THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "What was weird about your dream? No blondes in it?" Two could play, and he had many a score to settle with the red-eyed bastard.

  "No. The opposite and it's burning my brain. You won't believe me if I tell you."

  "Uh huh, I knew you were mad years ago, don't spoil it." Van Reiver grinned as Dagmar looked pensive before biting his lip. "Go on, try me. Have at it, brave spell-chucker. It's just a fucking dream?"

  "I can't let it go. Promise not to laugh?"

  "No."

  "Bastard." Dagmar glared, but Van Reiver closed his eyes and made snoring sounds. Dagmar ignored the boorish behaviour and cleared his throat. "I dreamt I was witnessing Atlantis transitioning from ye old world to here, on Sanctuary."

  "Eh?"

  "I saw everything at The Transition, Eddie. The ancient Arks' signalling warning of the tidal wave—"

  "Let me guess, the seaborne attack before the big wave?" Van Reiver snorted, feeling his shoulders shake.

  "Exactly. It was like I was there and it was fucking scary, I tell you. Then, I soared overhead as the monster wave bore down."

  "Let me get this straight. You went flying—like a fucking bird?" Van Reiver's eyebrows twitched as he pictured his friend as a bird. It would be a scrawny and noisy fucker and laid massive eggs. "Right." Van Reiver looked all innocence, then widened his eyes. "When you next indulge, can I have two? I need a laugh, and it would rattle old piss-head, Robsin."

  "Fuck off! Feel free to fuck off again and follow the street markers along to fuck right off sideways; then climb up into one of our deck catapults and bellow to a sweaty marine with halitosis, 'Fire!'"

  "Is there a point, Dag?" Van Reiver felt a headache forming as his friend panted.

  "Dunno. Shut up, shithead, and let me finish. I can scry, remember, but this all felt uncontrolled."

  "Charming," Van Reiver smirked as Dagmar reddened, looking undecided on whether to continue, swear, or explode. He took a calming breath and continued, piquing Van Reiver's curiosity enough to allow the magus to continue.

  "It was like I moved place to place, to witness key events before the ancients activated the city-wide shield. Even the original Citadel stood sentinel, a spire of unbreakable black Orkinar stone."

  Van Reiver had never seen Atlantis. Stories abounded in history, myth and legend. His father kept clear of the Atlanteans, and he always wondered how it would feel to touch something tangible from the old world. Whether the old square walls of Atlantis, or the remains of the old tower at the bowels of The Citadel. He would never see the latter. Only a magus like Dagmar could gain access, but still he wondered. Would there be a sense of ancestors in the stone, or would it only matter to a magus, and stone remained stone. Unfeeling and eternal.

  "The Citadel formed the shield apex, as you would expect. You've heard this right?" Dagmar waited for Van Reiver to nod and pressed on. "The sole exception being the southern gates. An Atlantean refugee fleet retreated from the Pillars of Hercules, escorted by several arks—nearly as big as our 'T' if you can believe it. I saw bodies and wreckage strewn over miles that storm seas couldn't erase. They crept on against ferocious winds and pincered by the Babylonian fleet of Ninurta in the north and the southern Egyptian fleet of Saimun. Why did I see this? I can't remember when I last thought of the old world and those names are dust in long-forgotten archives. Gods, I remember, it was for the Citadel entrance exam. A decade ago."

  "I haven't heard the term 'ark' in a donkey's age." Van Reiver muttered. Distracted, he rose to refill their tankards. Dagmar didn't sound like he was making this up, and he'd spouted some first class shit over the years. Dag seemed emotional. "This doesn't sound like the usual shit you pull from a musty scroll you nosed out, even glibbing as a false prophet."

  "You believe me?" Dagmar looked nonplussed, half-draining the fresh tankard in a few gulps.

  Van Reiver twitched a noncommittal shrug, not wishing to laugh in his face. "The ark has sailed, so to speak."

  "Ha!" Dagmar scowled, drained his tankard and set it down. "The shield didn't cover the city in its entirety. The gates were wide open for the refugees; the attackers must have had agents within ensuring it would happen. I saw some rush the mechanism on the walls and tried to hack their way inside."

  "Oh?" This sounded new, and Dagmar nodded agreement. "Brutal. I guess the Atlanteans sorted it to translocate, obviously?" Van Reiver was only half serious to provoke a response. Dagmar pulled a face, as though seeing through him.

  "Kelta tribesmen, not Atlanteans." Dagmar grinned at the startled expression forming on the navigator's face. "The trade delegations from the tribes and nations had to clear out the inner harbour." The needling grin broadened. "I shit you not, but two Kelta ran a chariot onto the battlements. The charioteer tore through the phalanx barricading the mechanism and slammed into one of the inner crenels, allowing his horses to bugger off. The archer finished the guy chopping at the door by shooting him, twice." Dagmar gestured his skinny robed chest where the arrows had struck.

  Van Reiver swilled back his ale, which seemed sourer. Bitter. "I've seen paintings when my father visited the Carvetii. You've never been up to their tribal lands, have you?"

  "No, I've not visited the Carvetii, or Demeta. Decangii tribe twice, and Spires Central several times when my father travelled with our princes to court. Good point."

  "It's your head, my friend."

  "True. That period for the Citadel is fucking hazy, with Atlantis arriving in one place and our tower plunging off east like a fucking spear. I know early Atlantean stonework had a fashion for black, white and red banding. These days no-one gives a shit, cost over tradition. I hear Atlantis is only banded at the abandoned breakwaters and my lot built the current Citadel around the island the old one crunched into."

  "Dag, this is dull, and my Transition history is patchy as hell."

  "I struggled to stay awake too, and the tower is important to a magus. Atlantis was wrecked, civil strife endemic and the tribes and diplomatic embassies with sense and means buggered off from near slavery to claim lands and take advantage of infighting. Hard to blame them, eh? Our nation wouldn't be here if the Aquitani Tribe hadn't fled the mess. It must have been clear to the higher ups with the magus tower missing and the Proteus Stone in fragments over the emperor's floor that everyone within Atlantis was here to stay."

  "I wondered in the first history lesson how you'd make that decision. Rebuild the wreck, or flee into the unknown and chance it?" Van Reiver eyed the ale cask and decided another wouldn't hurt and snatched Dagmar's tankard as he rose. Van Reiver returned and broke the silence. "Go on, spit out the rest."

  "Nastier stuff." Dagmar pulled a face and set his tankard on the table. "The refugee fleet put on every scrap of sail they dared, but struggled against the wind. They cast overboard cargo, priceless treasures, animals, slaves, passengers and even performed sacrifices on deck. The six escorting arks parted in the most impressive display of seamanship I've ever seen undertaken without a sunjammer. Even then, only five of the beasts survived the turn, and they ripped the nearest Phoenician and Egyptian ships apart. Thirty refugee ships remained outside when the city vanished." Dagmar jerked both hands upwards, flaring his fingers wide in demonstration.

  "Atlantis buggered off into the sky—a whole fucking city?" Van Reiver squawked, laughing uproariously.

  Dagmar leaned closer, growing more intent and earnest. "The killer wave was imminent. Their Emperor gave the refugees a chance. Anticlimactically, the city vanished before they shut the gates and unleashed the motherfucker of all ocean maelstroms."

  "It seems incredible anyone could move a city, by magic, mythic stones, or otherwise." Van Reiver demurred.

  "They prepared well and their magus succeeded," Dagmar agreed, gulping his ale and almost choked himself.

  "Idiot!" Van Reiver leaned forward and thumped Dagmar on the back, twice. Hard. Enjoyably hard, after the man's marriage advice. "That's a hell of a story. If our guest can read minds, maybe she can con
firm you're nuts and save you the worry?" Van Reiver observed another of Dagmar's vigorous head shakes. "What?"

  "I've never had a dream like this and I haven't got to the weird shit, so leave your pretty friend out."

  "Why?" Van Reiver felt all tolerance slipping.

  "It disappeared, but I saw something shooting skywards, like when you see a falling star in the sky, only upward."

  "Eh?" Van Reiver wondered where the magus was heading.

  "I saw a jade line ascend to the distant orange glitter. It sparkled as bright as a sun, making it noticeable for an instant."

  "Have you been reading bad poetry when playing with yourself? Fuck's sake, Dag, what's this mean?"

  "No idea. I had a cracking dream afterwards with a dusky brunette with great tits. The kind to die for. However, ancient Atlantis keeps bugging me. It pulls me back. I keep seeing it when I close my eyes. It felt real, the stone, the flag. Red, white, and black stonework. It means something."

  "Really? I'm surprised you remembered," Van Reiver deadpanned.

  "Me too. They dodged the killer wave, came here, founded new civilisations across new unknown continents, shagged lots and squabbled. The peoples formed new kingdoms beyond the tribes, traded, warred and yadda yadda—nothing to be excited about, unless you're a historian boring children, right?"

  "I guess, if you're the studious scroll-sniffing type. The gate battle is new. I've heard the archaic tales, but never that."

  "I agree, but the jade line's important. I'm certain, but fuck knows why. It's conjecture, a dream—but I reckon that's what shattered the Proteus Stone and fucked Penric's spell. No human since has come close to his skill when he vanished in The Transition. As a polyhistor, he's unique. He planned everything in fine detail and used the fire stones in the towers and Citadel to focus vast magical energies for a decade. It's ironic the towers survived The Transition, but the Citadel, Penric, and Proteus Stone didn't. I was thinking on this earlier as Gerard told me to bugger off when I went to the dome for my watch. He even locked the door on me."

  "How many times has he done that?"

  "Never. I wandered on deck for a nosy at the noise and saw him playing with a case.

  "Burgundy, like the one the nobles brought aboard?"

  "Dunno, could be."

  "Hmm, odd. All right, if a green squiggle bugs you; what is it and how did it scuttle the spell and shatter the gem?"

  Dagmar deflated and stared at his feet, mumbling something inaudible.

  "Dag," Van Reiver pressed, impatient as his stomach added hungered discontent.

  "I dunno."

  "What?" Van Reiver almost yelled the word in frustration.

  "I don't know," Dagmar repeated. "That's what's bugging me. Seriously fucking bugging me. I can't think who would want to interfere. The energies are mind boggling."

  "The boggling is worse for some minds than others, eh?" Van Reiver couldn't resist.

  "Ha. You can mock, you half-Friscian shitbag, but I hope I never see such a god-awful calamity." Dagmar wagged a chiding finger under Van Reiver's nose, "With you."

  "What're you, our fucking priest?" Van Reiver scoffed.

  "I make sense?" Dagmar was undeterred, and Van Reiver felt a twinge of pity.

  "No, but magic doesn't to me. Do you plan to mention it to Gerard?"

  "No. You know how little my superior thinks of me. Prick." Dagmar was ambiguous with whom he insulted. "He's in a foul mood today. A blind trainee could have pulled alongside a bobbing boat smoother."

  Van Reiver grinned. Footsteps thumped outside, keeping discordant time to the clatter of plates and dishes. "Grub up soon. See how it sits with you after the meal, or say a prayer and see if our gods answer?"

  "That's one of your better ideas. I'll scribble down what I remember, we can see later if I have a career as an oracle."

  "That's worrying. All right, answer me a question? It may make things clearer to someone who isn't a smartarse spell-chucker."

  "Shoot."

  It was unlike Dagmar to pass up on an easy riposte. Van Reiver pulled a face. "How do you know it was the old world?"

  "Easy, the water. It was steely blue with none of the orange taint we have. It couldn't be on Sanctuary before the Greek disaster when the fragments of the Proteus stone damned the crazy Greeks and fucked our oceans and their temples. The current city walls and towers are higher, and the southeastern breakwater was intact in my dream. The Atlanteans have never repaired it because of the earthquakes."

  "Prophet Dagmar it is. Do you marry a woman with inky hair and raise a brood of spoiled kids?"

  "Why did you join our navy? Could you not've been a jester?" Dagmar sighed, then added, "Thank you."

  "For?"

  "Listening. Confugerunt ad locum homis venit." Dagmar grinned at Van Reiver's confusion as the captain's steward entered with a tray stacked high with warm plates. Despite their commissions, Skillon barely acknowledged them.

  "It's that sort of day, Bullsen tore me a new one for griping about Comace." Van Reiver professed.

  "Ah-ha, that explains your mood." Dagmar said.

  "You wouldn't find Bullsen receptive, best keep the brunette and weird dreams to yourself."

  "I will," Dagmar leered. "I need a piss." He slipped around the steward, cradling a tray of food balanced on a platter. The fragrant hint of spices and pork teased Van Reiver's taste buds with a promise of what to come as Dagmar left the wardroom. Van Reiver heard Dagmar curse outside, and a feline yowl froze Skillon stiller than a statue. No-one looked at anyone else for a second, then Dagmar's footsteps faded.

  5

  Conversation stilled when Captain Bullsen entered the wardroom, followed by Artillery Mate Grail Neerson and an immaculate Comace. The third mate's attire shamed everyone except Hadly. Two cadets trailed Comace, and as cadets under his nominal supervision, elected themselves away from the severe twenty-year-old. They settled into a pair of hornbeam chairs across the matching table from Van Reiver and Dagmar. Van Reiver remained expressionless when Dagmar winked, while wondering what their guest and Bullsen had discussed.

  Taking his seat at the head of the table, Bullsen gave a polite nod as his assembled officers shuffled to their places. Comace looked around, with a momentary perplexed frown marring his features, as he turned to stare at the two youths leaving him standing alone. His gaze fell on Van Reiver, who returned it. Comace sat, back stiff, and ducked his head to whisper to the quartermaster and obscure his embarrassment. Good.

  A moment later, Doctor Robsin ushered in a damp, but cleaner, Carla, decked out in the bulk of a naval cadets' uniform. It fit her well, other than straining at the hips and chest for obvious differences. Few men aboard would complain, as the considering glances made clear. Dagmar glanced at Van Reiver and winked. The second mate stared back, keeping his face impassive.

  Nodding to Robsin with a slight smile, Carla bobbed a curtsey to Bullsen and with a pinking to her cheeks, murmured, "Thank you for saving us from the fickle sea, Captain. Both myself and my father are in your debt. In particular, I wish to thank your doctor for the care he's provided."

  Bullsen waved everyone to sit, "It was our pleasure, Lady Carla. It is always nice to have a pretty face at the table compared to this rabble. Has your father shown any improvement?" The smooth old bugger sounded genuinely concerned, he'd been much different earlier, Van Reiver thought as Bullsen gave a jovial smile.

  "A little, thank you. I pray he wakes soon."

  Robsin spoke past her. "I imagine he will sleep for another day, Captain. He should improve now he is in decent conditions."

  Bullsen raised a bushy eyebrow at Tryphon being called 'decent' and glanced at the wine on the table. Robsin nodded and changed tack. "Perhaps this is talk we should keep from Tryphon's table?"

  "Never keep a doctor from his wine," Bullsen chuckled. "It is, however, a jolly fine idea as our quartermaster is a magician." He gestured to the stewards and gave a heartier than necessary laugh.

  Van Reiver
exchanged a glance with Dagmar while ignoring a frown from Comace and Hadly's smugness. Instead, Tryphon's navigator looked at the adroit precision Rufus displayed with the food and Jimi with the drinks. Skillon set the plates as junior stewards brought in banewood platters.

  Van Reiver muttered his thanks and let the conversation float around him. From the aroma, Rufus had been in his spice jars, despite complaining about the cost. The pork wasn't bad as it steamed on the plain white plate in a bloody sauce. Spice motes drifted in twirls to tease his nostrils, making his stomach rumble. A few years back his father could've offered Bullsen a great deal on the crockery, but he'd transitioned into textiles, with newer fashions sweeping their continent as memories of civil war strife receded.

  A bump jolted Van Reiver out of his reverie. At first, he thought it was people fidgeting, but he sensed a second, sharper rattle against the sunjammer plating on the outer hull. Noticing Dagmar glancing his way, Van Reiver looked past him to the captain. Bullsen had, with dignified enthusiasm, devoured his meal while maintaining polite small talk with his officers and their guest with effortless aplomb. Beyond a name and basic title, it seemed odd no-one was being forthcoming and that included Bullsen. The man in question returned Van Reiver's questioning stare, raised a napkin to his lips and glanced to the door; then returned to discussing the doctor's opinion of their diminished wine selection. Games within games and know your place...

  "Excuse me," the navigator muttered, earning odd looks from Dagmar and Comace. Van Reiver scraped his chair back, uncaring to the noise. Several quick steps took from the wardroom when a whim took him to his tiny shared cabin.

  He glanced around the twilight before placing the package from Grimm atop his horn-handled brown navigation case, aimed at Robsin's bunk. Frowning at why he was bothering, he collected his wide-brimmed hat. Then, as an afterthought, put his hand through the hooped strap of his sabre scabbard hanging from a hook at the foot of his cabin bed. Weirdness or not, he now felt prepared. An illogical hunch compelling him to follow like a hound after its master. He glanced at the trickling sand in the hourglass between the two beds and stepped into the hall, slamming the door.