Shadow Over Kiriath

by Karen Hancock

  After their capture of the women, the Esurhites had transferred a number of Starchaser’s crewmen to their vessels to man the oars below. Then they’d sunk the northern ship and rowed on to Avramm’s Landing, entering its bay full of anchored ships just after dusk. Gliding brazenly past vessels whose deck lanterns shone like fuzzy stars high above them, they had swung round before reaching the city itself to pull in close to the dark cliff that bordered the bay’s southern shore. After mooring there for a bit, the oars were lifted again and they pulled away, heading out into the mist that had rolled in with them. They were well away when the faint clanging of an alarm bell rang out and angry voices echoed across the quiet sea.

  They rowed most of the night, stopped sometime before dawn to rest, and continued on hours later, cloaked in a mist that thickened steadily as they went. That they were going south gave her hope, for it meant they would have to pass by Springerlan. When they did, they might encounter Kiriathan vessels—perhaps even Chesedhan vessels—raising the possibility of rescue. . . .

  But after six days of travel, the mist was so thick she had not seen the shore in two days and could hardly pick out the form of her galley’s sister ship holding position just aft off the port bow. Worse, the seas had grown utterly calm. With conditions as they were, no rescue ship could even get to them, much less find them. Indeed she wondered for a time how the galleys’ crews were managing to navigate without stars or sun or moon. Last night she’d noticed a purple glow emanating from somewhere aft of her position, as if a light had been placed in the middle of the galley’s deck. Or maybe it was the Broho, manning the helm with his amulet. The other galley had no light, and she doubted the one on her vessel was there simply to illumine the way, since in this deep mist, it would be useless. Perhaps it served as a sort of lodestone, pulling them toward their destination, which, as the days passed, she grew increasingly certain must be the Gull Islands.

  On the eighth day she admitted to herself that they had to have passed Springerlan by then and that no rescue had come. Following that came the acknowledgment that soon they would reach their destination, where even if the Broho’s commander believed her claim of being First Daughter—highly unlikely—that would only send her to the Supreme Commander’s harem. And if he didn’t believe it, then she and Liza would certainly be handed over to some subordinate to do with as he pleased.

  Neither was a prospect she could consider without inducing deep anxiety, and so she had to cut such speculations off. Better to live one day at a time. Better still, one hour at a time. Better to occupy her mind with thoughts of Eidon’s love and goodness. Of his power and his wisdom and the fact that he often let his people get lost so he could find them, let them fall into trouble just so he could deliver them and all could see his power. . . . And that the darker things became, the brighter his Light would shine.

  But it was hard to wait with nothing to do but think.

  ————

  Abramm stood on the quarterdeck of the Chesedhan frigate Firebrand, staring at the mist that drifted around the vessel’s masts and rigging. The sun, hidden from sight since morning, stood somewhere near the western horizon off the starboard bow, barely visible as a slightly brighter spot in the wool that swirled around them. Sea gulls circled overhead, glimpsed through patches of fog, their sharp squawks echoing over the still water. He frowned up at them, mentally willing them to leave. If you don’t start now, you’ll not reach your rookery before dark.

  And finally, almost as if they’d heard him, the birds swirled upward into the mist, their cries fading steadily southward. When he heard them no more, he turned and gave the command to begin. At once the men burst into action, detaching the cabled galleys from the big ships that had pulled them, as the big ships lowered their longboats to the sea and began filling them with the fresh crews of oarsmen that would power the galleys to the islands this night.

  Meanwhile Abramm retired to his cabin to darken his face and hair, strap to his bare back the harness and sleeve he’d had made for the scepter, and don his Esurhite uniform over top of it. He reemerged shortly and was ferried over with the last of the crew to the lead galley, Yverik.

  His expedition had sailed out of Springerlan three days ago, heading east along Kiriath’s coast until they came due north of the Gull Islands. During all that time, the retinue of seabirds had accompanied them—spies for the enemy, he had no doubt. Their numbers had increased today as the ships had pushed southward into thickening mist and fading wind. When finally their speed had slowed to a crawl, they’d all dropped anchor under the gulls’ watchful eyes and made preparations for the night. Or so Abramm hoped the ones who commanded the gulls would believe.

  The plan was mad enough, there was a chance they would.

  Their objective was the main island, which the map labeled Chakos and which was said to have once been the site of fine Ophiran villas before it was swamped in the Cataclysm and destroyed. The resultant treacherous currents, sandbars, and rocky reefs made it a deathtrap for ships even without the covering of mist it had gained in the last few decades. Most avoided it. With no local source of fresh water and minimal plant life, it now supported only vast populations of gulls, cormorants, and other seabirds. If the Esurhites had established a base in the islands, it would most likely be on Chakos. If they had set up an etherworld corridor, as Abramm feared they had, it, too, would be on Chakos.

  Because the mist confused the compass in addition to obscuring the stars, they would have to travel by line of sight alone. Abramm planned to use his extraordinary night sight to follow a reef marked on the old maps, something that seemed doable given the still water and windless conditions—so long as he could see it well enough to keep them from going aground on it or, worse, bashing a hole in the hull. The reef ran south for three leagues, then curved round toward the southwest, leading to a wide and treacherous channel-laced shallows through which lay the route into Chakos Bay.

  Admiral Hamilton had been unabashedly opposed to Abramm’s plan from the beginning. “Hard enough to navigate those waters in the daylight,” he’d protested. “In the dark you’ll be dashed to pieces. It’s one thing to see down a dark tunnel, quite another to pick out mist-shrouded rocks in time to avoid a collision.”

  Which was true. Worse, since Abramm alone possessed this dubious ability, the others would have to follow his lead, a feat Hamilton deemed even more unlikely. Nor was his grand admiral the only naysayer. Objections and criticisms had flown freely, some of them offered to Abramm’s face at his request, others swirling around him, exchanged by those who did not have his ear, yet definitely had their opinions.

  Blackwell had been beside himself with dismay, spouting predictions of death and disaster, and all but demanding Abramm abandon the expedition. The crowning touch came on the eve of their departure, when the count had pressed him to marry one of the Kiriathan noblewomen that very night so he would have a chance to secure an heir in the case of his death. Abramm had stared at his secretary in astonishment, wondering if the man had lost his mind.

  “Well, you were set to marry that witch Briellen without loving her,” Blackwell pointed out. “Why not one of our own?”

  “You’re overreacting, Bryon,” Abramm had told him.

  “Overreacting? You propose to assault the Gull Islands by night with a mere seven galleys to the enemy’s thirty? It’s madness, my lord.”

  Actually, it’s probably closer to forty, Abramm had thought wryly, but he didn’t say that.

  “If you don’t come back, sir, what will we do? The Mataio is beginning to stir again, Gillard is still out there somewhere, and who knows when the northland’s going to explode. . . .”

  “Carissa is my heir for now. And Simon will support her.” He frowned at his secretary and friend. “Have you so little faith, Bryon? After all we’ve been through? If not in me, then in Eidon’s power to protect me?”

  “I fear you put too much stock in what happened at your coronation, sir. Eidon does not suffer
fools.” He paused. “I can’t help but wonder if your motives are entirely pure and adequately thought through.” He paused again, longer this time, then added quietly, “Even if she did survive Starchaser’s capture . . . how can you think of marrying her after what they’ve surely done to her?”

  Abramm had dismissed his objections as the hysteria of a fragile temperament. Now that he was actually out here, now that he saw how dark it was, how easy it would be to get lost in the night and this smothering blanket of mist, Blackwell’s words returned. Like a nest of adder’s eggs under a house too hastily built, they had hatched in his bed, infusing their poisonous fears into his heart.

  So many things could go wrong. And yet . . . what else could he do? He had to capture the islands or soon he’d have the whole Esurhite navy knocking on his door.

  If it was a mad plan, it was also a bold one that hinged upon his unusual abilities. Those were often the plans that worked the best, simply because they were so unexpected.

  At length they were ready to go, saying their good-byes and moving slowly south as the darkness gathered steadily around them. Abramm had conceived a system of hooded stern lights by which his little fleet could be guided, one following the other, his own ship in the lead. Katahn would follow him directly, then three more vessels each under the command of the men Katahn had brought, while Trap brought up the rear.

  They slid easily through glasslike water, a single lantern hanging under the prow, out of his direct line of sight but enough to illuminate the path ahead. He could see the reef they planned to follow glowing with a pale luminescence beneath the calm waters off the galley’s port side. With the water this still, there would be no sounds of waves upon rock, so they would have only sight to warn them. Men lined the gunwale now, peering into the darkness as they listened to the rhythmic trickle and squeak of the oars and the quiet rush of water against the hull.

  Abramm stood with the Esurhite helmsman atop his steering box in the stern, making sure all his commands and comments were now uttered in the Tahg. Cloaked and cowled in dark wool, he was the only Kiriathan on deck, but there were others below, soldiers armed and ready to pour out of the hold once it was time for battle. But that would come later. For now he had to keep an eye on the reef beside them, a task that turned out to be far more difficult than he’d expected. Often he lost sight of it altogether and stood tensely as the vessel slid forward blindly, aware of all the things that could subtly alter their course. The compass was now spinning in its case, completely useless, leaving the helmsmen with no means of guidance save to keep his arm steady. Should even one of the oarsmen falter, reducing the power applied on one side of the vessel, they’d begin to veer off course without knowing. Or the reef might suddenly take a jog into their path, or a current catch them, or the tide begin to turn. . . . But it did no good to stand and think of all that might go wrong, so Abramm forced away such thoughts and renewed his concentration on the blackness before his eyes.

  They had rowed for about two hours and, from the regular soundings now being taken, looked to be approaching the shallows when Abramm was beset with the sense of something approaching almost ninety degrees to starboard. Stepping to the side to peer into the darkness, he felt the hairs lift on the back of his neck, though there was nothing but dimly lit veils of mist shifting against the dark. As there had been for the last two hours. And yet . . . the sense of cold presence increased. He gripped the rail and stared, and it seemed for a moment he saw a purple flash directly to starboard, low enough to the water that it could be another vessel.

  He called for the rowers to cease, told the sternmen to signal the ship behind to do likewise, listening as the oars creaked up in a sudden chorus of dripping water. The sound faded quickly, and they glided along, decelerating slowly in the stark silence that followed. Abramm stared so hard his eyes hurt, and soon others came to stand along the starboard rail, as well.

  Then he saw it again: a purple glow, obscured and softened by the mist, and approaching them at a slight angle, so that if Yverik’s sweeps were set down and she slowed further, the other might well shoot past without ever seeing her. Abramm gave a quiet order to drop the oars and douse the front light. Then they waited, the helmsman turning the ship with its remaining momentum until the purple was coming up off their stern and well alongside. They stood in darkness, counting down the moments. Finally Abramm heard the distant rhythm of the approaching vessel’s oars.

  The sound was deceptive, though, still seeming far away when suddenly the other ship loomed out of the darkness, a brilliant purple light blazing from its helmsman. As the boat swept past, Abramm saw him as clearly as if it were full daylight. Dark-skinned, shaven-headed, his angular features fixed in a grimace, hands gripping the wheel as his eyes blazed with the same purple light that flared from his chest. He stared straight ahead, as if he could already see his destination and had only to close the gap between it and himself.

  The ship shot by them, and they were just breathing a sigh of relief when a second ship rose up on their tail, passing so close it had to veer sharply away to avoid a collision. As its crewmen shouted imprecations in the Tahg, Abramm gave the order to pull hard aside and up to speed again, then shouted insults back at them, his own crew echoing the sentiments. A few fists were shaken, then the vessel sped off into the darkness.

  As Abramm had hoped, Yverik was judged to be one of their own, and even better, now they had a vessel familiar with the waters to follow.

  “Bring us up to full speed,” he told the shipmaster. “We don’t want to lose them.”

  The other boats were going so much faster, though, and the mist was so thick, that it wasn’t long before Abramm did indeed lose sight of them, left with only the green line of phosphorescence that bubbled in their wake. And soon that was so faint, he couldn’t be sure he was seeing anything at all. Worse, he’d lost all track of the reef, and the soundings showed the shallows practically upon them. Indeed, moments later off the port railing they glimpsed their first sight of the mats of grass that characterized them. Rooted on sandy ground under the water’s surface, the tough, tall grasses would stand fully exposed when the tide was out. They passed the grasses for a long enough time to give Abramm hope, for the soundings were not changing, and he concluded they must be skirting the area.

  Up ahead the faintly glowing trail suddenly bent sharply to port, leaving Abramm little time to ponder whether to follow. Hesitation would cause him to lose the tenuous track altogether, which would leave them nothing. And if nothing else, bold plans called for bold decisions.

  “Increase the rhythm a half beat,” he said quietly, though his heart was suddenly pounding. “Get ready to turn, starboard oars up on my mark.” The command was repeated. The rowing tempo increased, the vessel gained speed again. Then, just as the prow obliterated his view of the bend in the phosphorescent wake, he gave the command to raise the starboard sweeps and turn the helm to port. The vessel lurched and stuttered, then heeled after the phosphorescence and was grabbed by a current that hurled them forward double speed. Bristles of grass rose up on either side, beyond which dark, pale-topped shapes glistened here and there in the mist. The stink of guano crept into the air. They continued for nearly an hour, and all that changed was that the guano smell increased. He began to relax, thinking they had surely been led into the channel they had sought.

  Then a murmur crept into the stillness, a rushing sound that was soon identified as the crash of waves. The sound grew rapidly louder, ominous in its strength and swift approach, and with this current carrying them, he could no longer discount it all as illusion.

  The wake trail had long since vanished, carried away by the current, but now he thought he glimpsed the trailing vessel up ahead, a moment before its oars lifted in unison and it disappeared again, swallowed by the darkness. From the looks on their faces and the way their gazes roved about, he knew none of his crewmen had seen the other galley. Nor, most likely, had any of them perceived the wake he’d been following
all this time. What they did see was the forbidding line of massive rocks rising up out of the darkness ahead of them—a wide, crescent-shaped wall crowned and streaked with guano. Water crashed and wreathed whitely about its base, and the current was carrying them on a rapid collision course.

  “What should I do, sir?” the helmsman asked.

  “Keep her straight and steady.”

  “Sir?”

  Abramm frowned at the rock, certain it was an illusion, yet unable to see the telltale vibration that would confirm his assumption. Still, those vessels had to go somewhere.

  “Ease her to port a little,” he told the helmsman.

  The galley’s speed continued to increase.

  “The current’s gonna take us right into them, sir.”

  “Yes. We’ll ride it through. Just like the others did.” He gestured confidently ahead, but already second thoughts assailed him. What if he’d imagined that galley?

  “You mean . . . hit the rocks, sir?”

  “I don’t think we’ll hit them, but I want you to aim for them squarely.” He turned to the man at the stern. “Signal the others to follow. Repeat the pattern twice.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  There was no time for caution. They’d either all crash and sink together, or they’d all get through.

  The helmsman’s fears were not helped by the scrape of the oars on the rocks through which they now ran. He kept glancing at Abramm, the whites of his eyes visible in the darkness.

  “If you lack the nerve, sailor,” Abramm said, “give me the helm.”

  The man tightened his lips as he tightened his hands on the wheel and held his gaze steady. Rocks loomed over the curved prow. Recalling what he thought he’d seen the vessel ahead of them do, Abramm ordered both banks of oars to stand. The sweeps came up sharply, and the boat shot forward faster than ever, the rocks looming before them. On either side, the white foam of breakers flashed in the darkness, their roaring filling his ears.