Winds of the Wild Sea

by Jeff Mariotte

  But rather than waste any more time here, he gave Chellus a wide, menacing grin. “I lied,” he said. “I want the teeth you bought from Tremont.”

  “Teeth?” Chellus repeated. “Why would I buy teeth?”

  “I know not.” Conor put a hand on Chellus’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. Chellus winced under the pressure. “I care not. I just want them.”

  Sweat beaded on the merchant’s forehead. He looked like he wanted to protest, but Conor just kept squeezing, harder and harder. Chellus’s legs began to tremble. “All right,” he said, blowing out with a fierce exhalation. “All right, you’re damnably strong. I’ve got the teeth still—merely took them from Tremont as a favor, and I have no idea who would buy them. You are welcome to them.”

  Conor released him. Chellus turned to a faded wooden cabinet, sliding open one of the drawers. He rummaged around for a minute, then came out bearing a small cloth bag. He opened the bag’s drawstring and dumped the contents into his hand, holding it out for Conor’s perusal.

  Two teeth, as the children had described. They looked like the teeth of a bear, but they were far larger than any he had ever seen. “Good,” he said.

  Chellus put them back in the bag and handed it over to Conor, who closed his hand around it. “I should make you pay me what I paid him,” Chellus threatened.

  “Feel free to try,” Conor replied.

  Chellus scowled. “Just go, barbarian. Never show yourself here again.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Conor said. He turned, not afraid to show the merchant his back, and walked out of the shop. At the doorway, he saw two young women, in their twenties, he guessed, about to enter.

  “Don’t bother,” he told them. “Everything inside is fake, and the owner is a fraud.”

  The ladies glanced at each other, back at Conor, and smiled. One of them thanked him, and he walked away, clutching his prize, glad he’d been able to send Chellus that parting gift as well.

  Though he had the teeth, he still didn’t know what they were or how to turn them into treasure. But the fact that Stygian priests wanted them was a good indicator of their value. He also had the coins he had been paid for helping free the Pict from jail. It was a far cry from being wealthy, but it was more money than Conor had ever known all at once.

  In Tarantia, it was still precious little. Home in Cimmeria, though, it would go far.

  He figured he had seen enough of the civilized world. Conan had been able to make a home in the city, and that was fine for him. But Conor would never be completely happy away from Cimmeria’s icy canyons and steep cliffs. He suspected that Conan had been made soft by his life here—“civilized,” with all that entailed. He doubted that any Cimmerian could have maintained his barbaric edge, living here for so long. Conan’s legend was well-known, and people said he was still a lion in combat. But that was combat against other civilized folks, not against real warriors.

  Conor refused to let that happen to him. And if he left immediately, he wouldn’t be sucked into some ill-fated misadventure in Stygia—a place he had no interest whatsoever in visiting.

  As he ambled down the street away from Chellus’s shop, he kept an eye open for a horse to steal.

  KANILLA REY WAS furious. He knew that letting his anger control him was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. Instead of walking, he stomped. He slammed his fist into every flat surface he saw. He fumed.

  Shehkmi Al Nasir had been his ally and friend. As close to a friend as another wizard could ever be, at any rate. Now, the Stygian had betrayed him. According to Gorian, Stygian priests had stolen the Pictish crown right out from under him.

  Betrayal of that sort could not go unanswered.

  Kanilla Rey looked at the men Gorian had rounded up. Twenty of them, they filled the street behind his home. They were a motley bunch: mercenaries, mostly past their prime, who would work for the wage Kanilla Rey was offering. One of them must have been in his sixties, with arms so thin and wrinkled the sorcerer doubted he could lift his own sword. Kanilla Rey pointed at him. “You, get out,” he said. The old man looked like he wanted to complain, but he lowered his head and left without argument.

  The rest looked battle-tested, at least. There was not a one of them into whose hands Kanilla Rey would put his own life, but he would be staying behind in Tarantia. Gorian, who had worked for him several times, and was unknowingly slipping closer and closer to being under Kanilla Rey’s complete control, would be in charge of the mission, reporting back to Kanilla Rey.

  If anything happened to Gorian, it would be a loss—he had invested considerable time and effort in the man. But it wouldn’t be like entrusting his own safety to this bunch.

  “You lot,” he said to the assembled group. “You know to where you journey?”

  “Stygia,” one answered.

  “Hell,” another said, to general merriment.

  “Possibly both,” Kanilla Rey said. “But Stygia first. You will take your orders from Gorian, there, the man who brought you together.” He pointed toward his agent, lest any of the men who were drunk when Gorian had found them forget to whom they owed their enlistment.

  The mercenaries eyed Gorian, then launched into a series of questions about when and how often they would be paid, whether they would get to share in any booty, and so on. Kanilla Rey let Gorian answer while he regarded his little troop.

  Nineteen, now that the old man had gone. Plus Gorian, and Sullas, the other man who had survived the Stygian priests. Some of them would doubtless die before they even reached the desert kingdom, and many more would do so when they went up against the forces of Shehkmi al Nasir.

  Kanilla Rey would be helping from afar, when he could. If he could afford a bigger force, he would send it. But that would take time and treasure, more than he could put his hands on at the moment. Somehow, they would just have to get his crown back.

  The thing had power, and he wanted it. While he waited he would do more research, consult the most ancient tomes available, until he learned just what it was and how to use it. Once he had it in his hands, Shehkmi al Nasir would be no bigger threat than a mosquito.

  He looked forward to that day, and smiled.

  SITTING INSIDE THE home that now belonged to Alanya and Donial was very different from sneaking around it in the dark of night, avoiding the authorities. Kral was impressed with the size and luxury of the place. It even had indoor toilets, of all things! Like Cheveray’s house, it promised a life he couldn’t see himself ever living, but he understood why these more civilized people would appreciate it. At any rate, he was glad for Alanya’s sake that she was finally home, in the place she had always loved.

  Not that it looked as if she would be staying long. Having broken him out of prison, suspicion would fall on her and Donial. They had to get out of town for a time. And they had someplace to go, since according to the Cimmerian, the Teeth were on their way to Stygia.

  They had scrolls unrolled on a table, maps detailing the path they must take. Kral wasn’t used to maps, but he could compare the distance between where Donial said Koronaka was, and Tarantia, and easily tell that it was even farther to Stygia. Almost twice as far, in fact.

  And the Stygians had a head start.

  “It would take us weeks,” Kral pointed out. “If our horses even survive the trip.”

  “But we will not go on horseback,” Donial countered.

  “How, then?”

  Alanya traced her delicate finger along a thin line on the map. “This is the Tybor River,” she said. “We will travel overland to the river, where we can book passage on one of the ships that ply its length.” She indicated on the map where the river opened out onto the ocean. “Here, it is only a short ocean voyage, hugging the coast, until the mouth of the River Styx.”

  “Do we know where in Stygia to look for the Teeth?” Kral asked.

  “Not precisely,” Donial admitted. “Conor did not learn that much. We will just have to figure that part out when we get there.”
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  Kral glanced at the map again. Stygia looked like a big place.

  But he trusted Alanya and Donial. They knew more about the world than he did. If they thought they could find the Teeth in Stygia, he was more than willing to go along with them. He was just thankful they were willing to make the trip in the first place, and equally appreciative that they had made the effort to break him out of that prison. He could hardly believe his luck—that he, a barbarian Pict, would have made such good friends among the hated Aquilonians. It wasn’t something he could ever have predicted, but he was glad it had happened. Now, they were going to brave the dark, mysterious land of Stygia at his side.

  Especially surprising, because after all, the Teeth was his responsibility, not theirs. He was one of the last surviving members of the Bear Clan, appointed so long ago to safeguard the sacred crown. He was the one who needed to find the object and return it to its place in the Guardian’s cave.

  And every day that passed before he did so, he was convinced, only brought the Picts closer to disaster.

  9

  THE RESTLESS HEART was a three-masted carrack, its hull barnacle-crusted, its sails patched and repatched. It might once have been painted red, but the paint had long since faded and been scoured away by wind and water.

  Donial, Alanya, and Kral watched its crew load cargo into its hold with ropes, pulleys, and nets. They had left Tarantia first thing in the morning, two days after breaking Kral out of jail, and ridden hard all that day. Conor had taken off on his own after the jailbreak, and they had not been able to find him in any of his usual haunts. Donial wished they had made him look into Alanya’s mirror at some point, so they could have found him. Finally, they’d had to give up the search, as the Stygians were getting farther and farther away.

  Now, in the dark of night, they stood wearily on the docks, observing the ship they hoped would take them down the Tybor. According to one of the dock-hands, it was the only ship that would be headed that way for the next several days. It carried cargo bound from the manufactories of Tarantia to points south, in Argos and beyond. The dockhand claimed that it also would carry another party from Tarantia, headed, like themselves, for Stygia.

  The dockhand had described the ship’s captain to them. They waited in the shadows, away from the flickering torches, until the man showed himself. Donial, cold, tired, and hungry, wished the fool would appear soon so they could settle things. They had covered a considerable distance today, with few stops, trying to catch up to the Stygians, who they knew had a substantial lead.

  Finally, when Donial could barely keep his eyes open, Kral said, “That must be him.” Donial, immediately alert, looked toward where Kral pointed. Sure enough, a man stood there looking at the ship with a proprietary air. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Conor but weighed probably half as much. He wore a wide-brimmed, floppy hat with a long feather stuck into it that made him look even taller, and a little ridiculous. In addition to that, he wore a long, dark blue coat over an open-chested white shirt, and pantaloons with a gold stripe down the sides, tucked into high boots. A red sash circled his waist, and a cutlass dangled from a chain there. He looked to Donial like someone who hoped to come off as a buccaneer and instead just appeared silly.

  “Do we have to not laugh at him when we talk to him?” Alanya asked quietly.

  “That would be best,” Kral responded. “Come on, before he goes on board.”

  He stepped from the shadows, with Donial and Alanya close behind. They had agreed that Alanya would do the negotiating, since she was older than Donial, and Kral’s appearance—not to mention his atrocious accent—might make things more difficult. So Donial gave Alanya a little push, forcing her out front.

  She swatted at Donial’s hand, but the captain had heard her shuffling footsteps and turned to face them. “Excuse me, are you Captain Ferrin?” she asked politely.

  “Aye, missy, that’s me,” the captain said. He doffed his hat and swept it past his flat belly, in some kind of alternative to a bow. “What brings you to this neighborhood so late at night?” He raised an eyebrow at the appearance of the Pict behind her. In deference to the cool river air, Kral had draped a black cloak across his broad shoulders, but was otherwise typically bare-chested, wearing his usual loincloth and sandals. “And with such unusual company, no less.”

  “This is my brother Donial, and our friend Kral,” Alanya explained. “We seek passage down the Tybor River to Stygia. Or as close to it as you’ll go.”

  Captain Ferrin put his hat back on and stroked his narrow mustache. “A bold girl. I can appreciate that. And with a bold plan, to boot. Tell me, bold girl, can you pay for your passage?”

  “Of course,” Alanya affirmed. Cheveray had advanced them some gold, knowing that money would become an issue. “We would not ask it if we couldn’t.”

  “So . . . passage for three, to Stygia. Hmm . . .” Ferrin made some quick mental calculations and named a price.

  Donial could barely believe the figure he cited. “That’s robbery!”

  “Hush, Donial,” Alanya said. She turned back to Ferrin. “He is right. That is far too much. We will pay half that.”

  Ferrin hesitated a moment, and in his eyes a new respect gleamed. “Split the difference and we can talk.”

  Alanya accepted the deal as Donial steamed. He didn’t like being overruled in such a public and obvious fashion. He should have been accustomed to it, he knew—Alanya had been doing it since he was an infant. But it never failed to bother him. It was as if she did not care in the least what his opinion was.

  In dealing with Ferrin, however, she must have made the right decision. A little haggling was traditional, but arguing over price, especially with the insulting tone that Donial had first taken, might have made the captain lose interest altogether. As it was, he smiled charmingly, and said, “I have a previous arrangement with another party,” he said. “But since you are willing to be accommodating, let me check to see if that party has any objection to the three of you booking passage at the same time. I shall return forthwith.”

  He turned and headed toward his ship. Alanya faced Donial and Kral with a smile on her face. “He looks absurd, but he seems nice enough,” she said. “I am sorry I cut you off, Donial. I didn’t think we should be rude. This is the only ship that has a chance of catching up to those Stygians. Missing it is out of the question.”

  “I understand,” Donial said. He did, but he was unable to disguise his unhappiness over the way she had treated him.

  “Alanya speaks the truth,” Kral put in. “Not that the money is my own, but if we cannot make this ship, those priests will be so far ahead we would never find the Teeth.”

  “I know!” Donial snapped. He had already given in. He didn’t need both of them ganging up on him. “I just thought we would want to save some of what we have until we get there. Who knows what we might face in Stygia, after all? And we have to get home, too.”

  “We will,” Alanya assured him. “But right now, making progress is the most important thing.”

  Donial didn’t answer, wanting just to let the argument drop. Instead of speaking, he pulled his heavy leather cloak tighter about himself and held it against the stiff breeze that blew in off the water. On the deck, he could see Captain Ferrin talking to a darkhaired man, nodding and gesturing back toward the three on the dock. After a couple of minutes of discussion, the other man went belowdecks, leaving Ferrin by himself, pacing and waiting. Donial turned away, not caring to watch any longer. He was tired. He wanted to get matters settled, one way or another, so he could get some sleep.

  A few minutes later, Ferrin returned, walking as stiff-legged as a stork. He wore a huge smile on his skinny face. “I have good news,” he said. “My other client has no objection to your presence on the Restless Heart.”

  “So you will take us?” Alanya asked with obvious excitement.

  “I should be happy to,” Ferrin said. “Payment in advance, of course.”

  “Half in
advance, half on arrival,” Alanya countered.

  Ferrin laughed and bowed his head forward, hat on this time. “You are a skilled negotiator, lady,” he said. “Welcome to my vessel.”

  AT FERRIN’S REQUEST, Gorian had gone belowdecks to the private cabin he had arranged with the lanky seaman. The rest of the mercenaries shared quarters with the ship’s crew, except for a few who had been relegated to the cargo area. But Gorian needed privacy, and Kanilla Rey had been willing to pay a little extra to be sure he got it. Before they had even cast off, he would start to get his money’s worth.

  Around his neck he wore a leather thong, and attached to that thong, wrapped in a fine wire setting, was a small piece of plain gray rock. Kanilla Rey had said it was but a tiny piece of a larger stone that he kept in his sanctum sanctorum. When Gorian needed to contact him, he had only to cut his palm and press some blood into the rock, stare into it, and repeat some phrases that had been drummed into his head. He took the rock out and looked at it, then let it fall back against his chest while he sliced open his hand with a dagger. He could not remember any occasion on which Kanilla Rey had taught him the proper phrases, but he found that he knew them nonetheless. “Ia nimtu kenata ia ia!” he said, holding the rock in his bleeding hand. “Quietus nictu camala Kanilla Rey.”

  After a few seconds, he seemed to sense another presence nearby. The rock in his hand had turned clear. He could see his own palm through it. The other being he sensed in the cabin was invisible—present, but not seen. “Yes, Gorian?” a voice said.

  The voice was Kanilla Rey’s, though the man was miles away. “You called for me,” Kanilla Rey’s disembodied voice continued, when Gorian didn’t answer immediately. “What is it?”