I rolled over a skull. Centipedes skittered out.
The sight of dead ogres and trolls satisfied me. I had no love for those outland brutes and their savage, rapacious ways. And I was not surprised about my sensing the Shade in this place; the Shade loved the reek of death, the taste of sorrow. It grew in the darkness.
We quickly made our way through the last of the despoiled farms. When we returned to the road, the sun had set. Night had fallen.
“No choice now,” Daz sighed, looking out to the fortified stone bridge.
The tower loomed over the river, casting a black reflection where no stars shone. The guards had lit braziers on the bridge.
Daz took her sickle-like sword off her belt, along with her tiny steel shield, and stowed them on the mule. Like she said, we had no other choice. We had to cross.
We led the mule up to the bridge. I watched the guards carefully; they sat beneath awnings, spears leaning on their shoulders. One stood as he saw us approach.
He did not call out; he merely stood. We continued on, walking up and over the bridge. One of the other guards looked up at us with tired eyes, but otherwise paid us no heed. Above us, orange light glowed from the narrow slits of the overlooking tower.
Just as we were getting off the other side, a voice called out behind us. Daz hesitated. I slowed my step but did not stop.
The voice called again. Daz stopped. We turned.
One of the guards sauntered over, spear still propped against his shoulder. He was very young.
Daz greeted him cautiously. They exchanged a few words. The elvish guard pointed west, speaking as he did. The tone was sombre. Then he pointed to the tower.
Eventually the guard turned and walked back to the bridge.
I frowned. I guess we had wasted all that time avoiding the bridge for nothing.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Nothing wrong. He asked, ‘where’s your protection?’ and I said, I have a sword. On the mule. He said, be careful west - if you go west; there is ‘fenbeast’ along roads. He said they are waiting for more riverwatch.”
I noticed her east-uyrk was worse when she was tired. Every word was a struggle to get out. But I understood.
“I don’t know a ‘fenbeast’ but I am not scared,” she continued.
I nodded. I didn’t know what a ‘fenbeast’ was either, but I appreciated her youthful spirit.
I took up the mule’s lead and kept walking. She followed behind. The night was deepening, and I knew we should have set camp nearby. But I wanted to put as much distance between us and the Shade-blighted riverbanks as I could.
Eventually we decided to stop. I quickly set about building a fire with Daz’s help. We unloaded the donkey and tied him to a sapling. I was greatly looking forward to eating the squirrel; even if it was small and stringy, it would be good to at last have fresh meat between my teeth. It had been many months.
My mouth watered as I roasted it on its skewer. Daz offered me a piece of bread but I held up my hand in refusal. She shrugged and ate hers.
At last the rodent had sizzled long enough; I pulled it off the fire. It smoked in the night air. I breathed in deep. It had been so long. This was no feast; this was not the game of home. But it was enough.
I sunk my teeth into the hot flesh.
It was stringy and tough, blackened and lean. The taste was poor, the texture worse. But I was alright with that. It was better than the galley’s gruel, better than rotten potatoes from a beggar’s heap. It was better, even, than hard flour-bread.
My stomach still rumbled for more, even as I licked the last of it up. I could have filled my belly with the bread, or perhaps some salted fish – but I did not want to spoil my first bit of cooked game.
Daz soon fell asleep, curled up in a blanket. Her face was peaceful in the soft red light of the coals. Looking at her made thoughts of home surge into my head and I had to look away.
I scattered the fire and lay down in the grass.
There would be time for home when I got there.
35
Herace
I looked into the surf; it was grey and dark and matched the sky as it slapped against the side of the ship. The weather had turned and those great columns of cloud, so vivid and colourful on last night’s horizon, had stealthily slunk overhead during the night.
The weather matched my mood.
Not sour; not stormy. Just… grey. A general sense of malaise hung over me, as dogged and oppressive as those clouds. I felt very unlike myself and knowing that made me feel even lower.
We had left in the morning, bidding Safon a hasty farewell. I said goodbye to Maeral and Tibaron and Lyrandor who had to return to Céin Urthia. But now they bore important news that was to be delivered to Queen Boralia; that we were headed east. Just the three of us, now; no Royal Guard, no Majira.
Maybe that was part of it – why I felt so ill at ease. I had tried to say goodbye to Majira too. I really had! I know we never really got along. But hearing she was so badly injured – by a Witch, no less – really made me realize that I cared, even if we only just met. Sure, we disagreed on many things, and we both had a hard time dealing with each other. But I wished her no ill.
When I went into her room she was asleep. Her face was pale and dark circles were under her eyes. She looked unwell. I hesitated at her bedside; it was just us two, alone, but I felt awkward. I was the only one conscious, after all. I just needed to say something to her. Goodbye, Majira I had said. We’re headed out now; just me and Ortham and Dawn. I’m sorry you got hurt. I hope you get better soon.
It was a bit silly; I knew she couldn’t hear. But I hoped that saying goodbye would make me feel better.
It didn’t.
Now the ship’s bow slid through the grey waters. I leaned against the railing, gazing off into the depths. I did not like the sea. It was so big, so unfeeling; it had none of the features of land. No hills, no forests, no mountains or valleys or open fields. It was all just water, desert water, as far as the eye could see. I was just glad we were hugging close to the coast. I think I would have gone stir-crazy looking out to nothing but the grim horizon every day, even if it was only a five-day voyage.
Usually I would watch the coastline swell and recede, imagine the peaks and valleys of its undulations. There was not much else to do, after all. But today I just looked into the waves and tried to think about what lay beneath. Not in any serious way, of course; just casual wondering. Pessimistic thinking.
Somewhere, deep in the dark… I could imagine sea creatures sliding, things like worms and fish and newts, all clambering in the sandy muck so far below, sightless and grasping… I shivered. Somehow I had managed to creep myself out.
The first night I overheard a leather-skinned hobgoblin tell horrid tales about what lay below the briny waves. I think he knew I was eavesdropping, which only made his stories all the more grisly. He spoke about how, when the moons aligned, the water would grow still as a mirror; not a wave stirred, not a breath of wind blew. But the calm never lasted. For soon, strange things swam up from the depths, roiling and thrashing, biting their own tails and rending their flesh until the frothy waves turned scarlet with blood. He said he had seen it once on the open sea; one of the crew on watch had gone mad, plucking out his own eyes, while two more climbed the rigging then leapt to the deck, breaking their own necks. He said he dared not recount the horror they beheld – and then immediately recounted it, as any practiced storyteller would. He spoke of serpents the size of trees, some without heads and some with a hundred tiny mouths; of great sea-bats and devil-horned fish, monsters with the faces of horses, and all coiling in the sea, biting and flaying and screaming into the night as they gorged on their own flesh.
But of course I didn’t believe him. He was just a low folk, doing what they did; telling stories and causing trouble. At least this one spoke Urvish. Not like the ones back home.
So now I looked into the grey
waters. I was all alone.
Was this what it felt like to be Ortham? Going off by oneself, staring melancholic into the distance?
I hoped Ortham’s thoughts weren’t so morose as mine that day.
Speaking of which. Ortham was having the time of his life at the moment. It was just him and Dawn, all day every day. Dawn, Dawn, Dawn. I was happy they were happy. It was just a little uncomfortable being the odd one out. Not that it was always like that; just some of the time. I was just generally in a bad mood, too.
Why was I in such a bad mood? I wasn’t sure. If I knew, I would have fixed it. Maybe I just needed a little more excitement, or less time to reflect. Or maybe it was the sea. I didn’t like the sea.
I got up and paced the top deck. It was more or less empty.
I went down into the hold and got my sabre and polished cuirass. I needed something to do; something constructive.
I got back to the top deck, donned my cuirass, and began to practice swordplay. It had been a while since I had really practiced; many months. And while I was happy to know I could eke out a victory against a skilled opponent, I didn’t like it. I wanted to be head and shoulders above the rest. I was Herace the Redeemed, after all; I had a reputation to uphold.
Even more, I had a duty to protect the princess.
I practiced until my shoulders ached. My wrist still hurt from the duel; all that was left was a thick white scar and a yellowing bruise. The healer had done an admirable job.
Eventually I got bored. And tired. I was sweating and breathing hard. I sheathed my sabre and leaned heavily against the railing and spat into the waves. I watched the gob of spittle land in the water and be quickly left behind.
I heard the clicking of hooves on the deck. Dawn appeared beside me, leaning on the railing, looking off to the horizon.
“Reliving the duel?” she asked cheekily. “I heard you won.”
“Was there ever any doubt? He was just some long-haired elf. Not much of a challenge,” I lied. “I’m just glad I was drunk at the time; otherwise it wouldn’t have been any fun at all.”
“Right, right… I’m proud of you, though,” she said, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. “I mean it.”
I was taken aback by the unexpected compliment. I opened my mouth to speak but wasn’t quite sure what to say – and that never happens.
“Uh, thanks. I, uh, appreciate it,” I eventually replied. “I thought you weren’t really into duelling though.”
“I don’t mean about winning. I know you’re a great duellist; all the courtiers do. I mean how you handled it afterward. Ortham said you called it a draw instead of claiming the victory. And I respect that.”
“Oh. Yeah, it was just the truth. We were fighting to first blood, and we both bled. Plus I figured that the lady would have preferred a draw to a loss. For honour’s sake,” I replied.
We both watched the waves slap against the hull. To the north was the gentle coastline. A warm breeze blew; I no longer smelled the salt. I was used to it.
I turned abruptly to Dawn.
“Did you really kill a Witch?”
Dawn laughed evasively and seemed to ignore me. But she couldn’t, because I kept waiting for an answer. I was really curious.
She looked down and toyed with her hair.
“I’m… not sure. It was in the dreamscape… Majira told me to just open my soul and let energy out. So I did, and when I could see again, the Witch was gone. Just smoke was left.”
I couldn’t help my eyes from opening wide.
“Wait, so you killed it without even a real spell? You just blasted it with unformed magick?” I asked incredulously. “That’s insane! Do you realize how much energy it would take to be that deadly?”
Dawn shrugged and looked up to the open sea, narrowing her eyes against the dull gleam.
I still couldn’t quite grasp it. Princess Dawn, killing a Witch. This gentle maiden, never used magick a day in her life, and now this… it was crazy. Unbelievable. Now I understood why they were all after her; why they all wanted a piece.
We sat in silence for a while. A seabird followed behind the ship, wobbling in the air.
“So where’s Ortham? I don’t think I’ve seen you two apart since we came aboard,” I joked.
“You would know that we don’t spend every moment together if you were around more and not moping up here by yourself.”
She had a point.
“I’m not moping.”
“He’s somewhere in the crew quarters. In fact, I think he mentioned that you two sleep right next to each other. If you actually looked you’d find him,” she continued, clearly a little upset at my insinuations.
“I just meant – I just mean, he seems a lot happier now. That’s all,” I said, trying to dig my way out of the hole I put myself in. “It’s good to see. For both of you.”
Dawn’s posture relaxed and she started playing absentmindedly with her hair again.
“Oh. Thanks. Just please don’t tell anyone. It’s nothing right now anyway,” she fumbled.
“Hey, who am I going to tell?” I laughed, spreading my hands to the empty deck. “And it’s your life, not mine. So even if I didn’t like it, I would have no say in it.”
She smiled sheepishly at me. She seemed pleased with my answer. I would keep their little secret. I knew what was going on; I had even facilitated it. I still did. It was good to see them both smile the way they did. Was I jealous? In a friendly sense. I couldn’t help it. Only a few months ago, before I even knew Dawn the way I did now, I had wanted to court her.
I shook my head. My, how things change – I could barely believe what things had been like. So different, so very different.
After a while Dawn left. I had nowhere to go so I stayed behind. The sky was clearing up, far away; I took heart knowing that by tomorrow morning the grey clouds would be peeled back. Maybe that would help soothe my uneasy mood.
After eating that night I went to join the other sailors and passengers in the common mess. A few played cards, a few told stories. There was a particularly strong, foul-tasting liquor that was circulating. I had a little. Then a little more. I just needed something to do, something to do. I hated being at sea. I hated having nothing to do.
Soon we were all drinking more than we should have; I joined in on the card game. I didn’t know the rules, and soon they wanted to play for money. So of course I had to try my hand at it. And of course, the game eventually devolved into a fistfight between two sailors and the game was broken up.
When next I stood up it felt like the whole ship was rocking. Which it might have been – I couldn’t tell.
I stumbled up to the top deck for some fresh air. Three moons leered down from above, pocked and mottled and immense. I felt sick looking up as the ship moved; I had to steady myself on the railing. I shouldn’t have drank so much of that awful liquor…
All in all I still felt low. Usually drinking made me feel better, or at least forgetful. But right then it only deepened my restless displeasure.
I staggered back below-decks and found my hammock. Ortham was fast asleep nearby, hat over his face. I struggled to get into my own hammock; it kept winding up on itself and I was too drunk to out-think it. Eventually I got my knee in, but my weight was misplaced and I fell forward, landing on the deck with a graceless thud.
“Good enough,” I slurred, one foot still caught in the hammock.
I closed my eyes and, with visions of the dull, empty sea plaguing my brain, I fell asleep.
36
Ortham
I didn’t mind being at sea. The rocking of the waves, the creak of the ship; I did mind the smell, though. The stink of bodies and the briny water, the tarred planks. But once I got used to that it was a fine experience. This wasn’t my first time, either. I had travelled by sea and river throughout my career with the Black Cohort.
But seafaring was not for everyone – Herace really seemed to dislike
it. He spent most of his time by himself, on the top deck, gazing at the passing coastline. He was a sylfolk, after all, and innately tied to the land.
The best thing about the voyage, though, was how much time I could spend with Dawn.
She had been given an officer’s quarters amidships, a cramped room with a low ceiling and a small bed. There was a tiny writing desk fastened to the floor and a roomy trunk in the corner. Other than that, the room was rather bare. She did, however, have the luxury of a small pane-glass window above the bed. We spent most of our time between meals there; she would sit on the bed, looking out the window at the sea beyond, and I would sit on one of the squat stools at the writing desk. It was an ideal way to pass the time, but we had to be careful; always had to be careful. I never spent too long alone with her just in case there were eyes aboard. She was paranoid that word would get back to court. And I understood.
Not that anything was actually happening. We would just talk, talk for hours on end. Or at least, Dawn would talk. She was very talkative when she was comfortable, and I was more than happy to listen; to hear her sing-song voice, her warm laughter.
But every day had to draw to a close. We could see the sky darkening through her window, the spectres of the moons float up from the obscuring earth. And with that I would stand and take my leave, say one last goodnight. And she would always rise from her spot and hug me and I think that was the best part of my day.
Then she would go back to her bed, lean an elbow against the windowsill, and gaze out to the gloaming night. And I would linger just a moment longer, admiring that moon-drenched figure in the soft glow – and then I would close the door.
On the last night of the journey I left Dawn’s quarters and made my way through the dark belly of the ship to the common quarters. When I got to my hammock I saw that Herace was once again sleeping on the floor. The past two nights he had taken up drinking heavily again. Usually he wasn’t so graceless as this, though. I think the crew’s rotgut liquor was stronger than the stuff he was accustomed to.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 32