Lethos patted her shoulder again and steered out of the turbulent waters of Valda's mood. He did not need this now, or at any other time, when he considered it. That Eldegris's sword was gone, however, bothered him. He had hoped to bring it to the fight with Avulash.
Abandoning Valda to her brooding, he again faced north. He would need a ship to reach the ark. He would be spotted and probably killed before he could mount the decks. None of his spy training included sailing up to a ship in open water and sneaking aboard. That had been for advanced students. Of course, he could work at night. Once aboard, he only had to find Grimwold and get him back to his boat. Such a simple plan. It was doomed, of course. He had the choice of dying a gibbering madman or dying heroically in a rescue effort.
"How would you go about sneaking an unconscious man off an enormous ghost ship?" he asked, not looking back. He did not expect an answer, but Valda gave one.
"I'd create a distraction and pray a lot."
Lethos smiled. It was a better plan than he had. In fact, any plan he might make would likely be shattered the moment he approached the ark.
"Help me rescue Grimwold, and I will help you keep your father's kingdom together."
She stared at him, her mouth open.
"Come on," he said. "Your people will respect a Minotaur as your army. It's these storm riders that concern me. Avulash didn't seem very concerned about facing a raging monster."
Her mouth closed and she stood. Lethos turned back to the north.
We're coming, Grimwold.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Syrus peeked around the stagelike outcropping of rock, praying to any god that would hear him. The dark expanse of the cavern was relieved only by a wide shaft of yellow light spilling from a crack in the ceiling. Moving through that light came the six men who had apparently been following behind. Their strange plate and mail armor caught the light as they flickered through the shaft. Their thin bodies hid behind shields stylized to look like shells. Voices echoed off the walls lost in darkness. The men were speaking among themselves in a language Syrus strained to recognize. They drew long, thin blades from scabbards belted to their hips, and the raspy hiss made Syrus's mouth go dry.
He ducked back into the shadow. Thorgis stared at him through the low reflected light. With his clothes matted and his right sleeve ripped away, he looked less like commanding royalty and more like a bedraggled deckhand. His father's sword remained strapped to Thorgis's back, merging with his shadowed outline like it grew from his body. Syrus glanced around the darkness, a cold draft scented with ocean water met his nose but also contained the unmistakable notes of blood.
"Little dog, come fetch your armor," said one of the men. The voice was clear and sharp with derision, just around the corner of the outcropping.
Syrus glared at Thorgis's ordinary sword, still in its sheath at his side. Frustration washed aside fear for a moment. "Can you draw at least one of them?"
Thorgis remained as silent and still as the rock outcroppings that dotted the cave floor. Syrus flicked off the loop that kept the ordinary sword in its sheath, tugged the blade free, then spun in time to face the first man to round the corner.
He was tall and thin, pale yellow hair streaming from beneath his unadorned helmet. What arrested Syrus was the man's eyes, which glowed with a faint golden fire. He smiled with small, pointed teeth like some deep ocean predator.
"Two fools are hiding here," he said. "A lucky surprise."
Syrus valued intelligence and learning over the violence beloved in Valahur. He considered himself far more diplomatic and refined than any other man besides Eldegris himself. Yet when confronted with danger, he reacted as his long-dead father had trained him. He struck low, beneath the enemy's shield at the exposed thigh. The point of his sword crunched into chain links that turned the blade aside. The golden-eyed man jumped back with a playful laugh, much like one would withdraw from a snapping puppy.
"They want to play." The man's face was lost in shadow, but Syrus still saw the smirk.
"Run!" Syrus shouted and turned to grab Thorgis. To his shock no one stood behind him. Thorgis had already run.
Syrus leapt away as the man gave a playfully lazy slash at him. The air swished behind his head and he heard the others laugh. One voice, however, shouted something stern in the language that Syrus thought he understood. He had no time to think deeper, running blind into the dark as he was.
"Thorgis?" he shouted as he flitted into the dark. His shoulder clipped a rocky column that hid in the shadow. Behind him, the echoing laughter of the invaders drew closer. To his left he heard a shouted curse in his own language. That had to be Thorgis.
He leapt after the sound, fumbling through darkness barely illuminated with the faintest strokes of light bouncing around the colossal cavern. His palm grew sweaty on the grip of the sword. "Thorgis," he whispered. "Where did you go?"
The six men did not seem able to see him, which relieved Syrus's fear they could never be evaded. They had drawn together at the outcropping, and sparks were blazing in the darkness. They were lighting a torch or lamp. Syrus's hands ran cold as he hovered in the dark.
The crash of stone alerted both Syrus and his pursuers to Thorgis's location. Syrus bounded off in the direction of the crash, holding his sword against his leg to avoid either impaling Thorgis in the dark or skewering himself if he fell. He heard the young man cursing and he scurried beside him, seeing him a vaguely darker lump against a lesser black.
"Where did you think to run? How foolish." Syrus felt for Thorgis's arm, grabbed it, and pulled him up. "What did you run into?"
"A rock or statue, I can't tell. They're coming, look."
Syrus whirled and a torch fluttered in the mild current of the cavern. It was a ball of orange light hovering over the inky shapes of the armored men. They picked their way carefully toward them, their low conversation carrying ahead of them as if they were on a springtime outing. Yet their blades flashed with the bobbing of the light.
"This is sport to them," Syrus said. "Your father's sword? He knew we would be pursued, I think. Are you ready to fight?"
Thorgis's shadow answered for him. He scurried away from the approaching men, and Syrus's cold hands turned hot with his anger. What kind of defender was this boy? Did Eldegris truly appoint him as his protector? Syrus jogged after him.
He tried to take care with his steps, but as he went deeper into the dark he was completely blind. Echoes of laughter and idle chatter haunted his path, and looking back he saw the distant shaft of sunlight amid a sea of inky dark. The globe of torchlight bobbed less directly toward him, but still on his general path. His pursuers were in no hurry, and perhaps they knew he was running into a corner.
Ahead, Thorgis screamed, a sharp yelp that vanished with alarming speed. Syrus froze in place. Moving ahead in blindness was stupid. He slid his booted feet across the ground to check for both obstructions and drop-offs. He ranged ahead with his sword, inching deeper into the unknown.
"You idiot," he whispered as loud as he dared. "Where have you gotten? Answer me."
But no answer came. No more sounds from ahead, only a stale and clammy scent floating out of total darkness. Syrus's heart beat wildly, and he wished he could lie down and sleep until the nightmare ended. But the globe of orange light drew nearer, and the sallow faces illuminated within it began to resolve into the visages of death they represented. Their laughter had ended along with their conversation. They had come to kill, and Syrus was on their path.
"Thorgis?"
No answer. He had either fallen or hurt himself. He should now start to circle back, evading his pursuers, and exit the cavern. Yet his duty was to his king, and by that to Thorgis. Fieyar would guide him if he fulfilled his duty with bravery and zeal. She would see his good deeds and reward him. So, he ranged ahead with sword and foot, moving ever deeper into the dark seeking Thorgis.
He had never experienced fleeing in such tiny steps. He wanted to burst into a run, but he wou
ld certainly trip or collide with something. Twice his sword had already chimed against something solid in his path. Yet the faces were closer now, the globe of light revealing even more of the strange men at his heels. Their weapons seemed to shed their own light, a dim shimmer that rippled like a flame along the edges.
Heart slamming, desperate for anything useful to reveal itself, he pushed forward. He slid his feet faster, the grit beneath his soles sounding like crashing boulders in the silence. It was no use. The six were at his heels now.
He broke into a run. They were almost at sword's length. He pitched headlong into the darkness, slammed into something hard that sent him crashing onto his back. The warm throb of blood filled his mouth with a coppery taste. Scrambling up, he still held the sword he had snatched from Thorgis. The six were nearly on top of him now. The edge of their torchlight seeping toward him.
The space was clear before him now. He ran. He heard armor clank and crunch as the men following also ran. His feet pounded on hard stone. If he ran into a wall now, he would knock himself unconscious.
Then his foot landed on nothing and he was falling. His stomach came up to his throat and he screamed. He pitched into black; terror unlike anything he ever knew gripped his heart. He braced to splatter on hard rock or slam onto a spike trap.
Instead, he plunged into ice cold water. He sank like a stone. The sword slipped from his hand and sank alongside him.
Unlike his jump into the sea, no unseen force guided him to safety. His lungs already burned as he held the last breath he had drawn. His legs and arms kicked wildly. This was it. He had failed Fieyar by failing his king. Death by drowning was his fate now, and he ceased struggling. He hung limp in the water, his chest on fire with his held breath.
Then hands slipped beneath his arms. He opened his eyes to find nothing but cold darkness. Air bubbles rushed by his ears, an alien and horrifying gurgle. Someone pulled him up and then his head broke the surface. Syrus gasped, and his head swam as he sucked in the air. Whoever had him dragged him out of the water onto rocks that pressed painfully on his body. He lay on his back, his vision a mist as breath returned to him. At last he realized he was no longer in total darkness. A weak light shimmered from the corner.
Eldegris's sword was partially drawn from its sheath, the blade glowing with yellow light that shimmered on the water. Rippling light reflected on natural stone walls. Everything was colored black and yellow. A dark shape moved before the sword, and with a snap pressed the blade back into its sheath. The world plunged into darkness.
"Thorgis?"
No answer came. Instead, Syrus heard his pursuers. Their voices echoed down the long shaft he had just fallen through. A light seemed to be growing brighter in the shaft, until a torch spun out of it and splashed into the water. The flames hissed out and in the flash of light, Syrus glimpsed Thorgis seated across from him, knees tucked to his chest and staring up at the shaft.
"Fools," called a voice from above. "If you survived the fall, it has earned you nothing. There is no way out."
Laughter echoed down to them. He heard the voices murmuring above, then those echoes faded as well.
Syrus sat in the darkness, cold wet sapping his strength and his will. Not death by drowning, he thought, but by starvation. I have truly failed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kafara soared above Norddalr as a gray mountain eagle. Wind slid through her feathers like cold fingers, buoying her on the currents flowing just beneath the clouds. Turo flapped his wings to gain on her, then glided in tandem. She gave a scream of joy that cut through the wind roaring past her. Their black-tipped wing feathers were separated only by a tiny margin as they circled the island. The wreckage of the battles fought here only a year ago still littered the surroundings. She saw the bones of sunken ships or shattered piers in the shallow green waters. She had sent most of those vessels to the bottom. It had been a pity, but nothing less would have ended that war. The stone fortress of Norddalr lay tucked into its mountain fastness, now a gray smudge against the dark sky. Even without having ever entered Norddalr, she recognized the similarities of location and architectural style to the fortresses of Vanikka and Raffheim. All were constructed of stone in mountain fastness, their main buildings hid behind layers of walls. Impractically tall towers stretched out of the buildings, like fingers desperate to reach the sun. That was the truest mark of the First People's hands. They had believed they could reach the gods in their high heavens if only they could build high enough. Fools.
Her mind reached out to Turo's. Keep a sharp eye for Lethos. There are no boats moored on the shore.
Maybe he has not arrived yet, Turo answered, his voice a warm vibration in her mind.
Kafara swept lower, doubting Turo was correct. They had first landed in Greenvik, shocked to discover both the raid and Grimwold's fate. Even though Myrakka had claimed Grimwold's death, Kafara had nursed a small hope of a mistake. Such was not the case. She and Turo had pried on the situation in Greenvik, disguised as house wrens, and learned in short order of Lethos's plans and his luck in finding a crew for his stolen raiding ship. He seemed to always take the right steps, even if not consciously aware. When paired with Grimwold, the two would become truly formidable once they understood all of their power.
Sailing over the ruins of old Norddalr, now nothing more than shattered wood in a giant pit, she searched for any sign of Lethos's passing. Even her keen sight revealed nothing, and from Turo's silence as he glided beside her she knew he also had a fruitless search.
Should we head directly to the High King or search the rest of the island? Turo asked.
Let us visit Grimwold's friend, Syrus. I think Lethos would see him before the High King.
They banked toward the outcrop of rock overlooking the sea where a squat new building of wood huddled against the stormy sky. The black clouds worried Kafara. Myrakka and Kelata both could travel by storm with speeds to rival hers and Turo's. Not all Dyads had such means of quick travel, but the Dyad of storms had perfected their art and could outstrip any of the Manifested. If they had truly come to finish Grimwold, Kafara's only hope lay in their not knowing where he might be. Myrakka often overstated what she learned from her so-called storm spirits. Kafara suspected her means of information-gathering were far more mundane.
Alighting on the ground with a flutter of wings, Kafara and Turo both transformed into their original human forms, naked against the biting wind on this outcrop. She drew power from Turo, enough to keep her warm as she approached the closed door. The wooden shrine to Fieyar was not much from the outside. It was a plain wood building built after the Valahurian style. She could not sense any divine presence in it. That was unsurprising, given she had not felt the gods anywhere in centuries.
"The building is empty. The whole island is gone but for the villagers on the northeast coast."
Even expecting it, Kafara still startled at the smooth, confident voice addressing her. The woman who spoke emerged from the opposite side of the shrine. Myrakka held her cloak of silver wolf fur tight at her neck with a delicate, white hand. Her cruel mouth was bent in a wry smile that did not reach her ice blue eyes. Following her, Kelata kept one strong hand on the hilt of his sword as his leather armor creaked with his movement. His thick black eyebrows were bent in a V of anger. Kafara felt Turo's anger as a hot flare in her stomach.
"The work of the Tsal," Kafara said.
"You are fools to think the pact carries meaning any longer," Turo added. Kelata's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, but Myrakka covered it with her own hand.
"The white ark is here." Myrakka's blue eyes shifted coolly past Kafara to a point in the distance. "The First People have come to reclaim their lands."
Following Myrakka's gaze, she looked toward the fortress of Norddalr. She had not noticed before, but the gates of the curtain wall were demolished and a path lay open to the main fortress. She touched her chest in surprise, her hands going cold despite the power she burned to warm herself.
"How was it done?" she asked. "Did you stand idly by while the Tsal tore down the gates and killed those within?"
"I did not witness it, but the winds know everything," Myrakka said with a sigh that hinted at weariness. "These Tsal bring their own wild stone upon that ark. A rock so large we Manifested would burn up if they unshielded it. They powered storm magic to tear away those walls. How ironic that they should have to break down what they had built to withstand the ages."
"Is that more poetic insight from the wind?" Turo asked. "Or have you already visited their ark and determined it yourself?"
Myrakka's smile was as cold as her eyes, and Kelata's angry brow furrowed deeper. He narrowed his eyes at Turo as he spoke.
"Who revived you? They will share in your punishment."
"Ask the wind about it." Turo stepped closer to Kelata. "As for punishments, well, we shall see about that."
Kafara put her hand on Turo's shoulder, his flesh growing hotter as he prepared a transformation. Kelata's frown melted into a smirk but let his hand fall from his sword. An uninitiated eye would think Kelata backed down, but he killed with the power of storms and not iron.
"We will ask the wind," Myrakka said. A strong gust lifted her black hair as if to emphasize her point. "And we will ensure the balance is maintained and the pact preserved. You and your lover act from emotions you should have long forgotten. What is love worth to the people of this age? Why defend them? Why care for their fate? We are Manifested, chosen to receive all the gifts of magic the gods have deemed to provide. We endure forever. We were here before this age and will remain long after it is yet another forgotten epoch. You should sleep through this time, and awaken to a new world where the cares of this one are long done. Why court the censure of the gods for a time that will be as fleeting as bubbles in a stream?"
"You speak of immortality," Kafara said. Her eyes shifted to the stone knife at her waist peeking from beneath the silver wolf fur cloak. "Yet you are ever prepared to send any one of us into death. It is not only your age that brings you the obedience of the other Dyads. It is that knife of birth stone and your willingness to use it."
The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) Page 11