Across the Sorrow Sea, page 1
part #5 of The Seven Swords Series
Across the Sorrow Sea Copyright © 2023
by Anthony Ryan.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2023
by Didier Graffet.
All rights reserved.
Interior illustration Copyright © 2023
by Anthony Ryan.
All rights reserved.
Interior design Copyright © 2023
by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition
ISBN
978-1-64524-156-0
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
To the masters of maritime adventure and seafaring fantasy: Douglas Reeman, CS Forester, and Robin Hobb.
Neither storm nor the wide and perilous sea
Can bar the truly righteous from the gift of truth
—Injunctions of the First Risen.
Chapter One
The Demon's Tale
Time is supposed to succour a longing for the sight of old haunts, Lakorath opined in an acerbic drawl. And yet, I find my desire never to behold this grey misery again to be undimmed.
Guyime had to admit that the unceasing, slate-hued swell beneath a perennially overcast sky made an ominous and unwelcoming vista. The deck of the Atheria’s Grace was constantly damp from the unremitting drizzle and he couldn’t recall glimpsing blue sky or unclouded sun for days now.
Despite the unnatural scale of his years, he had scant experience of the vast body of water known in Valkerin as the Axuntus Nuarem, or the Fifth Sea in most modern tongues. It was notorious as the most fractious and perilous of all the five seas. Riven with storms at all seasons, it was also home to the most vicious breeds of shark and, more dangerous still, pirates of inordinate number and merciless reputation. Despite its troubled tides, the Fifth Sea remained a valuable trade route. Caravans bearing all manner of desirable goods from the enigmatic lands of the Kalthar Imperium terminated their epic journeys at the ports on its eastern shore. From there, they were shipped to the hungry merchants of the other four seas, thereby providing the pirates with an unending supply of rich pickings. The captain of the Atheria’s Grace had assured Orsena that their course was too far west to attract unwanted attention, though Guyime noted the way the fellow’s lively gaze flicked over the horizon with agitated constancy.
“Coming here was your idea,” he reminded the demon, a small grin curling the corners of his mouth as he felt the annoyed thrum of the sword on his back.
In service to your mad enterprise, Lakorath replied. In which I am compelled to partake through no agency of my own. He let out a thin sigh of tolerated indignity. What a trial it is to be a slave to mortals.
“If what you say is true, mayhap our mutual bondage will soon be at an end.”
A thin, grudging chuckle, laden with disparagement. Is any course we ever tread that easy, my liege?
To this, Guyime could only grunt in soft acknowledgement. From the Execration to the Northern Kingdom, their journey had been one of recurrent danger, not to mention frequent destruction for those unfortunate souls who lay in their path. Still, he entertained no thought of turning aside. Ever since the Mad God first spoke of the Seven Swords, he had known this would be his mission, even should it cost him his life.
Perhaps that’s the point, Lakorath suggested, ever keen to explore the darker corners of Guyime’s thoughts. After centuries of trying to get yourself killed, you finally found the one method that might actually work.
Guyime gave no reply, unwilling to let the demon bait him. Instead, he returned his attention to the unfurled map he held, squinting at the line coiling across its surface. “On the move again,” he muttered, watching the line trace a slow course around the base of a mountain range he judged to be well over a thousand miles north of his current position. “Where is she going?”
Most likely, she endeavours to craft another trap, Lakorath replied. I told you that thing would be useless now.
“You’ve told me many things across the span of many years, much of which I regret listening to.”
Guyime frowned as he watched the line’s progress, feeling a sense of familiarity in its sluggish but inexorable course. He had never visited the region depicted on this portion of the map, a mountainous stretch of country north of the Fourth Sea that bordered the vast wasteland of the Sunless Steppes. According to every account he had ever heard, there was nothing of significance on the steppes save ancient ruins and poor soil where little grew. Ekiri, however, or rather, the demon inhabiting the Crystal Dagger she carried, clearly saw something of interest in the region. Unless Lakorath was right, as he often was, and it was simply another lure into an ambush, one perhaps even more deadly than the dire wights of Blackfyre Keep.
“Enough evasion from you, demon,” he said, lowering the map. “You promised coming here would bring us closer to claiming all the Seven Swords. Now, I’ll have the why of it from you.”
His years of exposure to the creature in the sword had imbued an ability to read its moods, which were often easily categorised into resentment or malicious enjoyment of human woe. Now, however, the demon’s thoughts were both more sombre and complex. Guyime felt Lakorath’s urge to taunt him, prick his anger with more obfuscation. He expected the demon to enquire what Guyime would do should no answer be forthcoming. Cast the sword into the sea, perhaps? But there was more beneath the usual demonic malice, a sense of resignation entwined with something more, an emotion he hadn’t suspected lurked in what passed for this being’s heart: determination. Lakorath, it transpired, was now as committed to this mission as the cursed mortal who carried him.
Have you ever heard the name Calvius Arkelion? the demon asked.
Searching his memory, Guyime found a few scraps of knowledge. “A character of ancient myth,” he said. “In the days of the Valkerin Empire, philosophers employed him as an archetypal wise man, an insightful foil for the machinations of greedy nobles or would-be tyrants.”
Sometimes I forget how learned you are, my liege. Or perhaps you’ve just been spending too much time with that scholarly rat below.
“The tale, demon,” Guyime insisted with a growl.
Calvius Arkelion was no mere myth, but a real, living man born centuries before the rise of Valkeris. As for his wisdom, well, I’ll let you be the judge. Although he termed himself a philosopher, a soul intent upon dissecting the mysteries of the world and the forces that bind it, he was, in truth, a sorcerer. Perhaps the most powerful to ever live, at least in my experience, which is, as you know, extensive. For I like to flatter myself that no other mortal could have trapped me in this steel prison, though I mostly ascribe my misfortune to my own foolish greed and overly adventurous spirit.
Finding a way into the mortal realm offers great rewards in the Infernus. It is invariably how the mightiest warlords of the upper ranks accumulate power. There are various portals, places where the veil betwixt the worlds is thinned, but they are few, jealously guarded and perilous to navigate. Most of my kind who attempt passage fail, with destruction or permanent maiming their only reward. Still, I was young then, barely four centuries old by human reckoning, and youth married with curiosity is a dire combination. Reaching a portal required a journey equal to several human lifetimes, with much danger and pain along the way. But I was determined, obsessed you might say, and upon reaching the portal I felt a great sense of vindication, for through its shimmering curtain I beheld something demon kind lusts for above all else: the promise of human souls to capture.
It was all an illusion, of course, a farce crafted by Arkelion to lure me in. I knew my folly the moment I reached through the portal, the tempting vision transforming into the blank walls of bare metal. I tried to free myself, but his snare was too strong. It is a terrible feeling to be wrenched from one’s world, my liege. To suffer the utter strangeness of another place, a prison where the only sensation is that allowed me by my captor. I perceived the world through his eyes. Heard what he heard, smelt what he smelt. Also, his thoughts…such a chaos they were. He was mad but also supremely focused in his purpose. ‘Cease thine piteous bleating, cursed thing,’ he told me. ‘Rejoice, for thou hath been chosen.’
“Chosen for what?” Guyime asked.
That he didn’t tell me. His mind, focused as it was, would often fade into a soporific mélange of regret and guilt. It was in these intervals of misery that I heard that name, a name I knew.
Kalthraxis, Guyime thought, keeping the sound from his lips. Lakorath had been insistent to the point of mania that they should avoid speaking this name out loud. Names had power, especially those borne by demon kind.
I understood that my captivity was connected to that name, Lakorath continued. For I was not the first demon he had captured. I glimpsed Arkelion’s memory of the day he trapped the Desecrator, seeking demonic power for his own ends, only to be made terribly aware of his own monumental folly. Although, I didn’t realise just who it was he had ensnared, merely sensing the terror engendered by his act.
“Desecrator?”
It’s what we called the one I won’t name, those who fought against his cause, that is. All demons vie for power, it is in our nature. So there is always war in the Infernus, but this was different. Amongst demons, alliance and betrayal are but two sides of the same coin. Concepts of loyalty are for mortals, except in the Desecrator’s abnormal, twisted mind. Those who opposed him deserved only destru
“I take it you won? Given that you still exist.”
After slaughter and discord ripped through the demon realm from end to end, yes, we won. With his last legion eviscerated, it was believed that the Desecrator had escaped to another plane rather than face the victors’ wrath. No one could have suspected he had been lured into imprisonment in the mortal realm. Only when you spoke his name in that benighted keep did I realise we had suffered the same fate. With your map useless, the only clues we are likely to find as to the Desecrator’s purpose lie amongst the ruins of Arkelion’s island home in the midst of the Sorrow Sea.
“Ruins? So Arkelion is gone. Did you kill him?”
Would that I had. But no, that pleasure was denied me along with so much else. In truth, I know not how he perished in the end. My time in his clutches was brief and dreadfully confusing.
Eventually, after days or perhaps weeks, he recovered enough awareness to cast me away by means of some shifting spell. I found myself lying in a chilly, stinking bog for an appallingly tedious interval until some passing simpleton trod on me. He offered only pathetic resistance to my will, and I soon compelled him to carry me back to Arkelion’s island where I was determined to force the old bastard to send me home. Sadly, in the intervening centuries, he had contrived to perish, but not before weaving a final spell to confound me. It moves, you see, his resting place. Over the centuries it’s been seen all over the Sorrow Sea, never lingering for more than a day. I exhausted the lifetimes of several bearers trying to reach it, never coming close enough even to catch the briefest glimpse. Eventually, I had the misfortune to fall into the hands of a strong-willed warrior woman from the southern wildlands and we spent decades together in the usual tide of conquest and tyranny. You remind me a good deal of her, come to think of it.
“The island,” Guyime persisted. “How do we reach it?
Well, that’s the turd in the stew bowl, my liege. I have no idea. The last time I made my way back here, the confounded place had begun to appear with far less frequency, as if the magic that bound it was fading. The entire story had slipped into legend, the Fable of the Spectral Isle, sought out only by the most determined or deluded souls intent on claiming the sorcerer’s enchantments and treasure. None ever found it and I resigned myself to this occasionally diverting existence, until you came along, that is.
“This is where you guide me? In search of a phantom island that can’t be found.”
Where else is there to go, my liege, since your map can’t be trusted? Besides, I’ve a feeling this is where we’re supposed to be. The world is shifting like the block atop a crumbling pillar, and the tilt of it has brought us here.
Come the dawn, his companions gathered at the prow of the Atheria’s Grace to watch the drizzle-clouded shades of an island chain resolve in the distance.
“The Crescent Isles,” Orsena explained. “The port of Sovayir lies on the shore of the largest island. According to our esteemed captain, it’s the last place that can lay claim to any semblance of civilisation before we come to the Sorrow Sea.”
“A pirate den, I assume?” Anselm enquired. The young knight’s features were drawn in a distasteful grimace as he surveyed the isles. He rested one hand on the hilt of his longsword, something Guyime saw him do with far more frequency than reach for the antique blade strapped across his back. In fact, he hadn’t seen Anselm draw the Necromancer’s Glaive since they departed the Northlands. From the way the knight’s face twitched in repeated irritation, he divined that the voices within the blade were far from quiet.
“Some who find a berth in Sovayir are surely of that profession,” Orsena conceded. “But I’m told they keep their criminal proclivities concealed whilst in port. The place is tacitly under the authority of the Allied Princes and the local magistrates are not sparing in their enforcement of merchant law.”
The Ultria of House Carvaro paused to direct a cautious glance at Guyime. “My captain also avows a strong disinclination to sailing into the Sorrow Sea itself,” she added. “Regardless of how generous I make his bonus.”
“This ship is yours, is it not?” Guyime pointed out. “Would your father have tolerated such insolence?”
“No,” Orsena said, a thin smile on her lips illustrating a tolerance of his occasional taunts. “He would have tied him to his own mast and had him flogged before the eyes of his sailors. But then, I am not him. Nor was he, in truth, my father.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sailors working the deck, each one seeing to their tasks with sullen diligence in between darting worried looks at the eastern horizon. “And the good captain merely reflects the mood of his crew. We can’t sail a ship without hands.”
“Sovayir is renowned as a busy port,” Lexius put in. His eyes were brighter and larger than usual behind the lenses he wore, betraying a keenness to depart the Atheria’s Grace. Guyime assumed Lexius found the bulk of the freighter and its copious holds an uncomfortable reminder of the slave hulks of his youth. “I’m sure finding a suitable vessel for hire won’t be too difficult a task. Especially amongst those with a proven penchant for danger.”
“As long as they’ve a destination to sail for,” Lorweth said. The druid’s mood had been the most soured by the lengthy voyage from Atheria, and his face betrayed a doleful contemplation of the islands looming through the chilly haze. “Which, as far as I can recall, your worship,” he inclined his head to Guyime with sketchy obeisance, “you’ve yet to share with us in any fulsome regard.”
Guyime’s gaze slid to Seeker, the only member of their party yet to add voice to the discussion. The beast charmer stood in stern, inquisitive regard of the Crescent Isles, one hand idly stroking through Lissah’s pelt. In response, the caracal arched her back and licked fangs in anticipation of setting paw upon the first land she had scented for weeks.
“We come in search of a place known as the Spectral Isle,” Guyime said. “Where the Seven Swords were forged.”
Seeker turned to regard him then, Lissah mimicking the movement to afford Guyime a customary hiss. She had come to tolerate the other members of this strange company, even displaying a certain affection for Orsena and Anselm. But, for Guyime, she only ever had hisses and scratching claws.
“We are guided to this island by the Cartographer’s map?” Seeker asked, her tone lacking inflection although her gaze was sharp and steady.
“The Cartographer’s map led us into the snare of Blackfyre Keep,” Guyime reminded her. “So we can no longer trust it. We are compelled to look to our demons for guidance.”
“Your demons,” Seeker said, delivering a reminder of her own. “And I’d wager none of them care one whit for finding Ekiri.”
“Ekiri’s fate is bound up with the Seven Swords. Any knowledge we can glean as to their purpose brings us closer to her.” Guyime paused before speaking on, slipping into the language common to the southern shore of the Second Sea. “I ask for your trust, sister.”
Seeker’s features tensed but she said no more, instead turning to resume her vigil of the isles.
It was Lexius who broke the subsequent silence, gripping the handle of the Kraken’s Tooth with a tight fist. Guyime saw the glimmer of the blade at the edge of the scabbard as the being within made its feelings known. “My wife is content to follow this course, my lord,” the scholar said. “With reservations.”
“This one’s happy to come along too,” Orsena said, tapping a finger to the pommel of the Conjurer’s Blade. “Not that I’d care if she wasn’t. She does seem cheerfully optimistic that we’re sailing to our doom, however.”
Guyime turned to Anselm. The knight hadn’t reached for his own cursed blade, though from the hunch of his shoulders and downcast features, Guyime could sense the struggle within the sword he bore. “It rages against us,” Anselm murmured, raising his gaze to meet Guyime’s. “But my other…companion placates it with promises of death.” Anselm let out a dry, humourless laugh. “The only thing that seems to please it.”
