The Rover

by Mel Odom

  The three pirates tumbled back through the rigging, squalling fearfully and crying out for help. Luckily, they maintained holds on the rigging and when the ropes got caught up in the sails and yardarms below, they managed to hang on long enough to grab back into the rigging and start down.

  “Cut the halfer’s throat,” Critter urged. “It’s him what’s drawn the fire-lady to us. He’s served as her scout.”

  “Archers,” Captain Farok called.

  “Aye, sir,” the men armed with bows shouted in unison.

  “No!” Wick glanced at the dwarven pirate captain, knowing the man wouldn’t hesitate to give the order. “You’ve got to stop him.”

  “See?” Critter crowed. “Even now the halfer’s a-seekin’ to protect his co-conspirator. Why, if’n you listen to him, we’ll all be—”

  Hallekk brushed the rhowdor from his shoulder. Critter protested in a vile curse, then flapped his wings and glided to the railing where two men helped aboard the pirate who’d been knocked from the crow’s-nest. “Not my job to be a-tellin’ Cap’n Farok his business.”

  “Fire!” Captain Farok roared.

  Bowstrings thrummed as the archers released their deadly missiles. Of the five arrows, only four came close to the fiery-headed woman. She folded her arms across her chest, flared her wings threateningly, and glared at the arrows as they burst into fire, turning to small, ashen clouds before they reached her.

  Hallekk clenched Wick’s shoulder in a massive fist. Worry tightened his voice. “Is she a wizard, little man?”

  “No,” Wick answered. Hallekk pushed him toward the forecastle so fast that Wick had to run in order to keep from being dumped face-first onto the deck. Fearful pirates made way for them, but the little librarian noted that they all gazed at him with hatred in their eyes. They’re blaming me! He couldn’t believe it.

  Suddenly, the fire-headed woman’s mocking laughter rang out over the ship. It was cold and calculated, a hollow sound that had never known mirth. The sound gave Wick goosebumps. The Embyr’s voice pealed through the night above the dull growl of the ocean. “Who commands this vessel?”

  “I do,” Captain Farok called without hesitation. No one else spoke, and the pirates standing around the captain took small steps that carried them away from the old man. If Farok noticed the attrition in the ranks, he gave no sign of it. “I’m Cap’n Farok Roguar of the good ship One-Eyed Peggie, an’ I’ve given ye fair warnin’ to step clear of me vessel.”

  Hallekk pushed Wick to the top of the stairs and toward the dwarven pirate captain. “If ye know she’s an Embyr, as ye called her, then ye got to have some idea of what-all she’s about.”

  “Revenge,” Wick gasped, almost out of breath from the rapid pace Hallekk kept. “Embyrs burn for revenge.”

  The big dwarf shook his head. “I know we ain’t done nothing to her. Have ye ever—”

  “Not me,” Wick replied hurriedly.

  The flames around the Embyr’s head blazed brighter and stood taller, no longer bowing before the wind filling One-Eyed Peggie’s sails. She threw a hand forward and a fireball took shape in an instant, launching from her palm.

  The fireball sped across the distance in the blink of an eye, but most of the pirates moved faster. Wick dove for the forecastle deck and wrapped his hands over his head. Only a few feet away, Captain Farok dropped behind the railing.

  With a thunderous WHOOSH!, the fireball slammed into the railing and reduced a three-foot section into flaming splinters. Pirates cursed and cried out, but they stayed hunkered down where they were, fearing another such attack.

  Cautiously, Wick peered through his spread fingers. Heat from the flames clinging to the wreckage of the railing pressed against him like the doughy bread from an oven. Steam rose from the water-dampened decks. The explosion echoed in the little librarian’s ears.

  Hallekk grabbed Wick by the elbow and helped him to his feet. The big dwarf thumped at the cinders clinging to his jacket as he pushed Wick toward Captain Farok.

  “Do not,” the Embyr shouted, “presume again to tell me what to do, dwarf.”

  Frightened, Wick glanced across the ruin of the forecastle railing and saw that the woman remained near the crow’s-nest. He squatted down beside Captain Farok at Hallekk’s heavy-handed insistence.

  “Why did ye bring this halfer over to me?” Captain Farok demanded. His rage and fear drew harsh lines around his mouth.

  “Because, Cap’n,” Hallekk said, clapping Wick on the back, “this little man knows what that thing is. I mean, what she is.”

  Captain Farok scowled and spat. “She’s sudden death is what she is, Hallekk. Any fool what’s got an eye in his head can see that.” He glanced at the flames leeching at the forecastle deck only a short distance away. He pointed at one of the cowering pirates around him. “Get that fire put out this instant or I’ll see that ye get the lash if’n we survive this.”

  After only a momentary hesitation, the pirate crawled on hands and knees across the deck. He retrieved a bucket of wet sand from the forward railing kept there for emergencies, then poured it over the flames. The wet sand extinguished the fire with an audible hiss.

  Farok studied Wick suspiciously. Then he raised his voice and glanced at the flame-being. “All right, woman, ye got me attention. What is it ye’ll be a-wantin’?” Then he lowered his voice to a whisper as he returned his attention to Wick. “What is she?”

  “An Embyr,” Hallekk replied.

  “An Embyr?” Still seated, Farok turned carefully and stared up into the rigging, weighing his words carefully. “One of them foul creatures Kharrion made at the end of the Cataclysm? Supposed to sit in judgment on the races of men, elves, dwellers and dwarves?”

  Hallekk looked at Wick.

  “Yes,” the little librarian said, surprised at the captain’s knowledge. “You know about the Embyrs?”

  Farok grunted. “Somewhat. Me ol’ granny was a taleteller what liked them old stories. I’ve heard of the Embyrs. Supposed to be seven of ’em, right?”

  “Nine,” Wick corrected automatically, then quickly added, “sir.”

  Farok nodded and gazed carefully over the railing. “I stand corrected, halfer. But it don’t matter a whit to me how many of ‘em survived the final battles of the Cataclysm. I’m a-thinkin’ I already got one too many Embyrs on me ship now.” His direct gaze narrowed. “Is she here for you, halfer?”

  “No,” Wick said. “I’ve never seen an Embyr before tonight. Most scholars had believed they’d passed from this world with the defeat of Lord Kharrion.”

  “I came,” the Embyr stated calmly in her chilling voice, “to burn you and your ship, Captain Farok.”

  “Why?” Farok asked irritably. “Me an’ mine ain’t ever done nothin’ to you.”

  “Because I wish to,” the Embyr taunted. “And because I can.”

  “An’ that remains to be seen,” Farok roared.

  “I’ll burn you,” the Embyr promised, “because it will satisfy me to do so.” She held her hands out at her sides at shoulder height. Flames exploded in sheets from her fingertips, cascading into the white-capped waves for the space of a drawn breath. Billowing white steam shot up, bleeding into the gray fog. At the same moment, all the lanterns aboardship suddenly blazed, the flames momentarily breaking free of their confines.

  “What brought you to me?” Farok asked.

  The Embyr drew her arms into herself and began to sing. The magic inherent in her words drained the moisture from the air surrounding One-Eyed Peggie.

  “She can’t answer your question,” Wick said, watching the fiery-headed woman. “Even she doesn’t know what brought her here. Embyrs are vindictive creatures, created from hate by Lord Kharrion to do harm to everyone. Taldour had a saying about Embyrs in his Collected Works of Omens and Portents from the Cataclysm. ‘No man may know the whim or will of the Embyrs, and although a man can see where an Embyr has been, it is hard to know when one is coming.’”

  “Did Tal
dour happen to mention any ways of gettin’ rid of an unwanted Embyr?” Farok asked.

  Hesitantly, not wanting to get the captain’s ire directed at him for however long they had left to live, Wick said, “No.” He glanced over at the Embyr.

  The Embyr stood with her arms spread in front of her, while high over her head melon-sized fireballs appeared in the sky and began orbiting each other. As she sang, the fireballs grew greater in size and glowed more brightly, changing from a deep red to orange and yellow.

  “What’s she doing?” Farok demanded.

  Wick listened to the beautiful music. “She’s singing her death song.”

  “She’s gonna die now?” the pirate captain asked.

  “No,” Wick replied. “We are.”

  Farok gave a soured harumph. “Ye have the nerve to call yerself a learned man, an’ ye sit here a-cowerin’ an’ not a thought in that great melon of a head of yers how we’re a-gonna get out of this.”

  “There’s no denying an Embyr’s moment of vengeance.” Wick knew it was true. In all the tales of the Cataclysm, the Embyrs had never been defeated.

  The fireballs spun faster above the Embyr’s head.

  “C’mon, little man,” Hallekk said, his voice tight with desperation. “Think. Everything has a weakness. We got a whole ocean here to drown her in if’n we can figure out how.”

  Wick shook his head, searching through his memories of the creatures. “You can’t drown Embyrs. They pursued Malnichik through the Floating Cities on the Dragonwing Sea. Even when they had to go underground in the islands and one of the sisters was trapped in a flooded chamber she didn’t die. She still burned her way through the wall. Malnichik died only moments after that.”

  “Ye really know how to make a man feel hopeful, don’t ye?”

  Wick thought frantically as he watched the fireballs spin faster and faster, till they blurred into a solid ring of flame. Everyone wants something. That’s the cornerstone of Lhomror’s Edicts of Bartering in the Non-Feudal Community. But what would an Embyr want? Although the little librarian thought fiercely, nothing came to mind. He thought of his family, knowing that if things ended here and now, none of them would ever know what happened to him. They would only forever wonder. It would be a truly sad thing, and even that would be mourned for—

  A glimmering of an idea rocked his mind. His breath caught as he turned the idea over. It might fail, might turn into a last-minute burst of wasted breath—but it might save them, too. Or at least give the Embyr pause.

  Knowing they were almost out of time before the Embyr struck, Wick forced himself to stand on trembling legs. Due to his short height, he only raised his head and shoulders above the railing. He held his empty hands high and addressed the Embyr. “Wait.” His voice cracked. “Please—wait.”

  Her fiery head turned toward him. Her cruel lips turned up in a cold smile despite the flames surrounding her. “No.” She drew her arm back, preparing to cast the spell. The heat from the spinning fireballs had already warmed the pirate ship and driven the fog into retreat.

  No? Wick was shocked. In the books he’d read from Hralbomm’s Wing, heroes and villains and foul creatures always granted each other some temporary respite. That was the time when all the great speeches were made. In the real life histories he’d read, great leaders took those moments to work out treaty details that often saved the lives of hundreds of men. At least during those times a warrior had proper time to make peace with his maker.

  “Goodbye, halfer,” the Embyr said. She drew her arm back and threw the whirling fireballs at the little librarian.

  The light of the flames blazed, filling Wick’s vision. “I know who you are!” he shouted as loudly as he could manage. He watched, paralyzed, as the fireballs soared toward him. “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!”

  Then the fireballs retreated, pulling back to the Embyr in the blink of an eye. They orbited over her head. “What did you say?” the Embyr demanded.

  “I said,” Wick told her in his quavering voice, “that I know who you are.” From the Embyr’s body stance, he realized that she had heard and was interested in what he had to say. “I knew who you were—from before the time you were changed.”

  “I was not changed,” the Embyr replied. “I have always been what I am.”

  But you hesitated, Wick thought, you hesitated because somewhere deep inside yourself, you know that you were something—someone—else. “Do you remember King Amalryn?”

  “I know no one by that name,” the Embyr replied.

  “You know him,” Wick insisted. “Lord Kharrion took him from you and made you into the thing that you have become.” He hoped that all the old texts he’d read concerning the Embyrs were correct. “I’ve been taught that you will know a lie that has been told to you.”

  She nodded slightly but kept her hand up to control the whirling fireballs. “No man may lie to an Embyr.”

  “Am I lying to you?” Wick remained standing with effort, forcing his legs to hold him upright. He shook all over and his voice continued to crack.

  The Embyr waited, and the hiss of the flames burning in the air sounded all over the ship, drowning out the waves lapping against One-Eyed Peggie’s starboard side. “You believe the words you are saying,” she said after a moment.

  “Do you remember King Amalryn?” Wick asked.

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  Wick’s hope began to sink. If the Embyr couldn’t remember King Amalryn because of Lord Kharrion’s spell-weaving, One-Eyed Peggie and her crew had no chance. “Amalryn ruled the elven city of Cloud Heights. Once, the kingdom was thought to be the most beautiful of all the arboreal communities the elves built. Even the dwarves were jealous of the city’s flawless design.”

  “Not likely,” Captain Farok breathed. “But keep talkin’, halfer. At least she ain’t a-blastin’ us yet.”

  Wick swayed on the ship’s deck as One-Eyed Peggie ran with a port wind. He tried to ignore the captain’s words. The little librarian’s throat was dryer than he could ever remember it. “King Amalryn lived within Cloud Heights, in a castle crafted completely of amber. When the sun hit the castle, it shone like a jewel clutched in the branches of the tallest tree in Silverleaves Glen.” Pictures of the elven kingdom had been rendered in several of the books Wick had read. The amber castle sat amid thick branches, glinting yellow-gold against the riot of green and silver leaves.

  “You are wasting my time,” the Embyr accused.

  “No,” Wick said, “I’m not. It’s said that the Embyrs burn brightest because time stands still for them. They can’t remember the past; all that holds true for them is the present.”

  “Not true,” the Embyr declared.

  “Then tell me,” Wick said, trembling terribly because he knew he might only raise the creature’s wrath, “where you were before you arrived on this ship.”

  The Embyr shifted uncomfortably on the yardarm, maintaining her stance without apparent effort. “You vex me, halfer.”

  “You can’t remember,” Wick said gently, “because Lord Kharrion made you so you couldn’t. He took many things from you to make you as you are.

  “They were worthless things,” the Embyr stated. “I did not need them. Who needs to remember yesterday when it is today that is meant for the living?”

  “King Amalryn,” Wick went on, mastering the quavering in his voice with effort, “was blessed with children. He and his queen, N’riya, had twelve children—three sons and nine daughters. By all accounts, the elven king loved his children with a father’s proud fierceness. His children, he told all his friends and those who had business dealings with him, were his treasure, his life, and his legacy. Everyone who knew him knew this was true.”

  The Embyr held out a hand. “Come more closely to me, halfer, that your words will not be whipped about by the wind. I would hear more of this king and his children.”

  Wick glanced into the rigging, seeing how high she was above the unforgiving deck and the treacherous
water. One misstep would surely mean the death of him. “Lady, climbing into the ship’s rigging is not—”

  “Come,” the Embyr declared, and this time it was not an invitation, but an order.

  Reluctantly, Wick went back down the forecastle stairs on trembling legs. He stopped amidships and looked up into the rigging. The ship yawed at least six or eight feet each way with the pitch of the ocean. The Embyr stood easily on the yardarm, but the little librarian knew it would not be the same for him. He’d gazed down from heights before, the Knucklebones were filled with spectacular views, but he’d been anchored the whole time to the earth.

  At the foot of the main mast, he reached for the bottom of the rigging and found it inches out of his grasp. He sighed with relief. I can’t reach it. Surely she will understand—

  Two powerful hands caught Wick up under the arms and hoisted him up toward the rigging. “I got ye, little man,” Hallekk said from behind him. The big dwarf lifted the little librarian easily within reach of the rigging. “Grab ahold an’ start climbing.”

  Numbly, Wick seized the rigging with his hands and hooked his toes into it as well. He clung to the rope strands for a moment, feeling his body pull away from the rigging as One-Eyed Peggie surged forward, then press against the rigging as the ship bottomed out between swells. Climbing rigging definitely wasn’t like climbing a ladder in one of the big rooms back in the Library.

  “Don’t freeze up, little man,” Hallekk coaxed. “Ye can do this.”

  Wick remained plastered against the rigging. He gazed upward at the fiery figure waiting for him. Even now, he knew, Lord Kharrion’s spell of forgetfulness would be working against him. How long would the Embyr remember what he’d told her without him continuing his tale? Five minutes? Perhaps ten? Struggling against the cold, fearful doubt concerning his own climbing abilities as well as the course he’d taken to face the Embyr, the little librarian freed a hand and reached upward.