talent of Magekind.”

  Aylis glanced at the Pysks. “Aye, to is indeed a natural gift of Mages, but to cast it onto another, well, I am not at all certain that I could cast it upon someone else, as did my father.”

  “Oh?” said Farrix. “Why so?”

  “My discipline is that of a seer; his of an elementalist. They are greatly different. I believe I would need long training to be able to do what he did.”

  “Well then,” said Jinnarin, “I am certainly glad that an elementalist was along, for surely we would have perished in the Silver Straits had Farrix not been given magesight to guide us.”

  Aylis sighed. “Yes. No doubt. Yet it took much from my father. he did not have to spend.”

  Now the burr of a crosscut saw echoed among the pines.

  The Pysks and seeress stood and watched the crew aboard the ship working on the stub of mainmast jutting up like a broken finger. In the still air, Farrix and Jinnarin and Aylis could hear them calling to one another above the sound of the saw ringing through the trees. As they gazed down at the Eroean, Jinnarin said, “You can no longer sense the whereabouts of Durlok, eh?”

  “No,” responded Aylis. “With the destruction of the lexicon, he is lost to me. Where he is, I cannot say.”

  “Couldn’t we go back to his lair in the Great Swirl and get something else of his?” suggested Jinnarin. “Track him that way?”

  “Yes, we could,” answered Aylis. “Yet heed: when we were there and my father and I saw Durlok’s , it was nearly beyond comprehension. If we are to face him again, we will need powerful allies of our own…hence we need go to Rwn and gather aid from among the Master Mages.”

  Once again they fell silent, and far below. Dwarves came up from one of the holds, bringing a forge and bellows, which they proceeded to set up on the deck. They kindled a fire and added charcoal to the blaze. But Aylis’s gaze strayed down to her father sitting at the shore. Blinking back tears, she said, “I think I’ll go back and watch them fell the trees. Will you be all right?”

  Farrix and Jinnarin nodded, and without another word, Aylis left. After a long while, Jinnarin reached out and took Farrix’s hand. “Aylis says that Alamar’s fire burns low.”

  Now Farrix sighed. “She is right. Alamar’s fire is low, at least compared to the fires of everyone else who came to the wheelhouse.”

  “You could see the astral fire in people?”

  “Yes. And your fire was brightest of all, Aravan’s next, each brighter than that of any Dwarf, Man, Mage, or Lady Mage. Alamar’s was dimmest.”

  “Oh my, then he does indeed need to go back to Vadaria.”

  Farrix looked down at the distant Mage. “Yes. And soon. Else, as Aylis says, he will die forever.”

  Timber! came the cry from behind, followed by the sound of shattering branches as the forest giant came crashing down among the Inigo pines.

  Axes rang through the woods as the log was shorn of branches, then adzes stripped the bark from the length of the pine. The crosscut saw topped the tree, and the base shaft of the mizzenmast was cut to length. And during the stripping, the second tree was felled, and the shearing of branches begun. Then all turned to stripping the bark from the second tree, after which the middle shaft of the mizzenmast was cut to length. Finally they began sliding the logs down the slope through the snow toward the water below. And in the campsite they took a meal and a hot bracing drink.

  During the work the Sun set and a full Moon rose, the silver orb rising in the east-southeast and circling low to the north before setting in the west-southwest.

  And as the Sun rose on the following day, crews were rubbing the wood with the special oils prepared by Aravan. When this was done, they floated the sections of logs out to the Eroean and made ready to winch them aboard.

  Alamar insisted on remaining ashore.

  In the following days, working nonstop, the masts were reset: massive iron bands were forged to hold the sections of masts together, and heated by Dwarves till they were glowing yellow-white, they were slipped over the ends of the shafts and hammered up onto the shank, the wood charring and sizzling and lighting afire as the rings were pounded into place. And as the iron cooled and shrank, the sections of mast were tightly bound together as surely as if they had been forged as one. This was repeated, and then once again, as the two broken masts were made anew, each mast consisting of three sections—lower and middle and top—the solid iron bands clutching tightly, holding all together.

  They winched the mainmast into its footing, a length of the shaft going all the way through each of the decks and down to the mainmast base collar at the keelson. And when it was fixed in place, the mast raked back at an angle, the mizzenmast was likewise set. Then the crews swarmed up the main and mizzen and began refitting each mast with yards and crosstrees and other such. Up went the ratlines and nests, up went the blocks and halyards and other rigging.

  And during it all, hidden by the hills, the Sun rose and set and rose and set again—several times altogether—each day a fraction longer than the one before as icy summer gradually edged toward the distant renewal of life that would come with autumn. Nightly, the fulgent Moon looked silently down as it circled ‘round east to north to west, rising later and later in the passing eventides, the silvery disk waning with growing age.

  And as the work progressed, Alamar and Rux tarried ashore, along with a single crewman to aid the eld Mage, should such aid be needed.

  Finally the work of refitting was done, and two crews set out in boats to break camp and to retrieve Alamar. Jinnarin came along as well to fetch Rux. As the crews disassembled the camp, Jinnarin walked up into the woods and whistled a silent whistle, a call beyond earshot of Man and Mage alike. Soon Rux came trotting among the pines, and Jinnarin rode him back down to the boats.

  On the sixth of July, with all silks flying, the Eroean sailed away from Inigo Bay and out into the wide waters of Weston Ocean beyond.

  “Where away, Captain?” asked Jatu, the offshore wind belling the sails.

  Aravan looked up at the early morning stars, the Sun not yet risen. “Take her east till we clear the coast, then north-northwest, Jatu. Set a course for Rwn.”

  At these words, Aylis heaved a great sigh of relief and peered forward to where her father stood clutching the starboard railing.

  As if sensing that a course had been chosen, Alamar turned and slowly m
ade his way aft. Finally he stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the aft deck. And with his wisps of remaining hair blowing in the wind, and his rheumy eyes looking up at Aylis and Aravan, Alamar bitterly asked, “Are we headed for Rwn?”

  At Aravan’s nod, Alamar groaned.

  Aravan added, “Without the lexicon, Durlok is lost to us.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Elf?” querulously wheezed Alamar. “Of course he has escaped for now! And he’s up to evil, I can smell it! The grand weddings, you know. And speaking of them—nothing we sensed happened on the one in June. Perhaps somewhere, a terrible thing occurred; what it might be, I cannot say. But remember, we were hot on his track at the time and perceived nothing in his wake, and so nothing may have happened. If so, there are three grand weddings left this year—in July, August, and September. We’ve got to find him before he does something dreadful. Yes, he is lost to us, but perhaps not for long—the Children of the Sea are searching for the black galley.”

  Aylis’s eyes flew wide. “You called the Children of the Sea?”

  “Of course, Daughter,” puffed Alamar. “What did you think I was doing back there on shore, sucking my thumb?”

  “No, Father, I just—”

  “Never mind, Daughter. It doesn’t matter what you think of me. The fact is, I called them and asked for their help. They came in the moonlight the day before yesterday, and even now are sending word to the Ut!¡teri—the whales—and to the A!miî—the dolphin. Soon they will be searching the seas for the black galley, and when it is found, they will locate the Silver Bottom and inform me or you, Elf—after all, you are known to them as a Friend—as to the whereabouts of Durlok’s ship.”

  “Father,” said Aylis softly, “I did not think you were sucking your thumb. Pouting, perhaps, but not sucking your thumb.”

  “Heh!” cracked Alamar. “Pouting. Heh! Well, to tell the truth, Daughter, perhaps I was pouting a bit.”

  “Regardless, Mage Alamar,” said Aravan, “mayhap thou hast given us the means to find Durlok, perhaps to stop his scheme, whate’er it may be. Till then we sail for Rwn.”

  Day after day, northerly they fared, running on the larboard wind for Rwn. Across the Lat of the Goat they sailed, the air light and shifty but they did not need to row. Another grand wedding came and went, and they knew not if aught had occurred. And on northward they voyaged, the wind generally to starboard aft as they sailed into summer.

  They crossed the midline on the twenty-second of July, and once again Fortune smiled down upon them and the winds did not die, though they did shift to the starboard fore. It was in the middle of the following night that a great shower of falling stars scored the vault above, a shower so bright as to light the entire sky with the luminance of day. Jinnarin and Farrix oohed and ahhed, but all the Dwarves on deck at the time moaned in terror and threw their hoods over their heads—a sign of mourning—and refused to look at the blazing sky. In solemn silence they tramped down to their quarters below deck and none else came above to see.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Jinnarin, concern filling her hushed voice.

  At the wheel, Aravan answered, “‘Tis a belief of the Drimma that when a star falls it means someone will die, usually a comrade, though not always.”

  “Oh, how dreadful,” said Jinnarin, as stars without number flared across the heavens above. “That something so beautiful could be a symbol of doom…how unfortunate.”

  Aylis nodded in agreement. “Yes indeed, Jinnarin, and I wonder how such a belief came about? That such a dazzling display as this could cause fear…why, it is as if rainbows or butterflies had been made into symbols of death.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Farrix, “it is because the star dies in a blaze of glory, whereas the rainbow merely fades and a butterfly flutters away.”

  “Regardless,” said Aravan, “it is the belief of the Drimma.”

  “Let’s go get Alamar,” said Jinnarin. “He will want to see such splendor.”

  As the Pysks ran below, Aylis leaned her head against Aravan’s shoulder and looked at the sky and murmured, “What wonders the heavens are, my love.”

  Aravan embraced her with one arm and whispered, “I have seen myriad wonders since I came to this world—temples of gold, rivers of fire, jewels of a thousand rainbows, great luminous wheels of light turning in the midnight sea…and more. But of all these marvelous things, chieran, none can compare with thee, for thou art the most wondrous of all.”

  Onward they sailed, their course set for Rwn, now in the fullness of summer, but when they came to the Lat of the Crab the wind died and towing gigs were called for. Across the calms they rowed, finally breaking into the wind once more, blowing on the larboard beam. Again the Eroean put her shoulder to the sea and raced toward the northerly isle.

  On the sixth day of August, in early morn a judder ran throughout the ship, as if the hull had struck a shoal, but no shoals lay in these waters near Rwn. And although it seemed as if the Eroean had collided with something, the ship slowed not, as if whatever the hull encountered was ephemeral. Members of the crew ran to the railings, but nothing beneath did they spy. “Possibly we struck a great creature of the sea,” suggested Jatu, “one of those giant turtles, or the like.” Yet Aylis did a casting but sensed no life below, while Alamar’s casting could detect no spells being hurled against the ship.

  Onward they sailed, and as the Sun crawled up the sky, again the ship juddered, but once more nothing was sensed or seen to account for the vibration. Lookouts were stationed along the railings, yet none saw aught as once again and then once more the Elvenship was mysteriously shaken.

  In mid morn, they came within sight of Rwn. Standing on the stemblock, Farrix turned to Jinnarin. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Bells. I hear bells.”

  “Kairn is known as the City of Bells.”

  “Do they normally ring in mid morn?”

  Jinnarin shrugged. “I don’t know, but here comes Alamar. Let’s ask him.”

  “Bells?” quavered the elder, glancing at the Sun in the sky. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” replied Jinnarin. “Farrix heard them first, but I hear them now.”

  “Go tell Aravan,” hissed the Mage. “At this time of day they can only be ringing in alarm.”

  Under full sail the Elvenship raced toward the docks at Rwn, furling her silks at the last moment and gliding into the quays. High on the rim of the isle there seemed to be a great commotion, with people rushing to and fro, and above the thunder of the River Kairn plunging in cascade to the ocean, all aboard could hear the bells of the city wildly ringing in alarm.

  Swiftly they debarked, Jinnarin riding and hiding in the hood of Jatu’s cloak, Farrix in Aravan’s. And as they made their way toward the long staircase leading upward from the docks, a prolonged judder shook the stone of the quay as a tremor ran through the isle.

  CHAPTER 38

  Conjoinment

  Summer, 1E9575

  [The Present]

  The city was in chaos, people rushing to and fro as buildings shook and swayed, some having collapsed into piles of rubble. Fires burned here and there, and bucket brigades of Men and Women struggled valiantly to extinguish the blazes. Galloping horses careered through the cobblestone streets, their riders bent low over their necks as if expecting arrows. Teams hammered past, drawing jouncing wagons after. Like flocks of gabbling geese, calling mothers herded crying children away from juddering homes. And throughout all, the bells of Kairn rang out their alarm.

  Amid the confusion, Aravan, Aylis, Alamar, Bokar, and Jatu made their way along the chaotic streets toward the ferry leading to the Academy of Mages, aged Alamar setting the pace. From her hiding place in Jatu’s cast-back cloak hood, Jinnarin peered at the tumult and gathered shadow unto herself. In Aravan’s hood, Farrix did the same.

  At last they came to the ferry, but no ferrymen manned the craft. As another tremor rattled Kairn, Jatu and Bokar took u
p the pull ropes, and across the waters of the River Kairn they haled the barge, landing at the north pier of the Island of Mages.

  “Daughter, it’s Drienne we need to find. Know you her ?”

  Aylis nodded, and murmured, “Ubi est Drienna?”

  Following the seeress, up toward the academy they went, and all about them Mages strode purposefully this way and that, as if on specific missions. Entering the central tower, Aylis found Drienne at a table in the middle of the library, paging through a tome. She looked up and brushed back a stray lock of raven-black hair as the comrades approached. Her hazel eyes widened at the sight of aged Alamar. But without preamble, she said, “Something is happening. The entire island of Rwn is endangered.”

  “It’s Durlok’s doing,” quavered Alamar.

  “Durlok?”

  “The Black Mage,” called Jinnarin, the shadow-wrapped Pysk peering over Jatu’s shoulder.

  Again Drienne’s eyes widened, emerald flecks stirring, but she looked back to Alamar. “Durlok? I thought him dead.”

  “Not bloody likely, Dree,” wheezed Alamar. “We found him in the Great Swirl.”

  “Great Swirl?”

  “It’s a long story, and one that will wait.”

  Drienne nodded sharply, then asked, “Regardless as to where you found him, what does Durlok have to do with these tremors?”

  Alamar sat down opposite her. “He promised a grand wedding gift for me and all of my ilk.”

  “Grand wedding?” muttered Drienne, then she cocked a dark eyebrow. “August twelfth? Six days away? That grand wedding?”

  Alamar nodded. “That, or the one in September.”

  “We’ve got to stop him, then. Where is he?”

  Alamar clutched a frail fist and feebly struck the table, and he quavered, “Damn! That’s just it! We don’t know! He got away.”