Forge of the High Mage, page 34
part #4 of Path to Ascendancy Series
It appeared that, at least for the meantime, they were stuck with each other.
CHAPTER 20
WHEN KELLANVED SAID HE’D SENT DANCER OFF ON SOME unknown errand Cartheron was furious. Now the man’s safety was his responsibility! How would it look if the Emperor was killed during his watch? Surly would absolutely crucify him.
He managed little sleep that night, or the following. He was further infuriated when he found that the Twisted carried almost no other talent. He questioned every sailor and marine and the best he could roust was one elderly deckhand whom everyone swore was a talent.
Cartheron now looked the grey-haired fellow up and down, and he wasn’t impressed: lacking rather too many teeth for anyone with any talent – in his opinion. ‘I need you to keep an eye on our, ah, passenger, hey?’ he asked of the emaciated fellow. ‘You can do that?’
The old sailor shook his head. ‘Nope. Can’t help you there.’
‘Why the Abyss not?’
‘Not my strength, if you know what I mean.’
Further irritated, Cartheron snapped, ‘So what can you do then?’
The fellow peered round, smoothed his scraggy beard. ‘Oh … have a nose for the wind I do, the waves … that sort of thing.’
Cartheron looked to the bright blue sky. ‘Fine. Thank you so very much. Keep your nose poised, would you?’
The veteran sailor tapped the great, canted object of discussion, and winked knowingly. ‘Oh, that I can do.’
Cartheron pressed a hand to his brow. Gods – where were all these mages ’n such that were always coming and going? Where under the sun were they? Defeated, he set guards on the man’s cabin and doubled the standard watch.
He reassured himself with the knowledge that at least they were anchored in the middle of a wide channel, in the middle of nowhere, with no other ships in sight. He didn’t think they had much to worry about in that regard.
Two days later he was on the mid-deck going over the stores situation with the ship’s quartermaster Teal – she would not let him forget that the sweet-water was nearly all gone, as were most perishables – he knew he’d have to talk to Kellanved about putting in somewhere, anywhere, for supplies. During the discussion the grey-haired old veteran sailor, The Nose, as Cartheron thought of him, approached and knuckled his brow.
Cartheron dismissed Teal, who grumbled her displeasure, but departed, then he eyed their so-called mage. ‘Yes …’ – he realized he didn’t know the man’s proper name – ‘… what is it?’
‘Well, sor,’ the fellow began, ‘been keeping an eye on the winds and the waves – as you ordered, sor.’
‘Nose. I thought it was your nose.’
The sailor nodded sombrely. ‘Oh, yes. That too.’
‘And?’
‘Well, sor. Something’s coming.’
‘Really? Something. Something’s coming.’
The veteran nodded very gravely. ‘Oh, yes. Definitely. I’d say something’s definitely coming.’
‘Can you perhaps be more specific?’
The fellow screwed up an eye and cocked his grizzled head. ‘Well, I’d say it’s something more to do with the water and the waves rather than the winds – if you know what I mean. And I’d have to say it’s something pretty big, too. An’ it be coming from the north-west, and fast. An’ be here soon, too.’
‘Fast? Is it a ship?’
‘Ah, no, sor.’ The fellow pointed. ‘I’m thinkin’ maybe that be it.’
Cartheron squinted up the channel – north-west. The waters did look strange across the horizon. Looked like a large wave, which was unusual for the region, as the relative calmness of Falaran waters was well known.
The strange phenomenon seemed to grow, or swell, even as he watched: was it approaching quickly, or truly enlarging? All that came to mind was a wave, an aberrant large wave …
He spun, yelling, ‘Cut anchor! Raise sails! Bring us round bearing south-east!’ Then ran for the cabin.
He banged on the door until an annoyed answer came, ‘Yes, by all the gods, what?’
‘A problem here, ah, sir. Looks like a rogue wave. Coming fast.’
The door opened and out stepped an unkempt Kellanved; he blinked in the light rather like a startled mole. ‘Ah! Our legendary Jhistal, no doubt.’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ and Cartheron turned to the north-west – only to stare himself, shocked.
This was far worse than any rogue wave that might drive the Twisted onto rocks or shore: a veritable wall of green was now surging upon them – and rising ever higher as he watched.
‘Oh dear,’ Kellanved managed. ‘This isn’t what I was expecting. No, not at all.’
Cartheron was surprised by the calmness in his voice as he observed, ‘This will obliterate us. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Not you, perhaps,’ Kellanved answered. ‘But there is one thing I can try. Not with all of you, though,’ and he raised his hands, gesturing.
Cartheron had time for one warning shout of, ‘Don’t you—’ before the world turned an odd sort of monochrome of shadowy greys and he stumbled, falling among rocks and brush. The flat, colourless light faded away, rather like the eclipses he’d experienced over the years, and he found himself close to an island shore. Nearby, crewmen and women rose as well, cursing and grumbling, from the thorny brush. Cartheron saw Creel, the mate, Geddin, the old steersman, the quartermaster Teal, even The Nose – it looked like Kellanved had transported the entire crew to safety. But where? He fought through the thick brush to Creel. ‘Where are we?’
‘Don’t know, cap’n.’
Cartheron raised a hand to the sun – looked like no time had passed.
The Nose approached and knuckled his brow once more.
‘Yes?’ Cartheron answered.
The old fellow smoothed his uneven beard. ‘Well, sor. That was rather a lot of water. And I’m thinking that if we’re still nearby, it could be headed our way – if you know what I mean …’
Cartheron offered an obliged nod. Of course. He pointed uphill. ‘Everyone! Head to higher ground. Now!’
*
On board the Twisted, Kellanved regarded the advancing mountain of water. Already it towered four or five times higher than the masts of the vessel. A thump upon the decking announced the arrival of the nacht and he now eyed it sceptically.
‘And will you be of any help, pray tell?’
The beast yawned, exposing oversized fangs and a pink tongue, then shoved an entire walnut into its mouth and gagged upon it, gasping for air.
Kellanved sighed. He began rolling up a sleeve. ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Too much? Very well. Typical! It all comes down to me in the end. As usual! But not like me to complain, though! Not at all. Quite used to it, I am.’ He started on his other sleeve. ‘I will show you something here, my friend! I swear. I will not hold back – I assure you!’ He glanced over to see the beast urinating a great stream to the deck.
His gaze narrowed to slits. ‘Oh, so you think so? In the wind? We’ll see. Ready yourself!’
He turned to the mounting, foam-webbed cliff of water poised above the vessel. It towered so high it now blocked the sun, throwing him into shade, and he faltered momentarily – but gathered himself, throwing his arms wide, to announce:
‘Welcome to Shadow!’
* * *
Dujek was shaving when scouts returned from watching the mountain. He was peering into a small mirror of polished bronze and drawing a straight blade over the lathered pate of his head – not an easy task for a one-armed man. A knock on the pole next to the door-flap made him flinch slightly, and cut the top of his head. Pressing a rag to the wound, he shouted, ‘Enter!’
Three scouts ducked within, saluting. Dujek glowered at them. ‘Yes? News?’
‘It’s definitely moving, sir.’
Dujek stared at the three, almost unable to process this news. His hand remained pressed to the top of his head. Something that immense moving? ‘Really? The entire fucking thing?’
‘Yes sir. Definitely. Picking up speed too – though slowly.’
‘Which direction?’
‘North, more or less.’
He peeled his hand and the rag from his head. ‘Well that’s just great. North is Falar! What’s it doing going north?’ He waved his hand. ‘Never mind. Just thinking aloud.’ He gestured them out. ‘Send Captain Ullen to me.’
They saluted and departed. Dujek wiped his head clean of any remaining lather. A knock announced the captain’s arrival. ‘Enter,’ Dujek called. Captain Ullen ducked within, saluted. Dujek poured himself a glass of watered wine. ‘I understand this Hood-damned mountain thing is actually moving.’
‘So I hear, Fist.’
‘Well, we’d better tag along – don’t you think? Relay the orders to break camp. We move out tomorrow dawn.’
The captain saluted. ‘At once.’
Dujek waved him out, but called after him, ‘Oh, and have Hairlock sent to me.’
Ullen nodded, then frowned, pointing to him. ‘Fist, sir. You are, ah, bleeding.’
Dujek slapped the rag to his head. ‘Dammit.’
It was after the evening meal when the cadre mage Hairlock came thumping into the tent that served as both Dujek’s private quarters and command gathering place. The mage searched about, found the wine carafe and poured himself a drink. He sat with a sigh of ease.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Dujek was unenthusiastically eyeing the clutter of paperwork on the one table. ‘Yes. Still no word from Tayschrenn or Nightchill?’
‘Not a word. Nothing. They went in and nothing since.’
‘But the thing’s moving now – related?’
The mage shrugged, threw back the drink. ‘Who knows? Can’t say.’
It occurred to Dujek that Tayschrenn’s and Nightchill’s disappearance would be quite the career advancement for this fellow. ‘Well, keep trying.’
Hairlock ran a hand over his own bald scalp and gestured to Dujek. ‘Missed a spot there.’
The Fist grimaced. ‘Got interrupted.’ He glanced significantly to the open door-flap.
The mage pushed himself from the camp chair. ‘Yeah. What do you think I was doin’?’
‘Let me know if you sense anything at all.’
The squat mage padded to the entryway in his flat-footed, side to side gait. ‘Course,’ he muttered as he disappeared into the night.
Dujek leaned over the table and for a time sorted through orders, reports, and other logistics. It was close to midnight when he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself another glass of the watered wine. Turning, he threw the glass across the tent directly at the same camp chair. Something deflected the glass to one side, the chair flew backwards, and a curse sounded.
The air about the chair rippled, revealing a dark-skinned man in a green silk shirt, silk sash and pantaloons. This figure gestured to himself. ‘Do you know how hard it is to clean silk?’
‘Don’t sneak into my tent, Topper. You’re lucky it wasn’t a dagger.’
The Claw straightened his stained shirt. ‘You lot and your tents. You’re the lucky one.’
Dujek poured himself another drink. ‘What do you want?’
‘Surly is concerned. Things are not going as planned.’
Dujek snorted. ‘When have they ever?’
‘And Dancer has interfered with her orders.’
The Fist froze for an instant then set down the glass. ‘How so?’
‘The leader of these Jhek was sanctioned. He forestalled it.’
Dujek grunted at the news, nodding. ‘Well, he may have his reasons. And it lies within his prerogative – don’t you think?’
‘He shouldn’t step on her authority like this.’
The Fist raised a brow. ‘Or yours, you mean, perhaps?’
‘Immaterial. They get along because they keep to their own fields.’
‘Well,’ Dujek downed the drink, ‘perhaps it was done for the Empire’s good, hmm? Does your wounded pride allow you to consider that possibility?’
The Claw snarled something under his breath, stalked to the tent-flap. He paused here, pointing. ‘For some unknown reason you are something of a favourite of hers. Do not count too much upon this to protect you,’ and he swept out.
‘Or you,’ Dujek called after him. ‘A night for visitors,’ he murmured to himself, and hunched in front of the bronze mirror to examine his scalp.
* * *
The vessel was an ancient, dilapidated merchant coaster out of Jook. Given the general fear of these invader raids and pirating, and the shut-down of almost all sea-trade, the captain considered himself lucky to take on an obvious veteran hand for the crossing to Belade.
For her part, it tore Gianna’s heart to leave the youths behind in Cabil. But the Jhistal had been sent and so they should be safe – for the meantime. Once a moon was the Faith’s legend regarding the summoning of the Jhistal – though she didn’t know for certain. No one in the priesthood did. These were uncharted waters for everyone.
She’d scavenged an oversized leather cap and frayed shirt and trousers and kept herself busy on board the Irene, hoping the captain would be unwilling to risk losing such a good hand by asking any annoying questions regarding her background, or her rush to leave Cabil waters.
Her goal was to return to the shoals of Sparrow Pass Cut, where she hoped to find Brevin, captain of the Glimmer, still salvaging – there was a month of the season left before the choppier waters of winter. And then, she had a hunch about just where she’d find this chest, this so-called Jhistal’s Bane.
They reached Belade harbour without incident. The crew spotted a few foreign raiders in the distance, yet the invaders appeared reluctant to approach Cabil itself, and seemed content with their looting and securing of new bases among the islands.
Belade itself was intact – it was a large enough city to fend off any raids. Gianna was surprised, however, by a line of damage across the entire waterfront: docks canted, vessels half-sunk, buildings knocked aslant.
Captain Jensk of the Irene tried to lure her into hiring on for the return run, but she begged off, making excuses about relatives in Belade, and set off up the damaged and uneven wharf. The first person she came to – a labourer hanging about piled cargo – she asked, ‘What happened here?’
He snorted at her ignorance. ‘Tidal bore is what – at least that’s what the city council says.’ He peered around, touched his temple, ‘But everyone knows otherwise. Was the Jhistal itself. The crest-wave of its passing through the waters.’
‘Passing? Where? Did you see it?’
The fellow appeared uncomfortable. ‘Not m’self, no. Others did, though. Say it was as tall as a mountain o’ water.’
‘Where did it strike?’
The labourer nodded to the east. ‘The channel to the Ice Sea is what they say. Rose up there, some saw. Probably ’gainst these invaders.’
She gave him a nod and walked on. The waterfront was a wreck and empty, and this worried her. How would she get to Belid, or Flood? Sea-traffic looked to have thinned to nothing; everyone shut behind doors and walls. Hoping to wait out these raiders, perhaps. Hoping someone else would deal with them.
As she walked, she considered: just who did she know here in Belade? Anyone?
Well, there was old Torva – if he was still alive. Gods, the old smuggler captain had been ancient all those years ago when she’d been a young first mate on board his low-slung galley, the Sea Snake. She snorted to herself: those early years had been among the happiest and most carefree of her life.
Thinking of Torva, she peered round to spot the nearest waterfront tavern. A few questions and she was directed up a lane that led towards the poorest, lowest-lying section of the city, where ramshackle shacks leaned sadly against one another and near-naked children played in pools of muddy water.
A few more questions and she found herself before a tiny hut of scavenged planks, and she felt her heart sink. Here lived the one-time greatest smuggler of the isles? Perhaps she had the wrong fellow, though.
A deep rumble of distant thunder drew her attention to the south then, and she frowned. Not the season for storms – and certainly not out of the south. Yet a line of dark clouds obscured the southern horizon, peeking out there beyond the low coastal range.
She knocked on the lashed planks that served as a door.
A gruff, dismissive, ‘Who’s there?’ answered and she knew she had her man.
‘Permission to come aboard,’ she called.
Shuffling within and the door opened a crack. An elderly, sun-darkened face peered out, all deep seams and grey stubble. ‘Who’sat? Thought I heard a voice of m’old days.’
‘You did. It’s me, Gianna.’
The face brightened in a toothless half-smile. ‘Why, so ’tis. Gianna. Best first mate ever sailed the clear seas.’
‘May we talk?’
‘’Course! Come in. Just don’t mind the mess. Been meanin’ to brush the place up.’
The door creaked open and Gianna slipped inside. It was dim, the only light being beams slanting through two boarded windows. A table stood crowded with empty stoneware bottles. A grey dog, perhaps as old as Torva himself, lay next to a hearth of dead ashes.
The ancient smuggler sat with a sigh. ‘So, Gianna. Me old mate. What you been up to all these years?’ He gestured to another chair – full of more empty bottles. She set them aside and sat.
‘Salvaging … mostly.’
Torva grunted. ‘An’ what can old Torva do for you?’
Gianna peered about the run-down tiny hut and felt her heart ache at the condition of her old captain. ‘Torva … I’m sorry, but I have to ask … what happened? You were the most successful smuggler of your age – or so everyone said.’
The old man nodded. ‘Ach. Had a run of bad luck. Ran up debts. Had to sell the good ol’ Sea Snake. After that, no one was interested in listening to my tales of the better days.’ He waved a crooked hand in dismissal. ‘So it goes if you live too long in our line o’ work. I ain’t sour. Just miss me old friends and companions.’
