The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  "I could buy that."

  "Having someone else around also helps you know you're still sane." Blays stared at the grim spout towering over the ocean. "A benefit that is coming in very handy right now."

  They passed the Mill from miles away. The waters were so dark they were almost black, churning in a vortex, fighting and foaming. Mist soaked them, followed by a pelting rain. The sails luffed madly. Waves bashed the hull, spitting foam over the deck. Dante took a chair outside the cabin and plunked down. There was no way he was going to hide indoors when there was a chance to learn something about the whirlpool.

  The skies lightened. The winds calmed. The whorl of water and the pillar of storm fell behind them. If anything, though, they skimmed along faster than ever. After a few minutes convincing himself this was so, Dante found Twill atop the aftercastle overseeing the helmsman.

  "You're right," she confirmed. "We are going faster. That's the whole point of sailing around the Mill. We caught the Current. We'll be at the islands within a day."

  There was no further excitement between then and nightfall. Dante went to bed early. He woke before dawn. The cabin was humid, sweaty. When he went outside, it was hardly any less stifling. The only thing keeping it tolerable was the constant wind.

  The sun rose on an azure sea. They weren't traveling as zippily as the day before, but the Sword of the South was still making better time than at any point prior to the Mill. A few white clouds adorned the sky like strips of lace. The sun was punishing, driving Dante into whatever shade he could find.

  "Land ho!"

  High in the rigging, a sailor pointed dead ahead. Dante moved to the prow. Ahead, a dim blue shape lay on the horizon. With the ship still streaking forward in the Current, the shape quickly resolved into a green island of jagged, knife-like heights and wave-battered coasts.

  Twill dispensed commands, prompting another round of sail-trimming. White birds soared with hardly a flap of their wings. The waters were now a bright sapphire blue. Those surrounding the island were pale, but no less gem-like. Low black cliffs skirted the shores. Above them grew the lushest, greenest forest Dante had ever seen.

  They sailed past the northernmost point, diverting to the east side of the island. A small bay swung inward, ringed by vivid purple sands. Animals shrieked from the trees, their calls so strange and piercing he couldn't tell if they were birds or creatures. He saw no sign of inhabitation at all, but given the crush of the jungle, thousands of people could be living inside it and you'd never know.

  The ship swung around another outcrop of rock, revealing the island was much bigger than at first blush. The letter delivered to Dante by the dead woman had instructed him to come to something called the Bay of Peace. He, of course, had no idea where this was, but Captain Twill strode up and down the deck giving orders as naturally as if she were directing a carriage driver to her home.

  They veered past a long arm of black rock gleaming with pools of water, its fringes shifting with birds and crabs. The Sword of the South hove around it and entered a calm bay sheltered from the northern currents. Tiny islands spangled the waters, low and level enough to serve as swappers. Dead ahead, a small river fed into the bay. The shores had been cleared of trees and were crowded with a mix of stone and wooden buildings. Despite the heat of the day, columns of smoke rose from the settlement.

  "Here you are," Twill said, grinning crookedly. "The Bay of Peace."

  Half the sails were down. As the ship coasted inland, slowing in advance of the reef protecting the inner bay, men tossed lead weights over the side, measuring the depths with lengths of cord. Dante kept his eyes on the settlement.

  As they passed the first of the little islands, yellow flickered from the shore. Dante craned forward. Figures dashed between the houses. The smoke, it wasn't coming from cook fires. The town was burning.

  4

  Twill stared at the blooming flame, spine straightening. "Mr. Fredricks! Come about. We're getting out of here."

  Hollers and screams filtered from the shore. The ship lurched, heaving around. Dante ran toward the captain. "What are we doing?"

  She barely looked his way. "That appears to be a war. I'm removing ourselves from it."

  "Do you intend to find somewhere else to land?"

  "Assuming the entire island isn't on fire."

  "Good enough." He moved back, giving her space to conduct her business.

  As the ship turned, avoiding a black rock spiking from the waves, Blays thumped up beside him. "Where exactly are we going?"

  "Away," Dante said.

  "There's a problem with that: those people over there appear to be getting killed."

  "We haven't yet stepped foot on this place and you already want to start meddling? How would we even know who to help?"

  "Easy rule of thumb: you help the side whose village is being burned. In all the wars we've seen, have you ever known the village-burners to be on the right side of justice?"

  Across the bay, a shirtless man stumbled onto the shore, clutching a staff or spear. A figure stalked after him, dressed in chain mail, sword gleaming in the harsh noon light. He battered the spearman to the ground and drove his blade into the man's body.

  "No," Dante said. "I haven't."

  He jogged across the deck toward Twill, who was deep in argument with Mr. Naran. "Captain, we need to go ashore."

  She scowled his way. "First rule of successful trading: never, ever get involved in local affairs."

  "These people are about to be slaughtered. It may be very easy to get a corpse to agree to your price, but you'll find it rather more difficult for him to pay you."

  "I won't feed my men to a war they have nothing to do with."

  "You don't have to," Dante said. "Give us a longboat. We'll do the rest."

  Twill gritted her teeth, then gave the command. A minute later, her crew had lowered a longboat to the water. Blays scampered down the rope ladder to the boat, Dante on his heels. They paddled toward an empty beach just south of the town, soaring over the bay's placid waters, which shallowed rapidly, turning an outrageous aquamarine.

  Dante watched the shore, but between the smoke, buildings, and jungle, there was no way to get a clear view of what was happening. "Should I assume you have no plan whatsoever?"

  "I thought I'd charge at them waving my sword around and whooping like a barbarian. Or were you looking for something more subtle?"

  "Given the circumstances, I suppose that's as good as we can get. But make sure you don't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."

  Blays glanced over his shoulder. "If we're going by your generous standards, I don't think I have anything to worry about."

  The longboat made landfall, sand grinding its hull. The beach was forty feet deep, fringed by ground-hugging grass. Beyond that, tall trees grew in profusion, their trunks naked of leaves, giant fronds sprouting from their crowns. Dante hopped out of the boat and sprinted for the cover of the trees. As he ran, he pulled his knife, slicing a shallow cut into his skin. Nether surged forward. Beside him, Blays drew both swords.

  Inside the treeline, they paused to assess what lay ahead. Two hundred yards up the sand, three men ran toward a wooden building, stilts elevating it a few feet above the grass. The men charged up its steps. While two of them ducked inside the front door, the third turned and fired a bow up the beach at five men carrying swords and piecemeal metal armor. The archer loosed a second round, staggering one of the pursuers, then ran inside the house and slammed the rickety door.

  The four remaining armored men continued toward the house. One carried a flaming brand.

  Blays rushed forward. Dante swore under his breath and ran after him. As the man with the brand touched the flames to the door, Dante splayed out his hand. A bolt of shadows streaked through the sweltering air.

  It took the soldier in the side of the neck. His head snapped to the side. He crumpled, half smothering the brand. The three survivors looked around in shock. One rolled the body aside and picked u
p the torch. Another reached into his pocket, and withdrew a round, apple-sized black object.

  Dante was now less than two hundred feet away; with little cover besides the unadorned trunks, the soldiers spotted him, pointing and jabbering. White smoke curled from the door. As the brand-bearer scampered from the flames, Dante loosed another spike of nether. It arced toward the man like the idea of a bird.

  An instant before it struck the foe in the chest, it burst into a shower of black sparks, winking away to nothing.

  Dante inhaled sharply. "Stay close. They've got a sorcerer."

  Blays grunted. "As if bows weren't bad enough. Is it too much to ask people to fight fair?"

  Dante shaped the nether and slung forward a third bolt. The soldiers were backing away from the burning building, hands held out before them. As the third bolt neared, one of them jerked a hand across his body. Darkness speared toward the bolt, deflecting it to the side. The three soldiers turned and ran.

  The door and roof of the house crackled and burned. A rain barrel rested at the side of the building. Dante veered toward it. "Give me a hand!"

  "No time!" Blays tromped up the steps, skipped to the side of the flames, and crashed his sword into the wall. Rather than hardwood, this was made of a thin, knobby-jointed plant like the bamboo that grew on the slopes of Gallador. The sword crashed through several sticks and lodged fast. Blays twisted it side to side, cracking a hole in the wall.

  He stepped aside for fresh air, waving at the smoke. As he did so, an arrow whisked through the air where he'd just stood.

  He ducked to the side, pressing his back to the building. "Knock it off! I'm trying to help!"

  The barrel was a quarter full of stagnant water. As Dante attempted to lift it, it sloshed forward, unbalancing itself. He danced away and water hissed into the patchy grass. Above him, a window covering rolled up with a clatter of sticks. The archer stared him down from behind a nocked arrow.

  "They're gone!" Dante gestured broadly, making a shooing motion. "You have to get out!"

  The man licked his lips, nostrils flaring at the smoke wafting past the window. His green eyes stood out from his heavily tanned face. He withdrew into the darkness.

  Dismayed shouts rang out from further up the beach. Dante couldn't understand a word of it, but panic sounded the same in every language. He dashed away from the house. His sword slapped against his hip, but with no desire to draw any more attention than necessary, he left it sheathed.

  Blays vaulted off the steps, stumbled, and caught up. His face was drenched in sweat and streaked gray with ash. Wood splintered behind them. The archer burst through the wall of the house, coughing into the collar of his simple shirt. He glanced at the dead soldier on the burning porch, then at Dante.

  Stilted houses flashed by on either side. The soil was a purplish clay that clung to Dante's boots. After passing through irregular rows of houses, a plaza stretched before them. Once upon a time, it had been cobbled, but now it showed more gaps than stones. At its north end, a man with a long, curved sword advanced on a line of spearmen. He wore a visored steel helmet, with greaves and vambraces around his shins and forearms. He was outnumbered six to one, but as he moved forward, the spearmen stepped back.

  Blays jerked his chin at the helmeted man. "Keep him off me?"

  Before Dante could respond, Blays bolted to the southeast side of the plaza, where a trio of swordsmen were shouting at a woman clutching a black box to her chest. With no desire to charge his target across open ground, Dante loped toward the houses at the edge of the plaza.

  The helmeted man gestured fluidly. Hammers of shadows struck the guts of the two nearest spearmen. They bent double, flying backward. One of the survivors cocked back his spear and hurled it toward the nethermancer. The helmeted man skipped to the side, flicking his sword at the incoming spear and batting it aside.

  The man was already drawing more nether. It flowed to him greedily, hungry to be used. Best to take him out in one stroke. Ideally, one he'd never see coming. Dante moved into the shadow of a weathered stone building. As the man lashed out with his sword, lopping off the head of an outthrust spear, Dante delved into the nether in the clay beneath the sorcerer's feet. Softening it. Preparing to swallow him in it—and then turn it to stone.

  The man halted. Without turning, he pushed both palms toward Dante. Dante yanked his mind from the clay, but before he could refocus his attention, a wave of nether hammered into the side of the building. With a deafening rumble, the upper story gave way.

  In his time, Dante had used the nether to solve any number of impossible problems. Not once, however, had he deployed it to stop a house from falling on him. There was no time to run. As the stones tumbled down around him, he softened the ground beneath him to muck and plunged beneath the surface.

  Mud flowed into his nose. He held his breath tight and returned the ground around him to solid earth. Blocks bashed the surface above him. Encased in hard clay, unable to move, he tried not to panic, forcing himself not to breathe. Within moments, the thuds and vibrations ceased. Once again he softened the earth, then hardened it beneath his feet, pushing himself upward. With a slurp, the top of his head crested the surface. His eyes cleared. His crown bumped against unyielding stone. To prevent himself from inhaling, he blew muck out his nose, then twisted his head to the side, freeing his mouth.

  He stayed put, catching his breath, letting his body adjust to the idea that he was no longer buried alive. Shakily, he wiped viscous clay from his eyes and nose. Light glowed from small gaps in the rubble. He appeared to have half a building on top of him. He heard nothing from the plaza. At first he imagined the stone was muffling the fighting—or perhaps that everyone had turned to gawk in wonder—but then he heard a bird caw from nearby. The skirmish had ended.

  And he had a bad feeling about who remained in the plaza.

  Last he'd seen Blays, the blond man had been charging after the soldiers accosting the woman. If the helmeted man came for him, he'd be defenseless. Dante needed to sink back into the clay and "swim" out the other side of the house.

  Outside, footsteps crunched toward him. Dante went still.

  "Dante?" Blays called. "Come on, Dante. I know your head's hard enough to survive a few tons of rock!"

  "I'm here," Dante said. Sand gritted his mouth. He spat. "Don't touch anything. It's not stable. What's going on out there?"

  "They ran off."

  Stone flowed away from Dante's head. Once he had room to straighten his neck, he went to work on the rocks in front of him, drawing them away as smoothly as water.

  "Ran off?" he said. "Weren't they kicking our asses?"

  "Thoroughly. But they came here for something besides imprinting their sandals on our backsides. Once they got what they came for, they cleared out."

  A shaft of daylight appeared before him. "What were they after?"

  "Not sure. Turns out I've never been here before. You all right in there?"

  Dante finished the cramped tunnel and wormed his way out on his hands and knees. His shirt and trousers were caked with pounds of purple clay.

  Seeing him, Blays burst out laughing. "You look like you lost a fight with a vineyard."

  "Did you see where he went? The sorcerer?"

  "Lost track of him."

  Dante stood, knocking grit and clay from his clothes. "He'd just buried me alive. And you thought it was a good idea to take your eyes off him?"

  "It's surprisingly easy when you're running in the opposite direction."

  "Now that makes a lot more—"

  He cut himself short. Across the plaza, a man stalked toward them bearing a stone-tipped spear. He wore knee-length trousers and what appeared to be a sleeveless undershirt; on one foot, he wore a complicated sandal, but he'd lost the other in the fighting. He barked something unintelligible.

  "Do you speak Mallish?" Dante said in that tongue. "Gaskan?"

  The man repeated himself, pointing at Blays' swords, then the ground. When they didn't
move, he lifted his spear, drawing back his elbow.

  Blays frowned. "Listen, friend, these swords were just deployed in the protection of your people. Considering that…"

  Two men and two women jogged into the square, three armed with spears, one with a bow. One of the men called behind him. The reinforcements flanked the lone man, weapons trained on Blays.

  "I think," Dante said, "you should put down your swords."

  "The problem with the act of disarming yourself is it's typically followed by getting stabbed."

  More armed townsfolk filtered into the plaza, dividing themselves between the commotion around Dante and Blays, and in looking to the bodies scattering the grounds.

  "If you don't put them down, there's going to be an incident," Dante said. "And if there's an incident, we're going to have to kill all these people and flee to the boat."

  The spearman yelled again, a vein throbbing in his forehead. Blays sighed and crouched, lowering his swords to the half-cobbled ground. The warrior leveled his spear and advanced toward the blades.

  To their right, a young woman ran into the square. She carried a curved sword and wore bone bracers studded with steel. Her eyes locked on the two foreigners. "Dante. Is which of you?"

  Dante blinked. Her Mallish was accented and slow, but wholly intelligible. "That would be me. And who are you?"

  The woman turned on the others, speaking rapidly, jabbing a finger at them. The language was foreign, but every now and then, a familiar-sounding word leaped forth like a salmon from a mountain stream. Several of the warriors jogged off, faces sober with purpose.

  She turned back to Dante. Like everyone they'd seen on the island, her skin was light brown. Her eyes were the same hard blue as the sea. "You came on a boat. This boat brought iron?"

  Dante nodded. "It turned about when it saw the fighting. But I'm sure you can flag it down."

  The woman spoke to the spearman who'd made Blays lay down his arms. The man argued a moment, then held up a hand in surrender, glowered at the cobbles, and trotted off.