by Susi Wright
It was then the fear set in with the certain knowledge her life was in danger. It took every bit of her strength to keep hold of the rope. She was unable to go up or reach back to the porthole. The waves that washed the seamen overboard had come from the lea side and the bulk of the water had gone back that way, but she had still been drenched with spray. The howling wind intensified the chill and her sodden gown flapped and slapped violently around her legs, as if it too was conspiring her demise.
Shivering and terrified, she doubted she could hang on much longer. She glanced down only once, realising then she had no idea whether or not she could swim, but was forced to focus on keeping hold of one part of the ladder or another as the ship continued to buck and roll in the storm. Gasping with the effort and the burning in her hands, she fought against her waning strength, the growing pain from the grazes on her hips which stung from the salt water, and the bloodied state of her frozen fingers. She was in peril of falling to her death in the roiling sea below.
CHAPTER 20
Xian
A tall, broad-shouldered and cloaked figure stood motionless on the palace balcony, an imposing silhouette against the full moon which itself dominated the still night sky. Long silver-white hair glinted and sparked in the moonlight, lifting brightly in the soft breeze, a complete contrast to its dark owner, clad entirely in black, who presently surveyed the pitiful ruins of the city.
Through a low pall of dissipating smoke, countless small fires still burned where timber dwellings had been just the day before, piles of glowing ash, the only evidence of others. Lonely skeletons of stone buildings remained standing, bereft of their inhabitants, some of whom had fled to the caves. But countless more had perished this day and all across the city to the hills beyond its walls were sprawled the signs of fiery devastation. An aura of death and destruction hung in the air. No survivor observing this scene would have any idea how to begin to pick up the pieces.
The dark figure tensed, struggling to gain equilibrium. He had been stunned by the event, despite his abilities. After arriving at the palace an hour ago, he was still trying to assess the extent of the damage. A disaster like this required great presence of mind, resourcefulness, a fearless spirit, all of which this man knew he possessed. Nevertheless, these particular circumstances, his first encounter with the awful devastation of Fire, were daunting and unfamiliar. As ever, he refused to be cowed by fear or regret. He drew confidence from a lifetime knowledge of his own inner strength; this would hold him in good stead during his new reign.
It had taken the last ten years to gather a small army of lost and wandering warriors who were now unquestionably loyal to him. To those ranks, he had later added several family groups and individuals, similarly in need of leadership. They had all been lonely, disillusioned and without purpose. For many years, he had suffered those very things himself, until he reached maturity and developed his own code. With this unique and compelling code, he had given these outcasts something to believe in, easily assuming the mantle of lord. Nobility was in his blood after all. His uncle-once-removed, now deceased, had been a powerful chieftain. He reflected, with certain pride, how he had come to this point solely by his own strength of character.
Having seen his own family and other clan members murdered by raiders at the tender age of nine, while the warriors had all been away helping their allies of other races in a battle, he had felt deeply wounded to his soul, betrayed by those who were sworn to protect him. He only survived the attack by hiding in nearby bushes and escaped by diving into the river, holding his breath while the fast flowing current carried him to safety. The woodlands and animals became his only allies. On that day, he was no longer aligned to any race, believed in neither gods. . .nor Ancestors. Thereafter, he had vowed to make it alone in the world, carving a nomadic existence in the wilds. He wandered as a recluse, in the forests and highlands of many different countries, practising all the ancient arts he had begun to learn as a small child, teaching himself to make spear, bow and arrow and to hunt and fish well. He avoided the company of even his own people for many years. Until he felt ready to form a new clan.
During that self-imposed sojourn, which had lasted his entire youth, he had been steadfast. He continued his own physical and mental training in the absence of capable tutors or peers, spending countless hours deep in meditation, achieving a high level of talent. Eventually, he was able to search beyond Existence for the meaning of his life. That knowledge and ensuing power had increased dramatically just recently, when he had stumbled upon a mentor and assistant suitable to the task. Association with that mentor had opened up new possibilities. Unlimited possibilities. It was not the first time he had seen death and very likely not the last. He was resilient. Slowly recovering from the feeling of depletion which affected him immediately after the destruction, he surveyed what was left of the city, feeling a new-found power begin to buzz in his veins. It would give him the strength he needed to rebuild his clan’s lost dreams. His lost dreams.
The breeze suddenly picked up, as if echoing the surge in his own energy, whipping his jet-black cloak and pure white hair to lively movement. He filled his lungs with fresh air, a welcome change from the remnants of smoke he had endured breathing for the last hour. Far from representing a setback, as exhausting as the events of the last few hours had been, his mood was buoyed by his new vision of the future and the opportunities that now lay ahead. He had sworn long ago that he would never be bound by convention or defeat. He had promised the clans his protection and to find and kill the mystical creature that owned Fire and the power to destroy.
He was more than ready to begin.
Turning slowly, regal, resolute, renewed, he issued a silent summons. Moving from the casement window, he stepped into the chamber, more than confident to embark on his plan of action. He paused for a moment in the centre of the room while a dark amorphous shape quickly slithered from the darkest shadows in the corner and, whispering a spell of attachment, insinuated itself in the folds of his cloak .
“Guard!” He liked the sound of a vocal command after so much silence in his life.
There was immediate response when the soldier entered the room to do his superior’s bidding; the man kept his eyes respectfully downcast. It was not necessary to even be in his presence, let alone meet those piercing, ice-blue eyes, to feel his lord’s pervasive power and authority. The sentry expected the summons before he’d heard it.
“My Lord Xian. What is your command?”
“Start searching for survivors. . .I want every last one of them found. . .rounded up and locked in the dungeons by morning!”
CHAPTER 21
Lost
Desperate and exhausted, Serafina barely had the strength to think now, though a fleeting thought had crossed her mind. Why couldn’t her angel and his talented friend do something to stop the storm? At least the drenching punishment from the waves had ceased. Still, the ship still rolled lea to port, fore to aft, mercilessly throwing her light frame against the hull; time and again, she lost her footing. The men had told her about their special powers. Are they even trying? She had no knowledge of such things, even if she had the energy. Oddly, she did not think they were dead. That had given her the hope to hang on for a little longer, to wish desperately that Xandor would save her once again. But even that was slipping away by the second along with her grip on the slick and bloody rope.
The sudden, surprising calm came a heartbeat too late. Nightmare-like, her betraying fingers let go and she watched her lifeline float in slow-motion far out of reach, as she plunged backwards down. . .down. . .into blackness.
Xandor let go of his hold on the wind, sudden alarm assailing his senses. Something significant had happened. He guessed it concerned Serafina, quite aware that his perceptive skills had only improved recently around her. Sumar, uncharacteristically, felt it less keenly because his attention had been ever more demanded by the gale that threatened to become a hurricane if left to its own devices. He did not
appreciate the sudden lack of assistance when Xandor had become distracted; it had taken all his reserves of energy to remove the power from the resistant storm in order to create enough calm to tune in to the realities of the new danger.
With one more rebellious gust, the storm subsided. Instantly, it was obvious there had been changes, though the friends were still physically confined and limited. Firstly, something terrible had happened to Serafina; neither of them, even in the present stillness, could pick up a strong sense of her, which meant she most definitely was not nearby. That scenario did not bode well. At the height of the storm, they had not heard anyone take her from the cabin. Xandor was beside himself with worry. “By the Eternal Flame – we have to get out of here! I have to find her!” He paced several steps back and forth in the small space. With a ripe curse, he drew his hunting knife and started picking ineffectually at the agronite-fortified hinges on the door. He knew it was a waste of energy.
On a brighter note, Sumar had just become aware that Churian and his men were indeed fast approaching from the north as they’d hoped. He threw an unusually acerbic comment at his flustered friend. “By all that is Holy – stop, brother! You are being ridiculous! I do not believe she is lost to us. . . she is strong, remember? And Churian will be here soon!” Xandor sheathed his dagger with a sheepish grin and both men threw a fervent prayer to the Ancestors that their Gaian brothers would arrive in time!
Just before sunset, Churian’s group arrived with the Morvian refugees at the dunes near the camp on the coast, where they had left the rest of the clan. They were met with open arms, even the strange newcomers. Not a single clan member had reservations about accepting Melu and his family into their number; everyone was happy to share the meal of sand-rabbits, roasting on the campfire. The Gaian women, most with no prospect of ever having their own babies, had immediately taken to the children and vice-versa. In no time, they were playing with them, finding every excuse to pick them up, even the bigger one of the two, and carry them around on their hips.
One of the young men, who had the tall build and bearing of a warrior but a boyish face that did not quite fit his muscled body, initiated a game of tag with the youngsters. Churian watched him having just as much fun as the children, realising the boy was actually much younger than he seemed. He had lacked or lost siblings of his own – probably been deprived of any childhood fun, by the rigours of life in his native land, always forced to fight or run. Churian’s heart warmed at these scenes, the easy acceptance of the newcomers by his fellow Gaians. He knew it would not be so easy when it came to introducing these strange people, and possibly many more like them, to members of the human race. But at least with the ideals of the Alliance taking effect in Baram, things were changing for the better. Lord Luminor would have the influence to protect them and the wisdom to help them integrate. Of that he was certain.
There was a more immediate concern. Some time before the others had seen the thunderclouds on the distant horizon, Churian felt a disturbance in natural energy. He had sensed danger for an hour before they reached the beach.
Nerisse sensed something similar, voicing her concern to Churian when they met in the dunes. Wasting no time, he rallied all except the two warriors he would leave to protect the clan. Among the departing group was the young warrior of about fifteen, Roland. On Churian’s call to action, he’d quickly left the game of tag with the Morvian children, pleading to be part of the rescue. Churian was still not convinced the young man was quite ready for the skirmish ahead, but Roland insisted he had experienced frequent hand-to-hand combat in his native land for at least a full twelve months; Churian decided to reward this enthusiasm, to give him the chance to prove himself, making a mental note to personally look out for his safety. As the youngest member of this new clan stood tall and proud with clear devotion glowing in his bright turquoise eyes, Churian gave him a curt warning. “You must be my absolute shadow!” He gestured for Roland to follow directly behind him as he led the group airborne from the beach on an assisted offshore breeze, cloak-flying in earnest due south to intercept the Blue Porpoise and aid their brothers.
“Make lively lads! Prepare to change course. . . east!” came the order from the new skipper, who was as relieved as the crew that the ‘demon’ storm had subsided. He had almost been washed overboard at one point before he lashing himself to the mainmast. If he’d believed in the Ancients, he would have paid them due homage, but he always tended to attribute anything good, such as surviving one of the countless storms in his sea-going life, to sheer good luck, nothing more. The few crew members who managed to stay on board had begun untying their tethers, the most superstitious or religious ones thanking all that might be holy, or unholy, for their survival.
They prepared to resume the ship’s course east, already used to obeying the man who had been their superior under Skrim. It hadn’t taken much to convince them to mutiny. Conditions on any vessel, trading or otherwise, were notoriously hard, but there was no denying that Skrim had been an absolute slave driver. And a hopeless drunk. None among them was deluded enough to think this new skipper would be better than any other. However, the reiving life they were now about to embark on and which two or three of them were happy to return to, despite the danger, promised to be much more lucrative than the meagre wage Skrim had paid them. They would begin by relieving the apparently wealthy passengers of all their silver and gold. Then, the two strong-looking men and the woman, fair or ugly, sick or well, would fetch a tidy enough sum at the slave markets. With the knowledge they had accumulated over the years of the various trading vessels and routes, they expected to be wealthy themselves, very soon.
They were not expecting the attack from the sky. Nor the speed of it.
From nowhere, half a dozen arrows rained down in quick succession, felling three sailors. Dark shapes swooped down, so fast it was a blur. Disorientated by mystical design and tired from the rigours of sailing through the storm, but not about to lose their ship and livelihood now without a fight, the others drew their swords and slashed out wildly at the invaders. At first, hard and determined from gruelling years at sea, skirmishes past counting and desperate beyond measure, the mutineers surprised their assailants, showing an unexpected degree of resilience for humans. However, there was never any real hope that they would succeed, rendered unable to focus on a single one of their opponents. The Gaians feinted and parried with lightening speed, aided by a lavish sprinkling of confusion. They dispatched the remaining mutineers and their nefarious skipper in short order.
During the first seconds of the attack, at Churian’s order, one of the young warriors hurried to the storeroom to unbar the door, setting his imprisoned comrades free to join the fray. Sumar set to unleashing his adept mental and fighting skills, quickly tackling the first mutineer he came upon. Xandor, suddenly differently inspired, and almost without thinking, threw off his cloak and sword. He ran out on deck and leaped overboard, diving headlong into the sea as he had from the cliffs at Tuli.
Pure intuition his compass, he swum downward in the waters, made murky by the storm. Visibility was poor but it seemed not to matter as Xandor dove directly down and back a short distance. Becalmed, the ship had made virtually no forward progress while the mutineers prepared to go about. They had intended to high-tail it east into pirate waters far beyond the outer reefs. Those waters were dotted with countless islands where they could hide. They wouldn’t be going anywhere now. The ship was in the same place as an hour ago. Xandor guessed Serafina was here somewhere.
A hundred metres down, there was a reef ledge, an overhang of sharp coral which had proved to be both friend and foe; it caught Serafina’s torn gown, preventing her sinking any deeper, but with the ebb and flow of the current, had held her too close and cut her mercilessly. She hung wraith-like in the water, eyes closed, a red cloud of blood billowing around her. It had already attracted swarm of tiny predatory fish.
Xandor cursed mightily for leaving his sword on the ship. In the same i
nstant, he sensed the danger. Two heartbeats later, the head of an enormous sea creature materialised from the murky depths, heading their way, its jagged toothed jaws open and ready to attack.
Grateful at least for the small dagger at his waist, which he quickly palmed, and his excellent ability to hold breath, he started towards the leviathon. Lacking the skill to confuse an opponent, he would have to rely entirely upon his fighting skills against this beast. He had never before seen the like. It was massive, the size of a small ship. The tail disappeared out of view into the gloom. He guessed that tail could very well have a sting of its own, but chose to focus on the ferocious head that was now within metres of him. He was between the monster and its prey.
It loomed before him; the open mouth, as big as a cave, was edged with hundreds of sharp teeth, each one equal to his hunting knife. Just in view, to the sides of the head, the eyes were disproportionately small, being almost unnecessary in the darkness of the deep sea. To the top, suspended over the head, was a snake-like appendage as thick as his wrist; the end glowed phosphorescent green, illuminating the immediate area with an eerie light. A lure for prey.
It drew Xandor’s attention as a promising way to incapacitate his foe. Dagger in hand, he swam directly up, deftly avoiding the snap of the jaws and slashed off the tip of it with one stroke, using the waving stump as a handhold to flick himself up on top of the broad head.