by Dan Zangari
We’re almost there, he thought, grinning like an eager acolyte. No longer would anyone dismiss him as crazed, delusional, or mad. Dalgilur would prove his theories true. What was once a fanciful idea would become reality. Krindal would be lauded for his discoveries—the man who would restore Kalda to its ancient ways.
Krindal reveled in the grandeur of those thoughts. Smiling, he glanced at the others in the war room: Admiral Kaetet, a few of his officers, and the woman Laeyit. They were all gathered around the table, studying the map. The Admiral was reviewing the process for making all four ships appear as one.
It was an interesting strategy. Krindal and Master Vargos had similar doubts, but the prince had resolved those concerns. Prince Kaescis’s explanation carried enough logic, although Krindal failed to understand certain parts.
“Admiral!” a young sailor cried, dashing into the war room. “We’ve passed that island.” They were entering the World’s Frown. Dalgilur would be only hours away.
“Good,” Kaetet said. “Notify the other ships. Are the barsionists ready?” the admiral asked, turning to Laeyit.
“They’ve all been notified,” the woman said, rounding the table. “Once the gangways are secured, they will cast their spells.”
The Admiral nodded. “You will be leaving this here, Master Krindal?” Kaetet asked, gesturing to the mapping tevisral.
“Yes, sir,” Krindal answered as Laeyit left the war room. “I can sense the island across the ocean.”
Admiral Kaetet nodded and gave some orders to his officers, then dismissed them. He too left the war room.
Soon, Krindal was alone. Scholar of Discovery, he mused, grinning widely. That’s what they will call me. He was exuberant at the thought.
Noise echoed in from the open-air decks. Krindal turned as towering poles rose along the rails of the ship. The Helidar—one of the Mindolarnian warships—was moving closer to the portside rail. Krindal couldn’t see the Ulicin, but the third warship would be on the opposite side of the Helidar.
* * * * *
While the crew prepared the Executor’s Breath to link with the other ships, Kaescis gazed out the windows of the observation room, clasping his hands behind his back. The voices plaguing his mind hadn’t bothered him these last few weeks, not since Kaescis realized what he must do. The idea of slaying Mister Dol’shir seemed to satisfy them beyond measure.
Laeyit strode down the stairs to the main deck, passing huddled Wildmen. She looked confident as she shouted orders. That wasn’t unusual for her. But something about her demeanor made Kaescis’s eyes linger.
Laeyit had been acting strange since their return from Klindil. She wore makeup and sat on his lap to draw him from his woes. Those were things a normal woman might do to try to divert a man’s attention. It was odd coming from her.
Dalgilur should be to the right, Kaescis thought, glancing over the starboard side of the ship. Dark shapes loomed over the horizon, about thirty degrees off the bow. “Is that a storm?” he whispered.
With narrowed eyes, Kaescis reached for a spyglass and glimpsed something red at the back of the observation room. It looked like a man. Kaescis spun, spyglass in hand, and then started, eyes wide with surprise.
A tall man stood in front of the door. He looked like the vile Alathian who had slain Kaescis’s beloved uncle nine months ago. The man wore a crimson robe, his arms folded across his chest while a grin formed upon his hawk-like face. His eyes were a brilliant sapphire, and his hair and beard were as white as snow.
“You…” Kaescis growled, dropping the spyglass and extending his hand, ready to summon his massive Ko’delish blade. Furious, he uttered the incantation to muster his deadly weapon, and the blackness oozed from his pores.
Wait… a dozen voices echoed within his mind. Strike not our master.
Kaescis started again. Our master? Patterns in the man’s robe caught Kaescis’s eye as the Ko’delish blade formed. Those patterns were symbols… Kaescis recognized the symbol on the man’s abdomen. It was an emblem used in the architecture of the Hilinard.
The Emblem of Knowledge. Kaescis gasped, glancing elsewhere on the robe. The six other divine glyphs were also present. This robe… Kaescis had heard tales of a man wearing this robe when appearing to the Faithful. He was called the Messenger of the Promise, the Word of Cheserith, the Herald of the Harbinger. He would speak for God when even the Chosen would forsake the world. He was the embodiment of the Will.
It… it can’t be! Kaescis stepped back, aghast. He lost concentration and his blade flickered, parts of it misting away.
“Yes, it can.” The robed man’s smile turned to a wide grin. He strode across the decking, walking without the sound of footsteps. “Don’t doubt, Kaescis. It’s not becoming of you.”
Kaescis marveled that this man—no, this divine being—knew his thoughts. “Then… you are…” Kaescis trailed off, watching as the robed man stepped closer. “The Messenger of the Promise?”
The robed man looked amused. “That’s one of many names I’ve been called over the years,” he said, stopping in front of Kaescis. “There are just so many, I could go on for hours.” He glanced down to the black blade in Kaescis’s hand.
“You won’t need that,” the Messenger said with a chuckle. “At least, not yet.”
Kaescis dismissed the weapon, and the black particles misted away. “Why are you here?” Kaescis asked.
“You need some instruction before you set foot on the Isle of the Ancient Ones,” the Messenger said. “These next few days are very delicate, and events must happen in a specific way. One wrong step by any critical participant will lead to folly. So, I’ve come to instruct you.” He paced away.
Kaescis eyed the Messenger, still marveling that he was in the presence of a divine being.
“You can stop with the adoring thoughts,” the Messenger said, stopping again in front of Kaescis. “Yes… you are in the presence of divinity. Now, pay attention. One wrong step and you could doom your God.”
That frightened Kaescis. What did the Messenger mean by that?
“You’ll understand,” the Messenger said reassuringly. “Now, come with me.” He tapped Kaescis’s forehead.
Colors whirled past Kaescis in zipping streaks. He felt dizzy, though he knew he shouldn’t. He understood all too well what was happening. His mind was traveling through the fabric of reality into the Realm of God, the Translucent Fields of Vabenack.
The streaks stilled, and Kaescis found himself within a space much like the observation room of the Executor’s Breath. In fact, it was the observation room. The Messenger stood in front of him, removing his finger from Kaescis’s forehead.
Kaescis spun, gazing out the windows. He smiled, inwardly praising Lord Cheserith. A yellow sky hung above a vast ocean of violet water. Red clouds dotted the sky, partially obscuring a blue sun.
“I am not forsaken!” he cried, dropping to his knees.
“Far from it, Kaescis,” the Messenger said flatly.
Kaescis stared out the windows for a moment, then noticed the absence of noise within his mind. The voices which had clouded his thoughts since mustering his massive Ko’delish blade were gone.
“Only you are here,” the Messenger said reassuringly. “The hiss’thraks are still within your body on Kalda.”
Oh, what sweet relief! Kaescis cheered inwardly. He didn’t know why he didn’t say it aloud. The Messenger knew his thoughts.
“Pay attention, son of Cheserith, and behold your destiny.”
* * * * *
Cornar stood at the forecastle of the Promised Maiden, watching the crewmen from the Executor’s Breath lower the poles and gangway to link the ships. As usual, the Wildman watched with wonder. Cornar could see the other Mindolarnian warships beyond the Executor’s Breath. Another set of poles and a gangway were being lowered to the Helidar. Many of Cornar’s warriors were gathered around him, following their mentor’s gaze.
Nordal sighed from beside Cornar, leaning against
one of the barrels at the forecastle. “Sailing with this maneuver scares me,” Nordal said. “Ships weren’t designed to sail like this.”
Midar laughed, shaking his head. “And here I thought nothing scared you,” he said smugly. The only answer Nordal gave Midar was a perturbed glance.
“It’ll be fine,” Ordreth chimed. “Right, Uncle?”
Would it? Cornar hoped so. Kaescis seemed to be sure of it. There was still the possibility that whatever guarded Dalgilur would sense the individual ships and only grant passage to Krindal’s vessel. That possibility worried Cornar.
“We should move everyone to the Executor’s Breath,” Cornar said in a hushed tone, careful not to draw the attention of the Wildmen. “If things don’t go as expected I’d rather we be with Krindal.”
Gregan squinted thoughtfully. “We don’t even know how this whole barrier thing works, Cor. For all we know, Krindal could be pulled to that island, and we’d be doomed to face the dangers of the Frown.”
Hemrin looked frightened at Gregan’s remark. “You don’t think that’ll really happen, though. Right?” the young warrior asked warily. Gregan just looked at Hemrin blankly, the wind rustling through his auburn hair. A few other warriors chatted about the matter.
Cornar stepped away from his men, searching for the others of his band. Vargos was the only mage who was topside. The old barsionist sat on a chair the crew had fastened to the main mast. Vargos had wanted to be in a central location for his spell. He claimed it would be easier to maintain the barsion around the ships’ hulls.
If we move, he won’t join us, Cornar thought.
Vargos turned, watching the sailors secure the poles and gangway. The old barsionist took in a deep breath as Cornar approached.
“I want to take everyone to the Executor’s Breath,” he told the barsionist. “Can you maintain the spell from the portside rail?”
Vargos frowned, studying Cornar. “So now you’re cautious…” he said, grunting.
“Well, Vargos?”
The old barsionist scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“I’m going to get the others moved,” Cornar said.
When he turned to step away, Vargos answered, “It’ll be an inconvenience, but I can do it.”
“Good,” Cornar said, walking to the stairs leading below deck.
He’d almost reached the stairs when Vargos called out, “But I want my chair!”
Cornar hurried below deck, making his way to the galley. Several of the mages were there, including Igan. Kalder was also with them, as were Cordel and Shen. Cornar strode straightway for the wizard and put his hand on Igan’s shoulder. “I want to move to the Executor’s Breath,” Cornar whispered, noting the captain and her first mate in the galley.
Igan slowly turned to Cornar, eyeing him with that thoughtful gaze of his. “Are you worried, Cor?” The three warriors leaned closer, eager to hear Cornar’s answer.
“Cautious,” he whispered. “We don’t really know what we’re dealing with.” The wizard nodded thoughtfully. “Have you seen the other mages?” Cornar asked.
“I think Clodin and Hem were playing a game in their cabin,” Igan said.
“Brendar and Drenor are with them too,” Cordel said.
“Thanks.” Cornar clasped Igan’s shoulder, then looked to Kalder. “Go tell the others that are below deck.”
“Right away, Cor,” Kalder said, taking one last spoonful of his porridge.
“You want us to be discreet, right?” Shen whispered.
“If you can.” Cornar shrugged, stepping back to the galley’s door.
Once out of the galley, Cornar made his way through the lower decks. He came to one of the cabins occupied by the mages, but it was empty. A faint conversation filtered into the hallway from another cabin. Cornar hurried toward it and opened its door.
Brendar and Drenor were sitting on the edge of the lower bunk while the mages—Clodin and Hem—sat on chairs. Cornar’s eyes settled on Clodin. The necromancer looked like the typical Sorothian: dark-olive skin and brown hair. Clodin’s eyes, however, were a pale gray.
“Finish your game,” Cornar said. “I want everyone aboard the Executor’s Breath.”
“Are we at the Frown yet?” Hem asked excitedly. The illusionist dropped his cards and hurried to the door. “Is there anything anomalous happening? The compasses stop working yet? Are the—”
“No,” Cornar interrupted firmly. “Just quietly make your way to the Executor’s Breath.” He gestured for the illusionist to go down the hall. Hem closed his lips exaggeratedly and then walked speedily down the hall. Though he was a grown man, Hem often acted like a wide-eyed child. Sometimes it was humorous, but the behavior was mostly an annoyance.
Brendar and Drenor handed their cards to Clodin, then hurried out of the room. Their only acknowledgment of their mentor was a simple nod as they casually exited the cabin and made their way down the hall.
“Something wrong, Cor?” Clodin asked, gathering the rest of the cards. He bent down and picked up the ones Hem had dropped.
“Just being cautious, Clodin.”
Clodin nodded, straightening the deck of cards. He was a somber fellow and often very quiet, the type of man who blended into a crowd. Clodin had studied the necrotic arts as Iltar’s apprentice, beginning his tutelage at the age of twelve—twenty-four years ago. It had taken Clodin five years to become a full-fledged necromancer. Then, after his seventeenth birthday, Clodin joined Cornar’s adventuring band. Since then Clodin had never missed an adventure. The man was fiercely loyal, especially to Iltar.
“All right,” Clodin said, standing. “I’m ready now. Don’t want to lose my favorite deck,” he grinned, slipping the cards into his robe. Cornar chuckled and stepped aside to allow Clodin to pass. Together, they walked back to the stairs leading to the main deck.
Igan was ahead of them but stopped once he was topside. “Is everyone accounted for?” the wizard asked.
“I think so,” Cornar said, scanning the main deck. All the members of his band were near the foremast. A few Wildmen were also nearby. Cornar’s eyes, however, were drawn to Vargos, who was mustering his barsion magic.
Vargos and his chair were glowing a dark blue. The surrounding magic thickened, then shot across the wooden decking. It washed across the deck and spilled over the rails. Some of the magic ran along the poles and gangway connecting the two ships, where Vargos’s barsion mingled with magic from one of the Mindolarnian mages.
Astounded by the magical feat, the Wildmen on the Promised Maiden gasped with awe. They marveled with each other in their broken language.
The old barsionist took a deep breath then glanced to Cornar. “It’s done,” Vargos said, then rose from his seat and strode toward Cornar. “Are we moving now?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Cornar nodded.
Vargos spun, then shouted to one of the crewmen. “I need a better vantage of the hull,” he shouted. “Move this chair to the Executor’s Breath.” Several of the crew hurried to the fastened chair, and Vargos gave them further instructions.
“That’s clever,” Clodin whispered.
“Yeah,” Igan smiled, “seeing as the main deck of the Executor’s Breath is higher, it makes sense.”
Cornar left the mages to talk, walking to the forecastle. All of his men were gathered there. The thirty-five of them filled the entire forecastle.
“Let’s go,” Cornar said, and gestured for his men to follow. He led them to the gangway and onto the Executor’s Breath.
As on the Promised Maiden, the main deck of the Executor’s Breath was filled with Wildmen and sailors. The Mindolarnian sailors busily adjusted the rigging, weaving around the gawking Wildmen.
Once on the main deck of the Executor’s Breath, Cornar’s band dispersed. Some of them went below deck to the mess deck. He could hear his men talking about spending the day out of the inevitable storm. The World’s Frown was notorious for raging tempests.
Nearly half the men stayed tops
ide along with all the mages, mingling with the Wildmen on the main deck. Sharon and Ordreth lingered close to Cornar, quietly conversing. Cornar couldn’t tell what the couple was saying, though.
More orders were shouted from the bridge, requesting a status report across the small fleet. Runners dashed from the bridge and down the stairs to the gangways.
Once the runners were gone, Krindal somberly descended the stairs from the quarterdeck. The scholar started upon seeing Cornar, then jumped again upon noticing the rest of Cornar’s band. Krindal studied them warily, then proceeded across the main deck, picking his way through the Wildmen.
Krindal didn’t speak to anyone as he passed. He went straight for the raised forecastle, passing the forward-most mast and climbing the curved flight of stairs. The scholar wove around the armaments—long and short-range cannons—and stop at the bowsprit.
The old scholar did something unexpected. He threw his arms wide and looked skyward.
“What is he doing?” Igan asked, sounding confused.
“Uh, looking like an idiot?” Nordal suggested, drawing laughter from some of the men.
“Maybe he thinks he needs to be at the front to make this work,” Clodin said. “None of us really know how these tevisrals operate.”
Darkness rose above the horizon. Is that a storm? Curious, Cornar looked to the ship’s center mast where the crow’s nest was located. The lookout was gazing through a spyglass across the horizon at that dark spot. He put the spyglass down and sat back, partially disappearing from sight—undoubtedly making notations in a logbook kept in the nest.
“Sailor!” Cornar shouted up to the lookout. He waited until the sailor peeked his head out. “Is that a storm?”
“Aye,” the man shouted back. “There’s lightning brewing in it. Looks bad.”
Great, Cornar groaned.
“It’s to be expected,” Nordal said. “This is the World’s Frown, after all.”
“Find some shelter,” Cornar told his men. “And corral the Wildmen below deck. I’d hate for them in their nervousness to endanger the ship.” He glanced at the Wildmen all huddled together. “I’ll be in the war room.”
