Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  So he had been a bit surprised when Councilor Yarid’s manservant came to him, requesting his audience at the Hall of the Council regarding the matter of “a small debt.” In truth, it was a rather large debt; Aelor doubted Yarid would be able to even the scales, no matter what he was willing to give. As if Aelor appearing before the Council were some great privilege, and not a bother. Most definitely a bother, he thought with a snort that briefly drew the attention of one of the doormen.

  His foot started fidgeting. He had to slap his leg to calm it. Traitorous leg. I’m not nervous. Not one bit.

  Once the doors were opened wide enough, he squeezed through them, sucking in his stomach. And before the herald could announce him, Aelor raised his hand and said in his clearest voice, “I am the Minister of Disaster Relief, Aelor. I believe you need me.”

  Everyone in the room stared at him in shocked amazement. Of course, he thought with a smile. Instantly his impatience seemed to wash away. They’re amazed because they know I’m their savior.

  Someone in one of the alcoves stood. Aelor, with his somewhat poor eyesight, had to squint to see it was the long-haired fop in silk robes that summoned him. Yarid. “That’s right, Minister,” said the Councilor in his most supplicating wheedle. “We do need you and your expertise.”

  “Well, I should hope this isn’t a mere social call. I’m a very busy man, you see.” Aelor looked around the room. It was nearly overflowing with bodies, even more so than the last time he had been here. And there were an awful lot of soldiers.

  He turned back towards Yarid’s alcove. “So what is it that you want, anyway?”

  “It’s not a matter of want, but need.” Yarid spread his arms. “And what we need is your help. With an event that could cause hundreds, possibly thousands, of people to lose their jobs and their homes. An event that could devastate trade routes and upset the delicate balance of our fragile Accord.”

  Aelor combed his beard again but stopped himself once he realized what he was doing. “That sounds like something I can help with.”

  Another Councilor, the one named Gorun, stood. He looked like a bundle of flesh-colored sticks dressed in a sack at this distance, and his voice was withered with age. “It’s a disaster, good Minister, of a sort that has no precedent in the Accord. It is an economic disaster. One that will ruin us if not dealt with swiftly and decisively.”

  “Swift and decisive action is the policy of the Ministry of Disaster Relief,” said Aelor with a confident voice, though he was beginning to have doubts. It wasn’t like the Council to sound so desperate. It made them sound weak. He knew they would never beg unless they were manipulating someone, or unless they were forced to.

  A massive cloaked figure, standing nearby, caught Aelor’s eye so suddenly he started with a small, undignified yelp. The figure’s regard turned to Aelor, and he felt such a massive chill that he forgot where he was. His attention was drawn towards the figure’s face like a physical object drawn towards the ground—only it kept on falling, falling, falling. The face could not be seen, as if it were shrouded not in shadows but Aelor’s own uncertainty, his own refusal to see what he knew should be obvious. Aelor wanted to look away but forgot how—he could no longer feel the muscles in his neck, or had forgotten how they worked or even what they were, and even his name was running away from him, as if sand between fingers, but what were fingers? Even the ideas of physical reality and bodies were but bits of dust, blown away by the squall of that unseen, unseeable face.

  With a crash, the mystery vanished, and Aelor knew everything, saw everything, as if some supernatural veil had been lifted from his eyes. Primal fear overwhelmed him, and once his mind could form a word, only one came: sheggam.

  Aelor fell to his hands and knees. Vomited. Smelled piss, saw it puddle around him.

  No. Not merely a sheggam. Something worse.

  A sheggam Patterner.

  No one or nothing else could have twisted his mind like that. He had heard tales of human Patterners, like that vile Tirfaun, warping the minds of men with their magic.

  This monster had done this to terrify him.

  And it had worked.

  Aelor’s voice was hoarse when he could speak. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” Yarid said as if Aelor hadn’t collapsed to the floor and messed himself badly, “that you’re willing to declare the cessation of the Runeway’s construction a disaster, which grants you authority to usurp the Council’s authority in such matters?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you will use your authority to overrule the previous judgment of the Council and continue construction.”

  “Yes, whatever you want. Just … just let me leave.”

  Aelor didn’t see what happened next, but a few more words were exchanged, and a pair of the soldiers lifted him to his feet and half-carried him out the door. Once he was able to walk on his own, he hurried down the hall, eager to be away from Councilors and debts and power and all the things that came with them.

  Chapter 52: A Distant Chime

  The humans bickered amongst themselves, as humans were wont to do. One group wanted to dispatch a cadre of Patterners immediately; another group tried to stall for time, as their economic and political interests clearly didn’t benefit from the Runeway. Orthkalu, patiently weathering their pointless exchanges, didn’t care how they finished the job. Only that they did.

  Foolish humans. Orthkalu was surprised how easily they were manipulated. Instill a little guilt, and they will tie the noose around their own necks. Of course, threats and intimidation had their place as well, and were, in many ways, far more satisfying. But Orthkalu found it delightful when an entire civilization decides to march to the gallows on its own, as this one was doing now.

  Amidst the shouting and fist-shaking, Orthkalu stood completely motionless, hood draping forward to block distractions. He focused his mind on more important things—things unseen to the others in the room. Scents and flows of air washed over him, flooding his senses with the shape of things, and most importantly, with the shape of his web of Patterns. Or at least, the Patterns he had designed—the Accord’s own Patterners had done the hard work of putting them in place. So far they had done an admittedly fine job in implementing his ideas. Once finished, the Runeway would be a monument without equal. A monument solely to Orthkalu and all the power it would afford him.

  As the Accord Patterners had determined, travel over the Runeway would speed up tremendously. But Orthkalu had gambled on their ignorance and won: what they didn’t know was that it wouldn’t move things like carts and horses. It would only aid in moving bodies imbued with shegasti.

  They were, in effect, constructing a road whose sole purpose would be the invasion, conquest, and ultimately destruction of their lands by Orthkalu’s sheggam forces.

  Orthkalu afforded himself a small smile at the thought, baring his fangs under the shroud of his hood. While even this wasn’t his endgame, it was a consequence that was delicious in its own right.

  No, even if he didn’t have an army of sheggam at his back, Orthkalu would still have the Accord build his Runeway. Without it, his ultimate plan, involving the Rift, would not come to fruition.

  The coarse hairs on the back of his neck stiffened and saliva flooded his mouth as he considered the Rift.

  It was the counterpoint to Andrin’s Wall, created at the same moment, in a pendulum swing reaction to the Patterns inherent to the Wall. Orthkalu couldn’t imagine the raw power found in the Rift. It would be like tapping into the Godhall of Shegasti itself.

  With the Runeway’s own Patterns bending the Rift to Orthkalu’s purpose, its power could make him a god.

  Getting here had been a delicate act. A simple invasion had been out of the question from the beginning. It was simply too risky, and the ferals Orthkalu commanded could never be counted on to execute a plan. They were only able to interfere with the plans of others. Usually by killing them. No, Orthkalu had need
ed something to give to the humans. Something that would earn their trust. And ideally, something that would ultimately help him get to where he needed to be. The solution he found, elegantly enough, was the very thing required to tame the forces of the Rift: the Runeway.

  Orthkalu turned his head slightly, listening to the sounds between sounds, carried through hallways and the cracks between doors and their frames, the tiniest hints of change that only a master Patterner could sense. Something had caught his awareness, something he had hoped he would never hear.

  The alarm.

  The invasion was beginning. Far, far earlier than Orthkalu had hoped.

  He cursed inwardly. Damn that Marinack. She was too weak to keep the ferals in line. Orthkalu had feared as much, but had had little choice. She was the one amongst the invasion party most in command of her wits, but apparently that hadn’t been enough.

  Orthkalu straightened and headed for the door, much to the squawked surprise of the humans in the Hall. Shad Belgrith stared in shock, then began blubbering questions at him, but he ignored her, effortlessly shouldering open the double doors that led to the outer hallway. Shad’s soldiers stared at him passively, not making any move to seize him in spite of his sudden change in behavior. One can always count on the obedience of fools, Orthkalu mused as he made his way out of the building, heedless of the shocked gazes of the human passersby.

  Beyond the coach Shad had come in on was his wagon, sitting at the outer edge of the great roundabout with blocks under its wheels. The oxen yoked to it watched Orthkalu, the whites of their eyes showing. As he approached, the wagon jolted heavily to the side. The handful of attendants assigned to the wagon scrambled away, startled.

  Orthkalu unhooked his Pattern-inscribed staff from the side of the wagon and swiveled one of the metal rings at the bottom, which changed the alignment of the etchings. The small lantern at the top of the staff flared to life, casting a wavering orange light.

  Satisfied, Orthkalu threw open the wagon’s rear doors, which themselves were nearly twice as tall as a human man. I’ve kept you waiting, my Abyssal beast.

  The inside of the wagon was dark, but the darkness was pushed away by two glowing orange eyes from within, burning like embers, filled with menace.

  Orthkalu threw back his hood and smiled grimly. I hope you’re ready to ride.

  As if in answer, the beast in the wagon stamped its six hooves and let loose a scream that chilled even Orthkalu.

  “Yes,” he whispered, still smiling. “You’re ready.”

  Chapter 53: Escape

  Only about half of the people filling the Council Chambers seemed to care that Orthkalu had left and was now free in the city, but Erianna, still leaning against the wall with her arms folded, noticed that one person took particular note. Her mistress gawked at the open doors through which Orthkalu had just wordlessly passed. Shad Belgrith actually looked on the verge of tears, if only for a moment, before tightening the set of her jaw and turning to the commander of her guard, standing at attention at her side.

  “Our business here is concluded. Ready the men for departure, and … and find out where Orthkalu went.” Her voice was commanding as always, but there was a forced air of casualness to it, as if she were pretending not to be worried about Orthkalu’s unexpected departure.

  The commander saluted and barked some orders. Men formed up around Shad in a protective ring as she walked out. Much to the apparent relief of the Councilors, Shad’s men left the alcoves, too, filing out of the Council Chambers.

  No one said a word to Erianna.

  It wasn’t long before she found herself the lone remaining member of the Twelve Towers retinue, drawing the silent gazes of several Councilors while the others continued to bicker. She wore a placid expression, though in truth, she didn’t want to be left alone with any of these people after what her mistress had just put them through. Stifling the urge to hurry, she sauntered through the doors and into the hallway. She hoped the act was more convincing than her mistress’s.

  A few dozen people were going about their business in the high-ceilinged hallway, giving little more than a passing glance to Erianna. She knew none of them. Shad’s soldiers were already gone, making good time like the disciplined, obedient, unquestioning soldiers they were.

  Erianna knew she should turn left and follow them, make her way back to the carriage where Shad would be waiting for her. She knew it, yet she couldn’t make herself lift her foot.

  She forgot about me. She forgot, but she will soon remember.

  Erianna was shocked to realize she had a choice here. She could go left and follow the soldiers, returning to her mistress, possibly receiving a beating for tarrying as long as she did.

  Or she could turn right.

  What lay down that path? Erianna didn’t know. Her fantasy of escape had been precisely that: a fantasy. But her breathing and pulse quickened as the truth of the situation began to sink in: I could go right.

  She could go right. But only if her will allowed it. Only if she freed herself from Shad right now.

  The choice is only real when I make it real.

  She took a deep breath and turned.

  And as she walked down the hall, Erianna smiled as only a free woman could.

  Chapter 54: Unwelcome News

  Captain!”

  Rannald turned to see Arrion Metsfurth approach with his helmet tucked under his arm, his short orange-red hair darkened with sweat. His eyes glowered over his jutting cheeks. He shoved his way into the narrow alley, past the rear guard, stepping over the mounds of unidentifiable trash prevalent in the maze-like streets of the Common District. He gripped a mustached, panicked man in commoner clothing tightly by the arm. The rough treatment was nothing personal, Rannald was sure; Arrion trusted almost no one outside of the Sentinels. “He says he has a message for you.”

  Rannald raised a hand. “It’s all right, Major. I know this man. You can let him go.”

  Arrion did so with obvious reluctance and a parting glare, stepping back under the cover of an old broken-down fruit stand that had been dumped and abandoned here. Tharadis stopped at Rannald’s side, looking distracted.

  “What is it, Macks?” Rannald asked. Macks was a merchant of middling success that Rannald had known since his days back in Caney Forks, before he had joined the Sentinels. He wasn’t what Rannald would consider a close friend—the man simpered, bowed, and scraped far too much—but aside from Sherin, Macks was one of the few people here Rannald had known from before coming to Garoshmir.

  The man dusted off his plain woolen trousers as he goggled the company of Sentinels surrounding him. He scratched at his mustache nervously as he spoke, nearly muffling his words. “Just got word about the Council. Thought you should know, since you just came from there.”

  Rannald frowned. “Something happened after we left?” Standing at Rannald's side, Tharadis perked up at this, focusing all his attention on the merchant.

  Macks only then seemed to notice Tharadis and nearly staggered back under his gaze. After a moment, he regained his composure, turning back to Rannald. “Yes. Some minister or some such declared the Council’s decision no good and decided himself to restart construction.”

  “Does he have the authority to do that?” Rannald asked. At his side, Tharadis turned away, cursing under his breath.

  “Seems that way. At least no one on the Council is giving him much trouble.” Macks gave Tharadis a wary glance. “Just thought you should know.”

  Rannald sighed. “I guess this means war.”

  Tharadis was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s what you were hoping for, wasn’t it? A horde of monsters, me riding at the front, screaming my lungs out with my sword raised high?” Bitterness tinged his voice.

  “One doesn’t need to hope for monsters. They will always be with us. But the rest of it … yes.”

  Tharadis chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You know what I want? What I’ve always wanted?”

  Rannald said
nothing.

  Tharadis put his hands on his hips and looked up to the sky. “To be left alone. For the people I care about to be left alone. That’s it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “It’s what any decent person wants. But every indecent person out there is working to make sure that never happens. They want to hurt you, take what is rightfully yours. Someone has to stop them. That is why the world needs us, Tharadis.”

  Rannald turned to Macks. “Thank you for coming to us with this,” he said with a gesture of dismissal, but the merchant looked as if he had more to say. Judging by the way he was shifting from side to side on his feet, dry-washing his hands, he didn’t want to come out and say it. Rannald would have to drag it out him. “What else is there, Macks?”

  The merchant bobbed his head and leaned in, his voice quiet and conspiratorial. “There’s something more important—much more. You aren’t going to believe it if I say it.”

  Rannald rested a fist on his hip. “And we aren’t going to hear it unless you do.”

  Macks bobbed his head and leaned in even closer. “They say the governor of Twelve Towers brought herself a real sheggam.”

  “What do you mean?” Rannald asked. “Another Knight of the Eye finally turned?” He hadn’t heard of such a thing happening in his lifetime. It didn’t seem likely, but the notion made his arm hairs stand on end.

  “No. From across Andrin’s Shores-damn Wall.” Macks grinned but his eyes were filled with terror. “Wouldn’t’ve believed the tale myself, but I saw the thing leave the Dome and Spire, mount some beast straight out of nightmares with a staff in its hand, and ride south.”

  “That beast,” Tharadis said, his interest now intently focused on what Macks was saying. “Was it in a giant wagon?”