“Your… father… awaits,” Lord Danner said, and to Gribly’s surprise the pirate bowed to him stiffly.
He looked back to the thrones at the sound of a splash, and sucked in his breath at the shock: a thin lane of stone now led from the edge of the swath, past the rock formation in the pool, and up to the ramp on the left. So that had not been a summons… it had been Stone Striding.
“Go…” Danner hissed, still bowing. Gribly felt as if his feet were made of stone themselves, but he cautiously walked forward onto the narrow bridge his… the man on the throne had made, and began to cross it.
Halfway across, and he began to make out the shape of the man on the throne. Gribly dropped his eyes, looking at his feet and the pool, or anywhere he would not have to meet the eyes of the Pirate King… yet.
Nearly there, he looked back at the rock formation he had passed, then at the other two. With a start he realized that they were symbols, meant to be viewed from the thrones above him. His mind raced, as his gaze was drawn unavoidably to the top of the ramp he was about to climb.
Three symbols, carved from stone, in a bed of water, with air in a dome above. The first symbol like an open circle, hard spikes protruding out and a swirling pattern bursting forth from the middle like a seed-bud. Nearest to him… Stone.
The second symbol; a full circle, with a wavy line cutting through the middle, a wave above, a wave below. To the left… Sea.
The third symbol, almost a circle, all sinuous curves, with three sharp slashes to crown it. To the right… Sky.
The realization had taken Gribly the length of the ramp to reach. He was at the top… and facing the Lord of Rogues, on his throne overlooking the three elements. A muffled boom echoed around the space as doors shut somewhere far behind. Danner had left.
Their gaze met. Thief and pirate, prophet and king. Gribly did not know what to think.
The man on the throne only barely resembled the version of his father he had seen in the vision from Wanderwillow’s book. The huge throne only just fit King Gram’s huge bulk. His entire body seemed bloated from the excesses of his appetites, and the enormous black coat that wrapped his hulking form was stretched tight. A yellow shirt, like Lord Danner’s but infinitely more ornate, bulged beyond the thick belt of leather and metal studs that wrapped Gram’s waist. His pants were deep brown, and stained with innumerable wine-spills.
And the face… Gribly almost cringed. It was the same face as in the vision, but distorted and bloated like the rest, and missing most of the hair. How had sixteen or seventeen years changed his father so much? Never mind that Gribly didn’t know Gram’s age- he didn’t know his own, either- but he was sure no one aged that fast. The man’s eyes were glazed and tired-looking, and he absently tapped one ring-decorated fist on the side of an enormous war hammer that lay against the side of the throne.
It was not until Gribly had stood in the awkward silence for a moment that Gram seemed to recognize him. The king’s dull eyes became suddenly bright with interest… and hunger.
“They told me you had come,” he said, and his voice was as strong as Gribly remembered. “I did not believe them… quite. I am still not sure I do.” Silence fell again. Gribly felt oddly calm, but it was the calm of deadness. This… this man was his father? He opened his mouth, ready to blurt anything to kill the horrible silence, but Gram spoke again. “Catch this, boy.”
Before he knew what had happened, the Lord of Rogues had picked up the metal hammer and tossed it effortlessly into the air. It flew in a lazy arc, handle spinning ‘round the head, right for Gribly.
He put out his hand instinctively and caught the weapon by the handle- almost to drop it the next second. Whatever it was made of, that hammer was the heaviest bloody thing he’d ever touched! It was like catching the weight of a mountain on his palm!
Without thinking he shifted his feet and gripped the leather-wrapped handle in both hands. A surge of Stone Striding rushed through him, meeting concussively with the oppressive heft of the hammer. All at once, the weight was gone… and he knew.
The hammer was heavy as a mountain. It was something as old as these halls… something as much a part of the Stone element as the mountains themselves. Without Striding… it must be impossible to lift. Now, Gribly was still aware of the titanic power behind the weapon, but it felt less like weight and more like strength… a strength that was his alone, and that he could direct wherever he wanted.
With this… I could have defeated Sheolus! I could have saved… but his fantasy was cut off by Gram’s hearty laugh, which sounded eerily hollow echoing around the huge chamber.
“I’ve met my share of Stone Striders, Gramlen,” the Lord of Rogues chuckled. “Rock Striders, Sand Striders, even bloody Eave Striders like some of the wood nymphs out East! None of them has ever been able to hold that hammer. Ever.” He paused, shaking his head, still amused. “You’re my son, all right. Gramlen, since there’s no way the other…”
Gram’s voice trailed off. With a start, Gribly realized his father was on the verge of tears. “Father…” he choked out, finally. “Father, I…”
The hammer dropped from his nerveless fingers as the Pirate King leaped from his throne fifty times quicker than Gribly would have thought possible for a man of his bulk. The next instant he was caught in an embrace stronger- and deadlier- than a draik’s, as his father- yes, yes, his father!- caught him and pounded him on the back so hard he saw stars.
“Gramlen… Gramlen…”
“Father… you’re going to crush me to death.” Gribly was almost surprised to find himself weeping just as hard as Gram, and laughing as hard, too.
Moving back to grip his son tightly by both shoulders, the Lord of Rogues broke into a wide, sad smile. “I’m sorry, Lad. Tell me everything… everything, Gramlen. I want to know who my son is.”
Of all the reactions Gribly had considered, hoped for, and imagined, this had been beyond his wildest expectations.
He told his father everything.
Chapter Eleven: Games of Princes and Kings
Lauro leaped; well, slid was more like it; to the bottom of the muddy ravine, trampling foliage as he went. Avarine hadn’t made a point of trying to hide their tracks; she said that the M’tant didn’t need to see traces to know where they had gone. Whatever that meant.
The Spirit Strider, that’s what she was, he knew now, was waiting for him in the place where they’d camped the night before, huddled back-to-back for warmth. This blasted winter had come literally overnight; another sign of the apocalypse to come, from what he remembered of Traveller’s “Day of Norne” babbling.
“Well?” Avarine asked, brushing unkempt hair out of her face. She wasn’t nearly so neat, now. It had been hard living for the past days.
“It’s a draik, definitely,” he said hoarsely, dropping down beside her where she crouched, packing the last of the meager things she had been able to scavenge prior to the escape. “It’s been following us since the Blackwood’s edge, and before that I think it must have been following me up the Grymclaw. It’s probably Steamclaw, Gribly’s tame draik, but what in Vast it’s doing here I’ve no clue.”
“Well,” she said again, “It has kept the Tannarch’s hunters at bay, more or less. They would have caught us long ago if they had not had to keep dodging this beast.”
It was true, though Lauro would rather not admit it. “Hmm. We’d best get moving, then.”
“Of course.” Avarine finished tying together her things, but before she could hoist the small pack over her shoulder, he took it from her and hefted it himself.
“No sense in you wearing yourself out,” he said awkwardly, “In case we need to be hidden… or something. I won’t have it.”
She looked at him, surprised, as they stood in unison. Her face was so tired, but pretty, still. Lauro let himself dwell on it; he had stopped fighting such thoughts already.
Without warning, Avarine took his head in her hands, pulled it down, and kissed him lightly
on the forehead. “Mao idristu, achilio,” she whispered, then turned away, cheeks flushing.
Lauro smiled. The Tannarch could huff all he wanted. This chase wasn’t over, by any means.
~
In the pirate-controlled bay of the Sunken Isle, a fleet was forming. The Lord of Rogues had sounded the rallying blast, and his scattered, loosely-held subjects were flocking to the call. The names of those with the mark of the Alliance were fewer than they had been before chaos consumed Southern Vast, but no less deadly: Danner Waterpike, Kite S’wrath, Marlo the Fool, Slere Math, who Gribly was astounded to find had once been a cleric, and Bernarl of the Zain, Gribly’s own friend and captain of the deadliest ship in King Gram’s patchwork navy.
In a round, grassy alcove with flat-topped stones set in a circle, Gram and his son paced back and forth together, planning and plotting like true brigands. The commanders of various rogue factions that had been with Gram all along were meeting here today, and more would be summoned shortly. There were chairs of whitewood set on the stones for them.
Well, thought Berne as he approached, they did call this place the Roguemoot. It was shocking, frankly, how fast the father and son had taken to each other. Shocking… and satisfying. He had had only moments to speak with Gribly in the hullabaloo that followed the Lord of Rogues’ proclamation that his son had returned, and that the Alliance would band together as a cohesive force for the first time in history. Well, “cohesive” wasn’t quite the way to describe it… bickering pirate captains and bandit lords could be worse than open war, in some ways. Though if anyone could hold them together, it was King Gram. The Alliance had been almost nonexistent before his rise to power.
Content for the moment to let the newly reunited keep up their preparations, Berne let himself lean against the trunk of a shady tree, resting a moment. He had slept less than an hour that night, busy sending messages and cowing unruly pirates into submission. Gribly had told him, when he could, that this was how he intended to rescue Elia: with his father’s fleet.
The old rogue himself didn’t naysay it… apparently he rather liked the idea of flouting the Aura, saving his son’s lost love, and possibly tacking down his second long-lost son all at once. Too, it seemed those bloody gold warships of Sheolus’s had mauled him pretty well in the South… but those selfsame ships couldn’t protect wherever the demon-man held sway. Or could they?
Berne had been getting nasty thoughts all night. Supposing this was a trap? Events were moving too fast, and it remained to be seen how much good Gribly’s “Prophet” luck and power would be against their enemies. He had gone against the Aura’s wishes, after all- or at least Traveller’s. Time was running out for Elia, wherever she was. Ah well, I suppose this is what comes of goin’ back to being a pirate, then… Berne sighed, and forced himself to end his rest and stride forward into the clearing.
“I was the one who first said that, you know,” Gram was saying. “I had hoped, even, that if it made its way through the Alliance, and ‘round the land, it might one day reach your ears. Speed. Silence. Stealth. That was before my seagoing days. So much water, so little solid earth… ah, anyway. This probably isn’t what you want to hear.”
“No, I want to,” Gribly said eagerly, then paused when he saw Berne approaching. So they weren’t planning- they were just talking. Conversing. Learning about each other. Blast, Berne thought, just my luck to walk in now. Well, nothing for it. They’ll want to hear this, anyway.
“What is it, Bernarl?” Gram said. He had definitely put on weight, too much of it, since last Berne had seen him. Before, he had been bulky, now he was hideous. How things change… At least his strength did not seem to have faded.
“My Lord… King,” Berne started, stumbling over Gram’s new self-proclaimed title. “Kite S’wrath arrived this morning, fore’light, as you know. She has reported to me that she has indeed sighted the ship we seek. It is bearing directly Southwest, towards where she had been patrolling the waves all night. We will not catch them if we do not leave soon, in the fastest vessel we have.”
“That would be mine- I mean yours, wouldn’t it, Berne?” Gribly looked less concerned than Berne would have thought. He nodded, and the lad continued. “Good. With a few more Wave Striders- er, Sea Striders, I believe they’re calling themselves now- from my father’s forces, we should be able to catch them up in hours.”
“That’s a bit optimistic, isn’t it?” Berne cautioned, and Gram gave him a hard glare. Do not question my son, the look said.
“Perhaps,” Gribly muttered, “but we will leave as soon as my father can pass on leadership of this gathering… temporarily, of course.”
“Pass it on? Why?” Berne was startled, and by more than just the words. Now that he looked closely, the father and son seemed to be giving each other as many questioning glances as they were giving him. So they’re still both thieves at heart, he decided, and wondering when the other will drop the act. It was sad, in a way. The reunion wasn’t so perfect, after all.
“Because I will accompany you, Captain Bernarl,” Gram said, rolling his huge war hammer casually on his shoulder. “This business of my son’s concerns me as well.”
By the Aura! King of the Alliance, himself! Berne felt less at ease than he had at the battle of Mythigrad, when Sheolus’s ships laid waste to the Reethe city-on-the-waves. What game were these two playing? And were they even on the same side?
He would have to wait and see. There was profit to be made from this, as the rogue in him recognized… but there was also worse than death. So be it. He had beaten death before, and he would do it again.
“Understood, my King. The Invincible will be ready to sail on my command.” He would make sure the my remained part of it, no matter what.
“Let’s end this,” Gribly said. His eyes burned with determination.
Berne nodded curtly and left without bowing. He would never stoop that low, even if some of the other Lords did. The Lord of Rogues, and the Rogue Prince, ready to sail off to war, he thought. Nymph and men uniting, under the standard of lawbreakers. Will the wonders never end? Not with Gribly around, he was sure.
~
Marvol Winter was the only one in his family to be born without the ability to Stride. In a way, he thanked the Creator for making it that way. His lack drove him: his own private war. He was one of the best blade-masters in Vastion’s army, and in three years had risen to commander of the White Wind, King Larion Vale’s personal force that protected the Wind Throne.
But all his training, all his constant self-discipline and strengthening of his will… it meant nothing. The kingdom was falling apart, and he could do nothing but watch and wait for the inevitable. And keep striving, of course. If every other soldier failed in their duty, Marvol Winter would be the one to stay loyal, and ready.
So here he was, on one of his few hours allowed for off-duty in these troubled times, practicing his sword-work.
Up! Slash! Slide! Evade! Cut! Stab! Feint! Jab! Swing! His warrior’s topknot snapped from side to side as he changed forms and moves, endlessly seeking to find an opening in the defenses of the wooden practice post before him. His pent-up anger, usually so very well controlled, about the total helplessness of his situation, kept driving him. If he fought hard enough, perhaps he could win against impossible odds. Perhaps he could…
Enough thinking. Wind Rider attack melted into Flame Hand, which turned to Fell Spark, and finally Black Horn. Marvol’s rage built with every form, until he lashed at the post with many times his usual ferocity and none of his usual poise or control.
A deafening snap-crackle rang in his ears, and suddenly he was panting heavily in front of a splintered stump. The practice post. He had hacked straight through it. Why wasn’t the sound dying away? The practice courtyard was empty, save for him, and-
The crackle became a thundering CRASH as lightning forked down from the empty gray sky above, slamming into the pavement before him. Marvol could only stand in astonishment. When the li
ght faded the next second, no harm had come to the courtyard or him… but…
A man was standing where the lightning had struck. It took a moment for Marvol’s disoriented mind to recognize him, and when he did his eyes grew wide and he snapped to attention, fist to heart, sword at his side.
“My King!” he barked, “I stand ready to do your will!” Aura knew how the king had gotten here, riding that bolt of light. The rumors would have to be true, then… Striders were becoming dangerously powerful, every one of them. Even the king: especially the king.
“Would you die for me, Marvol?” murmured the king. Something was not right. Nothing was right. Larion Vale rarely used Marvol’s name. Why had he said that? What was going on?
Don’t think, Marvol. Do. “You know that I would, my King.”
“Then we have much to do.” There was a fire in the king’s eyes that belied his quiet words. “Gather the White Wind. We leave within the hour. On fellhawks, Lord Winter. This cannot wait.” Now that was more like the king he knew.
Golden Tide (Song of the Aura, Book Four) Page 9