Shadow Road

by A. E. Pennymaker

  NaVarre's mouth curled in at one corner. "We've successfully created a gigantic visual of how much we need that third binder."

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  He swore under his breath.

  Then we picked everything up and put it back in the metal chest.

  ~~~

  Wyrhonde: (veer-ond) a canine originally bred to hunt and kill the massive wolves that roamed the northern forests, it often interbred with them. Known for its powerful bite, its tenacity, and its endurance in the field, descendants of the original wolf hounds were used as war dogs by the Roghuari. Due to its large size and unpredictable nature, its modern counterparts are not commonly kept as pets but are frequently used in dog fighting, racing, and large game hunting. An undomesticated branch of the breed is still found wild in the Al-Ipanese mountains.

  36. Of Mittens and Fog

  5th of Thyris

  The five days of the "little brother" month, Thyris, rolled by without much more than a nod at the end of winter. The weather even made a mockery of spring, snapping into a cold spell that had everyone bundling up in extra clothing.

  In Edon, Thyris week was always a bit of an unofficial holiday. Every shop, establishment, and eatery served free hot mulled cider or spiced Praidani tea, and one of the favorite evening activities in most places was a Drinking Tour. People would gather at one end of town and go from shop to shop sampling teas and ciders. The point wasn't so much the enjoyment of dashing about with friends and ducking in and out of warm, cozy storefronts, although that was usually great fun. The point was the brightly painted donation boxes from the Sisters of Claddage.

  For every cup of cider or tea you took, you dropped a coin in the donation box. It didn't matter if it was a brass arum or a full silver mark, you got to drink. At the end of the week, there was a competition among the shops to see whose beverage had brought in the largest donation. In Garding, the Post's honeyplum cider usually won every year.

  Claddage Day was quite the affair in most towns, with snow games for the children on the green, and food and dancing in the town hall. After a town-wide supper, the winner of the competition was announced, and the donations were presented to the Sisters, to be used for supplies and necessities for their orphanages and schools for the low-born.

  This year, I celebrated Claddage Day by waking from a turbulent nightmare, bundling up in my father's coat, throwing on the knotwork scarf Evers had made for me, and going for a dawn wander. Alone.

  I was out on the quarterdeck, ignoring my cold toes and gazing at the first pale ribbons of sunrise, when Raggan came out of the Bridge. He was cradling a mug of sailor's tea in his mittened hands, blowing the steam from it as he crossed the quarterdeck to join me at the railing.

  "'Allo, Miss. How fares the sea? Behavin' 'erself?" he asked, giving me the large, cheerful grin that had become almost as much a part of my day as the roll of the ship.

  I grinned back at him. "Seems to be."

  It was subtle, but I caught him easing his weight off his right leg. He had explained once that he took a round to that knee during the war, and now it was as good a weather gage as a hygrometer. "Storm coming?"

  He nodded. "Two, maybe three days. Just a squall, I reckon."

  "Ah." I went back to watching the sun gradually set fire to the bank of dark clouds scudding along the horizon.

  After a moment: "Might I make an impertinent observation, Miss?"

  I smiled a little. "Only if it concerns my sparkling wit."

  Raggan chuckled at that. "Aye, your wit does sparkle surely, Miss, but..." he pulled a pair of large mittens out of his pocket and held them out. "Ya seem t'have lost your mitts."

  I stared at the mittens. They were worn and misshapen from use, but the wool was still thick and well felted. I had been aboard long enough to know what a high commodity those navy-issue mittens were to the men on the Stryka. Claddage Day might mark the end of winter on the calendar, but that didn't mean winter would be inclined to follow orders. It was entirely possible that there would be many days of snow and wind ahead of us. "I couldn't —”

  Raggan shook his head. "Nay, Miss. You'd be insulting the poor blighter what offered 'em. Besides. 'E's got an extra pair from home. Go on with ya."

  "Fine," I muttered, drawing my freezing hands from my pockets and snatching the gloves, hastily pulling them on. "Who must I thank?"

  Raggan shrugged and took a last sip of tea. "Whoever t'is, t'is a gentleman of great mystery and character," he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "And that's me bell. I'll bid you good morning, Miss."

  He tipped his hat and left, ducking through the Bridge door just as the second bell began calling the morning watch to their posts.

  As he walked away, I took a better look at the mittens he was wearing. They were dingy and faded from salt and sun, and they had been heavily darned in places, but I could still make out a faint chevron pattern of red and yellow. I smiled at first. I had the feeling I had discovered my 'gentleman of great mystery and character.' Then I sobered. Those weren't Navy issue. Come inspection, he would have a mark against him for his uniform being out of order.

  Feeling guilty, but a great deal less alone, I shoved my hands back into my pockets, mittens and all.

  9th of Nima

  "Land'o! Land'o!"

  After waiting three long, hungry weeks to hear those two little words, the effect was like a swift kick to the stomach. Everyone, civilians and sailors alike, came scrambling to the foredeck, peering at the southern horizon.

  It was anticlimactic. All that could be seen without a long glass was a bank of fog, but Orrul swore he could make out steep black peaks rising among the clouds, and the Angpixen was heading straight for it, so the civilians all decided that the Rimrocks must be hiding beneath that scrap of haze.

  It wasn't long before the legends began circulating, most of them from Orrul. Tales of gruesome phantom ships that haunted the Aerilic Ocean. Ships made of bones, crewed by men who neither ate, nor slept, nor died, trapped forever in the will of the Djaemos who sought vengeance for being exiled to the 'depths of the Great Deep'. Every crew they enslaved brought them closer to breaking free of their bonds and rising up against all that was good and right in the world, and the Djaemos would be only too happy to add the Stryka's fine crew to their army of slaves.

  Lorren told him to stop scaring the children, but she watched that bank of mist with the same wary expression as everyone else.

  I had to confess; I wasn't immune to the mystery that surrounded the islands. I stood at the port-side rail, a little curl of dread and anticipation unraveling in my middle.

  What waited for us beneath the fog?

  What waited for me?

  ~~~

  Djaemos: (jay-moss) n. East Altyran for water demon.

  37. The Rimrocks

  10th of Nima

  Yesterday, Orrul may have told hair-raising stories to scare the children, but the adults remained cautiously optimistic, and talk began of bathing in a proper tub, and guzzling cold water, and eating fresh fruit.

  Relieved or not, the closer we got to the steep-sided peaks rising out of the mist, the more often the sailors paused to eye the rocks with suspicion, until they were scanning every barren crag and cliff for floubestes and 'who-knows-what-else.'

  NaVarre came over after dinner tonight to inform us that, contrary to Orrul's wild tales, no merfolk would slink out of the water to steal our souls while we slept (I wasn't particularly worried on that count), and there were no sea serpents here at this time of year (again, not a worry I seriously entertained), and that the cannibals wouldn't be a problem if everyone stayed on the ships until we got to Aethscaul (slightly more worrisome).

  We reached the Rimrocks at sundown and anchored in a small, protected gap between three of the largest islands just inside the outer limits. Beyond that point the sailing was too hazardous in the dark, so we would wait until dawn.

  The sixth bell signaled the night watch, and the aft mess watch went shuffl
ing below to snag a few hours of down time. I doubted anyone actually fell asleep. The whole crew was nervous, but several of the apprentice sailors were well under Orrul's sway. None of them had found NaVarre's little speech all that encouraging. In fact, the bit about cannibals only made things worse as darkness closed in. They were absolutely convinced flesh eaters were lurking everywhere, and they jumped at every little sound, eyes wide.

  That was the first time I ever heard someone question Arramy's orders. One of the apprentice sailors walked over to stand next to his slightly older watchmate, and whispered, "Why don't the captain give us all guns? Why not arm the whole ship, not just the marines? I'd feel safer with some way to defend myself. A pistol, at least..."

  The other man just gave the first-year a cuff upside the head. "He don't want fools like you shooting friendlies because you 'thought you saw something,' Darvish. That's why. Your job is to keep your eyes peeled and raise the alarm if there's trouble. Get back to your post and stay there."

  Darvish hesitated, but then nodded and sidled away, taking up his spot at the aft-deck railing again, his young shoulders rigid.

  As the sunset died to a suggestion of burnt orange on the horizon, the Ang set up lanterns fore and aft. That was only a small reassurance when the moon was a slender paring of silver in the sky, and no one was entirely sure that NaVarre wasn't leading us into a trap.

  Whether out of suspicion, or simply to appease the fears of his less experienced men, Arramy ordered that all of the Stryka's mirrored watch lanterns be lit, in addition to the usual nautical light-sheds on the masts.

  I stayed above decks while Evers and Reiskelder went scurrying about with touch-fire sticks, lighting lantern wicks. The lanterns were then aimed out into the darkness, sending swathes of fierce golden light cascading over the rocky sides of the islands surrounding the Stryka

  It did seem to ease the crew a little, as did the fact that the captain himself was standing lookout.

  I wasn't up on the aft deck for the lights, however. I had discovered that if I stood in the curve of the rail overlooking the wake, there wasn't as much glare from the lanterns. Aunt Sapphine always said the stars were brighter in the tropics. Closer, somehow. She was right. As the last of the sunset faded, the stars began emerging, more and more of them until they glimmered like a million diamonds spilled across blue velvet, bright enough to set the rugged tops of the islands in inky silhouette.

  The captain came to stand next to me as I gazed up at the night sky, my mind thousands of miles away. At first, he simply scanned the shadows behind the Stryka. Then he leaned a hip against the railing. "You should get below."

  I glanced at him. "Is that an order, Captain?" The thought of that stuffy, silent cabin had my insides knotting up. I much preferred the open air and activity above decks, even if that open air held the possibility of cannibals. As if to tease me with what I would be missing, a sweetly scented breeze came whispering over the water to loosen several strands of my hair.

  Arramy's eyes followed the movement of my hand as I swept a fallen curl back behind my ear. He frowned slightly and looked away. "Yes. That's an order, Miss Westerby," he muttered, turning to leave. "The crew don't need any added distractions."

  Then he went striding around the helm, taking the stairs down to the quarterdeck two at a time.

  I heaved a sigh. I had been about to do as he said, but now I couldn't without obeying like one of his sailors. Which rankled. He hadn't even said please. I waited until he had disappeared from view before I made myself leave the aft deck, with all its delicious breezes and starlight, and return to the confines of Penweather's cabin.

  11th of Nima

  No one was eaten during the night. Neither was anyone abducted or rendered mindless.

  My nightmares were another matter. I floundered in my blankets, lost in some dark place until I dragged myself upright on a deep breath, my heart pounding as if I had just run the road to Castleburre.

  I decided to view the sunrise; I got myself dressed and went slinking up to my spot at the quarterdeck rail where I could observe everything with no fear of getting in anyone's way.

  Raggan found me a few minutes later. He didn't say anything. He just handed me a large mug of sailor's tea and asked no questions. We sipped in silence. Then the second bell sounded, Raggan gave me a little dip of his head and went to start his watch.

  It wasn't long after dawn that the Stryka was underway again, winding through a maze of bare black volcanic stone, following the Angpixen deeper into the Rimrocks.

  Several of the smaller, outermost islands were still active, churning out angry red streams of molten rock that poured down the sides of their cones like rich, smoldering red glaze, sending up billows of steam as they met the water. This steam seemed to be the source of the eerie fog that afforded the Rimrocks such mystery – ergo, it wasn't the work of a pyxxe smolder, or a monstrous witch's cauldron. Or cannibals, for that matter.

  The farther in we went, the taller and broader the islands became. I began to see small, soot-grey birds roosting in crevices, their nests creating a thick layer of guano and thatch along every horizontal surface. Where the birds were, there was also a short, wiry grass that clung stubbornly to crags, the bright emerald of it a shock against the black of the island rock. A few winding, treacherous channels farther in, and the grass was joined by small, scrubby bushes, and a trailing vine with large, heart-shaped leaves.

  Then we passed through the last of the outer bands and entered the old islands, and everything was suddenly bursting with life.

  I stared around, stunned speechless.

  There were flowers everywhere. Yensis modula hung in thick veils of pale lavender and pink from the branches of stately, moss-covered baraboe trees, forming a fantastical canopy that often arched from one island to the next. Beneath the trees, the bright, fiery orange fans of royal cockade could be seen nodding among spears of bright white saltflowers and sky-blue panemis orberus. Those were only the flowers I knew the names for. There were countless species I had never come across in any of the World Exploratory exhibits. Heavy clusters of magenta spires that clung to rocks. Creamy, star-like lilies that spangled the dark sand in the coves. On the largest islands, where the slopes were gentler and the beaches were larger, there were tall, rangy, long-branched trees that sported glossy ochre bark and golden catkins that trailed to the forest floor.

  I didn't see many animals, but there were birds. So many birds. Small green and red parrots flew in flocks five-hundred strong, crossing from one island to another in a continual blur of color.

  Incidentally, I found out why a group of parrots is called a pandemonium. That was the first sound we heard coming from the islands: a deafening racket of screams and whistles that crescendoed with the sunrise. They didn't quiet down once the sun was up, either. They simply stopped screeching all at once.

  There was another bird, a large grey and white thing with a rounded head and a wide, pointy black beak, that had a call very much like one of the Ronyran declaration gongs – a great, sonorous bonnn that echoed from rocks and water.

  I might have thought it was a cannibal announcing the arrival of his breakfast if the bird hadn't been directly in front of me, perched on a branch that hung barely two yards from the ship as we went past. It didn't seem to fear humans, and sat in the open, calmly watching us with bright yellow eyes. Delighted, I had just leaned closer for a better view when the thing opened its beak as far as it could go, puffed its chest out, and gonged. Right there. In my face.

  I screeched like a parrot and fell off the barrel I was sitting on.

  The gong bird gave a disgruntled little toot exactly like a toy slide-whistle and blinked at me with somber disappointment. It was still sitting there when the ship left it behind.

  I picked myself back up, sat down on the barrel again. For a few, unbelievable seconds, I forgot where I was and how I got there, and had to laugh, imagining what I must have looked like to the bird.

  It fel
t good, laughing. Until I remembered that I couldn't tell my father about it later, and the captain had just witnessed the whole thing from his place at the helm.

  ~~~

  As the islands got bigger, so did their habitable area. Eventually there were clear signs of human activity. A terraced hillside for growing crops, with a row of conical thatch-roofed huts on the ridge above it. A wood-and-rope bridge slung across the gap between two islands, then again to another. And another. And another.

  Then we reached an island that didn't seem to have an end.

  Arramy swore as NaVarre took the Angpixen into a particularly narrow, winding passage between dark walls of rock that loomed so close they threatened to scrape the paint off the much larger Stryka. There was a tense half an hour when the islands actually met overhead, and we all heard the faint sound of tearing fabric as the crow's nest brushed against something solid in the shadows high above us. But it didn't get caught, and the Stryka continued on – without her Coalition colors. The mainmast pennant remained behind, snagged on a protruding spur of stone.

  At last, we came around a final bend, the rocks veered away from each other, and there was blue sky above us and open water in front of us. To the left, coastline stretched away in a lazy, pristine curve, a slender ribbon of white tracing the feet of a towering range of peaks that rose from the sea like the spine of some monstrous dragon, curled forever around a peaceful aquamarine cove.

  And there, in the innermost bend of the dragon's spine, all agleam in the noon-day sun, sprawled a collection of copper-tile roofs and clay-white walls.

  My heart began to hammer in my chest as the Stryka trailed the Ang toward the gates of a well-fortified seawall that jutted from either side of the village harbor.