"Why you fat mother—" Valant ground through clenched teeth, stumbling upright in the cascading surf. His rotund face was as dark as night as he turned to the boat, hand flying to his belt sheath—only to realise it remained empty. He froze in an uncomfortable looking crouch. Without saying a word, Merizus slid his blade from Valant's throat and reflected the moonlight across pale faces before resting it flat across his knees. Valant gaped. Jaw wide and incredulous at dirty unforgiving faces, several smirks and the glint of steel he lacked. Feeling wetness on his throat, his shoulders slumped. Muttering, the chubby seaman sloshed onto the beach several paces from Grimm to stare after the sunjammer, his back stiff as he dabbed his neck. Grimm listened.
"I hope you won't need that. We've seen enough of the red goddess's work." Cephill observed, thudding his blade away.
"I agree, Cep. We don't have the cutlery, but best make a show for the carpin' dickhead, eh?" Merizus snorted.
"If he had a dick, he'd tell you to suck it, but I think you hurt the fat fuckers feelin's."
"Aww, shame. Do you care?"
"Nope." Cephill said. "Never did, an' earlier was his choice."
Grimm turned, and Merizus's smile broadened to include him. The marine looked sideways once at Valant and leant over the side of the boat with the sword. "Trev', take your bundle and join the gobshite."
Up to his thighs in the chill ocean, Trevir huffed, "You could have said before I got wet. I'm drably now, with ice on my balls. I can show you before they drop off and form me a cunt for fingerin'?"
"Do you see what I endure? This shabbarron is the smartest I have." Merizus complained to the cox'n.
The cox'n shook his head, ignoring other plaintive queries about what was happening from those hard of hearing or harder of thinking. Morosely, Grimm stared away from Lady Carla and unfolded the spyglass to peer into the darkness. Nothing. He could feel her eyes staring daggers at him. If she didn't like it, she could join the bloody queue, or have a gawk at Trev's frosty bollocks. Fuck, could anything' be simple?
.*.*.
Dagmar trudged up the hillock, his gait rolling despite land underfoot. He knew his feet would find the oak tree. The glow was the giveaway, with the looming shadow of the hill blotting out the night. As he walked, he felt the back of his legs pulling from cramped days at sea.
Shaking his head, he tried to clear befuddled thoughts and sought to ignore his interminable headache that pulsed with metronomic regularity behind his eyes. With a giddy laugh, he considered meeting a strange woman on a deserted island in the middle of the ocean small fry, compared to the loss of Tryphon and almost all her crew. He struggled to comprehend the circumstances that had wrecked their ship—the pinnacle of current shipbuilding technologies—and the circumstances that had placed Carla on the amber before that. Weird, outlandish, or convenient that they had stumbled across each other before Tryphon's disaster?
Questions… Questions… Always questions. If only he'd had the chance to scry on Gerard's activities behind that locked door. Fuck, had the Aztexa done that? Chuckling at the reminiscence of recent events, he stopped and looked at the looming shadow. Cool air surrounded him, somehow still this near to the sea. With growing unease, he observed no movement beyond the faint creak and the sigh of the tree and erratic undulation of several unusual insects. When nothing stirred, he stepped forward into deeper shadow to scrutinise the tree soaring to the heavens. Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat.
"Lady. I am here by your invitation."
"I know, Magus." The voice was indistinct, yet as soft as he imagined, floating ethereally around him, like a zephyr on a gentle wind caressing his senses. Moments later, she appeared, gliding with the barest of sounds. Despite himself, he jumped. He heard no footfall, no breathing, or swish of foliage. Nothing. Pulling her hood back, he confirmed from her pointed ears she wasn't human, but an elf, now that she had tied her hair back. Her pale, refined face was just as beautiful as his spirit had seen. He felt his mouth go dry looking at her. A stare he should drop, but couldn't. Her face caught his gaze. It drew him in, trapping him. Mesmerising him.
He did not know how to discern her age, and with elves, he could be off by centuries. Their species were exceptionally long-lived by human standards, and two or three times that of the northern dwarfs. The dark hood framed her oval face with perfectly smooth translucent skin. Dagmar surmised her sloping eyes under slanted thin brows were azure in the dim glow of the lantern and moon. To any sculptor—of any race—it would be perfection personified in humanoid form if transferred to stone. Damn, he struggled to avoid being overwhelmed and smitten like a teenager.
He felt himself redden at his thoughts. Clearing his throat, he stammered, "I am an accredited member of the Sunjammer Guild. I am Lieutenant Dagmar of the Western Spires Navy." To Dagmar, his guild status was of greater import than his naval rank. He often forgot the latter until reminded by Gerad, or Hadly.
"I am Synalavar, one of the co-leaders of our community, which I believe humans call Insula?" She smiled with a glimmer of alien humour and inclined her head.
"I've heard the name. Our people call it Tuvala after the sea."
She laughed, her light voice tinkling, "That is almost the name of our city, 'Tuvula'. I expect few outlanders would know the original, or their cartographers changed the name over the ages."
"More than likely." He frowned, regaining a slice of self-control. More suspicions, if honest with himself. "You must be quite a way from home, Lady, if you were expecting us?"
"Somewhat." Synalavar straightened and gestured with a robed arm in a rustle of fine fabric. "I believe you require assistance?" To his astonishment, he realised she was as tall as his own six-foot frame. He'd envisaged her to be slight and slim, petite, not tall and slender with poise to beg for. He felt even more disadvantaged, as though his perceptions were shifting away from him. Details became lost to him in the emptiness of night.
"I appreciate your difficulties. I cannot imagine anyone wishes to be adrift on the ocean." Her words seemed cool, but not unfriendly. He resisted taking umbrage at 'adrift'. He'd maintained course, speed and control, when conscious. It had not been a full-time activity, just stressful with the calamities and an unceasing headache. Gesturing ahead, the elven lady walked beside him as they retraced his steps down the narrow dirt path. In silence. The noise of footfalls was his and his alone. Maybe she wore slippers instead of shoes, but hardly attire for a stroll?
Part of Dagmar's mind pondered the wisdom of wandering around a remote beach on a forbidden coast, alone at night, with an alien woman he'd met through the arcane arts. However, the need for aid trumped his objections. He wondered where the woman's escorts lurked. If she was a leader of the reclusive branch of the elves, he'd expect several guards at least. Concerned, he erred on the side of prudence, his eyes wary, darting, searching for armed forms and seeing nothing. His senses had failed him on Tryphon, and something was out of kilter here. Yet, it didn't bother him. Despite repeated blows to his head and little food, he felt edgy, yet far from being panic-stricken at his situation. Dagmar thought the walk would help clear his mind, but it was becoming more difficult to concentrate as his headache grew all consuming.
He cleared his throat to announce Synalavar when he saw the black lump of the boat, "Everyone, this is Lady Synalavar—" Then, he noticed everyone was still—too still. Nothing stirred. His men, his friends, were lifeless lumps strewn on shingle and bunched in the boat. What had he done? How foolish had his naivety been? Feeling the hairs on his neck erupt, he turned, heel digging into the shingle. Far too late. The tired, carping voice of warning snarled the deception at his awareness.
Spinning around, he had just enough time to vent a look of pent-up anger and betrayal to a pair of steady almond-shaped azure eyes rich with power. Synalavar's voice whispered two short unfamiliar words, and for Dagmar, everything went black. He heard boots crunch on shingle and vowed he'd never again wander alone in the dark. He felt himself fall, his ange
r fading. I've failed everyone! Heart bereft, his mind heard the braying laugh of Hadly in judgement before he found nothingness.
Part III
Tuvala Isle
30
Dagmar woke puzzled, with the sea a gentle susurration to his ears. Was he lying down? His body and one open eye confirmed he was, with a smear of sand pressing against his face, pricking his cheekbone. How? Scents and sounds swirled like a vibrant perfume under his nose from unfamiliar fauna and flora. The sunjammer recalled standing on shingle, the water cold as it flowed over the top of his boots to chill feet which had warmed stale seawater for days. Where was he?
Dagmar rolled over to find he lay in a round mossy cove at least six hundred feet across at the widest point. Tall, wide-trunked trees—the largest Dagmar had ever seen—erupted with sinewy boles extending from the rising land to reach for the sky, to loom eternal. Like silent guardians, they sloped almost to the water, with chittering wildlife abundant in their foliated bosoms.
At the side of the sea, there was a strip of thick, luscious broad-leafed grass several yards wide, leading to the sprawled forms of Tryphon survivors a stride apart, in two neat rows to the patch of sand he alone lay upon. Did they venerate their magus? Dagmar leant up on one elbow for clearer scrutiny and saw a single earthen track headed into the forest through a narrow, imperceptible opening.
Leaning at the end of the cove was the battered boat that had been their home for several days. It looked a wreck but had got them to land. Below the mountain brown of the upper strake, storm and sea streaked stout dark-blue planking above the waterline. The sunjammer plating suffered several impressive dents in the copper where the other boat had been lashed, but still looked seaworthy considering the abuse. If only the planking looked as sound.
On the opposite side of the cove bobbed an elegant, almost dainty silver longboat blocking the route to sea. It had a ridiculously high prow and pointed transom, which gleamed in the intense double sunlight of mid-morning. Compared to their shorter, stockier Spires boat, the elven equivalent seemed fancy, with delicate narrow strakes, thin wales, and no nail holes. Sculpted more than crafted, he considered and wiped the sand from his skin.
Half a dozen lean-faced archers in leather armour sat observing the slumbering humans and the trail, their bows nearby. Guarding the path inland stood two further warriors in plate with halberds and belted shortswords. They looked the part: statuesque, with shell-like steel helms glittering from sun rays penetrating the undulating leaves.
Between them stood a slim youthful woman in a long cloak with long straight ash-coloured hair, talking to a man with a crimson-hilted sword and a tall kite shield. Compared to the guards', his equipment was finer, and a high plume on his helm suggested someone of rank. He seemed slender compared to a human, his body triangular in torso, more catlike. A predatory grace under restraint.
Dagmar surmised this was the elven welcoming party, and bitterness suffused every fibre of his being. All Tryphon's remaining crew appeared alive, which dampened his rage. Hope? Options? What fucking options?
He looked around and caught finer details that he'd first missed. The grass on the isle seemed greener, as though a portion of the sun's glare was removed from his sight. Filtered somehow. It granted extra depth to his perception, made the colours more vivid, tinged with a glowing aura. All the sleeping forms had their heads resting on a cloak, similar in colour to that of the elven woman. Everyone appeared covered by a beige blanket of a foreign material. He wasn't sure if it was a fine weave from a plant or a rough spun fabric. Looking down at his own, it felt comfortable, warm but alien, with a strange velvety, snakelike feel to its thick weave.
Were they prisoners? Their reclusive hosts seemed hospitable, if he ignored their rude arrival. His head throbbed as though he hadn't drunk enough, rather than the pounding cacophony he'd endured from the explosion on Tryphon.
Dagmar half rose and dusted himself. The blanket rolled down his grime-stained and bloodied grey robe at the movement, and glanced about. Seeing the sunjammer stir, the woman concluded her conversation and walked his way, unhurried. Almost gliding on blue slippered feet. She paused beside a hollowed-out tree trunk, waist high and open at the top. Dagmar gawked, curiosity piqued, as the woman dipped a large red-streaked cornet seashell into it and proceeded to his side. He noticed her robe wasn't grey, but flickered between a silvery-green and metallic-grey, with intricate silver embroidery highlights undulating like her bronzed hair as she walked. Dagmar sat up straight as she knelt, with the faint hiss of rustling fabric from her skirts. She offered him the shell, only releasing her grip when positive he was in control of his movements.
Dagmar considered her eyes, a deep canted periwinkle, unlike the other shade he'd seen, and saw no hint of duplicity. Knowing there were easier ways of killing him and that they'd had at least two opportunities to do that, he resisted an urge to refuse.
"Drink. It is refreshing. You will need to replenish fluids for three daily cycles." She instructed in a musical lilting common tongue, her manner encouraging. His language sounded wrong, crude, compared to the musical elven voice.
Dagmar nodded. Showing manners drilled into him as a child, he drank. It was cool. More refreshing than she claimed, with a subtle hint of wood on his palate that seemed fitting with the surroundings. He stared into the horn, the water pure and crystal-clear. Rolling the vessel in his fingers only highlighted the purity and the lack of sediment in the yellow interior.
Finishing double-quick, he sipped the last mouthful to savour the taste. All too soon gone. Feeling disappointed, Dagmar returned the horn with a nod of thanks. Looking past her shoulder, he noticed that the warrior she'd conversed with had disappeared, Dagmar presumed to report his awakening. Considering the obvious questions coming to mind, he waited. It was unlike him to proceed with patience—his mouth always acted before his brain—but he sensed there was a reason to the reticence from their hosts, and somewhere within, he knew it was the correct course to steer.
"Another?" she enquired, canting her head.
"I'd like that, thank you," Dagmar replied with equal formality and gave a faint smile. There was no acknowledgement. Curious, if only it was wine, if not something with more bite, but it hit the spot to sate his epicurean tendencies.
.*.*.
Dagmar decided not to pursue further small talk as the swordsman returned with the woman from the hillock who held the warrior's arm with loose familiarity. He waited for the youthful woman to return with his refill and creaked to his feet. His body felt stiff. His stomach rumbled with growing discontent, and Dagmar knew all too well the archers with pointy things down the cove invisibly nocked arrows at his back. It wasn't much of an effort to appear non-threatening.
Dagmar allowed himself a generous mental sigh as he girded himself for a conversation as a supplicant. He knew he could make their current situation stranger, or substantially worse, and should fear the responsibility. His mind resisted, he'd endured too much in too short a space of time. A meeting was tame in comparison. The woman gave him a faint smile as she returned the horn—it was a bare twist of her lips, but it cracked her impassivity. The other two older elves approached, forcing him to repress his belligerence. He knew the bastards had used magic on himself and his crew. Had set him up. Now was the time for information and consideration.
Synalavar gave a polite nod of greeting, and instead of responding in kind, Dagmar grunted. "Are we to consider ourselves prisoners?" he asked, wincing inwardly as his mouth raced off.
The swordsman studied him with a flick of his gaze before glancing sideways to Synalavar. The woman framed her reply, her small mouth taking a prudent moment to consider a diplomatic response. A third cloaked form joined, pulling a cowled hood back to reveal an older elven woman, beautiful by human standards, in her middle years. Still vibrant, with dark skin. Not a rich earthy-brown like a Nubian, but a grey-brown more like wet ash. Strange to look upon with the sage of her hair and eyes. She had the wisest
and the deepest pair of deep-green eyes he'd ever seen on a person. They were disconcerting to look upon, with their intensity and unusual vertical alignment. For a magus, it was a disturbing admission with many guild specialisations having eye taints, but none altering a face like hers. She stared right through him, sifting through him, as though panning for gold. It appeared her gaze was deformed for that purpose.
"Guests for the moment, young magus, not prisoners." Her tone was brusque but almost jovial. Rusty wavy hair cascaded from within the folds of the hood, laced through by silvery-grey hairs. It added a tempered gravity, missing from the other elves.
Dagmar raised an eyebrow, making the swordsman laugh, then looked to Synalavar, who flushed across her high cheekbones.
Without preamble, Synalavar spoke, "I apologise for your journey. We take security seriously. Knowledge of our settlements is not something we share with outlanders. I appreciate you can understand?"
There was little point in complaining, considering the invitation and the healing. Dagmar shrugged. He was smart enough to understand their reasoning, but unimpressed by their methods. How fucking hard would it've been to say something before chucking sleep spells? Bastards!
He finished his drink and returned the horn with care. For all he knew, it was a sacred artefact to his 'rescuers'. The action allowed him time to think up new profanities. Moaning and bitching would not improve their predicament, would it?
Surprised by the silence, the three elves looked at each other as the youthful woman—whose name Dagmar still did not know—stepped away with the shell. Synalavar's face flickered with an unreadable expression, and she added, "It allowed us to expedite treatment of your injured." Synalavar gestured to the woman with the ornate cloak. "Tryell, here is a skilled master cleric and our finest healing mistress."
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 27