Cal approached the guards, eyeing their pikes and scimitars. They wore fabric across their mouths and noses. Other crew members were loading barrels and bales into the hold.
The nearest guard took a step forward, raising his hand. “Stop, keep back. What do you want?”
Cal stopped and raised his hands to the guard. “Sir, I’ve come looking for my cousin, Shanir, perhaps you know of him? He works for one of your brethren . . .”
“Never heard of him, now clear off, we’re about to sail from this godforsaken place. Get out of here while you can.” The guard’s tone was abrupt, hostile.
Cal nodded and started to turn. One of the ship’s crew, a stout man carrying a bale, stopped and shouted at Cal.
“Boy! Hey, you!”
Cal turned.
“Did I hear right? You’re looking for Shanir?” He spat on the ground and put the heavy bale down.
Cal nodded.
“When you find him, tell him he owes Clem fifty silver . . . I won’t forget!”
“Do you know where I can find him?” Cal shouted back. “No, cos if I did I’d have had his scrawny skin on the end of my knife. A man remembers those that owe him. Tell him from Clem, his silver’s mine with interest when I see him next.” The men picked up his bale and returned to work.
Sive watched the exchange. These were ruthless men, cutthroats. One of the crew coughed―a ripe, chesty cough―and she knew. The plague was on board. She backed away. This was a death ship. She turned, looking around the harbor, catching the eye of a woman holding a child. The woman was sitting on the harbor in the shade, her baby in her arms. She held Sive’s gaze.
Without speaking, Sive moved away from the others, winding through the crowd toward the woman. There she was―Sive kneeled beside her. She was dying, her baby already still. Sive reached out for the woman’s hand. A brief flicker of humanity awakened between them. The woman coughed, gesturing for Sive to draw near.
“The man you look for, Shanir . . . he’s on that ship,” she whispered, pointing toward a cutter in the bay. “He made enemies, used to work for the slavers . . .” her words broke off, her stare becoming unblinking. Sive gripped the woman’s hand and felt her life ebb away. She closed the woman’s eyelids and, despite herself, let out a low sob.
She stood up, saying a prayer for the departed. The bodies would be collected for the lime pits or bonfires by the plague masters. She wished the woman and her child peace for their long rest. She turned and headed back to the others.
“I know where Shanir is,” she said, her eyes drifting out to the cutter.
Ae’fir nodded.
They searched the harbor for a small boat and found a man unloading lobster pots from his skiff.
“A silver piece if you can take us to the cutter,” Ae’fir told the man.
“Make it two and it’s a deal,” the man replied.
Ae’fir looked at the man for few seconds. “Deal,” he said, handing the man the two coins.
They boarded the skiff and pushed off. The man rowed steadily.
“What you be wanting with the Djinn’s craft?” the fisherman asked between breaths.
“What do you mean?” Cal asked.
The fisherman spat into the water and tilted his head toward the cutter. “She’s the fastest ship on the west coast for a reason. She gives and takes that one, brings cures and distractions for the rich. The potions and alchemists’ ingredients on board her would be enough to buy and sell ten kingdoms. But be warned, she’s protected by a curse. Cross it at your peril.”
Ae’fir smiled. “Thanks for the advice old man, just get us alongside. We’ll do the rest.”
The fisherman nodded and they crossed the bay without mishap. He drew his skiff alongside the cutter and pulled the oars in.
Ae’fir nodded at Cal.
“Shanir, Shanir! Hello, it’s me, Cal. Are you there?”
Nothing. The cutter rose and fell in the swell. The stench from the port was not as intense out here, the breeze blowing it to the south. Cal called out again. Nothing.
“Think you got your answer,” the old timer said, “looks like you’re not welcome. We’d best get back then.” He dipped the oars. Ae’fir restrained him. “Wait, there’s another silver in it for you.” He handed the old man another coin.
“Suit yourself, it’s your money,” the man replied, pulling the oars back in.
Cal shouted again. They listened to the water lapping against the cutter’s hull. Cal reached out and touched it. He looked at the anchor chain. “If we can get to the chain, I might be able to climb it.”
They heard a sound and looked up. A black cat was peering at them from the deck. It let out a long, plaintive cry. It looked around then retreated, bolting from view. They heard footsteps.
The steps stopped and a voice came from above.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
Cal leaned forward, putting his hand on the hull to steady himself. “It’s Cal of Willow Vale, come looking for Shanir, my cousin. I need help, I thought you could assist us . . .”
A hooded figure leaned into view and scrutinized the skiff.
“You should’ve said so, come aboard.” The figure kicked a rope ladder over the side. “Welcome to the Sapphire, my respite from this world.”
Cal looked at the others. He reached out and grabbed the first rung.
Chapter 30: Black Fox
“Let the prisoner escape. We’ll follow him, he’ll lead us to Scalibur,” King Loarn said.
“But my lord, we can get the information from him. The inquisitor will extract the truth from him in minutes,” the King’s Counsel replied, concern edging his voice. “This . . . outlaw has already taken Crowe and his men, though quite how remains a mystery. That witch probably had a hand in it.”
“Aye, that witch. She’s unfinished business . . . a thorn in my side.” The king pulled a face. “No, did you see the way he looked at me? He won’t talk. He’ll take his secret to the grave, I’ve seen that look before. He’s already in the grave, that one, there’s something about him. I sense magic in his blood, I can smell it on him. No, allow him to escape, let him think he’s outsmarted us. We’ll use the Black Fox, he’ll follow Lamorak. The Fox won’t lose him, not like Crowe. Go, speak to the Black Fox, we’ve no time to lose.”
“Aye, lord,” the King’s Counsel said, his voice flat, before bowing and leaving the room.
Loarn walked over to the window and looked out over the citadel walls. Unrest was stirring in his kingdom; the news of Crowe’s death had spread. His best man’s death had been a blow, but Nuzum Mir was still out there, and Nuzum Mir was loyal and capable. The Nephilim would work in his own way on behalf of the king.
They wanted the same thing. They wanted power, stability. Nuzum Mir needed to keep the Aes Sidhe and their Seraphim goddess locked away. The Nephilim were slowly passing from this world, their legacy hard-won. He had to admit, he didn’t fully understand the falling out between the Seraphim and Nephilim. All he knew was that Nuzum Mir supported him and his dynasty.
~
Lamorak lay on the cold stone floor of his cell. He reflected on his meeting with the king, if it could be called that. More like a battering. He felt the swelling on his jaw and the three loose teeth from the beating at the hands of the guards. Did they think he was going to roll over and confess? Confess what?
Lamorak had wanted to reach the center of the rotten kingdom, but now he was here, it didn’t seem such a good idea. He had wanted to kill the king, destroy the figurehead. Loarn was losing power, had been effectively reduced to a recluse in his own stronghold. Things were changing; the land was awakening. Perhaps he did not need to kill the king after all.
As long as Loarn remained, the people had a figure to hate, an object to focus their bitterness and resentment on. Oppression created the wish to be free. But why did he still feel the need to push north? It was like a desire to return home. His job was done, whatever it had been.
To
sow doubt and discord, to challenge the king . . . to be a diversion.
He stretched his back out on the damp floor, listening to the rats in the dark and the constant drip of water. He wondered if they’d leave him to rot. No, they’d probably have another crack at him, this time with an inquisitor or maybe mages. No matter, he’d be ready for them. He would go under willingly. He had nothing to lose.
He drifted into a dreamless sleep.
A sound, a scrape. Lamorak kept his eyes closed, but listened. He heard the tray pushed through the flap in the door . . . more rotten meat in greasy water. It would weaken him. He lay there and ignored the food. Let the rats have it, at least it’d keep them from chewing his feet for a little longer. He opened his eyes. Something was different. A low light flickered, barely discernible. He raised his head, looking toward the door. The flap was open, and weak candlelight filtered through from the corridor outside. He rolled over and crawled toward the door. Was this some twisted game the guards were playing or a genuine oversight? No matter: he would drink. He reached for the jug, smelling it carefully.
He cringed―it stank of urine. He threw the jug at the door, smashing it against the wood. They were playing with him, hoping to soften him up through starvation and thirst. They held all the cards. Something primal stirred inside him. He threw himself at the door, banging it with his fists.
“Bastards, rot in hell, every one of you, and that rat’s arse of a king.”
His voice echoed in the corridor beyond and was met with silence. But it wasn’t the silence that caught his attention; it was the door. It had opened a crack. His mind raced with questions. They were playing with him―this was part of some twisted scheme, a trap to lure him out. They’d be waiting in the shadows, ready to pounce and torture him.
The door was open.
He pushed it further. It was heavy and creaked noisily on its hinges. He stood there, looking out into the corridor. Nothing moved. His heart hammered in his chest. He had to try.
He stepped out, expecting to be met with heavy blows.
None came.
Light flickered from around the corner. He crept forward, his bare feet numb against the stone. The corridor was empty. He continued, extinguishing candles as he went. He came to a side room, its door slightly open, candlelight coming from within. He heard loud snoring and smelled ale. The guard was drunk on duty. He backed away and carried on down the corridor, eventually coming to steps. He hesitated, looking over his shoulder.
At the top of the stairs stood a heavy door. Lamorak pressed his ear against it. Hearing nothing, he opened the door and found himself in a hallway. Equipment and clothing lay strewn on benches. He grabbed a woolen cloak and some boots and covered himself, pulling the hood up. He now looked like any one of the castle servants. His breath misted the air. He heard voices approaching from within the building. He walked through the door, hood up, head down. He saw feet on the other side of the door. As he emerged, the feet gave way to him.
“Bless you, father. Wicked night out there . . .”
“Aye,” he managed in a gruff voice. A pause. “Aye, this cold leaches the life from my bones. Still, a man needs to piss and the privy in there stinks to high hell. I prefer to take my chances outside under the gods’ sky.”
The feet seemed happy with his answer and withdrew. “Aye, father, the privy stinks like hell. Good luck out there, ’tis a bad night, the river’s swollen. Daresay she’ll burst before morning.” The feet pulled away and he walked through the open door.
Lamorak swore to himself. It had been a stupid thing to say, but it had worked. Well, the weather could be to his advantage. He walked across the courtyard and looked up. A gate lay ahead. The way was clear. He strode forward, head down. Would his luck hold? Had he just spoken to a guard? Were the guards changing over? He reached the gate and heard the door open again behind him. He froze, waiting for the challenge, the shout, the bite of steel in his back. None came, so he kept walking. The door slammed closed behind him. He was out. He didn’t turn around. Rain sluiced down his cloak. He found the river and peered into its turbulent waters. The guard had been right: the water was alarmingly high. If the river burst its banks, this whole section of the valley would be flooded and his tracks would be covered. He risked a look back to the citadel. No one was following; the alarm had not been sounded. He couldn’t believe his luck. His eyes darted back to the river. He needed to get away, to high ground.
Then he would make his way north, to find the answers to the questions running through his very being.
He turned away from the river and headed into the dark. Rain lashed the sodden ground. He started to run.
Water trickled, then gushed over the riverbank and burst onto the land. The mud sucked at his feet. He fought back, managing to keep from falling as the water swirled around his ankles. He pushed on and reached a rise. Mounting a soggy hillock, he slipped, falling onto all fours, but managed to scramble up. He kept moving, his heart pounding in his chest, his breathing ragged.
Finally, he could move no more. He collapsed, panting into the mud. He looked like a creature the hill had birthed in the maelstrom. He waited for the water to sweep him away, but nothing happened. Rain kept falling, and gradually his breathing settled. He lifted his face from the ground and looked over his shoulder. He saw the raging river in the valley below. He was above the river’s grasp. He saw trees floating downstream, and a bloated body broke the surface. Animals were being claimed by the flood.
Lamorak heaved himself up. He needed to move. He allowed himself a smile―they’d never find him now, not even if they used dogs. He stood up and looked to the high ground. The way was clear. There was plenty of night left for him to disappear in. He started walking.
The Black Fox grinned.
He’d not been seen, which was to be expected. He’d follow this bastard to whichever stinking hole he was off to, and the king would be able to resolve his business, and the Black Fox would get his reward.
They may even write a ballad about him―that was how to achieve true immortality. He moved swiftly over the rough ground, his dark furs keeping him warm. His belly was full and he had provisions for days. This poor sod would weaken and slow with time, but Black Fox never took anything for granted, never underestimated an enemy.
The deep stretches of night passed in a timeless blur. The storm raged, never letting up. Lamorak was glad to be alive; no, he’d never felt so alive―this was what danger did, it made life delicious and immediate.
He kept to the high ground; he knew Dal Riata’s mountains and rivers ran in a southwesterly direction until the central watershed, where the rivers split off, running northeast. The king’s castle was beyond.
Lamorak would keep high, then find and follow the rivers until they brought him to the Great Lochs or to the sea. He breathed a great lungful of the cool air. He was ready.
The Black Fox followed his every move.
Chapter 31: The Pact
By the time Cal reached the top of the rope ladder, his legs were shaking. He felt the others climbing below him.
The hooded figure put out a hand. Cal grabbed it and felt suddenly weightless as he was heaved aboard. The figure didn’t let go once Cal’s feet met board―instead, he led Cal forward. Cal came close to the figure, who reached up and pulled back his hood.
Cal stared into Shanir’s face.
It was Shanir, but not the boyish Shanir Cal remembered. The eyes and smile were the same, but Shanir’s skin was marked with strange shapes and swirling lines. Cal’s eyes swept over his cousin’s features. It was Shanir, his only remaining family, his blood. He smiled at his cousin.
“Shanir!” Cal’s voice shone with delight.
“Cal! Good to see you! You’re the last person I expected to visit the Sapphire. Thought those cutthroats across the bay would have a go, but never expected this . . . you. Come, bring your friends on board.”
They helped the other onto the deck. Cal waved at the old fisherman, who wa
s already rowing away.
“Welcome to the Sapphire. Any friend of Cal’s is welcome here. You look in need of food, drink, rest. Follow me―we have much to talk about.” Shanir’s eyes were drawn to Scalibur.
Sive looked at the ship. It was odd; there were no crew members evident. She met Mevia’s eyes. Mevia shrugged. They followed Shanir, who took them below-deck to the galley. He opened a door. Foods of all varieties lined the shelves. “Help yourselves. I’m a bit short of crew at the moment. Most of them went ashore and succumbed to the plague. They are either dead or dying.” He looked sharply at Cal. “You didn’t eat or drink anything in Port Ross, did you?”
Cal, who had his hands on a ham, shook his head. “No, we’ve just arrived and came straight to the harbor, looking for you. Which reminds me: a man named Clem says you owe him money.”
“Ah, Clem . . .” Shanir said, surprise edging his voice. “That old bastard still alive? Touching that he remembers me . . .”
Cal decided not to pursue the topic. He sat down at the table and started eating. The food was plain but a delight. Sive sat down alongside him. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten such a substantial meal. Her clothes were loose―they had all lost weight. She tucked into ale, ham, cheese, hard bread, smoked fish, ship’s biscuits, and honey. An oversize melon was divided between them and devoured.
“So, what brings you down from the plateau?” Shanir asked Cal.
Cal spoke of his parents’ cruelty and his decision to run away to the woods. He told Shanir of his life in the forest before moving on to his meeting with Sive and the others in Monkwood. He fell silent, not wanting to say too much about his companions. The conversation came to an unsteady pause.
Finally, Shanir addressed Ae’fir. “But there is more to you than meets the eye. All of you have a history, but you sir, I detect something significant about your story, something . . . momentous. Would you care to share? After all, we’re all friends here . . .”
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