A Home in the Hills

by Robert J. Crane

  She clutched Jasen’s wrist, staring at him with desperate eyes.

  “I couldn’t find you! I asked Huanatha, and she said she thought—”

  “I’m fine,” Jasen said. He tried to wrest himself from her grip—there were people still in the water, damn it; even now, with another wave beginning its race inland, Kuura was swimming out again, the many folds of his ripped tunic billowing about him—but Alixa held firm, fingernails digging into him.

  “Let me go,” he said.

  “You almost drowned,” Burund repeated.

  Alixa’s eyes only grew wider. She stared in terror, gaze flicking between them.

  Jasen began, “I’m fine—”

  “You are not fine,” she said, “You ancestors-damned bloody fool. You could have died!”

  Jasen almost shot back, “I am dying,” but bit his tongue. Didn’t she realize he had people to save? The Lady Vizola was here because of him, after all, and now she lay dying on the edge of this mist-shrouded isle.

  Green lightning pulsed in strobing forks. Farther off, this one—the BOOM came delayed by a half-second. Nor did the explosion kiss the ocean surface.

  The storm was abating.

  “Please, Jasen,” said Burund, squeezing his shoulder. “Let us do the work.”

  “You can’t even swim,” Alixa said. Somehow her words were harder to bear than the deafening thunder that boomed around them.

  “But—” Jasen protested.

  “No buts. Please. You have done more than anyone could expect. Now let us do the rest.”

  “But—”

  “Stop.” Burund gripped him hard, harder perhaps than he meant to. “You push yourself like a beast of burden against this task, but you are weak. I will not permit it. Now stay.” And before Jasen could protest with even a word, he broke free, strode down to the water’s edge, and leapt into the water in a fluid arc, his hands out in front of him.

  Jasen moved to follow—

  Alixa yanked him back.

  “Alixa—”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Helping!”

  She spat a curse with such spite that Jasen flinched back from it. “You idiot,” she growled. “The Shipmaster tells you to stop endangering yourself, and you still try to follow?”

  “They’re here because—”

  “Sit down on the shore and let them deal with it.”

  They were at an impasse for a long moment. But Alixa faced him down with fierce determination, and finally, he obeyed, retreating wearily from the edge of the shore and planting his backside on a twisted, slippery rock.

  Alixa lowered herself beside him. Scourgey dropped down too, sighing. Her coal-black eyes looked out sadly from above crossed paws, her head laid upon them.

  Another wave hit the shore. It was weaker now though. A shower of foam rained down on Jasen and Alixa and Scourgey.

  It pulled away.

  “It’s easing,” Alixa said quietly.

  Jasen said nothing.

  The shattered remains of the Lady Vizola lay supported on the rocks that had torn her apart. She held there as the waters receded, for long seconds … and then, with a final creaking groan, she snapped in two. The broken halves of her framework sagged into the sea, sloughing off debris into the growing mass that surrounded her.

  Jasen closed his eyes, hung his head.

  Alixa held onto his arm. “It’s okay,” she said.

  Jasen shook his head. It was not—and Alixa knew it. The Lady Vizola was their only way off the island. It was wrecked, swept out into the ocean in pieces that could never be salvaged, much less put back together … and in this field of accursed fog, no one was coming for them.

  They were stranded—and alone.

  2

  Though the lightning abated, the rain did not. It carried on well into the evening, when the sun’s already feeble presence began to fade. If anything, the rain grew heavier in the absence of the thunderheads.

  The isle of Baraghosa did not offer much in the way of shelter. The tower itself was an option—but none of the crew appeared willing to consider it, looking upon it with fear in their weary eyes. Nor did Jasen wish to return to the place where he had faced Baraghosa again, failed again—and learned of his impending death. It was as though a noxious black cloud hung over it. All felt it, none wanted to chance the stay, and so alternatives were sought.

  A nook was found a three-quarter-mile walk from the place where the Lady Vizola had finally given herself over to the sea. The rock was less smooth here, more craggy and sharp. The space was barely large enough for the full crew, let alone supplies. Yet they crowded in by necessity.

  Somehow, a fire was lit. Only the one. There was little dry wood to feed it. A pile of salvaged boards from the Lady Vizola was spread around it in hopes that it would dry enough to burn. So far, it had not.

  The ship’s crew huddled around the fire. So small, not a part of their number, and with her diseased-smelling pet lolling her head upon her lap, Alixa was not permitted a space right by the fire’s edge. Instead she sat a little back. An idle hand stroked the stringy, thick hairs sprouting from Scourgey’s head. Girl and scourge both stared into the fire with lost eyes.

  A salvage operation had been in effect for the past few hours, now that the full crew were accounted for. Though Shipmaster Burund would not allow Jasen to venture into the water for the crates and barrels that remained close enough to shore to bring back onto land—too dark, he said when Jasen questioned him, even if the waves had subsided—Jasen was allowed to help carry them back to the shelter. Once, Jasen and Hamisi were tasked with a crate with a splintered top. Jasen flashed him a weak smile as they carried it awkwardly the whole way back to the cave. Hamisi only looked sour, as ever. Once the crate was placed with the rest, building a wall up to protect further against the elements, Hamisi stalked off without waiting for Jasen to accompany him back.

  Jasen sighed, watching Hamisi’s back recede.

  Huanatha was passing as Jasen made his way back to the shore once more. She hefted a barrel, holding it close to her belly. She nodded at Jasen and continued on her way. A minute later, having put the barrel down, she caught up to him again.

  “You are a determined one,” she said. “I knew I saw it in you. Your ancestors are proud.”

  A chill ran up Jasen’s spine, nothing to do with the rain or the wind caressing his skin. They were with him now? He stumbled, missing a step.

  Huanatha caught him. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  Another white spot had opened up in his vision, though. He blinked against it. It dimmed, but did not go away.

  Huanatha squinted at him. She seemed unconvinced, but she released her hold of his arm. “Rest soon.” And she lifted a wave before moving ahead, carried on longer legs with more energy than his.

  She passed him again a few minutes later heading back with another crate in her arms. This time, she gave him only a glance and a nod.

  At the wreckage, Burund was overseeing the salvage. A stack of crates had been pushed together, hauled in from the water.

  When he saw Jasen, he pointed to a small one, no larger than a knapsack. “Your last one,” he said. “Then you rest.”

  Jasen lifted an eyebrow. Had Huanatha said something?

  Nevertheless, he took it, the weight pulling at his weary arms.

  “I am serious, Jasen!” Burund called as he turned away. “I do not want to see you back here.”

  Jasen clenched his teeth. He didn’t complain though, just headed back toward the cavern.

  Another of those white spots was clouding his vision by the time he added his small crate to the rest. His legs were heavy too, and his arms. And that horrid salty taste in the back of his throat—that hadn’t abated either. It was like a little part of the ocean must live right down at the bottom of his lungs. A little part of him wondered if he’d taste it forever.

  Another part considered that forever, for him, might
not be very long at all.

  He sat down, more heavily than he’d intended, by Alixa’s side.

  Scourgey glanced at him. She pressed her nose against his skin, and breathed. The sound she made was sad.

  Jasen patted her. He blinked, hard. Stupid spots. Like blank, white paint poured into clumps in the middle of his sight. A wave of dizziness ran through his head just then, and he tipped slightly before catching himself.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He frowned at Alixa. “Hm?”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked again.

  Jasen just shook his head. “Nothing. Tired, that’s all.”

  A canvas sail—part of one, at any rate—had been pulled from the water. It was soaking, but had been squeezed out as much as possible by a team of shipmates who weren’t able to help much with salvage—those with injuries that made walking difficult, but did not totally immobilize them. They were cloistered together, and Medleigh oversaw them, looking as though he needed a doctor too, a great wound open in his shoulder that he’d stitched and bound.

  The sail was being slowly manhandled into a canopy. A new fire was lit below it as men struggled to attach the sail’s corners to wooden beams. For now, the flame was low and kicking off a great deal of black smoke. Drips kept falling into it, threatening to put it out. The hope appeared to be that the smoke would dry the sail, extending their meager shelter as the night lengthened. It might be successful, though Jasen wondered if, when the sail was dry, they would have to kick the fire out to stop it from igniting the canopy.

  He looked around them. He knew barely any of their names. Their faces, though, he knew those.

  A frown pulled his lips downward.

  Alixa touched his wrist. “Talk to me.”

  He sighed. “I did this.”

  “This was Baraghosa,” Alixa said firmly.

  “And we are all here because of me.” Jasen gazed over the clustered bodies in this shelter, their injuries—broken arms, legs, swellings all over and innumerable wounds that oozed blood even now, soaking the improvised bandages binding them. That no one had been killed was an unbelievable stroke of luck. It did not change the fact that every one of these people were here, broken and stranded, most of their possessions lost to the ocean, because of him.

  He hung his head.

  “Stop it,” said Alixa. “Right now.” She spoke so fiercely that Jasen looked up at her. “This self-pity has gone on for long enough. Neither I nor anyone else can talk you out of whipping yourself endlessly over what has happened, so I’m not trying anymore. If you think it’s your fault, fine. But now you need to start asking yourself—what can I do to fix this?”

  What could he do?

  He racked his brains, running a finger distractedly across the graze above his right eyebrow, already beginning to form a scab.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  Alixa pursed her lips. “No. Me neither. But we can work on that.”

  What she thought they’d come up with, Jasen hadn’t the first clue. The only thing he could think of was entirely unrealistic: locating another boat by which they could escape this rock. Baraghosa had fled in his and Jasen doubted the sorcerer retained a spare. And with barely any foliage on the island except for some low-growing scrubby plants, they had little in the way of materials to build a raft, let alone a sea-worthy boat.

  No, he had no answers. Pondering them now likely wouldn’t get anywhere either. He was tired and his head was fuzzy. He was probably hungry, although for now his stomach did not appear to know it. He’d pushed his body hard today, but now he that had stopped, he ached, all of him—his muscles, his bones, even his brain.

  And those damned spots in his vision—a little one was flickering in the corner, but whenever he tried to glance at it, it darted out of sight like a bird startled from a bush.

  He fingered the scab on his forehead again. Damage from the bit of wood that had winged him? Splinters in his eyes? Or had the first spot appeared before that? Now he thought about it, he couldn’t quite get the timeline in order. It had happened after … hadn’t it?

  He peered out of the nook of a cavern. An outcrop of boulders provided a wall against the wind. Dark as the night beyond them, Jasen could see their shape only by the flickering of flames: their curves, slick with rain …

  His heart skipped.

  He stared.

  Between two of the boulders, there had been another shape. A human one.

  Was that …?

  “Jasen?” Alixa asked, from afar. She peered at his face, then followed his gaze. “What …?”

  He turned to her. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  He opened his mouth—but the answer would not come. It would sound like madness. Fatigue had taken a deeper root than he’d realized.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just tired.” And he settled back, bunching his knees to his chest and holding them tight.

  Still, he watched those boulders, and the gap between them.

  She did not appear again. But then, she hadn’t appeared at all. She couldn’t have.

  After all … his mother was long dead.

  3

  Adem was angry. He was shouting, over and over, his voice was deep and frightening. Jasen cowered back from him. Adem spewed an endless slew of words Jasen didn’t understand, loud like thundercracks. For some reason, Jasen associated his words with different colors of flashing lightning. And the voice … it kept changing.

  Then Jasen’s eyes were open, and he was not looking into the crossbeams of the ceiling of his home in Terreas. Instead he saw rock, dark, lit in streaks by golden firelight.

  It was not his father shouting at him. Instead the raised voices came from the crew of the Lady Vizola.

  He rolled over.

  Alixa crouched beside him. Her grim expression was painted in stark colors by the fire’s glow and the night’s shadows. Her grip on Scourgey was white-knuckled. Unaware that Jasen had woken, she watched across the small cavern.

  Jasen followed her.

  Hamisi and several others were standing, crowded in the small space, their faces glowing dimly in firelight. They shouted, pointing accusatory fingers.

  Shipmaster Burund stood among them, enduring their complaints. When a gap came in their rapid speech, he answered in calm.

  It did not placate them. Hamisi exploded, throwing his arms skyward. He spat words in a frenzy, so quick that Jasen could scarcely recognize the sounds that made them up.

  Burund responded, calm as death.

  One of Hamisi’s mates, a dreadlocked man with a fat stone hanging from each ear, Kosi, cut over Burund. A great barrel of a man, he got up into Burund’s face, practically roaring. Burund stood stock still, placidly enduring the verbal assault.

  “What’s going on?” Jasen asked.

  Alixa just said, “We should do something.”

  “He can take it.” This was from Huanatha. She’d crept up. Clad in armor only from the waist down, a better bandage finally wrapped about her by Medleigh, she regarded the ongoing outburst with a sneer. “Besides, I do not think a fifteen-year-old girl is likely to diffuse an attack on the shipmaster. Particularly this one.”

  Alixa pursed her lips. “Still.”

  “What are they fighting about?” Jasen asked.

  Huanatha stooped beside him. The glow of the fire licking the curves of her armor turned its blue to a peculiar shade of amber.

  “They are unhappy with this turn of events,” Huanatha said. “Their ship has been destroyed, their possessions lost, and they find themselves stranded on a cursed dot of a rock in the middle of a hostile ocean. This, they blame on the shipmaster.” She paused a moment, listening as Hamisi kicked off another particularly vicious diatribe, complete with wild gesticulation and much jabbing of fingers. “This one, he accuses the shipmaster of forsaking the judgment of the crew.” Another pause. Kosi, just as animated as Hamisi, was talking again. “They would never have sailed here. Not w
illingly.” A few moments listening again. Lips tight, Huanatha finished, “Not for unpaying strangers …” Her eyes flicked sideways to Jasen and Alixa at that. He there might have been more to Kosi’s speech. Whatever Kosihe’d said sounded much more venomous than Huanatha’s translation.

  Jasen sighed. “They have a point,” he conceded wearily.

  Alixa’s glare softened; she apparently agreed too.

  He listened for a little longer. Kuura and a few others joined in the debate to defend Burund, but he often waved them down, keeping the focus of Hamisi and his comrades firmly on himself.

  After a minute or two of listening, Huanatha said, “They are questioning the possibility of a change of leadership.”

  Alixa looked shocked. “They’re going to depose Shipmaster Burund?”

  Huanatha listened intently. The conversation was rapid. Others in the shelter were weighing in too now, but it was hard to tell where they stood on it. Nor did Jasen care. He was interested only in the outcome—one in which, he hoped, Burund would keep his position—or at least that Hamisi would not replace him.

  “They are not threatening it,” said Huanatha at last. “Not yet, at least. Merely suggesting the possibility, albeit strongly. This has gone catastrophically, after all, they say. And no one will come to our rescue. Everyone from Firoba and Chaarland and Coricuanthi and the other lands know better than to come near here.” Her lip curled. “Cowards.”

  Jasen watched. A wider discussion had opened. Hamisi and his group were not quite so loud now. A man who kept close to Hamisi’s elbow, the tattoo of a many-legged creature imprinted across his exposed shoulder, appeared to have taken a sort of mediator role. He listened quietly, arms folded, nodding as people spoke. Then, when another pair vied for loudest, he snapped off a complaint and elected one to speak.

  “Slimy creature,” Huanatha growled.

  Jasen glanced at her, eyebrow raised.

  “That one is quieting those on the shipmaster’s side. He lets only those sympathetic to Hamisi speak.”