Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  "Hello! Hello, the shore! Is anybody home? Hello!" Galli hailed as they slid into an open spot along the quay. Standing on the bow, he took hold of the boat's painter and leaped onto the wooden planking. As he tied the painter to a post, Kal and Gwyn followed him onto the wharf. From shore, the dog had been following their movement with growing agitation. Now that they had landed, it charged along the narrow beach to accost them.

  Galli glanced from the dog back down to the bottom of the dory where his gear lay. "Foolish, wasn't it, to leave our bows?" he said under his breath and drew his sword. The dog slowed to a stalking pace as it moved onto the quay, its hackles raised, teeth bared, and its barking now dropping to a throaty growl.

  "Stay, Jig!" From behind the nearest dwelling emerged an old man, square-jawed, with a brown face creased and leathery, tanned like hide by the years of wind, sea, and sun. He held a rusty sword. The blade had clearly seen better days and little use in the meantime. Three younger men appeared behind him and came forward to flank the old man, two of them bearded, their bows held at the ready, each with an arrow nocked to its string.

  "Jigger!" the weathered man barked.

  The dog stopped in midstep and retreated. The old man drew closer, peering at them, squint-eyed and uncertain. From where it had withdrawn behind its master, the dog growled low and threateningly, hackles still raised, its body pressed to the ground.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" demanded the old man gruffly. He eyed the three Holdsmen narrowly, his head slanted down and to the side. By now, he had reached the foot of the jetty.

  "It's a trick, Noldran. Don't trust them. It's a trick," said one of the men behind him, drawing on his bowstring. "Mind not the pelts. We don't know their faces. They're not of the brotherhood."

  "Aye, Nol. What if they've come from one of them warships?" said another.

  "Briacoil! We come in peace." Kal took a step forward and held his hands wide in open greeting. "In the name of Gelanor, who made us members of your brotherhood and fitted us with this garb. And in the name of the Wood Maid, Katie Woodencloak, Protector of the Gleacewhinna."

  "In the name of Gelanor, eh?" Noldran narrowed his eyes even more.

  "Aye, in the name of Gelanor," Kal said expectantly.

  "And in the name of the Wood Maid?"

  "And of the Wood Maid."

  "Well, then!" Noldran straightened as his face broadened into a smile. He took the sword firmly into his two hands and plunged the rusted blade into the soft sand and leaned on the pommel. "Briacoil, masters! Briacoil!" He turned his head to the left and right. "Put aside your bow, Hoff. You too, Peytar, and you, Safrus. They're friends. Friends and more than friends, I suspect," he continued, leaving the sword to stand leaning in the sand, knocked askew, as he strode forward to greet Kal. "My apologies for our suspicions. You might have come to us with evil in your heart."

  "No harm done, Master Noldran." Kal couldn't help himself, but let a slight chuckle escape his throat at the mercurial change in the old fisherman's attitude. "We live in perilous times. The wise take stock of strangers," Kal said as he and Noldran met and clasped forearms, inclining their heads to one another. Noldran cast a closer look at Kal's pios.

  "You are a bard, then." Noldran clasped Kal's arm more firmly still. "Now I know who you are. They said you were young. You saw Ruah. You've been staying with the Wood Maid."

  "How did you know?"

  "Word has long legs and swift feet in the Black Cape. And it's a rare day that we cross paths with any outsider." The weathered man released Kal's arm. "My name you know. They count me an elder here. Come, we'll talk."

  Noldran led them into the village and seated himself at a table with benches set in a bower before one of the cottages. He dispatched one of the younger men to fetch food and drink and gestured for the Holdsmen to sit. Other men had begun to gather as women and children emerged from the cottages and milled shyly about the table, gawking at the newcomers. Noldran nodded his welcome to each as the assembly grew.

  "Now," he said at last, turning his attention back to Kal, "tell us how you come to be in our village."

  The fisherfolk stood by and listened as Kal began to explain how the forced departure of the Dancing Master at the appearance of Gawmage's warships had disrupted their plans and had left him and his companions stranded. Food arrived, and, dry-mouthed, Kal broke from his account to quaff a deep draught from the tankard set before him. He looked up at his growing audience. Noldran grinned.

  "I told you, we ne'er entertain outsiders," he said. "Only our own woodfolk, and men of the brotherhood, like Gelanor. They come to fish and stock the larder." Noldran shook his head and laughed. "Ah, Gelanor. He grumbles that fishing's a chore forced on him by his wife. He's forever carping. But we know different, don't we, Hoff?"

  "That we do, Nol. I'll tell you," the younger man said, then winked at Kal with a sideways nod, "Gelanor, he loves to hoist sail on the ocean waters."

  "If he loved it any the better, he'd be a fish," another man said.

  "Nay, a merman, terror of the ocean waves," Hoff said mirthfully around a piece of cheese that he had picked up from a platter on the table and shoved in his mouth.

  "So you see, Noldran," Kal resumed the thread of his explanation, "we followed one of your boats here, hoping you might somehow help us secure passage up the coast. If you could just help us rig our boat with a mast and sail. We've sailed before—"

  "Nay, nay, that'll not do." His mouth still half filled with cheese, Hoff shook his head so hard that the ale slopped from his mug. His hair, a mad black tangle peppered with sawdust, flew about, lending fierceness to the look of deep disapproval that blanketed his features. "It would be a job of work to make that tender of yours sea-sound. Nay, not worth the trouble. Better to start afresh, build a new boat." He planted his ale mug on the table with a thud.

  "Hoff's our shipwright, none better," Noldran said, nodding pensively.

  "What about the Ellyn?" another man piped up.

  "Aye, I was thinking the same, Safrus, I was thinking the same," Noldran said.

  "The Ellyn?"

  "You recognize the name, no?" Noldran grinned at Kal.

  "It's Gelanor's boat," the man who had made the suggestion said. "We hold it ready for him for whenever he comes to fish."

  "In perfect sailing trim," Hoff said, a wide smile spreading across his face. "I've just overhauled and repaired her. Up the coast? She'd do fine by you. And I'd love to see the look on the big man's face, to be sure!" He winked again. "One on him, eh?"

  A buzz of muted laughter and comment passed among the villagers. Noldran nodded and turned to Kal. "Well then, what do you say to the Ellyn? That's if you can sail her."

  "We've sailed. We know a bit. Not near as much as you folk who live by the sea. But we can beat to windward or run before a wind," said Galli.

  "She's a hard craft to handle, if we're to believe Gelanor. She gives too much leeway, he claims," Safrus said.

  "Bah, you must take no mind of that." Hoff said, flicking his hand dismissively. "We all know Gelanor well enough. It's his boat and his wife that bear the brunt of his jestful complaint. When he's not grumbling about too much leeway on the water, he's nattering about too little of it on home ground. Take my word on it, the Ellyn is a fine craft. And named after a fine woman."

  "It's settled then. You'll take the Ellyn upcoast," Noldran said.

  "But Gelanor. It's his boat—"

  "Peace, Kalaquinn," Noldran said. "Gelanor is a good man, a true brother of the pelt. As I know him, he would give his blessing. With full heart. He is our bard and our chief. That he should have made you members of our band and fitted you with the wolf pelt is something not to be taken lightly. No, not lightly." There was no doubting the respect he had for the man.

  Galli looked up and caught the old fisherman's eye.

  "Even you, Galli." He smiled, nodding. "To us the friend of a brother is a brother. You may count yourself a waldscathe, too. We'll fit you out with
a pelt and hear your pledge. No doubt it's what Gelanor would wish."

  "Then there's a further problem," Galli said.

  "What's that?"

  "How do we return the boat to you?"

  "Don't you worry about bringing her back," Noldran said, shaking his head as his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. "Just keep her safe and sound, for the sake of the boat. It's a small price, really, to be helping brothers."

  "But I can't just—"

  "Aye, you can and you will. Hospitality has been offered. You must accept. It's the waldscathe way," Noldran said, a glimmer escaping his old eyes. "Besides, we've lost more and finer craft in a shorter time in the teeth of a Calathros gale. You'll take the boat."

  "Aye, it'll give me the chance to make a new boat for the big man," Hoff said, winking now at no one in particular. "And give the big man the chance to complain about something new!"

  "How can I thank you?" Kal inclined his head to each of the fishermen around him. "I have nothing to give you by way of payment."

  "Payment? That's foolish talk. Payment! Nay, downright insulting." Noldran rose from table and lifted his clay mug. "We're kindred, waldscathes, one and all. To the brotherhood!"

  "To the brotherhood!" The refrain was taken up as men leapt to their feet. Lifted tankards were clanked one against another and drained. The women looked on with amusement, until everyone's attention was diverted by the howls of four or five young boys who had to be pulled off one another, their play at being waldscathes having gotten out of hand, turning into an all-out tussle under the feet of their elders. Mothers clucked at bloodied noses, scrapes, bruises, and torn clothing. Each turned for her cottage with a boy in tow, each boy yelping at the indignity of being led away by the ear.

  "How soon can we weigh anchor?" Kal asked as the distracting mirth settled somewhat.

  "Eager to leave us, are you, brother?" Hoff grinned then glanced up to the sky. "We can have you and your gear stowed aboard the Ellyn within the hour if you'd like. You can ride the tide out."

  The folk of the fishing village remained gathered on shore, still waving their farewell. Even Jigger the dog had been there to send them off, ranging the beach and barking excitedly. Kal raised his arm in parting one last time as Galli and Gwyn each pulled at an oar. In but a moment, the boat slipped around the bend in the channel, and the village was lost to view. Coming out of the shelter of the inlet onto the Firth of Tircoil, Galli and Gwyn stowed their oars.

  "Mind you keep a hand on that tiller now, Kal. You're my helmsman," said Galli, who stood to unfurl the sail and free the spars. The wolf pelt tied around Galli's neck flapped like bunting in the breeze.

  "And mind you reef your sail," Kal called back to him over the freshening west wind, "or we'll have our first mishap—waldscathe overboard, a newly clothed one at that."

  "Aye, Kal. It does catch a nasty bit of wind, doesn't it? I'd best take it off for the time being, like you and Gwyn. It may be a landsman's terror in the Woods of Tircoil, but doesn't make sense out here on the water. Gwyn!" Galli shrugged off the wolf pelt and attempted to attract the younger Holdsman's attention. "Gwyn! Hi, Gwyn!" The younger man looked over at Galli from where he had been sitting staring across the Firth. Galli tossed the pelt to him. "Here, stow this under the bow with the rest of the gear." Gwyn moved cautiously forward and shoved the wolf skin on top of a small pile of baggage and provisions. He remained there, leaning his elbows on the polished wood that covered the rounded bow, looking ahead, his red hair leaping like flames atop his head as it whipped in the sea wind.

  Galli grasped the bundled sail and its spars and heaved them onto the lee side of a mast that stood in the open boat not far aft of the bow. He reached for a line and pulled at it hand over hand. Immediately, a long wooden spar shot up the short mast, lifting the lug-rigged sail behind it, its aft tip rising high above the masthead. With deft movement, Galli leaned to the weather side of the boat and tied the line off tight against the weight the straining sail would soon place on the mast. The boom wavered above Kal as he sat at the tiller, and the fluttering sail stiffened, pulling the boom to the port side of the boat against another line that Galli snugged and secured. Now the Ellyn drove through the waves by the power of wind on canvas, running under a fair breeze.

  Galli moved beside Kal, leaning against the windward gunwale of the boat, a smile creasing his ruddy face. Kal wondered at his friend's easy competence with the small vessel. Had it been beekeeping, or rather fishing, that Galli had been preparing himself for in the Holding? Either way, there was little doubt that he had spent more time on Deepmere than he'd cared to admit before—no doubt learning the lines of mast and sail under the tutelage of one of the Holding's weathered fishermen, while Kal himself learned the lines of Hedric's Master Legendary under Wilum's watchful eye.

  "She's a fine little vessel, I think." Kal leaned to speak to his friend. "Handles well. Better than anything to be found on Deepmere, I venture to say."

  "Without a doubt." Galli nodded, pulling stray strands of straw-coloured hair from his face. "Aye, built tough, to be oceangoing. A good boat. Nice gift." His smile broadened. "Gelanor's a generous man."

  It was a good boat, Kal mused. Sturdy and stable, broad in the beam with beautiful lines that ran from the stem of the rounded bow to a rounded stern. There was no doubt that it was a workhorse of a boat, perfect for the task intended of her, but Kal was surprised at the attention to detail and care that had been paid in her construction—that and the speed that she had! Kal gripped the worn wood of the tiller and felt the gentle vibration of the water slipping under the hull, along the keel, and across the rudder. His gaze traced the line of the mast up to the yard, then farther up the rising yardarm to the sail's peak. From the topmost point of the spar, a yellow pennant danced in the wind, its tip snapping out to sea. On the banner rippled the image of a small harp. It was a bard's boat. Kal smiled to himself. Fitting.

  Gwyn distracted his attention, pointing to a scattering of fishing boats similar to the Ellyn that dotted the waters of the Firth, most of them on the windward side and too far to hail. Casting his eyes the other way, Kal saw that they had come up even to the point of Kingshead, which they soon passed. At Galli's instruction, Kal pulled the tiller gently towards himself, and the little vessel nosed to the west. They set a course that followed the eastern coast of the Firth, which lay to starboard, its features marked by massive cliffs and jagged outcroppings of rock surrounded by a heavy mantle of green that bore little sign of human habitation.

  As the day's light grew weaker and fell low across the water, they emerged from the protection of the Firth into the open ocean. The cries of the seafowl seemed more shrill and wild. The air turned more chill and the wind more brisk, shifting astern of the small craft, rising from the southwest under high wispy clouds in a purpling sky.

  Galli quickly unfastened the mainsheet, allowing the line to run out as he dropped sail. Again he lifted sail and spars around the mast with an economy of movement that betrayed the practice he had gained on Deepmere. Kal shifted, ducking to the windward side of the boat, and gripped the tiller in his other hand. Hoisting the sail once more, Galli grinned with satisfaction and tied off the sheet to the opposite side of the boat, then snugged the lines to the boom that hung far out over the starboard side. They bore off, so that the wind came at their port quarter, driving the Ellyn, trimmed and balanced, speedily up the mainland coast. Dusk fell with silent stealth, obscuring the detail and contrasts of the landmass that lay to the east, rendering it a long dark slab of formless shadow.

  "Keep your helm down, Kal. You heard Noldran. Mustn't steer too close to shore," Galli said. "Wouldn't think it, eh? More dangerous than the open sea. Shoals and sandbars and tidal rips."

  "Aye, aye, Captain Clout. Helm to starboard."

  "You may jest, but it's good that there's at least one serious sailor on this bucket."

  "And here I was thinking that a Telessarian's only element was the forest."

  "Don'
t forget, I'm only half-Telessarian. And lucky for us I spent more time than you haunting the waterfront and learning the difference between a tiller and a turnbuckle—"

  "Look, there's the first star," Kal said, and the two fell silent, watching for long moments as pinpricks of light pierced the deepening darkness and grew in strength and number. The wind was steady and whistled gently in the simple rigging of the Ellyn, a sound overlaid by the wash of the waves against the boat's bow and sides. Beneath that, the two men heard the hushed rhythm of Gwyn asleep and snoring in the bow. Galli yawned.

  "The breeze is holding fair," he said, "and we will hold this course 'til dawn. How long until the moon rises, do you reckon?"

  "Two, two and a half hours."

  "We could take turns getting some rest."

  "How about you rest first, now that sail and helm are fixed on course? After all, you said you're the one serious sailor—ouch!"

  Galli kicked Kal in the shin. "Ah, go on with you."

  "But it was you that said it," Kal said in a voice that feigned injury.

  "Right enough, I did . . . ." Galli yawned again. "And seeing as that's the case, I will grab a wink first. You're all right to hold this course, Kal?"

  "Sure. Look, there's the North Crown, and the Pole Star stands"—he stretched his thumb and little finger out at arm's length against the deep, luminous mist of the starfield—"one . . . two . . . exactly two hand spans from the top of the mast."

  "Good, then. But make sure you wake me if the wind changes or shifts, or when you're ready to be spelled off, or if anything happens."

  "Aye, aye, Captain Clout, sir," Kal said, thrusting his jaw out.