by Deborah Hale
“Be still!” she ordered him, startled to hear the words came out in that tone—the one Langbard had only used on rare occasions to compel instant obedience.
When the man froze, she turned to the one who was trying to push past Rath. “Stay back!”
The sounds of a struggle between the two men ceased.
A heady sense of power pulsed through her. Might the warding waters heed her if she ordered them to calm? Maura decided to save that as a last resort.
Her fingers fumbled in her sash pocket. The spikeroot—she had not thrown it way after all! Perhaps Langbard’s slumbering memory had roused just enough to prevent her.
Pulling out as much of the powdered root as she could hold, she held her palm to catch a few drops of water spilling through the hatch. The seawater bound with the spikeroot powder to make a thick paste that Maura packed around the wound.
Then the words of the incantation whispered through her mind. Maura spat out the sea grass and began to chant them, hoping she could hold her gorge long enough to recite the whole spell.
The nub of the arrow shaft began to vibrate beneath her fingers and the wounded man screamed in torment until all Maura wanted to do was jam her fingers in her ears and flee from the awful sound. She stumbled over some of the words.
Then she felt Rath hovering behind her. “Don’t stop now!”
He wrapped one arm around her, then reached with his other hand to grip the arrow shaft. What was he doing?
Maura chanted the spell louder, trying to drown out the man’s screams. The arrow shaft vibrated harder and harder until she feared it would shatter.
Then something taut snapped.
The screams choked off and the butt of the arrow shaft thrust through flesh and bone to gouge into the floorboards of the hold beneath. Maura slumped forward, gasping for breath as if she had just run many miles or hefted a weight far beyond her strength.
Rolling the injured man out of the way, Rath pried the arrowhead from the wet wood. Then he lunged up, twisting around to shove it into the hands of the waiting crewman. “There—go! Get rid of it!”
The man clambered up the ladder as huge waves pounded the Phantom from every direction at once. The ship’s hull quivered like the arrow shaft had. Then the unbearable tension broke with a shudder that sounded like the ocean had heaved a great sigh. A breathless, exhausted calm settled over everything.
“Well done, aira!” Rath spun Maura around into a swift, hard embrace, with a kiss to match.
She yielded for a sweet, delirious moment, then pushed him away with pretended annoyance. “Enough of that! Let me tend this poor man’s wound while he still has a drop of blood left in him. What a mercy he swooned when the pain became too great. I’m not sure I could have kept up much longer if he hadn’t.”
Pulling another strip of linen from her sash, she wet it with the seawater now dripping more slowly through the hold. Then she sprinkled the damp cloth with candleflax to staunch the bleeding. While she was busy with that, Rath moved the man with broken bones to a drier part of the hold and fetched him a blanket.
“What were you doing,” asked Maura “when you put your arm around me and grabbed hold of the arrow shaft?”
Rath chuckled. “I remembered some wise words an old wizard once told me.”
“Langbard said many wise things. Which one do you mean?”
Why was she blinking back tears after all this time and everything that had happened? Was it the strange drooping of spirits that often came after danger had passed? Or was it the fleeting but intense connection she had felt with her beloved guardian while she’d worked his spell?
Whatever provoked such intense feelings, Rath seemed to sense and understand them. He made his way back to her and dropped to his haunches, raising his hand to rub up and down against her arm.
“I did not get to hear many of Langbard’s wise sayings in the little time I knew him. But I do recall him saying, ‘Spells are all very well, but sometimes there is no substitute for a swift application of physical force.’” He imitated Langbard’s husky, resonant voice so well, it made Maura laugh and sob at the same time.
Rath brought his hand higher, to rest against her cheek. “I reckoned your spell could use some physical force to help it along. It seemed to work.”
Maura nodded. Then a stray breeze found its way down the hatch to whisper over her damp clothes, making her shiver. “Not a moment too soon.”
“I wonder.” Rath fetched a coarse-woven blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “If we had needed another moment, something tells me the Giver would have found it for us.”
Beneath his wry tone, Maura heard a note of belief, tentative but sincere. Not a high-flown, zealous faith fired by witnessing marvels and doing great deeds, but a sturdy, workaday belief that grew slowly over time. One that would warm a body against the cold of despair and wear well through the years.
“Just think—” she caught his hand and gripped it tight “—if one tiny ship can bring about the destruction of the Ore Fleet, there may be hope for us to liberate Umbria, after all.”
Rath drew in a deep, slow breath. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, love. The Phantom did not sink those Hanish ships—it was the warding waters.”
“Perhaps we will find some other great power to turn to our advantage.” At the moment, nothing seemed beyond their reach.
Though the hold had grown too dark to see more than shadows, she could make out Rath shaking his head. “I don’t know, aira. Great powers can be dangerous things.”
Then, more to himself than to her, he murmured, “And not only to the folks they are used against, either.”
Just then, one of the crew called down through the hatch. “Come on up on deck, inlanders! The captain wants you.”
“Tell your captain he can wait,” Maura called back, “until I have these men properly tended.”
Rath smiled to himself, wondering how many of the fierce men on this ship would have the courage to delay carrying out one of Captain Gull’s orders.
He tugged on her sleeve. “Listen.” From both wounded men came the soft, regular breathing of sleep. “You cannot do much for them now that a good rest will not do better.”
“True.” Maura’s hand fumbled out of the darkness to find his. “I will need light to set those bones and clean that arrow wound properly. No doubt there are healers on the Islands with greater skill than I who can set them both to rights.”
Rath hoisted her to her feet. “There may be healers better equipped than you, aira, with gardens of rare herbs and such. But I would defy any of them to do half what you have done with only that sash and whatever you could gather along the way to fill its pockets.”
Maura gave a weary chuckle. “Langbard often used to say, ‘Necessity is a harsh teacher, but a thorough one.’ I confess, I never understood what he meant until I began my journey.”
She held tight to Rath’s arm as they groped toward the ladder, in a way that told him she depended upon him to support and guide her. His heart ached the way his belly had after those few times in his life when he’d eaten more than his fill. Now his love for Maura felt like more than his heart could comfortably contain.
“There is more to it than that,” he said as she started up the ladder. “All the skill and supplies in the world are nothing without the will to help folks. I have never seen anyone with as great a store of that as you have.”
Maura scrambled up onto the deck, then turned to offer Rath a hand. “Perhaps you should have looked longer in the waters of the Secret Glade. Then you would have seen someone with vast reserves of that will.”
Perhaps, Rath admitted to himself, but did he have the courage to tap it? Like every other power, it had its perils.
Several small lanterns hung from the lower masts, shedding a shadowy light over the deck.
Captain Gull stepped out of a patch of shadow and performed a deep bow before Rath and Maura. “I have never met a pair of inlanders so handy to have about w
hen there’s trouble. My thanks to you for saving my ship. I am in your debt.”
Rath returned the bow with self-conscious awkwardness, though he could not decide how to reply. His past had taught him more about trading threats and insults than accepting courtesy.
Instead, he glanced out into the night where clusters of distant lights flickered. “Will we put in to harbor tonight?”
Gull shook his head. “We’ll drop anchor here and wait for the dawn tide. Though if you are anxious to reach shore, I can let you have one of the small boats and a couple of my men to row you in.”
“Should we?” Rath whispered to Maura.
He had no wish to hasten their arrival on the Islands. For all its dangers and hardships, this short voyage had been like a welcome return to his old life. To these men he was no Waiting King with a heavy mantel of impossible expectations, just another inlander who had managed to earn their grudging respect. All that would change once he and Maura set foot on shore.
But he knew she must long for the safety and assurance of firm earth beneath her.
Perhaps Maura sensed how he felt, or perhaps she felt something like it herself. “The sea is calm here. Another night aboard ship will do us no harm. Besides, I want to be near at hand in case those wounded men wake and need tending.”
“As you will, then.” Gull sounded pleased with their decision. “I reckon a little festivity is in order, to celebrate our daring victory over the Hanish Ore Fleet. Will you join us?”
This time Rath did not hesitate. “With pleasure!”
“You heard the man.” Gull snapped his fingers. “What are we waiting for?”
All at once the night air bubbled with the rollicking, infectious music of wooden pipes and hand drums. Rath found himself seated on a sack full of something soft, with Maura’s even softer backside nestled in his lap. This was definitely better than whatever reception might await them on the Islands!
When someone thrust a tall jug into Rath’s hand, he took a long swig that made his eyes water.
“What is that?” he gasped when the liquid had burned its way down his throat, numbing as it went. He was no stranger to strong drink…at least he hadn’t thought so. But this…!
“Your first taste of sythria?” Gull took the jug from Rath’s hand and guzzled the fiery brew without betraying the least distress. “You must have sea-going blood in you. Most inlanders spew their first drink back up and scream for water.”
So that was sythria. Rath had heard of the stuff and assumed its reputation exaggerated. Now he knew better. His belly felt as if it was full of flaming oil.
Maura grabbed the jug out of Gull’s hand and sniffed its fumes. “The stuff doesn’t smell that bad. What is it made of?”
Before Rath could stop her, she tipped the jug back and drained it. After what he and Gull had drunk, there could not have been much left. Still, Rath expected her to choke and gag or belch a cloud of steam.
But she only fanned her mouth. “That is strong! Remind me not to it drink so fast next time.”
“I will try,” said Rath, though he wondered if he would remember.
From that single drink, he already felt dizzy and a good deal more carefree than he had in a long time. Perhaps he could stomach another sip of sythria, now that the first one had numbed his throat. For some reason that notion made him laugh like a fool. But foolishness felt strangely pleasant. The look on Gull’s face as he stared at Maura made Rath laugh, too.
“Your pardon, mistress.” Gull blinked his eyes as if trying to decide whether they still worked properly. “I have never before known a woman ask for a second drink of sythria after she has had her first.”
Maura sniffed the mouth of the jug again and shrugged. “I’ve tasted worse. My guardian was the most terrible cook in Norest…perhaps in the whole of Umbria. What did you say this was made of?”
“Pardon, mistress, in my amazement, I did not answer your question. Sythria is distilled from the rind of sythfruit that grows on the Islands. Folk here brew a very fine wine from the fruit itself, but Duskporters like a drink that has a bit more…brawn to it. Cheap, too, for sythfruit rind is bitter and would only be thrown away. We put it to much more worthwhile use.”
The hillcat around Gull’s neck rose and stretched. For the first time Rath had seen, it bounded off its master’s back into a shadowed part of the deck.
“Abri must be hungry.” Gull seized another jug from a passing crewman and took a long drink from it. “Rats beware!”
He rose from his perch on a small keg and made a sweeping, rather unsteady, bow before Maura. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, mistress? I dared not ask you while Abri had her claws in me. Jealous creature—she would never have permitted it.”
Maura made no move to accept his invitation. “I fear it would be less an honor than a torture for your toes, Captain. I have never danced with a partner.”
“Never danced?” Gull staggered back. Either he was pretending to be shocked by Maura’s words, or those two long, fast drinks from the sythria jug were having an effect on him.
It must have been the first, for he recovered quite nimbly to swoop forward and grab Maura by the hand. Before she or Rath could protest, Gull pulled her to her feet and thrust another jug at Rath to keep him company in her absence.
“That is a grave misfortune we must put right at once.” Gull tucked one hand around Maura’s waist, while the other, outstretched, gripped hers. In that hold, he galloped her several times around a small circle of deck where none of the crew were sitting.
At first Maura squealed with a mixture of excitement and dismay as Gull whirled her around. Those squeals soon gave way to breathless laughter and her stiff, reluctant posture relaxed. By their last circuit, she appeared to be leading Gull a merry dance.
Rath took several slow drinks from the jug in his hand. In between them, he sat scowling while the sythria kindled a blaze in his belly.
Gull? Hmmph! The man’s name should be Gall, for he had plenty of it. More than enough to suit Rath.
What did the scoundrel think he was playing at, plying Maura with strong drink, then dragging her out of her husband’s arms for a wild jaunt around the deck? Did he not have the sense to know that she would draw the lecherous gaze of every man on board, the way her ripe curves filled out that boy’s shirt and breeches? Or did he not care?
Rath tipped the sythria jug again. He was beginning to enjoy its burnt, musky taste. Curses—the jug was empty!
He lurched to his feet only to find them as contrary as a mismatched team of balky horses. Each wanted to go its own way and neither would move in the direction he wanted them to go. Rath was not about to be thwarted by parts of his own body. So he started forward, letting each leg do what it wanted while he concentrated on keeping his balance.
He had managed to stagger a few steps when a clever idea occurred to him. If he waited at the edge of the ring of crewmen, Gull and Maura’s spinning dance would bring them right to him. He congratulated himself on getting stopped without pitching face-first onto the deck.
When Gull and Maura pranced past, Rath stopped them with a heavy hand on Gull’s shoulder. “I reckon you’ve done enough dancing for one night, friend…with my wife at least.”
Gull winked at Maura and laughed. “Fie, he’s almost as bad as Abri! We should have sent him off with her to hunt rats.”
“Sit down, Rath.” Maura lifted his hand off Gull’s shoulder. “Before you fall down. Don’t spoil the celebration.”
Her gently chiding tone did nothing to soothe Rath’s temper. Besides, his mind was so fixed on Gull’s last words that he scarcely heeded what she said.
“Hunt rats, you say?” He grabbed Gull by his long plume of dark hair and wrenched him high on his toes. “I won’t need to go far to find a rat, will I?”
“Leave off, you daft inlander!” cried Gull. “No man lays hands upon me aboard my ship!”
Suddenly, Gull heaved his feet from the deck, making Rath bear his ful
l weight with one arm. Before Rath could let go of him or lose his balance and topple forward, Gull swung by his hair, driving his feet hard into Rath’s belly.
The air whooshed out of him as pain exploded within. He collapsed onto the deck, writhing and gasping for air that would not come fast enough. But pain and even air meant little to Rath Talward when his fighting blood was roused. Gull had roused it to a blazing pitch—first with his insults and now with this attack.
“Let that be a lesson to you, inlander.” Gull pulled himself up from the deck where Rath had dropped him. “Most men I’d have killed for what you just did, but…”
Did Gull reckon he meant to lie there and swallow such humiliation? Ha!
Rath swung his arm in a wide swath and caught Gull by the ankle, jerking him off his feet. Before he went down, Gull kicked Rath in the face with his free foot. Rath flinched, blood spewing from his throbbing nose.
The little demon could fight better with his feet than most men twice his size could with their fists! A distant, detached part of Rath’s mind acknowledged it even as he kept hold of Gull’s foot and landed a good hard blow to some part of the smuggler’s compact body.
For a few moments, the two men rolled around the deck, thrashing away at each other with feet, fists, knees and elbows.
“Stop this at once!” Maura cried out in a tone of ringing rage. “Both of you!”
To his credit, Rath did hesitate for an instant. But Gull took advantage of that hesitation to drive his sharp little knee hard into Rath’s groin. Rath let out a savage bellow of pain but managed to get his hands around Gull’s slender throat and squeeze with all his strength.
Just as he was savoring the bulge of Gull’s eyes, a familiar but detested sensation stole through his flesh, making his hands fall slack and freeze motionless along with the rest of his body. The same must have happened to Gull, for he did not take advantage of Rath’s paralysis to land another un-sporting blow.
Instead, he channeled his hostility into a black glare. “What have you done to me, inlander? I will not stand for this, curse you!”
