by BJ Hanlon
He shifted himself from beneath Arianne and pressed his feet against the bench above his hips.
Edin took a deep breath and pushed, the boat tilted up. He used a gust of wind to push it further up and he rolled out. In a moment, he twisted to his feet and stared.
An unknown man stood before him holding Edin’s sword. Around them, were others, dressed in dark animal hides and furs and holding nocked bows.
The dingy rocked back down over his companions. Arianne squealed.
The man before him was of a darker skin suggesting a lot of time in the sun. He was tall and thin with long black hair and brown eyes.
Edin glanced over and saw others around the second boat. Two men flipped it over revealing the sailors and Berka.
They screamed and scrambled to their feet trying to figure out what had happened. A moment later, Henny and Dorset appeared.
The warrior, he had to be one, pushed out his jaw and grinned in a way that said he was there for madness. His furs were white and gray like a wolf’s and reminded Edin of the dire wolf Bliz. He briefly wondered if the animal ever found the leader of his pack or maybe he joined a new one.
The man spoke a word in an unknown language then lowered the blade toward Edin’s stomach. The way the blade moved made the ground below shimmer as it bent the light. It was as if three blades were present.
The hair on his arm began to stand as the warrior whipped the sword around. A moment later the man frowned and tossed it to the ground. He reached up and grabbed the haft of something behind his back and pulled. A large axe appeared between them. He grinned and nodded at the sword on the ground.
The other men around them whooped and hollered. It was as if they were cheering their champion at a show. Edin saw the show they wanted. A fight to the death.
Toward the higher ground an older man stepped out, his skin was lighter and he wore spectacles of glass and actual boots on his feet. The cloak was the same thick fur as the other men before him yet he seemed out of place.
“He challenges you,” the man said. “Wishes to test your strength.”
“I believe I guessed that,” Edin said looking back at the warrior. On the back side of the axe, there was a short pick as if he were once a miner who had started wielding his tools as weapons.
Maybe he had.
Arianne appeared from beneath the boat and brushed wet strands of hair from her face. A moment later, he heard the rash mutterings of the men.
Edin reached down and picked up the sword. He swung it back and forth at the warrior before him. Soon the man’s eyes were transfixed on the weapon, or weapons as it were.
The warrior yelled something.
“What type of magic is this?” The man translated.
“A queens magic,” Arianne called and again the man translated.
Edin glanced at her, she shivered beneath her thick cloak but held her head up, unafraid of the arrows pointed her way. If she wanted, none would reach her.
The old white skinned man spoke, “He will fight, the first man to appear is always the strongest.” Then he looked at Henny and wrinkled his brow. “Or maybe not.”
Henny scanned the warrior, shook his head, and took a step back.
“We have no wish to fight,” Edin said. Behind him, he heard people shuffling over the rocks. Someone yelped in the unknown language.
Edin glanced over and saw the captain and first mate running down the jagged coast. Suddenly, arrows were loosed and before Edin could do anything, both men were on the ground. Each with at least five fletching’s stuck up like stalks of corn.
Little Spider seemed to scream, but his words were lost in the rain and surf.
“No one leaves. You fight for yourself and your companions,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“I am called Belter of Throngs. Though I prefer Singer of Songs.” He grinned. “And he is the Crillio Slayer… enough talk.” Like the gong before a duel, a word was shouted and the warrior leapt forward slinging the weapon around and over his shoulder like a farmer trying to split firewood.
It was quick and powerful, Edin barely had time to move out of the way. His body was stiff from the cold. He turned as the axe slid down past his body and smashed a rock into shards.
He took another step back and slipped. A moment later the pick of the weapon flashed past his face in a blur. People gasped, others hollered in excitement for the coming death. He had no time to worry about that.
Edin crab walked backward, his knuckles scraping against the hard stone.
The warrior spun in a fluid movement and brought the pick around and at a low flat angle trying to skewer his legs.
There was a gap beneath a flat rock. The rock looked to have almost been set there by a human hand. Edin stuck his toes beneath it and kicked.
Something scuttled past as the stone flew up and struck the warrior in the arm. Edin rolled back over his shoulder and landed in a serpent stance pointing the sword at the faltering warrior.
The Crillio Slayer grinned. A brown smudge on his shoulder was being washed away with the drizzling rain. He attacked again, leaping at Edin with another long strike, the weapon could catch him in many ways: a direct hit, a slash, or even just a brutal thrust with the blunt top.
He needed a way in. The warrior fought quicker and seemed to be growing in strength while Edin, barely lucid and awake, was fading.
The man took a swing and Edin leapt backward as an unexpected gust of wind knocked the warrior off balance, his weapon sparking in the rain.
The warrior looked perplexed for a moment. He glanced around at his fellows and the translator then at Edin. The smile quickly faded and he bared his teeth. He again tried the same leap forward, third time in a row trying to come down at a forty-five-degree angle.
Instead of moving back, Edin stepped forward. He spun his blade and the man’s eyes seemed to widen. Edin slashed at the wooden haft, deflecting it slightly to a flatter angle and threw a kick into the warrior’s gut. Edin’s boot glanced off the ribs.
The warrior grunted and twisted to the side. His feet slipped from under him and he slammed sideways onto the stony beach.
Behind, there was a much louder gasp now and he was certain it wasn’t his companions.
The crillio slayer reached his feet, “You die now,” he spat in a chopping splatter of words.
“No!” someone yelled. A man’s voice. The Belter?
Water rushed over Edin’s face and he blinked it from his eyes. The sea crashed near him, splashing up onto the rocks near their feet. He didn’t want to use his talent; he didn’t know what type of people these were and what they thought of magi. Many of them had arrows nocked and aimed at his friends, thought their bowstrings weren’t pulled back.
The warrior came in low, trying to take out Edin’s feet with the axe blade, Edin bounded over it and forward, his knee colliding with the warrior’s face sending him sprawling backward on the rock. The weapon flew from the man’s hand and into the surf, disappearing with a barely audible splash.
Edin stood a few feet from the man, his sword pointed toward his chest but he made no move to slay him.
The warrior stared up with a defiant glare, his dark eyes as stormy as the afternoon. He called something out and the translator said, “finish me monkey.”
Edin didn’t look over. “I do not kill unarmed warriors,” he called out for all to hear. He heard the translation.
The warrior looked from Edin to the sea and then back to Edin.
“My weapon is gone,” the translator spoke after the warrior’s unintelligible words. “What will you have me do, dive in the Great Beast to get it?”
Great Beast? The sea?
“Let us leave or all of you will die.”
Edin could hear bowstrings being pulled taut but kept his eyes on the warrior. The crillio slayer grinned and then shouted something in their native language.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bows lowering.
“You fig
ht well,” the translator called out. “You have the gift, the blessing from Antulete.”
The elvish god…
The translator said. “Tell us, are you the magus?” His voice was curious and seemed to hold no ill intent, only curiosity. And he said The magus, not abomination.
Edin lowered his sword and stepped back, the bowmen raised their weapons but the warrior yelled at them again.
He felt the ebbs and flows of the water around him, he felt it surging, a small wave came toward them. He gathered it and more water and pushed further and further. The water crashed forward, leaping up over him. He watched the bowmen and the translator step backward, their eyes wide to the giant wave.
As it was about to crash upon him, it split in two and splashed all around. Its spray lashed out at the warrior but barely a few drops splattered on the man.
The warrior stood, nodded and waived for Edin to follow before turning and climbing the escarpment of rocks toward the rest of his men. Slowly the bowmen began flinging their bows over their shoulders and quivering their arrows.
“Walk with us,” the old man said. “We haven’t much, but we offer what we can.”
“I think we go our own way,” Edin said.
“No,” the Belter of Throngs said shaking his head. “Suuli sent us to find you.”
“What’s a Suuli?” Edin asked looking back at the two dead sailors… Did he want them to find and kill the group?
“Our leader.” A smile grew on the man’s face and he began chanting something. The man followed the group up the rocks and stood at the precipice before a copse of thick trees.
“What do you think?” Arianne whispered as she moved next to him. She used her sleeve to wipe blood from his cheek.
“I don’t know…”
“They killed them,” Spider spat. “You should slay them all, magus.”
“There’s the mage spirit,” Berka said taking a step toward Edin and away from the bundle of wet weapons.
Glancing down, he noticed Dorset’s sword was gone. A glint of metal shone from behind Berka’s leg.
“I’d drop that… I cannot protect you if you try and hurt someone.”
“I do not need your protection. I hurt you.” He swung the sword out front and pointed the tip at Edin.
Despite the weapon barely two feet from his chest, Edin made no movement.
From the small cleft beneath the trees he heard shouting. The warriors appeared, drawing their bows again and aiming them at Berka.
“I can kill you before they do anything.”
Edin stared deep into the green eyes. “No, you can’t.”
Berka hesitated for a moment then let the sword dangle from his fingers and clatter onto the dark gray stones below. He held up his hand. “You’re an abomination, Edin de Yaultan. You should kill yourself right now.”
Dorset slowly moved forward, his eyes watching the beefy ginger Por Fen as he bent over, his now dirty blond hair cascading over his face. Dorset grabbed his sword and stepped back.
“Take the weapons,” Edin said and Arianne grabbed their quarterstaffs, her arrows, and quiver. Her bejeweled knife was always at her hip.
“You have a quarterstaff?” Berka snorted as she handed it to Edin. “That’s a farmer’s weapon.”
Edin found a rope from the rowboat and lashed Berka’s hands together. He looked at the translator. “My prisoner.”
After checking the four remaining bags he found all of the clothes inside wet, bread and crackers soggy, and the dehydrated meat nearly reconstituted. Most of Arianne’s medicinal herbs were ruined. Her pack began to stink. It was a mix of phosphorus, herbs, poo and fire.
Edin looked at Berka and flicked his weapon toward the line of men at the top of the small ridge. “You first.”
A tiny crab sidled its way out of black crevasses, a moment later, an arrow pierced it. Edin watched as a bowman leapt down and picked up the shaft before eating the crab raw.
“Gross,” Arianne croaked. “Raw crab isn’t edible.”
“They don’t seem to agree,” Said Henny.
“Come on,” Edin said.
Dorset spoke from a few feet behind him. “I’m not sure they’re from this area.”
Edin glanced back at the scholar, he had the same sort of feeling.
Edin felt the eyes of their captors on him as they hiked through woods and fields. For hours they traveled. They crossed a wide dirt road that Edin thought they’d turn down, but didn’t. They continued across grayish grass and through rolling tree-lined hills.
Soon the grass disappeared and they went through a wall of spruce trees so close together they’re exposed skin was scratched and there were moments when Edin couldn’t see the person in front of him. The ground became covered in brown needles and below it, the earth was soggy and smelled somewhat sweet. At points, the canopy opened with small windows to the sky where he could see naught but a dreary cloud roof.
The rain ebbed like the tide, sometimes hard other times barely a light drizzle. But it was always cold. Edin waked behind Berka, one end of the rope wrapped around his own hand, the other leashed around his unruly ginger hound.
Oaks and maples began to appear around them. The needle-tree forest grew sparser as the ground began to rise. The taste of the air grew as fresh as any he’d ever experienced. Much like the keep in the mountains.
The ground was still mushy and Edin’s legs were getting heavier. Whether it was from caked on mud or the trek he didn’t know. Probably both.
It began to grow later and the sun, still hidden in the clouds, grew dim and the sky darkened.
They camped beneath a tall oak tree with a wide girth and hand-sized leaves. The party was silent as if something hounded them and silence was their only defense. A group of the warriors slipped silently into the forest like the last flicker of an oil lamp.
A small fire was started despite the wet fuel and those remaining gathered around. During the day, he’d counted fifteen men. The only one that didn’t fit was the white skinned translator with different features.
Edin tore small, stringy bites from formerly dehydrated meat and chewed till his jaw grew tired. Then he swallowed. He watched the man they called the Crillio Slayer huddled up with the Belter. After the man had said they worshipped Antulete, he’d looked for any sign they were elves. They weren’t.
But why did they pray to the same god that the elves did? And who were these peoples?
Their language was unknown and they dressed as if they lived in the woods. Besides the metal axe and a few other metal knives, everything looked to be taken from animals or nature.
They were agile and their bulky cloaks hid what he assumed was a thin but strong frame.
They were still south of Glustown as far as Edin knew, which meant they were in Dunbilston. But this area was all known lands without any unknown peoples.
Or so he thought.
He wanted to ask the translator, but the old man, who seemed to set the pace, never left the warrior’s side.
Edin leaned against a tree and Arianne curled up next to him. “Where do you think we’re going?” He asked.
Arianne shrugged. “They do not seem to want to kill us. But the way he said Suuli sent for us. I’m not sure.”
They rested only a few hours and before dawn they began hiking again. They were moving inland. Lichen and moss grew on the tree trunks and ghostlike tendrils hung from branches like woven icicles.
The wind slowly died and his cheeks tingled as feeling returned. The forest seemed to grow denser again with oaks, maples and a scattering of birches.
They crossed a few low-lying downs with streams trickling through. Animals scurried by, some growled but Edin felt these men could keep the predators at bay.
Probably around noon, maybe later, Edin noticed the ground beneath his feet morphed to stone. Soon, they began ascending what he could almost call stairs.
The canopy disappeared but the curtain of clouds still hung above their heads.
Edin looked past Berka and up the stairs to a giant curved bluff. The sides were nearly sheer like an upside-down cup.
When they reached the top it was still foggy and dank except for a muted flame burning at the center of the plateau. It was a small village with at least twenty circular structures that rose into cones. Smoke billowed from some of them and there was little movement about. Someone from the group let out a whoop and a few moments later, people began to appear through loose flaps. They were women, old men, and young ones.
The Crillio Slayer stood before a fire and lifted his hands and shrugged himself free from his fur cloak. He looked thin, almost gaunt as if he were eating far less than his body was meant to. It reminded Edin of the urchins and beggars in the cities, their skin hanging from their boney bodies like shredded drapery in an abandoned home. But looks were deceiving as the man was strong and fast though not a terrin himself.
The translator motioned for Edin’s group to follow. They went toward one of the center circular homes. The man stopped and pulled back a loose hanging flap, light brown with long dark streaks and spots. A entrance.
Edin thought it was an animal hide, maybe a deer.
The translator spoke into the tent, his speech as foreign to Edin as highborn. Then the man turned back.
Edin tried to peak in but could see nothing. Then the Belter turned back, “Come,” he said. “The three gifted ones only.”
Edin exchanged glances with Arianne and Dorset.
How could they know three had the talent?
Edin used the water, Arianne had hit the warrior with a gust, but she wasn’t obvious about it. Dorset did nothing… except in the sea Edin was sure he caused that stone to crumble beneath the waves. The warriors could have been watching; they could have seen what happened.
Blast it. He thought. He’d rather have at least one secret up his cloak sleeve.
Edin handed the tether to Henny. He gripped the staff in one hand and the sword hilt in the other and ducked inside.
The room was much bigger than he’d imagined. It was warm and dry grass crunched beneath his boots. A fire smoldered in a small ring of stones and beyond it, slightly obscured from rising smoke, sat an old man with curly gray hair and some type of beaded breast plate.