It was now or never. “We’re leaving!” Guyen scrambled up the steps and shouldered the locked hatch. It wouldn’t budge. The frame had shifted though, revealing a crack on one side. He recalled the scene from six days ago when they’d embarked on this nightmare, picturing the hatch topside and the location of the bolt. A metal hook dangled within reach. He grabbed it, forcing it into the gap, levering desperately as men shouted for him to get out of the way. The wood split, popping the bolt. He pushed up.
A wall of water slammed the hatch back down, but he forced it open, thankful for the strength gained hauling Father’s fishing nets. He clambered out on deck. Oil lamps lit the battered schooner’s lines, streaks of unnatural red lightning and moonlight revealing the rest. Red lightning? What was happening up there? He picked up a discarded oar, ready for the traffickers. Yemelyan emerged behind him.
The deck was deserted.
Where were the crew? Had the moneygrubbing slavers abandoned them? Why? Something glinted in the distance, portside. Several more glints and a flash of lightning lit up another vessel, three masts, giant sails pink in the strange light. Sendali navy. Well, that explained the lack of a crew then. The ringing in Guyen’s ears intensified, suddenly painful. As it did, red light flared midway along the pursuing vessel, a strange quality to it—too bright, too pure. It shot up into the sky like a fireball, ripping a burning red arc in the blackness, heading straight for them. What the fuck was that? A hallucination? It cast no shadows.
A loud bang sounded across the water. Guyen whipped round. A glowing red projectile whistled through the sky towards them, perfectly tracing the fading red arc.
“Shit!” He dived for the deck, taking Yemelyan with him. They fell on the hatch, slamming it down on top of a bearded face. The munition tore through a sail and crashed through the starboard rail in a shower of splinters. Another wall of freezing brine crashed down. The wind roared.
“Who are they?” Yemelyan yelled.
What did you just see? Are you going mad?
“Why are they firing on us?” Yemelyan demanded.
Guyen stared into his brother’s frightened face. Would they survive tonight? He snapped himself from his thoughts. “Why do you think? Sendalis are arseholes.” He jumped back up, pulling open the hatch. The bearded man reappeared—Ruthris, one of the more interesting refugees. A magician, he’d entertained them with tricks these last few days, not that he’d been able to outsmart Guyen—the lucky silver coin tucked in his boot was testament to that.
“Praise be to Norgod,” the magician rasped, accepting a steadying hand.
“Get out,” Guyen urged. “Come on.”
Ruthris pulled himself up onto the deck. “Where is everyone?” His shout was hardly audible over the storm’s roar.
“Gone. Come on. Move!” Guyen pushed him away and turned back to the hatch, pulling up a small child. Frightened refugees swarmed out. Mother and Father appeared.
“Oh, Guyen,” Mother shrieked. Then she was gone into the darkness too.
Soon the deck was full of refugees slipping and sliding on the greasy planks. Water crashed down, and the ship lurched this way and that as men rushed to the wheelhouse and ropes to see if they could gain control. Another red lightning fork lit towering white cliffs pink in the distance. They looked less than a mile away.
A hand grabbed Guyen’s arm, spinning him around. “Are you insane?” It was Father. “They might have killed you.”
“There’s no one left to kill me, Father.” The sky lit up, an aurora of red, blue and yellow lights dancing in the blackness. It was like something from a dream. “What’s happening with the weather? Can you see that?”
Father ignored the question. “Where’s your mother?”
Yemelyan pointed. “There!”
She stood at the rail, looking out to sea. Her blonde hair shimmered in the oil light, a damp beacon amidst a crowd of dark Krellens. The ship rocked again. Brine sprayed the deck.
Father cursed. “What is she doing?” He stormed over.
Guyen and Yemelyan followed, their simulacra trailing. Mother looked out over the churn, such a slight, vulnerable figure now. She pointed over the rail as another wave hit, smashing down more stinging salt water. A flash of lightning illuminated dozens of men struggling in the water next to an upturned lifeboat.
“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Father bellowed. “We have to get to another boat.”
“There aren’t any more boats,” Guyen growled. The ship had only carried the one when they set sail. That was the kind of thing you noticed if you did a lot of noticing, which he did. Unfortunately, another noticed thing had been the boson’s manifest, a stolen glance over the man’s shoulder on the day of departure suggesting over two hundred souls aboard. They were dead. They were all dead.
“I’m sorry, Liv,” Father cried. “I should have listened.”
“You weren’t to know, Olvar.”
He should have. Only a fool trusts a Sendali.
An out-of-place sensation vied for attention—warmth. Toulesh spun in place, looking wildly about for the source. A scalding droplet pinged the scalp between Guyen’s matted hair. Hot rain? Steam hissed on the deck. This was crazy. Then the heat was suddenly over and ice fell, peppering them like shrapnel. The refugees wailed prayers and pleas for deliverance over the crashing roar.
The unnatural aurora lit the sky afresh, the ringing in Guyen’s ears a horrific whine. Toulesh flitted wildly, mirroring the mounting panic. Another red arc raced over from the navy ship, piercing the blackness. This time it passed close to one of the masts.
The warship fired, the boom of the cannon punching through the storm’s roar. The glowing munition streaked through the sky, tracing the predicted path.
“Get down!” Guyen screamed. The words disappeared in a crash of thunder.
Rigging exploded in a shower of wood chips. A rope elasticated across the deck, the mount it was attached to shooting through the air, smashing a man in the back of the head. He fell into a huddle of screaming women and children. Guyen rushed to help. A lightning flash illuminated what remained of the man’s face. Globes! Ruthris, the magician. He’d lost part of his skull on one side. You didn’t get much deader. Toulesh exchanged a horrified look. Another thunderclap. More lightning. Toulesh flickered in place. That was odd. More water sprayed. The ship rocked and roiled and creaked as unseen voices pleaded for salvation. Guyen rubbed at his ears in a futile attempt to block out the ringing. This was worse than hell.
Another arc of red light appeared in the sky, a fiery thread tracing a line from the Sendali warship to the schooner’s aft deck. Toulesh ran. The cannon fired.
The munition shot across the water, tracing the painted line through a mist of salt spray. Guyen flinched.
The aft deck exploded, splintered wood and flaming tar filling the air. Another fork of red lightning eviscerated the black sky.
The schooner emitted a loud crack.
Something gave way. The giant boom carrying the mainsail, slave to the storm force gale, rocketed forwards. The clamour multiplied, the ringing taking on the complex harmonics of a song. Guyen threw up his hands, bracing for impact.
The boom slowed.
In fact, everything slowed—the rain, the waves, the spray in the air, the motion of the boat. The oak beam, just inches away, jumped several feet to the left.
Like a coiled spring, time came fast again.
The boom swung past. The ship groaned. And hell exploded up through the deck, timber shredding, nails popping, people running, and falling. With a grinding, groaning crunch, the ship broke in two, and the black sea rose up.
3
Dead Weight
Guyen collapsed on his back, panting on the wet sand. Silvera shone bright overhead, the spring moon piercing fast-moving storm clouds. The red lightning was no more, but the heavens were still awry. Mother and Father coughed and spluttered, alive, but Yemelyan was nowhere to be seen. How had he not clung onto the upturned li
feboat? Tearing despair kicked in. Toulesh disappeared off into the night. Maybe he’d sense something.
Father called out amid the disturbing melancholy of the sobbing survivors. Everyone had lost someone. It was too much to bear.
Mother’s voice cracked. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Father’s tone was darker than ever.
A woman wailed, beating her chest over an unmoving body. The washed-up survivors were in a bad way—cut up, broken-limbed and broken-hearted. It was a waking nightmare.
“No fire,” a man snapped. “The authorities will see it.” He took his wife by the arm. “We’re leaving. I suggest you all do the same.”
Mother sobbed. It was a good sign, an improvement from her catatonia. “I don’t want to be alive anymore,” she moaned.
Father knelt beside her. “Hush, Liv. Can you stand?”
She pushed him away.
Toulesh suddenly folded back in. What was that? A feeling. Familiarity. Hope. A group approached from the water. Guyen stumbled to his feet, rubbing his eyes free of the stinging sand. Who were they? It was too dark to see, but a figure approached more quickly, racing up. Joy exploded. Rikesh! The simulacrum took one look then ran back to his master, folding in as Yemelyan staggered into view.
Guyen shouted, “Yem, over here.” He met him halfway. Mother shrieked, cold and fatigue forgotten. Yemelyan collapsed next to her. She hugged him as if she would fold him into her like a simulacrum.
“I knew you were all right,” she sobbed. “I just knew it.”
“Wouldn’t miss out on the fun now, would I?” He looked up, despair in his eyes, but it was a shared relief.
Father clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, son. By Norgod, you’re freezing.”
He wasn’t the only one, this felt like having an ice heart. It was a dismal scene. They couldn’t let themselves die of the chills after this gift of survival. But the shivering just wouldn’t stop.
“We need to get going,” Father said.
Several men stood over a dozen dead, discussing what to do with the corpses. Guyen nodded towards them. “Shouldn’t we help?”
“They’ll work it out.”
“That’s rather cold.”
“Tell you what, Guy, I am damn cold, that’s why I want to go. Besides.” He pointed up at the clifftops. Several lit torches danced in the blackness.
“Patrols?”
“Yes. We can’t get caught here.”
It didn’t seem right. “Sorry, I’m helping.”
Yemelyan grunted in agreement.
Father muttered a curse. “Fine, but be quick about it.”
They went over. Some had already begun carrying the dead towards the undercliff. Guyen knelt over a body.
A Krellen tapped him on the shoulder. “Not him, leave that one for the gulls.”
Guyen scanned the dead man’s face. He was familiar—one of the Sendalis who had locked them in the hold.
The Krellen spat on the corpse. “Leave the bastard.”
He was right. Sendalis deserved to rot in the open, bitter carrion for whichever scavengers had such poor taste. As respectfully as they could, they picked up another of the bodies and followed the men heading up the beach. This figure was familiar too, a farmer whose lands had been salted by Sendali army redcoats, his family murdered. Emaciated in life, he was heavy in death. They laid him in the cave and went back for another victim. It was a dismal trudge, but at least generated some body heat. Once all the corpses had been brought up, they helped stack boulders outside the opening to the makeshift tomb. Perhaps people would return one day to bury the unfortunates. Perhaps they wouldn’t.
Father stalked up. “Are you done? The Sendalis are coming.”
“Yes,” Guyen said, adjusting his britches. The wet material was starting to chafe.
They rejoined Mother. She sat on the sand, shivering, rocking back and forth. Father pulled her to her feet. “Right.” He signalled eastwards. “This way.”
Small groups of survivors dotted the beach, still trying to come to terms with what had happened. No one was moving. “Shouldn’t we wait for the rest?” Guyen suggested.
Father shook his head. “No, we’ll attract less attention on our own.” He sounded certain.
They set off along the silver sand, the two simulacra ambling behind in silent conversation. What were they discussing tonight? Who knew? Insight into such matters was scarce, most people could only see their own. “Do you even know where we’re going?” Guyen asked.
“We’ll follow the beach east,” Father said.
“To Tal Maran?”
“Ay, son.”
The port town was home to a friend of Father’s, a fellow Krellen named Zial. Father was sure he’d take them in, that warmth and food awaited. It didn’t seem likely. Why would they want to take in a bunch of down-and-outs? Besides, the gods were out to punish the Yorkov family, they wouldn’t bestow such gifts.
They trudged in silence, leaving the rest of the survivors behind, the only company the wind, the waves and the ghostly columns of whipped-up sand which stalked them in forms like oversized men. Sand wraiths—the phenomena were legendary, said to be created by Faze energy, they often scared smugglers and beachcombers. Whether they were anything more than wind and sand was debatable, but they were remarkably human-like, apart from the noise, that was a demonic howl. When they neared, dark thoughts surfaced. It seemed wise to steer clear.
Fifteen minutes later, Mother was still shivering. It was a worry. She wasn’t the strongest. “Perhaps we should build a fire,” Guyen suggested.
“No,” Father said, “we don’t stop.”
“Until the cold cuts us down, you mean?” The bitterness was unfiltered. It was Father’s fault they were in this predicament.
“We’ll attract attention,” Father said. “We need to keep going if we’re to get off the beach before dawn.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“We’re alive, Guy, luckier than some of the poor bastards back there.”
“Lucky? If you hadn’t dragged us here, we wouldn’t have needed luck.”
“Would you rather have stayed in the middle of a war?”
Guyen snorted. “At least we had a chance of surviving there. I still don’t know what possessed you to bring us here? I lost all my books, you know.” He’d only had seven, but back in Krell that was a collection to rival a library.
“Some things are more important than books.”
“Books are useful.”
“So is family. A future. Hope.”
Guyen stopped dead. “Hope? Ha! That’s a joke.” He sat obstinately in the sand. “I’m tired. Go on, I’ll catch you up.”
Father kicked his foot. “Get up. Don’t mess me about. Not tonight.”
Guyen stared out to sea. The waves whipped up twenty-foot walls of spray.
“Fine,” Father grunted. “Stay here then.” He took Mother’s arm and pulled her away. She glanced back over her shoulder.
“There was no need for that,” Yemelyan said. “The old man’s doing his best.”
Guyen shivered. “I don’t know what’s up with him. One minute he’s talking about buying new nets for the boat, the next he’s dragging us here. To the land of our fucking enemy.”
Yemelyan offered a hand. “Come on, arsewipe.” He pulled him to his feet.
“What do you think happened out there?” Guyen waved out to sea. “What’s up with the weather? The red lightning, did you see that?”
“Yes. Strange, mate.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, I thought I saw streaks of light in the sky, not the lightning. It was like—it was from somewhere else, a kind of nether light.”
“Maybe it was an afterimage.”
“I don’t think so. It predicted where the munitions were going to fall.”
Yemelyan grunted. “You’re just tired.”
Well, that was true enough, but a cloud of guilt hung in the air. “I think it was me,” Guyen said. “I think I destroyed the ship.”
Yemelyan laughed. “All right, nut job. You destroyed the ship. Let’s go.”
“I’m serious. The mast was going to hit me, then it didn’t. Time slowed down. I did something.”
“What the fuck are you on about? Ships break in storms. That’s all there is to it.”
That might have been a reasonable argument if not for all the other things that had broken these past few weeks. There’d been that mug. He’d picked it up and it had shattered in his hand. And a net he’d been attempting to mend—part of it had turned to dust in front of his eyes. He’d only touched it.
Yemelyan slapped him on the arm. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We need to get going.” Mother and Father were already fading into the night.
“I think I may have been cursed.”
“Cursed with shit for brains, you mean. Come on, I’m cold.”
“I’d give you my coat.”
“I know.”
Unfortunately, the leather coat was gone now, fish food like the books. It had been too hot to wear in the hold so Guyen had tucked it under a bench. Now it lay at the bottom of the Haffa Straits along with all their other possessions.
They set off again. A herd of sand crabs the size of wolves scuttled across their path, eyes fiery red, bigger than any in Krell. Supposedly, they were blind out of water, but they were still dangerous. They waited for them to pass as Mother and Father disappeared, the beach cornering a jagged outcrop.
Out to sea, there was no sign of the naval frigate, the only thing of interest bobbing jetsam. The remains of their ship? Guyen wandered down to the water’s edge to get a better look—splintered crates and pieces of rope, discarded clothes, even a barrel. A ray of moonlight caught something more interesting, something worth getting wetter for. He waded into the shallows, bracing himself against the powerful waves.
Yemelyan stared. “What are you doing? I’m not coming in after you if you get swept away.”
Nether Light Page 2