Rath and Storm

by Peter Archer

  Crovax sits in the infirmary, face in his hands. He has no major injuries from his fight with his angel, and yet there is blood on his lip and his glossy dark skin is pale and lightless. I remember his face, when I tipped it to the light up on deck. He snapped away, but not before I saw that his eyes had changed color, from brown to a sick yellow-white without pupil or iris. And not before I saw that his teeth had grown pointed and pierced his lip.

  Something happened when the angel died. She entered him in some fashion. A guardian angel is meant to be good, but with her death she is changing him into something different, and I do not think it is good.

  Mirri is the injured one, and yet for some reason, I feel Crovax is the one I am losing, to a disease I cannot name, unless I call it damnation.

  I would do anything to heal him, but I am powerless. A healer grows used to losses, even horrific and incomprehensible losses such as this one. But even a healer feels despair when it is one she loves.

  Crovax loved the one he thought of as his guardian angel. But he did not realize that in the end, it was not Selenia who watched over him and longed for his happiness and fought for his life.

  And I failed.

  Here ends the Tale of Crovax

  The old man had left his seat and was poking among the papers stored in a large oaken cabinet set to one side of the hall. Dust rose from the piles he disrupted in little spurts and clouds.

  “We’re almost done with this bit,” he said with some satisfaction. “This corner of the library has been undisturbed in decades. Now perhaps scholars can get some use out of it.” He rubbed his hands on his robe, cleansing them of dust.

  The boy shifted impatiently. “So what happened next? Was Mirri badly hurt?”

  “Oh, yes.” The master bent his face to read one ancient parchment on a table. His nose seemed to smell the paper before he flicked it aside to join a heap of other scraps on the floor. He turned to look at the student, his head slowly oscillating from side to side; like some strange creature, the boy thought, and for a single shocking moment he seemed to see the white-haired old man as something horrible and alien. Then the moment passed, and he repeated his first question.

  “So what happened?”

  The master sat down once again, resting his chin in his hands. “Mirri and Crovax were both injured. Mirri was bleeding heavily from a slash across her abdomen. Gerrard and Starke bandaged her as best they could, but they knew time was growing short. So Gerrard, seeing no alternative, ordered Tahngarth and Karn to return to Weatherlight with the two injured companions.”

  The master shook his head sadly. “It might have turned out better if they had left them there. Or at any rate, if they had left one of them…”

  “Which one?” The boy broke into the master’s thoughtful silence.

  “Which one? Which one?” The master turned back to his listener. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Isn’t it obvious which one?”

  The boy considered for a long, silent minute. In the stillness of the library, the rumblings from beyond the walls sounded louder.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I suppose something horrible was happening to Crovax. So maybe if Gerrard had just left him, he would have died.” He looked up, eyes round. “But Gerrard wouldn’t do that! A real hero never leaves his companions behind!”

  The old man looked at him. “You think not?” he said at last. “Well, maybe being a hero is something more than helping your friends. Maybe it has something to do with responsibility, with seeing a bigger picture. Maybe that was the problem that plagued Gerrard all along, all through those years when he ran from the Legacy.”

  The boy screwed his face up in thought. “Maybe,” he said after a time of intense concentration. “But how can a hero just leave his friends behind. I mean, Crovax and Mirri were hurt. Gerrard couldn’t abandon them without abandoning his honor.”

  “And do you think that’s what heroism is about? Is it about honor?”

  “Well, Master, honor is at the heart of—”

  “Honor can be just as dangerous as cowardice,” the old man interrupted harshly. “Gerrard had to learn that to cling blindly to honor, to value friendship above the fate of the world, that is fatal. To be a true hero is to recognize one’s own place in the world and to rise to the challenges that fate throws in one’s way. Up to now Gerrard had always rejected those challenges. But in the Stronghold, in the heart of Rath, he was once again forced to choose, and this time he chose the right path.”

  “And what was the path he chose?”

  “Well, listen.

  “Gerrard ordered the minotaur and the golem to carry Mirri and Crovax back to the ship, while he and Starke continued the search for Sisay and Takara. Tahngarth and Karn reluctantly agreed and began the tortuous journey back to where Gerrard told them Weatherlight lay waiting for them—not, however, before the minotaur mate had extracted from Starke a detailed explanation of how he might rejoin the two searchers once he’d relieved himself of his burden.

  “The two companions carried their friends through the twisting tunnels of the Stronghold. At every stage they checked and rechecked the directions given by Gerrard. At last Tahngarth sensed they must be drawing near to the ship. But suddenly he was halted by a call from Karn. The silver golem stood in the tunnel, swaying back and forth.”

  “Why, master? Was he wounded?”

  “Little could wound the golem. But he told Tahngarth that he somehow felt the nearby presence of the Legacy. Volrath had evidently secreted it somewhere quite close by. Hastily the golem passed the body of Crovax to Tahngarth. ‘You must carry them both to the ship,’ he told the minotaur. And then, without another word, he was gone.”

  “Gone! Where?”

  “Ah, well, Tahngarth didn’t know either. But he trusted the silver golem, and so, hefting the bodies of Mirri and Crovax in his mighty arms, he stolidly resumed his journey toward Weatherlight.

  Deep in the heart of the ship, a glowing crystal hums softly, its light washing over the wooden beams and struts of the lower decks. The light is fragmented and distorted by a long crack that runs through the crystal from top to bottom. At the heart of the crystal, almost as if it were contained within that fracture, gleams a single point of light, so brilliant that a star might have descended from the heavens to illuminate the darkness. Above is the clatter of feet, the thump and grind of human activity. A long scraping noise as something is dragged across the deck and thrown down; then the feet are off again, racing along the boards on an urgent errand as a clear female voice shouts a word of command. Footsteps resound on the ladders, and there’s the hum of ropes vibrating in the unnatural winds that sweep across Rath. But here, in the sheltered center, the crystal glows serenely.

  Hanna stared about her in the dim light, seeking out the tiny figure of Weatherlight’s cabin boy. “Squee! Where’s that rope?”

  “Here. Rope. Nuthin’ else you need? Good.” The goblin’s body shivered as he glanced about them. “I’m goin’ down below decks.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not.” Hanna grabbed him and twitched him away from the open hatch. “I need those grappling hooks brought forward from the aft port side. Move it, Squee! Or would you like to explain to Gerrard when he gets back why you spent your time cowering below?”

  The little goblin disappeared in the direction the navigator had indicated, not before Hanna heard a muttered, “If he comes back….”

  She pushed away the thought as quickly as it had come and returned her attention to the scene around her. Everywhere crewmen struggled with recalcitrant canvas or brought forward bundles of spears and swords, working at feverish pace to make the ship battle ready. Hanna sighed and allowed herself a momentary glance toward the brooding darkness beyond the ship’s decks that she knew was the Stronghold. No! She would not think about it. Right now she had a job to do. Best concentrate on that, and that alone.

 
“Stivale! You and Grifel reef the port sail! Step lively! We’ve not got all day! And while you’re at it, try to make a bit less noise.”

  She turned to give another order and suddenly staggered back. Before her, a lithe figure appeared on the ship’s deck, forming out of thin air. There was a sudden silence, as if every crewman had been frozen for a split second in action; then, with a low cry, Hanna drew her sword and sent it whistling through the air. It slashed through the figure’s midriff, but met no more resistance than the air.

  The woman—if she was, in fact, a woman; the figure was sufficiently androgenous that it was difficult to tell—stared blankly at Hanna for a moment, and then spoke.

  “Ertai and Barrin!”

  “What did you say?” Hanna stopped in astonishment, her sword already drawn back for another blow.

  The woman calmly stepped forward. Squee, who had reappeared from his errand, dropped a bundle of ropes he was carrying and stared at her, open-mouthed.

  “I am Lyna of the Soltari.” The voice was low and gentle, but with a hint of steel behind it. “I have been speaking with Ertai, your wizard. He suggested I speak his name to you, as well as the name of your father. Ertai is a very…capable man.” From her tone, Hanna almost felt the woman was laughing to herself. “I have informed him that the portal he guards may lead to many destinations,” the woman continued. “Some may be places where your ship will find refuge. I and my people will help Ertai open the portal. But you must hurry.” There was a subtle change in the tone of her voice, a new note of suppressed urgency.

  Hanna shook her head. “We can’t leave yet. We have companions who are not yet aboard.”

  Lyna looked at her unblinkingly. “Time grows short. You must prepare to leave.”

  She waved her hand at the staring crewmen. “Unleash the lines.”

  “Now just wait a minute!” Hanna spun on her heel and gestured angrily to the crew. “Belay that! No one is going anywhere on the say-so of someone we’ve just met. We’ll stay here until Gerrard returns, or—”

  Her words cut off abruptly as Lyna stretched out a hand to Hanna’s face. The fingers were long and slender, and the touch, though seemingly gentle, was hard as iron. The tips of the Soltari’s fingers rested on Hanna’s throat, and the thought flitted through the navigator’s mind that if the other were so minded, she could—would—slay her with a touch. Lyna’s voice, as well, was still gentle but brooked no disagreement.

  “You must leave now. There is no time.”

  Hanna stared into the depths of the Soltari’s fathomless eyes. “Yes,” she murmured, more to herself than to the crewmen. “Now.”

  Jerking back, she turned again to the crew. “What are you waiting for? Cast off!”

  “Wait!”

  The shout came in quick answer to her snapped order. One of the crew, a tall, dark sailor named Javan, hung over the side of Weatherlight staring into the murky air. He turned back to glance at Hanna, then waved his hand to someone beyond her sight, someone who was now climbing onto the deck, sweat dripping from his flanks.

  “Tahngarth!” Hanna cried gladly. Then, seeing him in the light of a flickering ship’s lantern that swung from a beam, she gasped and repeated softly, “Tahngarth!”

  The minotaur’s features seemed strangely changed. His chest and shoulders were grown larger, muscles bulging beneath the skin as if swollen by some illness. Instead of proudly flaring from either side of his head, his horns were twisted and inverted. But to Hanna the most shocking change lay in the twisting and bulking of the great minotaur’s bone structure. It was as if an invisible hand had reached inside of him, distorting his anatomy in a parody of what he had been. “Tahngarth,” the navigator whispered. “What have they done to you?”

  In each of his great arms the minotaur clasped a limp body. One, Hanna saw, was Mirri. Her tail hung limply and she bled from a great slash across the abdomen. The other—lamplight shone on the features of Crovax, and the navigator shuddered at the change she saw. His face was pallid, skin stretched tightly across the bones. His eyes were wide open, staring, red-rimmed, the pupils a sickly yellow. Blood trickled from one side of his mouth, and Hanna could see the white tips of his teeth protruding from his lips.

  Hanna wrenched her eyes from the ghastly trio and yelled to the crew for assistance. Javan, stepping swiftly to Tahngarth’s side, relieved him of Mirri, while another sailor gathered up Crovax.

  The minotaur leaned against the rail, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from his fur and pooled on the deckboards.

  Hanna approached him and laid a trembling hand on his arm. She could feel the swollen muscles tense and tremble beneath the skin. The minotaur seemed to be fighting some inner conflict, as if he were forcing himself to stand still and rest before moving on to some larger challenge. He raised his head and stared at the navigator; she shuddered. It was as if someone had wiped a damp sponge across a painting, blurring some features and obliterating others.

  “Did you find Sisay?” she asked.

  Tahngarth shook his head. “I don’t know. They were still searching for her when I left. Gerrard ordered Karn and I to carry these two back to the ship, but the golem left me; he claims to have found some clue to the whereabouts of the Legacy. We fought Selenia, and Crovax killed her, but Mirri was hurt.”

  “Take them below,” Hanna instructed, turning to the crew who had clustered around to hear the minotaur’s words. “And somebody get Orim to tend their wounds. You, also.” She turned back to Tahngarth, but the minotaur was already on the side of the ship, poised to leap back to the Stronghold’s balcony.

  “I’m going back to Gerrard,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Wait!” Hanna shouted. “We have to leave now! Tell Gerrard to meet us at the Gardens.”

  “The Gardens,” he flung back over his shoulder. “Where are they?”

  “Starke gave directions to Gerrard before they set out. He can guide you. Tell Gerrard to get there as fast as he can.”

  Tahngarth nodded, leapt, and was gone.

  Hanna turned back to Lyna, who, during the exchange with the minotaur had stood silent, unnoticed in the shadows.

  “Well? Satisfied?”

  If Lyna noticed the hostility in the slender woman’s voice, she gave no indication. She bowed her head in acknowledgment and said calmly, “Very good. I shall return to Ertai. Who knows? He may need my assistance in opening the Portal, despite his tremendous native ability.” Hanna thought she detected a half-smile on the Soltari’s face. Then, with the same ease with which she had boarded the ship, the woman faded and was gone. Hanna ran to the side and stared into the thick, fetid air, but she could see nothing. She shaded her eyes. Surely that was something moving in the dark passage that emptied from the balcony? No! Yes! Yes!

  A cry came from the Stronghold. Hanna grasped a coiled length of rope and hurled it from the ship. A moment later she and two sailors were hauling on it with all their force. Slowly, the end came up, bearing with it the bulky form of Karn. One massive four-fingered hand gripped the rope. The other clasped a device the navigator had never seen: a seemingly senseless twist of metal.

  “What is it,” she asked, as soon as the golem was safely over the side.

  Karn could not precisely shrug, but the silver golem looked as though he would have, had he been able. “The Skyshaper. I retrieved it, along with other pieces of the Legacy, from the Sliver Queen.”

  “The Sliver Queen!”

  “Yes. She was the guardian of the Legacy, set to the task by Volrath himself. And now I have recovered it.”

  Proudly the golem gestured to his chest. “It lies within here.” He turned back to the Skyshaper and stared at it thoughtfully. “But this belongs to this ship. It should make Weatherlight go faster, in fact. I wonder…”

  “Time for wondering later.” Hanna spoke more brusquely than she had intende
d.

  “We need to go. We’re to meet Gerrard and the Gardens, and we haven’t much time.”

  She turned to go, adding over her shoulder, “Take that thing down to the engine room. If it helps the ship go faster, we may well need it soon enough.”

  * * *

  —

  The light in the heart of the crystal sparkles and flames, as if in sudden anger. Around it there is a sustained groaning and creaking, as if some giant beast were stirring from a long winter’s sleep. Then, steadily, a gentle hum fills the air. The ship backs away from the side of the great fortress, graceful as a dancer, pivots, and in silence streaks into the darkness. From above a great wave of air surges down to fill the void where a moment ago the ship stood poised, like some giant insect by the side of its hive. There is a resounding boom that echoes and reechoes in the giant chamber that encloses the fortress. Here and there in the looming blackness of the Stronghold, lights gleam and glitter before they slowly dim and disappear. And now the only noise that fills the silence is the slow, everlasting cry of the tortured earth. Yet far away, almost out of sight of someone standing where the ship had stood a moment before, an observer might have seen a faint river of light, as if an army carrying torches was surging up to the Stronghold’s entrance. And then, through the musky air, deadened by the immense distance, comes the roar of faraway battle.

  But Weatherlight hears none of these things.

  * * *

  —

  Karn stared from the skyshaper to the complex of bumps and depressions on one side of Weatherlight’s engine room. He remained in that position for so long that the crewman who stood near him finally cleared his throat. “Karn?”

  Karn looked up slowly, and, as always, the crewman experienced a slight sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as those grave eyes refocused and contemplated him.