A Triumph of Souls

by Alan Dean Foster

  Holding the haft of the sky-metal sword in both hands, Ehomba raised the otherworldly blade skyward, lifting it into the storm. When the flat, etched blade began to glow an impossibly deep, spectral blue, Simna immediately sought cover from something that he knew was more powerful than the conflicted storm itself.

  A gust struck the pulsating glow—and bounced off, shearing away to the west. A complete concentrated squall bore down on Ehomba, only to find itself shattered into a thousand timid zephyrs. Swinging the great blade, secure in Hunkapa Aub’s powerful grasp, Ehomba battled the winds.

  No stranger to danger, Stanager crouched close by Simna and looked on in astonishment. “Ayesh, I was wrong to doubt you about your friend: It’s a sorcerer he is!”

  “Hoy, ask and he’ll tell you it’s not him but the sword that wreaks the magic. A sword he did not make himself, but that was given to him. No wizard he, he’ll tell you again and again. Just a herder of cattle and sheep lucky enough to have learned friends.”

  She looked at him through the wind and rain. “Then which is he, Simna? What is the truth?”

  “The truth?” He considered a moment, then broke out in the irrepressible grin that, when words failed, defined him. “The truth is a riddle wrapped in an enigma—or sometimes in a nice piece of hot flat bread fresh from the oven. That’s my friend Etjole.”

  Stanager Rose was a woman of exceptional beauty and competence—but not a great deal of humor. “In other words, you don’t know whether he’s actually an eminent alchemist, or just a vector for the sorcery of others.”

  Simna nodded, rain dripping from his hair and chin. “Just so. But this I do know: I’ve seen renowned swordsmen battle a dozen skilled opponents at a time, I’ve seen them fight off beasts armed with fang and claw, I’ve watched others deflect the attacks of mosquitoes the size of your arm and thorn trees with minds of their own—but this is the first time I’ve seen anyone use a blade to fence with wind!”

  Indeed, Ehomba was not merely parrying the gusts that swirled around him, but doing so in a manner that saw one after another line up aft of the ship. Deflected by the weaving, arcing sword and its attendant indigo aurora, gale after gale was forcefully merged to blow steadily from astern. Gradually the Grömsketter stopped sailing in ragged circles and resumed a westerly heading. The storm continued to rage, but now the bulk of it, aligned by blows from Ehomba’s blade, raged from directly behind the ship, driving it across the wild Semordria in the direction it had originally been traveling.

  Steer the winds as he might, Ehomba could not subdue them, not even with the wondrous sword. Priget once more gained control of the helm, and managed to keep the ship on course, but before the herdsman had been able to get the winds organized and under control the Grömsketter had taken a terrible beating.

  “We need a respite.” Stanager had taken one half of the wheel, opposite her helmswoman. “A blow from the blow.” She flung her head to one side and slightly back, flipping sodden red hair out of her face. “An island in whose protected lee we could shelter would be best, but none lie close on our chosen heading.” Tilting back her head, she examined the storm-swept sky. “Of course, we are no longer sailing on our original heading. I think we have been blown many leagues northward.”

  “Put me down, Hunkapa.” As the hulking biped obediently complied, Ehomba smiled up at him. “You did well, my hairy friend. Are you all right?”

  Through the rain and darkness the bulky figure beamed at him. “Hunkapa like to help. Hunkapa strong!” Long, powerful arms reached up and out, as if to encompass all ocean and sky.

  “Strong enough.” The herdsman blinked away rain, staring forward. Simna was at his side, trying to follow his friend’s line of sight.

  “What is it, bruther? What do you see? An island?” His tone was hopeful. Not that he cared overmuch for the condition of the Grömsketter, so long as she continued to float, but as a landsman raised on open plains and prairies, he felt himself overdue to stand on something that did not precipitously and unpredictably drop away from beneath his feet.

  “No, not an island,” Ehomba replied as softly as he could, given the need to be heard above the wind. “Something else.” Turning, he addressed the stalwart redhead. “Captain, I think if you head your ship fifteen degrees to port you may find the respite you are looking for!”

  Squinting into the squall, she tried to descry what her singular passenger was pointing out. “I don’t see anything, Mr. Ehomba.”

  “Please, call me Etjole. If you do not see anything, then you are seeing it.”

  Her expression contorted and she barked at the tall southerner’s companion. “Simna! What nonsense is he talking?”

  The swordsman could only shrug. “Sorcerers speak a language unto themselves, but I’ve learned these past many weeks to heed his advice. If he says to sail toward nothing, I’d be the first man to set my helm for it.”

  Stanager mulled over this second suggested absurdity in succession. “I see no harm in sailing toward nothing.” Her gaze drifted upward. “The storm holds steady behind us. A little to port or starboard will not strain the stays any more than they already are. Helm to port!” she ordered Priget. Working in concert, the two women forced the wheel over.

  It was late afternoon before they arrived at the place Ehomba had espied through the depths of the tempest. It was not, as he had told Simna, an island. Nor was it land of any kind. But it was a place of calm, and rest, in the midst of raging windblown chaos. That did not mean it was a haven for the exhausted crew of the Grömsketter and their battered ship. What the herdsman had seen and what they were about to enter into proffered an entirely unnatural and potentially perilous tranquillity. It was a valley.

  A valley in the sea.

  III

  The bowl-shaped depression in the ocean’s otherwise unbroken expanse was large enough to hold most of Hamacassar. Through the fulminating winds they could see that the ocean sloped gently down into the glassy green basin on all four sides. Attempting to analyze the impossibility, Stanager would have ordered the Grömsketter hard to starboard to avoid it, but there was no time. One moment the ship was thundering westward, driven by gales whipped into line by Ehomba’s parrying blade. Then its bow was tilting downward into a trough the likes of which no sailor aboard had ever seen.

  The concavity lay not between the crests of two waves, but between four uniquely stable oceanic slopes. Several women and not a few of the men held their breath as the ship’s keel began to slide downward at a perilously sharp angle. As she descended she picked up speed, though not a great deal. It was not so very different from sailing upon level waters, save for the fact that a mariner had to guard against sliding along the deck until he fetched up against the bow.

  The unrelenting gusts that had been flailing the ship from astern immediately began to moderate in intensity. Pounding squalls became gentle breezes. Ehomba estimated that the floor of the valley lay little more than a hundred feet below the surrounding surface of the ocean proper. Not a great difference, but one sufficient to provide them with a safe haven while the winds liberated from the mysterious bottle blew themselves out overhead.

  They could hear those freed siroccos and emancipated mistrals blustering and raging overhead, but they did not blow down into the olivine depression to roil the serene waters. There was no perceptible current; only a gentle lapping of wavelets against the tired sides of the ship.

  Climbing down out of the rigging, Stanager confronted her tall, laconic passenger. “For someone who’s never been to sea, you seem to know much of its secrets.”

  Ehomba smiled gently. “I have lived by the shore all my life. The Naumkib learn to swim before they can walk. And there are many in the village who have been farther out on the waters than I. A wise man is a sponge who soaks up the experiences of others.”

  With an acknowledging grunt, she studied the walls of water that formed the basin. “I would’ve preferred the lee of an island.”

  “This was
the only refuge I saw,” he replied apologetically.

  “I’m not complaining, mind.” As the Grömsketter rocked contentedly in the mild swells, she turned and shouted commands. “Terious! Tell Uppin the carpenter to pick a crew to help him and have him get started on the necessary repairs. Once they’ve begun, see to the sails and rigging. Choose two men to settle the mess belowdecks!”

  “Ayesh, Captain!” Turning, the first mate commenced to issue orders of his own.

  Scrutinizing the enclosing green slopes, Stanager remained uneasy. “This valley we’ve slipped into; will it stay stable? If these walls decide to collapse in upon us, we’ll become instant chum.”

  “When the old people of my village who have the most experience with the sea mention such a place, they speak of it as something that lingers long. I think we will be all right here. How long will it take your people to make the ship right again?”

  She deliberated. “The damage is not crippling, but if left unattended to, it would surely have become so. We’ve a full day’s work ahead of us, more likely two.”

  “Good!” Simna, for one, was not disappointed. Leaning on the rail, he surveyed their implausible surroundings. “I could do with a couple days of knowing where my legs are going to be at all times. Not to mention my belly.” He glanced hopefully at the herdsman. “If this phenomenon is as steadfast as you say, bruther, maybe we could lower one of the small boats and do some fishing.”

  “I do not see why you could not,” Ehomba replied encouragingly.

  “Why not fish from the Grömsketter?” Stanager frowned at him.

  “My tackle won’t reach the water.”

  “Tackle?” Her puzzlement deepened in tandem with her frown. “I didn’t notice any fishing gear among your baggage.”

  He winked at her. “You were looking at the wrong baggage.” Turning, he yelled down in the direction of the mainmast, where a large black, furry mass lay half asleep, purring sonorously. “Hoy, kitty! Feel like some fresh fish?”

  The litah yawned majestically. “I told you not to call me that. But I always feel like fresh fish.”

  “Then I’ll be right down.” Passing the Captain, the swordsman arched his eyebrows at her. “That’s my tackle.”

  The sounds of hammering and sawing rose from the main deck where Uppin the carpenter and his commandeered assistants were already hard at work making preparations to carry out the necessary repairs to the ship. Something rose up behind Ehomba and the Captain, shading them from the intermittent sun.

  “Hunkapa go fish too?”

  “Not this time, my friend.” Ehomba smiled sympathetically. “A little enthusiasm on your part goes a long way. I can see you catching a fish and in the excitement of the moment, drenching Simna and Ahlitah all over again.” He indicated the bustle of fresh activity that filled the main deck. “Why not see if you can help the crew with their work? I am sure they could use an extra pair of strong hands.”

  More than human teeth flashed amidst the gray hair. “Good idea, friend Etjole. Hunkapa strong! Hunkapa go and help.”

  Stanager watched him descend to the main deck in a single, booming hop that disdained use of the stairs. “Sometime you must tell me how you came to gain the allegiance of two such remarkable creatures.”

  Ehomba grinned. “Simna would be upset that you left him out.”

  She snorted derisively. “In my time I’ve had to deal with all too many puffed-up, self-important vagabonds and mercenaries like him. He aspires to far more than he can ever hope to attain.”

  “Do not underestimate him. He swaggers like a farmyard cock, but he is brave, courageous, and, to a certain degree I have yet to measure accurately, true.”

  “I know what he is,” she retorted sharply. “The question is, what are you, Etjole Ehomba?” One toughened yet surprisingly soft shoulder pushed, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not, against his side.

  “What I am, Captain, is a humble herder of cattle and sheep. One with a loving wife and two fine children, whom I do not fail to miss every day of this seemingly eternal journey.”

  Eyes green as the sea and nearly as deep peered up at him. “Every day?” she inquired meaningfully. When he nodded slowly, she sighed and turned her gaze back to the panorama of sweeping liquid slopes and calm surface. “Ordinarily I have no time for landsmen, not even one who knows as much of the sea as yourself. Terious now; ayesh, there’s a man!”

  “A fine fellow,” Ehomba agreed, perhaps a shade too quickly.

  She noticed, and cut her eyes at him. “Do I make you nervous, herdsman?”

  He composed his reply carefully, but sincerely. “Captain, until recently I would not have thought it possible for a flower to survive with only seawater to nurture it. Yet it not only survives, but blooms as brightly as any land-based blossom.”

  She smiled. “That’s the difference between you and your friend.” She indicated the longboat from which a chortling Simna ibn Sind and lightning-fast Ahlitah were hauling in all manner of edible fish. “I’ve always preferred the artful to the impertinent.” Pushing back from the railing, she faced him squarely. “I have to go and supervise the repair work. I’ve known many men who, at the drop of a sailmaker’s needle, will extol the surpassing virtues of their home port until a listener’s ears grow numb. When those same men find themselves far from home in strange and stormy waters, they are grateful when a calm and inviting harbor makes itself known.”

  He smiled. “Though no mariner, I consider myself an experienced navigator in such matters.”

  “Then you should know that when in uncharted seas and hoping for a good night’s rest it’s the smart sailor who seeks a tight berth instead of a loose mooring.” With that she brushed past him and descended to the main deck.

  Simna’s excited whooping and hollering as Ahlitah pulled in one fish after another with great, swift sweeps of his paws drew Ehomba’s attention back to the water off the port side. Overhead, the liberated winds were finally starting to dissipate, borne aloft on their own wild energy as they dispersed to the four corners of the world. With its calm green slopes, mild temperature, and gentle breezes, the valley was a wonderfully tranquil space. A man could make a life in such a place, he mused, save for the fact that he would immediately begin to sink and drown. It belonged to the fishes, and to the seaweed that rode its small waves in broad, thick mats, and to the seabirds that from time to time descended raucously to hunt for fry and fingerlings among the lazily drifting greenery.

  It reminded him of the beaches below the village, of a home that was distant in space and becoming increasingly distant in time. Glancing to his left as he leaned on the rail, he saw the shape of Stanager Rose stalking back and forth among her crew, barking orders and encouragement. Dangerously distant, he thought as he resolutely returned his attention to his two mismatched companions and their exuberant efforts to mine the piscine realm of its subsurface riches.

  True to her estimate, the last repairs to the Grömsketter were completed by late afternoon of the following day. Fatigued but elated, Stanager emerged from her cabin and the luxury of a Captain’s private sun-heated shower to join her passengers on the helm deck. Below as well as aloft, the reinvigorated crew was making final preparations for departure, as much rejuvenated by the respite from sailing and rough weather as was their ship.

  Stanager refused to let the concern that had nagged at her ever since their arrival in the sanctuary dilute her high spirits. “All is in readiness,” she told her guests. “We can leave now or on the morrow and resume our course westward. I have ciphered our position. Though we were blown far north into waters I do not know, the necessary adjustments are straightforward enough. We will sail a little more to the south, and still arrive at the trading port of Doroune less than a week later than originally planned. We carry more than enough stores to sustain us through the delay.” She contemplated the placid waters.

  “There is only one element I cannot account for, and that my experience is not equal to.” Raising
a hand, she gestured over the railing. It did not matter in which direction she pointed, because their surroundings were identical on all sides. And therefore, so was the problem.

  “I have sailed through straits so narrow they would pinch a coal lugger’s gut, navigated my way past shelves of coral and rocks so black they could hardly be seen by the lookout. I have taken the Grömsketter safely past whirlpools strong enough to suck a lesser vessel down to its doom, and seen to a fire in the galley in the middle of the night. But I have never, ever, had occasion to try to sail uphill.” She was watching Ehomba closely.

  “This astonishing liquid vale has been a welcome refuge. Now, how do we escape it?”

  Ehomba returned her gaze. Nearby, Simna ibn Sind leaned back against the rail and grinned. It always amused him when his tall friend startled the skeptical with one of his unexpected magical revelations. He looked forward with great anticipation to the look of amazement and realization that was soon to come over the Captain’s beautiful face.

  “I do not know,” the herdsman replied frankly.

  “What?” Stanager’s expression hardly shifted.

  Simna’s grin widened. “Hoy, he’s just toying and teasing with you.” He smiled at his companion. “The stiffer they are, the harder it is for them to loosen up and have a laugh. Right, long bruther?”

  Ehomba turned to him. “I am telling the truth, Simna. I do not know how we are going to get free of this place and back out onto the upper ocean proper.”

  “Right, sure!” The swordsman smiled at their hostess. “Would you believe that there was a time when I thought he had no sense of humor? Tell her, Etjole. Tell her now.”

  “I just did,” the herdsman responded quietly. He considered the watery late-afternoon panorama. “I have no idea how one is supposed to sail uphill.”

  His expression falling, Simna straightened away from the railing. “This isn’t funny, bruther.”