The Huntsman's Amulet (Society of the Sword Volume 2)

by Hamilton, Duncan M.

  The reason the myths about the Isles had lasted so long. It should have occurred to him before. ‘You told me that you don’t have the power to kill me,’ Soren said. ‘When you tried, it didn’t work.’

  ‘You’re right of course,’ Berengarius said. ‘The Fount isn’t strong enough here for me to be able to do a banneret of birth like you harm. I regret the fact; it would have been fast and painless if I could. The alternative, I fear, is unlikely to be so. The Fount is too weak for you to put up much of a fight. It will be over faster if you just accept it.’

  Soren caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head slightly. There were two drones behind him, and another two approaching. He was not sure if the headache had already gone before he spotted them or if it happened at the same time, and fought to suppress a smile.

  ‘I really am very sorry about this. If there was any other way… But the risk is simply too great. I hope you can understand that. I’m sorry we didn’t have longer to talk. Goodbye.’

  Berengarius turned and started to walk back toward the College, leaving Soren alone with the drones.

  As the drones surrounded him, Soren felt stronger and more positive than at any point since arriving on the island, confirming what Berengarius said about the effect the Fount had on his physical well being.

  Flushed with the energy for the first time in days, he felt almost euphoric as he fought off the drones and deactivated each one. Soren wondered if Berengarius really did not know that he could draw on the energy stored within the drones, or if he was simply paying lip service to the oath he made and never really intended Soren to be killed. One way or the other, Soren had no intention of staying in the city long enough to find out.

  As soon as he deactivated the last of the drones, he turned in the direction of the city gate he had come in through and started to run. Fatigue would be hitting him soon, perhaps also the headaches and nausea. The discomfort they would cause paled in comparison to the notion that he could be stuck on that dead island for the rest of his life.

  The night closed in quickly; it was difficult to tell when the evening was drawing in with all the cloud above so it went from dim and murky to dark with no warning.

  He moved more slowly than during the day, but still making better progress than if he had stopped for the night. The darkness was complete. The clouds above, which did so much to hide the light of the day, completely choked out moonlight. His eyes adapted, but not enough to allow him go much faster than a crawl. A twisted ankle, or worse a broken one, would destroy any chance he had of getting to the spot where he would meet the Honest Christophe, if it was still there. He had no real sense of how long he had been on the island, but he refused to accept that he had already missed his rendezvous; the prospect was simply too terrible to contemplate.

  The darkness allowed him to develop a sense of tunnel vision, with nothing else existing other than his goal. It allowed him to block the thoughts of what he would do if they were gone by the time he got there, which he knew was a very real possibility.

  He continued on relentlessly, despite fatigue setting in. One foot carefully placed in front of the other, tentatively looking for a safe place that wouldn’t cause him to slip and fall and take away any hope of him getting off the island. Occasionally the going was easier, smooth sand rather than pebbles and rocks, and he was able to increase his pace. He couldn’t let it make him complacent however, as there was always another patch of rocks looming in the darkness.

  He had no way of knowing how far he had managed to go during the night. When light finally began to appear, it brought with it despair when he realised he had not travelled anywhere near as far as he needed to. He suspected that day was the last that the Honest Christophe would wait for him and he still had a great deal of ground to cover.

  Being able to see his route helped him increase his pace once again, but not nearly so much as he would have liked. Fatigue, which had been a nagging strain, was now a severe problem. His thighs and calves threatened to cramp any time he pressed too hard on them. The lack of sleep was beginning to affect him also. He found his mind wandering from periods of clarity to ones where he was not sure if he was awake or dreaming.

  Had the Fount been stronger, he knew it would have sustained him enough to keep pushing on with the certainty that no matter how awful he felt he would be able to keep going. He had experienced that once before, and although he had not then known what the Fount was, it was what had kept him alive and moving toward safety. Here, with nothing, he had no idea when his body or his mind would give up. He had never been separated from the Fount for so long, even though he was only now aware of how important it was to him.

  He felt thirsty and nauseated. His head pounded as though he had spent the whole of the previous night drinking cheap booze. His joints ached and his muscles burned, but still he had to force himself on. To be trapped on that island was not a fate he could contemplate.

  Chapter 18

  The Lie

  Soren managed to keep moving for the whole day. One step at a time, he pushed himself toward the rowboat. Even when his mind drifted to near delirium, part of him still kept his body moving in the right direction. However, as the day began to darken, he had still not spotted the upturned boat.

  He knew how quickly the first hint of sunset became the black of night on that island, and started to panic. All he could think about was being stuck on that grey, damp island, sleeping half of his life away. What made it even more terrifying was the thought that the spells that had kept the city in such exceptionally good condition would keep him alive for an eternity also, stuck in that lifeless prison.

  It was fully dark when he walked straight into the boat. He had been so caught up in the panic of his worst-case scenarios that he had been stumbling forward without any care or caution. His momentum carried him over the boat and head first into the sand, which filled his mouth and nostrils.

  He got to his hands and knees and stared out toward the water. He could see nothing but the occasional phosphorescing wavelet. No sign of a ship. If Captain Joris had departed at nightfall, he would be long gone. That was assuming he had ever come back at all.

  Soren was beyond exhausted and chilled by the cold, damp air. There was a pile of wood lying by the remains of the fire he had lit on the first night. There was also the food that he had buried. If he was going to be miserable, he could at least be warm and fed.

  He had some dry tinder in his pack, but the wood was damp from having been left lying on the shoreline for over a month. It took several attempts, but eventually he got the flame to take, and it slowly grew into a proper fire. The warmth was welcome, and after allowing it to wash over him for a few minutes, he turned his attention to digging out the food buried under the boat.

  It was still there, untouched by the imagined wildlife he had feared might take it. The oilcloth he had wrapped it in kept it from getting too wet, but it didn’t make for good eating even as hungry as he was. He chewed on a piece of dry biscuit without any enthusiasm when he felt his mind drift into another one of its bouts of waking sleep. His eyes grew heavy and his head was filled with strange and nonsensical things, pieces of memories, inventions of his imagination, all rolled together making it impossible to tell what was real and what was not. He forced himself to stay awake, not knowing how long he would sleep if he allowed it take him.

  Somewhere in the midst of the desolation in his mind, he heard a bell ringing off in the distance, the campanile of some great cathedral in his imagination or the bell of a village signalling danger to its inhabitants, or the bell of a ship…

  The bell of a ship. Soren snapped himself from the daze and listened carefully, his senses alert and sharp for the first time in hours. He could hear the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and the crackle of the fire, but nothing else. Had he imagined it? Had it just been a product of his delirious, dreamlike state? No, he heard it again, drifting across the water, no more tangible than the fanta
sies that had been running through his mind only a moment before, but he was sure it was there. Then again. He was certain he was awake. He was certain he was not imagining it.

  He looked out into the darkness, straining to see anything. The bell rang out again, three distinct clangs. Then he thought he saw a flicker, faint, but he had definitely seen it. Just a tiny twinkle in a sea of darkness, no larger than a star in the sky. It flashed three times, and he heard the bell again, three more clangs. They were signalling him. They must have seen his fire. The Honest Christophe was still out there.

  He flipped the boat back over onto its hull and shoved it down the beach toward the water’s edge with newfound energy. He drove hard with his exhausted legs, but they answered. He realised that he was laughing like a madman and as soon as he heard the hull splash into the water, and felt it float off the sand, he hurled himself in and lay flat on his belly in the bottom, panting from the exertion. He sat up as soon as he had caught his breath and with every ounce of will that he had left in him, he put the oars in their locks and began to pull away from the beach and the dead island.

  He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was still heading in the right direction. He was so tired that he was throwing his body backwards with each stroke. The pressure on his oars was not equal and he realised the boat was corkscrewing along erratically, like a drunk stumbling down the street after a heavy night’s drinking.

  His strength was fuelled by the elation of not having been left behind. When the little rowboat finally clunked into the side of the Honest Christophe he slumped back into the bottom, too tired to do any more. He could feel the abrupt movement of the boat as somebody jumped down into it. He was barely aware of a shape standing over him, and only just registered the sound of his voice.

  ‘Think he’s passed out, Captain. Still alive though. Looks awful.’

  There was another voice from the ship, but Soren couldn’t hear what it said. The man in the boat with him moved about doing something, and then there was a jolting upward movement as it was hauled back on board the Honest Christophe. As it swung sideways over the bulwark and onto the deck, Soren let the exhaustion swallow him whole.

  Soren sat in silence opposite Joris in his stateroom at the stern of the Honest Christophe. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders and sipped hot broth from a mug held in shaking hands.

  Eventually Joris broke the silence. ‘You don’t look like you’ve had the easiest few weeks.’

  Soren shook his head.

  ‘So, the stories about the isles are true?’ Joris said.

  Soren’s appearance said more for the lie he was propagating than anything that would come from his mouth. He made the decision as soon as he woke up. Berengarius was right; the information in the library was too dangerous to ever allow back out into the world. Nonetheless, he needed to be sure that his message got across. ‘They are, and more. It’s a hideous, dead place. Even the few plants that grow there are twisted and evil looking things. There’s no food to be had; were it not for what I brought with me, I’d have starved days ago.’

  ‘Aye, you look like you could use a couple of decent meals. We’ll soon solve that. I’ve a hold full of Ventish apples and pears. I’ll have one of the lads bring you up some. A bit of fresh fruit will set you up again.’

  Soren nodded and smiled in thanks.

  ‘Was there anything else of interest there? Did you find the city?’

  Soren nodded again. ‘Yes, but there was hardly anything of it left. Piles of rubble, the remains of the city walls. Whether it was the years or the wars, the city was destroyed. I couldn’t help but feel there was something wrong about the place. About the whole island, but it was worse in the city. Can’t say what it was, but I couldn’t wait to be away from it. There were noises in the night. I never saw what made them, and I count myself lucky.’ He was concerned that he might be overdoing it, but sailors were a superstitious lot and Joris seemed to be accepting Soren’s story.

  ‘The straits then, they’re not passable?’ Joris said.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I saw them from a distance and there was lots of debris in the water. The passage was narrow to begin with, but it looked like it was intentionally blocked. Some of the harbour walls and towers had collapsed into the water, but there was more to it than that. The straits were blocked for a reason. There’s something wrong about that place. Only a madman would try to take a ship through there. But then I suppose only a madman would have ventured onto those cursed isles in the first place.’ He forced a chuckle, but it was not intended to be convincing.

  Joris stood and walked over and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘I thought it would be the case. There’s a good reason people stay away. You’re a brave lad, but don’t worry yourself any longer,’ he said. ‘You’re safe away from there now.’

  Soren felt guilty for lying to Joris; he was a good man, but the myth of the Isles needed to be maintained. The consequences of its secrets getting out were too terrible to contemplate.

  Chapter 19

  Gathering Clouds

  It seemed that Soren was finally coming to terms with life at sea. It had been a full twelve hours since he had returned aboard the Honest Christophe and he had not yet vomited. He hadn’t even fallen over — usually a regular occurrence in his first few hours on board. In fair breeze and clement weather he was even beginning to see the appeal of a life at sea. It was also nice to see the sun again. He hadn’t realised the effect the constant gloom in the Isles had had on his morale.

  For Soren, the most interesting thing was what he had learned about the Fount since coming on board. Berengarius had told him that the sea, or water in general, would cut off access to the Fount underneath. With whatever energy was created by and accumulated in the presence of the nine people around him, he found that he already felt far better than he had at any point on the island. He had only needed a few hours of sleep after arriving on the ship before wakening refreshed and he was not tormented by the shadowy memories of dreams that were so vivid at times they seemed real.

  He stood next to the bulwark watching a large flock of birds pass overhead, flying south, the first he had seen in many days. He was wondering how much longer it would take them to get back to Auracia when Joris approached him, also looking at the birds.

  ‘A fine day,’ he said. ‘But not so fine everywhere. Those birds. They’re flying away from a storm.’

  ‘A storm?’ Soren said. ‘The weather seems fine.’

  ‘Aye, here it is. But there’s a storm out there. No more than a day to the north I think,’ Joris said.

  ‘Will it affect us?’

  ‘I hope not,’ Joris said, with a laugh. ‘But it might; it’s still too early to tell.’

  ‘That’s a cheery thought.’

  Joris laughed again. ‘Anyone who tells you Ventish sailors are optimists is a liar. But listen, I’ve been meaning to say something to you. When we arrived in Voorn, there was a man there asking about you. Said he’d been told you were due to arrive there with us. You’ve friends in Voorn?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Soren said. ‘That’s odd. Even if I did have friends in Voorn, there’s no one who could’ve known I’d taken passage on this ship. I haven’t been in contact with anyone in… months. Did he say what his name was?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think to ask. I didn’t like the look of him and wanted him off the ship fast. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. What did he look like?’ Soren said. He was reminded of the attempt to kill him before he left Auracia. Could there still be men looking for him on Amero’s behalf?

  ‘Sallow, long black hair, thin moustache, pointed tuft under his bottom lip. Anyone you know?’

  Joris’s description would have fit half the men in Ostenheim. Soren could think of a dozen people that matched it, none of whom had any reason to be looking for him.

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Strange. Maybe he was looking for someone el
se. Well, I’ll leave you to watch for the storm!’

  All he left Soren to was the gut wrenching certainty that the incident in Auracia was not a one-off.

  The following morning proved that Joris’s prediction was correct. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky over the horizon, and the air had become noticeably colder. The clouds reminded him of the shroud over Vellin-Ilora and the memory made him a little uncomfortable, but there were new things to worry about now. The wind had shifted into the north and increased steadily over the night. Joris said he expected the storm to be upon them by midday. The western coast of the Middle Sea was still a long way off, and there was no hope of making landfall before it hit.

  Soren spent all morning feeling useless. The sailors worked frantically, doubling up each of the lines and sheets used to control the sails so that if one broke there would be a backup. All of the rigging was checked for wear and reinforced where necessary. All of the cargo and loose items on board the ship were secured down and everyone on board enjoyed their last hot meal before the galley fire was extinguished. Everyone had a job to do but Soren, leaving him to watch the angry black clouds crawl across the sky toward them and wonder how nervous he should be. The sailors maintained their usual patter of fatalistic humour, but there was noticeable tension on board.

  The first indication of the storm being close came with an increase in the sea state. Where before there had been a steady and regular pitching of the ship, now the waves were larger, more confused and the Honest Christophe felt as though she was being thrown in several directions at once. Soren’s earlier hopes that he had become accustomed to a life at sea proved unfounded as the familiar nausea returned and he vomited that last hot meal back over the side.