Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  Tharadis couldn’t agree more. “How long?”

  Dransig shrugged. “Minutes. I drew in more than I should have. They’ll know exactly where we are.”

  “More are coming?” Esta asked. She sounded more angry than afraid. She didn’t wait for an answer, but merely moved to Nedrick and pulled his limp arm over her shoulders and hoisted him up.

  “Hide in the woods for now,” Tharadis said. “Maybe until morning. They won’t be looking for you.”

  Esta paused and met his gaze. “What about you?”

  “Looks like I’ll be going to Garoshmir ahead of schedule.”

  She hesitated before nodding. “Stay safe.”

  "You too."

  She started dragging Nedrick into the woods.

  Tharadis walked back to where he had dropped his pack and shouldered it again, forcing himself not to worry about her. She would be safe as long as she stayed off the road, especially now that their pursuers knew where their quarry was.

  When Tharadis came back, Dransig was standing near the ledge and peering over. He turned back, his face grim. “If we head down these switchbacks, they’ll have the advantage. I don’t want to have the high ground to my back.”

  Tharadis nodded, rubbing the ache in his shoulder. It didn’t seem broken, but the pain nearly made his eyes water. “There’s another way down the Face. We might be able to lose them that way, but you’ll have to keep your magic tamped down.”

  Dransig grunted. Then something happened. It was almost as if he aged ten years before Tharadis’s eyes. His skin looked paler, his posture more bent. He looked less like a warrior and more like … a regular old man. “There,” Dransig said, his voice little more than a hoarse rasp. The corner of his lips curled up slightly. “I feel almost human again.”

  Tharadis stared a little longer than he should have. “This way.”

  Chapter 8: The Edge

  The Face, as it was called by the Naruvians, was more of a steeply inclined slope than a sheer cliff, but Dransig’s stomach still flipped as he followed Tharadis along its curving edge. Only a few feet of ground separated the edge from the trees, forcing them to watch their step, but it was all Dransig could do to keep from peering down to the ground far below. If he were to fall over the edge, he would tumble down the Face rather than smash directly onto the ground. At least with a sheer cliff, it would be over quickly.

  Dransig glanced back over his shoulder, though the road where they had fought his former comrades had long been obscured by the drytree forest as they followed the curve of the Face. Likely the eight that pursued them had found the corpses he and Tharadis had left behind. What would they do if they caught up to him? Unlike Dransig, they still held to their oaths, and couldn’t kill him. But they could leave him within an inch of death and simply let nature take its course—however long that might take. A more merciful death awaited him at the bottom of the Face. Perhaps it would be best if Dransig just threw himself over the edge and was done with it.

  No, it was too soon to die. He still had too much left to do. And he wanted to see his daughter’s face one last time.

  All he had to do was survive. Yet drawing only a trickle of shegasti power—just enough to keep him alive—it was difficult to keep up with Tharadis, even though the younger man slowed whenever he saw Dransig lag.

  “Not much farther,” Tharadis said. “The road we were on doesn’t come this way. A separate road leads to where we’re going. As long as the Knights aren’t drawn by your magic, they won’t find us.” He stopped, turning back. The concern on his face was evident even in starlight. “Are you all right?”

  The lie came easily. “I’ll be fine.” Dransig even managed a smile.

  Tharadis didn’t look convinced, but neither did he challenge him as he continued forward.

  The narrow path widened as the tree line crept back from the ledge, and soon Dransig was able to walk without fearing his knees buckling and sending him over the edge. He glanced up at the two moons, judging by their position that they’d been walking for half an hour.

  “Here,” Tharadis said.

  Dransig stopped as they entered a clearing. Looming in the darkness was a large construction of some sort, leaning up against the edge of the Face. Dransig drew in a bit more shegasti to sharpen his vision. It was a large wooden platform. Sturdy timbers reached up over it, a pair of pulleys hanging from them over the center. Ropes stretched from those pulleys out over the Face all the way into the lowlands, disappearing in the trees down there.

  “We’re … riding that thing?” Dransig didn’t mind heights, but he didn’t relish standing on such a heavy platform with nothing but air below him. Those ropes didn’t look nearly strong enough to hold it. It wasn’t hard to imagine them snapping, sending him to the merciful death he now dreaded.

  “No,” Tharadis said, tossing his pack onto the platform before striding to the dozens of barrels and crates stacked on the other side. Dransig realized this was likely how much of the trade between the lowland farmers and the city craftsmen was done. “It will take too long, and we’d be easily spotted.” Tharadis pulled off the lid to a crate, looked inside, then replaced the lid before doing the same to another.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Found it.” Tharadis tossed him something long. “Catch.”

  It was hard to judge where it was in the darkness, so Dransig instinctively drew in more shegasti than he would have liked. He snatched the object, which turned out to be a leather belt, out of the air before dampening his power. But not before silently cursing himself for a reckless fool. He glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t know if their pursuers had felt it, but he didn’t want to hang around to find out. “I think it best if we leave soon, Warden.”

  Tharadis paused a moment to glance up at him before returning his attention to a barrel. With Shoreseeker’s pommel, he cracked the lid. Liquid lapped over the barrel’s edge. “That’s the plan. Come here and soak your belt.”

  Dransig did as he was told, submerging his belt in the water. His stomach turned as he realized what they were about to do. “Who’s going first?” he asked, voice quavering.

  “I will.” Tharadis looked up at him then. “You may need your magic to hang on.”

  Dransig hesitated before giving a brusque nod. He knew then that he would be holding onto as much shegasti as he safely could. Safety? he thought wryly. I’m worried about that now?

  Tharadis walked to the platform and slung his pack over his head and shoulder. Holding onto one end of the belt, he tossed the other end over the ropes before catching it in his other hand. He tugged down on both ends of the belt, putting most of his weight on them. The ropes barely flexed. He tossed a long glance over his shoulder at Dransig and nodded again.

  “See you at the bottom.” Then he leapt.

  Dransig feared the man would lose his grip immediately, falling to his death, but amazingly he held on as he slid down the rope.

  Fear knotting his insides, Dransig crossed to the platform and tossed his belt over the ropes as Tharadis had done. He tugged down on it. The ropes would hold his weight, of course; but would the belt see him safely down before the friction burned through it? He shook his head. It either would or it wouldn’t. And apoth take me if it doesn’t.

  Taking in a deep breath, he drew upon his magic.

  Three points of light blazed in his awareness, rushing straight toward him. They were less than a minute away.

  How had they found him so quickly? It didn’t matter. He exhaled, whispered a brief prayer to the apoth, and jumped beyond the platform’s edge.

  Chapter 9: The Fall

  Air rushed all around Dransig, his cloak snapping like a whip behind him. Eyes watering as he shot down the length of the rope, he involuntarily glanced down. Nothing but two hundred feet of empty air lay between the ground and his swinging feet. His knuckles ached from holding the ends of the belt so tightly, even with as much shegasti as he was holding in. But he dared not loosen his
grip even the slightest bit.

  Up ahead, he saw the patch of darkness where the rope disappeared into the drytrees. Moments later, Tharadis himself disappeared into it.

  Dransig realized then he hadn’t asked Tharadis when to let go of his belt. What lay at the end of the rope? A wall, for him to smash into? Dransig cursed himself for not asking and Tharadis for not telling him. A dozen horrific scenarios played out in his mind in the space of a heartbeat. Despite that, and despite the fact that he was hurtling through the night air, an odd calm came over him. It was the calm of a man with no choices left to him save death.

  But as he approached that patch of darkness, he knew that the calm was a lie. He still had choices to make.

  Such as when to let go.

  Darkness swallowed him as he heard the crisp rustling of drytree needles all around him. With even starlight obscured, whatever lay at the end of the rope would be hidden from him. Not even his shegasti would help him in darkness this absolute.

  Now.

  He let go of the belt, drawing in even more shegasti than he had before to prepare for when he hit the ground.

  Dransig expected the ground to rush up to meet him at any moment, but as he continued to plummet, he knew he had fatally misjudged how high he was.

  His knees cracked when he did finally land. The shegasti power coursing through him was all that kept his legs from shattering. Still, they folded underneath him, and he collapsed to his back on the needle-strewn forest floor. He lay there a moment if only to feel himself breathe. He had lost count of the times he thought he would die this night, and it felt good just to take a breath.

  The moment was shorter than Dransig would have liked. He scrambled to his feet and made for wherever Tharadis had ended up. It was a struggle to dampen the shegasti—it was getting harder and harder to reject its sweet, poisoned promises—but he managed to hold in just enough to keep him going. The forest floor sloped upward and he would need the energy just to climb it, yet he knew that if he relied on it much more, it would be over for him.

  Starlight poured in through a large gap in the trees ahead, revealing a timber framework much like the one at the top of the Face, though of course the moving platform was absent. Tharadis stood there with his sword drawn—strange, how it didn’t seem to shimmer at all—looking up the length of rope, towards the top of the Face. Dransig turned to follow his gaze.

  A gap in the branches revealed three forms, small as insects at this distance, sliding down the rope. It seemed that Tharadis wasn’t the only one who’d had that idea.

  “Stand back,” Tharadis said. Dransig turned to see the Warden had raised his sword. Then he swung it, its edge whistling through the air.

  It cut through the rope.

  Dransig threw himself clear as the taut rope snapped with the sound of a thunderclap. It whipped past him, splintering branches. He pushed himself to his knees and peered back towards the Face. The three small forms were no longer sliding down the rope but falling through the air. Within the space of a heartbeat, they disappeared from view.

  “Shegasti or no,” Tharadis said, sheathing his sword, “nothing can survive that fall.” He crossed to Dransig and offered him a hand. Dransig took it and let himself be pulled to his feet.

  He didn’t doubt the truth of the Warden’s words. Even after all that had happened, Dransig felt their loss like a dagger in the heart. “There are still five more,” he said after a moment. “Coming down the switchbacks.”

  Tharadis nodded. “Then we’d better keep moving.”

  Chapter 10: Bound to the Moon

  The walkway leading up to Larril’s cottage on the outskirts of town was a mastery of subtle Patterning. Fist-sized granite stones, rounded smooth by the ocean, made up the walkway. It wended up the small hill upon which the cottage sat, looking like a flat snake that had fallen asleep mid-slither. The hill itself was not natural; it was the result of the Patterning. Each granite stone was positioned exactly as it needed to be to bend this particular Pattern to its needs. The Pattern had caused the earth to shift, to tremor, to adjust itself ever so slightly, so slightly that the process wouldn’t be noticed as it happened—but the result, the small cottage raised up over the course of months and years to peer out over the roofs of its nearest neighbors, could not be ignored. The walkway itself had even adjusted to the Pattern, adapting to it; it was now more of a stairway leading up to the cottage.

  Indeed, the stones were positioned so artfully that there were over a hundred layers of redundancy in the Pattern; even as stones were shifted out of place when visitors walked the path, the Pattern would still be effective until the stones could be placed back in their original positions. An untrained eye would never see this subtle Patterning implicit in this walkway, but Noredren’s eyes were far from untrained.

  His ghostly form crouched at the bottom of the hill to examine the Pattern. Then he stood, streamers of ephemeral blue smoke drifting off of his translucent body like steam. At least he thought it was blue. The red moon, Aylia, was full in the night sky. The feeble light it provided tainted and distorted everything, making everything it touched looked soaked in blood. Noredren hated that moon, hated it more than almost anything.

  He had enough time for hate later. Now that he was here—at least partially here—there were more important things than that. He had a job to do, events to set in motion.

  As Noredren approached the humble little cottage, the wooden door swung inward. A clean-shaven older man in a red tunic stood in the doorway. He stood, barefoot, staring at Noredren for a long time.

  Noredren smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Ghosts are the spirits of the dead. You’re not dead.” Larril shook his head and stepped to the side. “I don’t suppose shutting the door will keep you out, will it? Come in. I’ve been … expecting you.”

  Out of habit, Noredren ducked his head under the top of the low door frame and stepped in. The cottage was as unassuming on the inside as it was on the outside. A single room, if larger than some of the nearest houses, four posts supporting the joists. Gray wooden furniture, much of it rough, a sleeping mat rolled up and tucked in the corner, an unlit fireplace, oil lamps hanging from the poles and a smattering of smoky candles. The only extravagance was a stained wooden shelf bulging with books and scrolls. The window shutters were wide open. Through the window, Noredren could see Aylia’s red face shining brightly.

  “Yes, I suppose you have.” Noredren turned to face Larril. “But do you know what I am? Why I am here?”

  “I imagine you are here to tell me something, seeing as there is little else you can do right now. If I knew what it was you were going to tell me, you wouldn’t need to be here to tell it to me, would you?”

  Noredren nodded his head to concede the point.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked Larril. He went to the counter, where a number of dishes were stacked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. By the time you get a fire going—”

  Larril returned, holding a steaming cup of tea. The half-smile on his face held little humor.

  “Impressive,” said Noredren, “for a mortal man.” When he reached for the cup, Larril let go of it. It passed through Noredren’s hand and shattered on the floor, spilling its contents. Noredren had forgotten, briefly, that his form was not material. Judging by the mildly amused expression on Larril’s face, the Patterner had not forgotten.

  Noredren decided there was something else he hated almost as much as the moon.

  “As for your first question,” Larril said. “I can’t really say that I do know what you are. But there is one thing that I know: now, here, you are powerless.”

  If Noredren’s body had been real, the bones in his clenched fist would have creaked. “Now, yes. Here, yes. But not forever, Patterner Larril.”

  Larril’s smile widened. “Oh, so you know my name? I’m not surprised, as it’s my doorstep that you came to. Now what is it you came all this way to tel
l me?” He gestured to the mess on the floor and the broom leaning against the wall. “I have very important tasks to attend to.”

  Noredren forced himself to calmness. His emotions couldn't get the better of him, not if he was to have any success tonight. “There isn’t much you don’t already know, I imagine,” he said. “But perhaps there is one thing you don’t know. You’ve heard the footsteps, yes?”

  It was difficult to tell in the poor light, but Larril’s face seemed to pale slightly. His answer was quiet, his voice hoarse. “Of course, I have. The whole world trembles with them.”

  “But few are sensitive enough to feel it, and only you are useful enough to do anything about it.”

  “I suspected as much.” Larril’s eyes sharpened. “And?”

  “They are but echoes of something far greater, far more powerful than me and my brothers and sisters. Something far more terrible.”

  Larril stared at Noredren for a long time. He said nothing.

  “If you’re half the Patterner I suspect you are,” said Noredren, “you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Yes,” said Larril, closing his eyes. “You are.” He breathed out deeply and opened his eyes. “But I can’t help but feel you are manipulating me.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Patterner. You know as well as I that all human interactions are exercises in manipulation. I doubt very much that you’ve allowed me to speak to you out of concern for my well-being.”

  With a grunt that could have been agreement, Larril moved to a small table against the wall. Scraps of paper covered it. Written on them were a number of complex symbols, pieces of a writing system that Larril no doubt developed himself to describe the concepts he dealt with. Larril’s eyes flicked across the symbols quickly. Occasionally, he shuffled through them. A few of them looked old enough to crumble under his fingertips; these he handled gingerly. After a short while, he ignored the papers, staring at nothing, deep in thought. Then he stood.