King of Ashes

by Raymond E. Feist

  Declan only nodded, thinking of his encounter with the slavers. Had Edvalt not been there, Declan was fairly certain he and Jusan would now be dead or in chains. He decided that having neighbours who could defend the town was a good thing.

  Declan asked a few more questions, specifically about prices for the more common wares made by smiths in this part of the world; he was surprised at some of the variations, but most amounts came close to what Edvalt charged in Oncon.

  Gildy drained his flagon. ‘Well, I’m for home and a clean-up. My wife objects to me eating without washing my face and hands first. Not sure how she got that fancy notion, but one thing my father taught me is a happy wife means a happy life.’ He laughed at his own rhyme, then said, ‘Or at least it’s a lot less vexing than what stubborn men endure, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I think I do,’ said Declan with a smile. ‘The drinks are on me.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Gildy with a laugh. Declan shook hands with Gildy and watched him leave. He sat for a few minutes thinking about his journey. Declan was not by nature a reflective person. He took each day as it came, but the recent changes in his life had been so momentous that he had to stop and wonder about what fate had put before him. He was looking at himself more and asking questions he had never considered before. He took a drink from his half-empty mug, feeling slightly bemused and a little anxious about how his life was changing, and without his having a great deal of choice in the matter.

  He’d always known that some day he’d be a master smith. Edvalt had made that plain early on, praising him when he earned it, chiding him when he deserved it, but telling Declan he had a talent few smiths possessed. The young smith had never taken special pride in that, counting it a fair assessment of his abilities. He wondered at times why what came naturally to him seemed such a challenge for Jusan.

  Jusan made up with hard work what he lacked in talent, and though it took him longer to master things, once he knew something, he didn’t forget it. Declan was convinced that Jusan would become a master, too, just by dint of effort. He might be ten or fifteen years older than Declan was now, but he’d have his own forge eventually. After determination, Jusan’s biggest asset was his meticulousness. He might have been slower than Declan at the forge, but in the end his work matched up well.

  Declan finished his drink and stood up. The barmaid looked over with a smile, as if asking if he’d like anything else. He shook his head slightly and departed.

  He found his way easily back to the shop of Ratigan’s former master. He entered a small yard and saw the horses were in their stalls, happily eating grain from a trough; they had also been combed and cleaned. Whatever Declan thought of him, Ratigan clearly cared for them. Declan had seen enough neglected animals in need of shoeing to know these were healthy, and had watched the teamster do what he could for them every night while on the road. Ratigan might have had unfortunate ideas regarding women – Declan was amused when thinking of what Roz would say to him – but he apparently took care of his responsibilities.

  The young smith entered the modest house that had served as Milrose’s office and found Jusan and Ratigan sitting at a table in a small room at the back. ‘There you are,’ said Ratigan. He indicated a chair in the corner and invited Declan to pull it up and join them.

  On the table rested a meat pie, a large pitcher of ale, and half a round of cheese, or what was left of it; only a large slice and the empty rind remained.

  ‘Sorry about the bread, we ate it,’ said Ratigan.

  Jusan looked embarrassed and echoed the apology. ‘Sorry.’

  Declan waved that away and set to work on the pie. He’d had enough ale, so eyeing the pump in the corner he said, ‘Does that work?’

  Ratigan nodded, so Declan grabbed an empty cup, rinsed it, and filled it. Sitting down, he said, ‘Never seen a pump inside before.’

  Ratigan said, ‘See them a fair bit in the cities. Cost some to pipe in from the nearest well, but it’s very handy. Saved my master a lot of time not having to haul buckets.’

  Declan noticed a bruise on Ratigan’s face and said, ‘Where’d you get that?’

  ‘One of the neighbours decided that since Milrose wasn’t coming back, he’d just move in. I had to move him back out.’

  Declan said, ‘You all settled in, then?’

  ‘More or less. I’ll tell that fool in the morning that I’m coming back and not to try to move in again. Nothing worth stealing here except the horses and wagon, and those’ll be under me. I’ll see if anyone needs anything dropped off on the way to Beran’s Hill ’cause we got a bit of extra room. That’ll make a little more coin. See if anything needs to be hauled back here, too.’

  ‘Enterprising,’ said Declan.

  The three young men finished eating and turned in. Ratigan conceded the only bed to Jusan without protest, and Declan’s opinion of him rose again.

  • CHAPTER TWELVE •

  Adrift and Alone

  Banging wood was the first thing Hatu sensed, the sound cutting through his hazy consciousness. He came fully awake and felt himself sway as he realised that he was back in the gig from which he and Donte had been seized. He looked up.

  The small boat was still tethered to the ship’s stanchions; the water lapped just below the keel. Nothing had changed. Provisions still sat beneath the sail, which was ready to be hoisted, and the oars were neatly tucked to one side.

  He moved to sit up and every inch of him protested. Besides the expected pain of bruises and ache of joints stretched by chains, there was another feeling: he felt like the very fibre of his being had been insulted, and an echo of pain from the shocking energy that had flowed through him still lingered. He forced himself to sit up, then moved his head over the side of the boat as sudden dry heaving wracked his body. He had nothing to throw up, but his stomach spasmed three times before he could catch his breath.

  Hatu was still as he waited for the pain, nausea, and sudden bout of dizziness to subside. He kept breathing slowly, trying to absorb the horrors he had somehow survived.

  Donte. Hatu knew that as long as he lived he would never be free of the image of his friend hanging motionless, seemingly lifeless. Hatu’s heart sank further as he remembered that even if Donte were revived, the thing in the cave (he couldn’t think of her as a woman) would then use him. He felt tears rising and wiped them away. He had never felt this alone in his entire life and employed the mental toughness that had been beaten into him to force his mind away from helplessness. Even if Donte survived with relatively little damage, Hatu had no way of finding out where he was, let alone mounting a rescue. He might as well have been dead; perhaps that was even a better fate than what might lie before him.

  Hatu knew that letting despair overwhelm him was as sure a path to death as the one he had just escaped. Why he had been freed, and what that evil witch had meant by his being a danger, were mysteries he’d have to put aside.

  His first duty was survival. But on the heels of that recognition came the question, Why did she let me go? He had repeatedly pushed it aside. He had no idea what power and danger they had been talking about. His desire to find out what that evil witch meant was another reason he wanted to return with the armies of Coaltachin. Every thought needed to be turned to surviving and getting there.

  Hatu needed to find a friendly port. He had an approximate idea where he was, now that he was back at the ship. He calculated how fast the ship was moving under full sail and its heading before the captain put into the cove he mistakenly thought would shelter them. Hatu roughly reckoned his course. He knew that tacking a small boat against the prevailing wind and rowing when he must would probably get him to the Clearing in three or four days, as long as he didn’t get lost among the countless islands in this region. He had provisions enough for a week or more, and once he made his way home he could share what had happened.

  Once his duty was discharged he could turn his mind to the questions raised in that slimy pit of evil. He now ha
d names for the strange feelings and sense of disconnection he’d experienced since childhood. Power, magic, and destiny formed the re-awakened part of him that had been slumbering inside since just after his birth. He would learn its true nature and master it.

  He had no idea where the Sisters of the Deep resided, near or far from here, or on which heading, or even an inkling of how long he had been unconscious while carried there and back. It might be the masters of Coaltachin would wish to seek them out, or more likely they’d count the ship and crew – including Donte – as a loss and turn to other business. But even if fate did not permit a swift return, he’d come back here some day, find that evil cesspit, and burn out every inch of it. He would show them he was indeed gods-touched.

  THE BOAT WAS LEAKING AND it was only the morning of the second day. Hatu had tied off the rudder and tried to take a rest before sunrise, only to wake up a couple of hours later ankle-deep in water.

  Hatu didn’t know if the captain had been remiss in keeping the boat trim, or if the damage had been caused by its banging against the ship’s stern while he was a captive, or if it was a combination of the two, but the boards on the starboard side had loosened just above the waterline, so seawater came in each time the boat dipped. It was a slow leak, begun two days before, and Hatu managed to keep the boards above the waterline on a long port tack, but if he had to come about, water seeped in quickly and he had to turn about and tie off the sail to the rudder: an old trick he had learned very young. Then he had to bail out the water, but the problem was he had nothing to bail with, so he could only get a bit out with his cupped hands before having to return to minding the tiller and sail.

  The solution he’d been taught was simple: Hatu should find an island, pull the boat onto the shore, find some tar or resinlike substance, and use whatever else he could find, including torn clothing, to make battens and seal up the two worst leaks. A few minor ones did not look likely to become worse absent violent weather, in which case he would most likely sink to his death anyway, so he could ignore them.

  The problem was that he was sailing through a series of sandy atolls with no vegetation to speak of besides tough grass and shrubs. A few of the larger ones might support bougainvillea trees or other flowering plants, and a coconut tree could improve his chances of avoiding starvation, but while the fibres and leaves could be used as rude caulking, he still needed a sticky water-resistant substitute to fix the battens to the leaking boards. Plant resins would suffice for a short while, but what he really needed was tar.

  Hatu did his best to navigate the treacherous rings of coral. While most of the atolls were visible, there were reefs just below the surface that demanded his constant attention. Twice during the first day he had lowered sail and rowed, but doing so took on more water and the fatigue was wearing him down. He’d lost track of how long it had been since he had last slept.

  The weather hadn’t been Hatu’s friend, either. While this region rarely got truly cold, it could become cool, and wet clothing and the constant breezes chilled him. He knew he needed to find shelter, and soon. He was thankful for the heavy jacket he had grabbed before he’d been taken – and even more thankful the witches hadn’t removed it – but it wasn’t enough. The other jacket, lying soaked with brine in the bottom of the boat, was a constant reminder of Donte’s fate.

  He was also low on water. One of the ship’s barrels would have been welcome now even though it would never fit in the boat, but he and Donte had decided a barrel would take up too much room when they secured the gig, and the skins had seemed sufficient. Had Donte been with him, they would have proven more efficient at sailing the boat, but now Hatu knew they simply hadn’t known how much water they would need. He tried not to punish himself for being inexperienced and not seeing the future, but it was his nature to be harsh with himself, so it was a struggle.

  The dry, constant wind drained Hatu’s body of moisture as fast as it took his warmth. Chapped lips were a constant reminder that water was scarce and vital. He could survive without food for days, but lack of water could kill him in hours without shade on a hot day. He took out half a dried biscuit and realised his provisions were down to its other half, some hard cheese and a questionable hunk of salted pork. Much of his food had been ruined by the water seeping into his boat. He crunched the biscuit between his teeth, hard enough that he could feel his jaw pop slightly as he tried to crush it. He needed to finish the pork soon, for while it was heavily salted, it was usually stored in the relative cool of the room next to the galley but had been sitting under a simple waxed tarpaulin since he departed, and for however long he and Donte had been held. He instantly pushed the image of Donte out of his mind, as he needed to focus all of his energy on surviving.

  At midday he saw something flickering in the distance, off to port, and he tied off the halyard to the tiller through an iron eyelet, causing the wind to steer the boat and take him closer, as he needed to bail out more water. By the time he had drained a sufficient amount of water to stem sinking for a few more hours, he could see that the flickering was a flock of seabirds. They could have been following a ship, or hovering over the floating carcass of a large sea creature or a school of fish near the surface, or they could have meant land. A ship or island would do, he said silently.

  Sensing his rising desperation, Hatu countered it by taking a quick inventory and checking his position as best he could. He knew he should be leaving the coral reefs, which were east of where the witches had captured him. He wondered for a moment whether the three pursuing ships had been in league with the witches, for Hatu now realised that his captain had taken the only course left open to him: a turn to the west away from the coral and into … He pushed the thought aside as fanciful. There was nothing about those evil women that even hinted at a link to something as prosaic as pirates or slavers, and it seemed that they had little use for men anyway, beyond breeding daughters, creating those monsters that served them … or food. He shuddered slightly and pushed away any more speculation on Donte’s fate.

  The birds turned out to be a flock of terns, diving on anchovies or other small fish. The birds were migratory, but at this time of the year they would be nesting. Hatu felt buoyed by that, for it made it more likely that their colonies would be on an island close by, and that meant water, or at least eggs, as unlike most birds, terns were content to lay their eggs on the ground. The potential for any source of food or water gave him renewed energy.

  Hatu saw a faint green spot of land on the horizon and, from the angle of the sun, judged he should reach it before evening. He trimmed his sail, caught a favourable wind, and bore down on his destination at good speed. As he neared, he looked for a decent landing and saw swells moving towards a long beach. The even rolling breakers on the sand were evidence of the lack of rocks, and so Hatu put about and lowered the sail, preferring to row in the last few hundred yards. He was surprised at the exertion it required and judged himself closer to complete exhaustion than he had realised.

  The combers that would become breakers picked up the boat and helped move him towards the beach. At the right moment, Hatu shipped his oars and jumped to the stern, pulling up hard on the rudder and yanking it free of the collars that locked it in place, to prevent its being damaged by the sand when they finally beached.

  His weight in the stern picked up the bow and the boat slid easily onto the shore. Hatu got out and pulled the boat in further, so it wouldn’t wash back out to sea. High and low tides were small here this time of the month, for reasons that Master Bodai had once explained, calling it a neap tide, and Hatu now couldn’t remember. He’d check on the boat again later, but for the moment his first order of business was water, then food.

  The island proved bigger than Hatu had first thought, and he could see hilltops just above the tree line. He carried a dagger the only weapon among the various things he and Donte had pillaged from the ship, as well as empty water bags. He uttered a silent prayer to any god that might be listening that he’d
not have to use it for defence, as he felt weaker now than he had during any time in his life. He had nursed his food, but the lack of water over the last few days was taking its toll.

  Hatu left the sand and felt damp soil beneath his feet as he moved inland, a good sign, for it meant there was groundwater close to the surface. He paused every so often to listen to the forest sounds, trying to discern if running water was nearby. Climbing a few small hillocks, he saw what looked to be a damp trail, and in a few minutes found a pool of water fed slowly from a dripping ledge above. He knelt but resisted the urge to drink and instead brought a handful of water to his nose. He had been told that stagnant or very slow-running pools often caused stomach illness, and sometimes, fatally so. The water had a bitter, mouldy odour, so Hatu cast it aside and wiped his hand on his trousers. He looked for a way to climb further up and spotted a faint rocky pathway through the thinning trees.

  Stepping gingerly on the slippery rocks that fashioned a primitive stairway, Hatu finally heard the gurgling sound of running water as his head cleared the overhang.

  With an upwelling of relief, he saw a small stream running down an incline near the wet ledge. Hatu didn’t hesitate, but half crawled, half flung himself over the ledge of rock and stuck his face into the little bubbling stream. He drank deeply. Then caution took over as he remembered a warning that drinking too much, too quickly, could cause a man to pass out or vomit up the water.

  He took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten as he felt the water begin to revive him, then he leaned over and drank slowly for a bit. He repeated this until he felt all hints of his previous thirst fade. He then took stock of his surroundings as he filled his water skins.

  Hatu wanted to stay near the beach, so that repairing the boat would be easier, but he also needed to be near water and, he hoped, food. He had been frugal with the rations in the boat, and had perhaps two or even three days of food left if he was careful, but hunger was his constant companion and reminder that his time without aid was coming to an end.