by B R Crichton
They continued to talk, but Granger stopped hearing what they had to say. If Jendaya was on the move, then there could be only one explanation.
Abaddon.
He knew that the God would pursue the Daemon and its host. Knew that since the original host had escaped Jendaya and fled in fear across the sea to the Northlands, that Abaddon would bide his time until he was ready. Granger knew that the God could happily play a waiting game, until the Daemon found its own way to the fore, or equally, he could pull strings and manipulate leaders to encourage the rage that the Daemon fed on.
He thought of Kellan, still so fragile despite his insistence that he was in control of his emotions. There was suddenly an urgency to prepare Kellan for what was to come, but now that the time was approaching, Granger felt inadequate for the task. Abaddon was coming to find the source of his power and try to release it on this world.
Perhaps Ganindhra had been right. He should never have let Kellan leave Lythuria. At least there, they could hope to control events and keep the Daemon contained.
Granger slowly shook his head; they would only be buying time, and time was what the immortal God had in abundance.
The following day, Blunt chartered a ship to make the crossing to Arbis Mora, the neighbouring province to any Jendayan invasion’s most likely landing site in Bal Mora. If there was to be an invasion, then there was fighting to be done, and gold to be earned. They sold their horses, getting nowhere near their value, and packed only what they could carry. What was left of the coins after paying the ship’s Captain, and distributing a sizeable advance in pay to the remaining mercenaries, fit into a single small chest that two men could carry.
The port would normally be a hive of activity, but Dockers lazed in the morning sun as trade had evidently all but halted. Most of the fishing boats were already out at sea, and would not return until evening with their hauls. This motley band of mercenaries provided a welcome diversion from their boredom.
“Come on you lazy buggers!” Blunt shouted as the mercenaries boarded the flat bottomed trader ship. “Don’t drag your feet; you’re not going to the gallows. They have whores in Ter’Arbis as well you know.”
This was met with grumbles and dismissive waves from the mercenaries. They had long since got used to his abusive manner, and it was when he became calm and polite that they really worried. Blunt was wearing a wide brimmed hat to keep the sun from his head; it was bright red, with a black band and short green feathers; it was fashionable with Dashiyan men at that time but was incongruous with the rough mercenary.
Valia was dressed in light, loose fitting trousers; and a loose shirt with billowing sleeves. She kept the shirt laced up to the neck. She wore soft leather boots that covered the ankle, and a broad leather belt held her dagger within easy reach. You could never be too sure on long voyages. She did not like boats, nor did she enjoy sailing. Fate, she got motion sickness on the back of a cart.
The Captain of the ‘Sea Raven’ explained to her how the shallow draught of the vessel helped the ship navigate the reefs around the Sabayan Isles. Other vessels had a long trip south to skirt the dangerous reefs, which added tens of days to a journey, particularly if winds were unfavourable.
“But surely the ship is less stable on the water with such a shallow draught,” she said.
“Not at all,” replied the Captain, “the ship simply rolls with the sea.”
Her shoulders visibly slumped as she considered the implications.
“Come along,” said Foley jovially, slapping her on the back as he passed her to hop onto the deck, “She’s a solid vessel. I think.”
“I’ll ride,” she moaned. “I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll ride, will you?” he said. “Give my regards to Merat and the Kodistai on your way through Kor’Habat will you. I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you.”
“I can avoid Kor’Habat,” she reasoned. “They’ve probably forgotten about me already anyway.”
Foley raised an eyebrow, then gave a little bow and offered his hand in a flamboyant gesture.
“M’Lady,” he said.
She took his hand reluctantly and jumped the narrow gap to the deck.
Fate, it was heaving already in port!
Her stomach tightened in anticipation of the voyage.
Truman stood waiting at the arched entrance to the vast port. He had sent a palace servant ahead with his bags, but carried his lute slung over his shoulder. Granger had gone off earlier, telling him to meet here. Now he saw the Historian approaching, his bag of books slung over his shoulder, and a satisfied smile on his face. Granger had spent days writing in those books recently, barely emerging from his quarters for meals. He had joined the rest of the Band every evening to hear their stories shared, and to enjoy the camaraderie, but was also absorbed in chronicling recent events.
“Well?” he said.
“Well,” Granger replied.
“What’s the mystery? Or will I need to wait to find out?”
“All in good time, my friend. All in good time.”
They headed into the port to find their ship. It was easy to locate in the quietness of the once bustling harbour; they followed the sound of Blunt’s voice.
“Get those bloody barrels secured or it will be salt water for drinking. Marlon, you useless bastard, is that all you can carry? Fate man, I’ve seen toothless crones lift more. Sewell, you brainless great turnip, help with those lines.”
“It seems that our great leader has parted with enough coin, and has opted not to employ the Dockers to load the vessel with our supplies,” Truman observed, smoothing his moustache just as Blunt turned to see them approach.
“Well if it isn’t our two learned friends come to watch the work being finished,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Truman, write a poem celebrating the efforts of others. And Granger, be sure that your history books indicate that the pair of you did bugger all to help.”
“Certainly, sir,” Granger replied, “and would you like the histories to record the fact that you led us from Hadaiti wearing your mother’s hat?”
Laughter erupted from the men on the ship. Blunt simply puffed out his chest and cocked the hat back a little on his head.
“This hat cost eight silver marks, will be a practical piece of attire under the hot sun on this voyage, and will add a little style to this shoddy assortment of mangy scruffs. Now if you would care to join us on the bloody ship, we can all bugger off!”
“Well,” said Truman softly, “You heard the man.”
“After you,” Granger gestured towards the ship.
Elan felt a sense of relief when the ship finally cast off; the ‘longing’ had been growing stronger and stronger. He was desperate to get back to the family Grove, and reaffirm the bond there. Lythurians seldom stayed this far from home for as long as he had, and now at last he could tell himself that the distance would get less each day. Every mile eaten up on the voyage would be a mile nearer to Arbis Mora, and then he could travel north to the mountains, and his home.
His bond to Kellan was almost as strong, and if he could convince the man to return with him, then he could feel truly at peace.
There were bridges to rebuild for Kellan too, of course.
He squinted into the sun as they sailed from the port, the sea calm ahead of them. The Sabayan Isles and the reefs that strung across the Adorim Sea would not be visible for some days yet, and soon they would be further from land than Elan had ever been. This thought both excited and terrified him. He had heard stories of shipwrecks, especially along the reefs, but the Captain had assured him that the ship had the best pilot there was, and that he had passed through the reefs more times than he could remember.
The ‘Sea Raven’ slipped silently beyond the confines of the port and into the open sea. Gulls and other sea birds that Elan did not know the names for followed the ship as it gently grasped the air with its sails. The crew expertly harnessed the stiff breeze, a bewildering array of ropes and
pulleys being used to finely adjust the angle of the vast sheets, which billowed and snapped as the ship found purchase.
“You look thoughtful,” Kellan said as he took his place leaning on the gunwale.
“Looking forward to going home, Kellan.”
A silence hung between them.
“I had hoped you would stay with me a little longer,” Kellan said.
“I had hoped that you would come home.”
“There is still something I need to do.”
“I know,” Elan sighed, “but I had hoped that victory at Hadaiti would have dispelled those thoughts.”
“I have to avenge her, Elan. I have to avenge my mother’s murder,” he replied. “There is not a day that passes that I don’t think about her.”
Elan turned to his friend to look him in the eye. “I know, Kellan, but this revenge must not be allowed to consume you. You may never find him. He may be dead already. Who knows, you may have killed him already. How many Koratheans have you killed?”
Kellan shook his head. “I would have known.”
Elan put his fingertips to his lips as he thought. “Then at least take a break from this search. Come home with me and talk to her. Just take some time to think.”
Kellan laughed a humourlessly. “I am not sure I would be welcome any more.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, “there is nothing that can’t be worked through if you will both just talk to each other.”
“Do you really think so?” Kellan said sceptically.
Elan spread his hands. “Have I ever given you bad advice?”
Chapter Eight
Beginnings…
“Go on; jump,” Elan shouted from the water.
“What about the rocks?” he shouted back from his precipitous perch on the cliff.
“Go between them,” Elan replied.
Kellan looked down at the pool. The warm water steamed invitingly, but the rocks lurking just below the surface looked dangerously close together. He had watched Elan jump into the gap from the high ledge, but was having doubts now. He fancied the climb down even less however.
He had been in Lythuria for two winters now. Elan and he had met after only one day and they had been friends ever since. The pale jade boy was blessed with an impish grin, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief.
He had appointed himself Kellan’s guide. He explained how heat from below the ground maintained the warm temperature in the bowl that held Lythuria in the bosom of the Greater Cascus Mountains. The heat from deep under the mountain vented up into the lake and pools, melting the snow that surrounded them, creating a constant trickle of melt water that warmed and ultimately plunged from the cliff Kellan had scaled with Granger. The big lake in the centre of the bowl was called Topaz, after the colour of the water. The pool he looked down at now was one of many around the raised edges of the bowl that eventually fed into Topaz, not as warm as the large central lake, but enough to keep a swirl of steam above its surface.
The warmth was maintained throughout the year; the only seasonal variation being the length of the days, but Elan said that it never got cold here; the blizzards turned to warm rain before they had a chance to hit the ground. The deep soil was the result of many years of sediment being carried down by the melting snow and settling in the bowl, so the trees had plenty of depth for their roots to delve.
Eventually he could wait no longer. He lined up his feet to the edge of the ledge, squeezed his eyes shut, and jumped. His stomach lurched as he fell, and he hit the water slightly flat, punching the air from his lungs and stinging his back horribly. He struggled to the surface and was relieved when Elan was there to help him to the edge of the warm pool. The boy was laughing as he dragged his gasping friend onto the flat rocks at the base of the cliff.
Kellan lay on his back trying to catch his breath, and holding back the tears prompted by the needles in his back.
“I’m telling mother,” he heard a girl’s voice shout.
“Eloya, no,” Elan yelled, then jumped from the flat rock to the edge of the pool and ran off.
Kellan turned his head to see Elan running into the trees, with the elusive little girl well ahead of him. He relaxed and tried to forget his stinging skin. After a few minutes, he slowly sat up and allowed himself to dry off in the sun before wading through shallow water to the pool’s edge and to his clothes. He dressed slowly, wondering where Elan had run to after his sister and why.
Then Granger and Elan’s mother came striding through the trees towards him. Elan followed, looking sheepish while his sister Eloya marched proudly beside her mother.
Kellan and his friend sat quietly in the upstairs room of Elan’s house. They could hear voices through the floorboards; Elan’s parents and Granger locked in intense conversation. Their voices were muffled and indistinct, but there was no mistaking the tension those sounds carried. Elan put his finger to his lips and gestured for Kellan to go to the corner of the room with him. They tiptoed over to a chest, and Elan took one end, silently urging Kellan to take the other. With a wince they moved the chest quietly from its place against the wall, revealing a crack in the floorboards that allowed a view of sorts to the room below. Suddenly, they could hear every word.
“And I have lost count of the number of times I have told that boy to stay away from that jump,” Elan’s mother was saying.
“I am sure they meant no harm,” Granger replied.
Kellan could only see Granger from his angle and the waving hands of Elan’s mother from time to time.
“Perhaps you should take a greater interest in that boy’s behaviour,” she replied.
“Believe me, I am as angry as you are,” he said defensively, “but they are just boys.”
“He is a bad influence on Elan, I swear it. He never used to be like this.”
Then he heard another voice, or rather a mocking snort.
“Are we talking about the same boy?” Elan’s father weighed in. “Stealing honey from the pantry; painting old Erral’s sheep green? Boys will be boys, dear,”
“I will not have my boy injuring himself or worse in some ridiculous stunt,” she said angrily.
“As I recall, it was that very stunt that caught your eye when we were younger,” Elan’s father persisted.
“You were not my son,” she hissed, “and if you had dashed your brains out I would have married Lomon, the Smith’s apprentice in your stead. No doubt he would have shown a stronger hand in keeping his son from mischief.”
“Look,” Granger said reasonably, “I will talk to Kellan…”
“Talk to him all you like,” she interrupted, “but I forbid him from seeing my son anymore.”
The two boys exchanged worried glances from their secret vantage. Elan’s father walked into view with his hands extended, palms down in a conciliatory pose.
“You cannot separate friends,” he said, “that will only make their behaviour worse. But there is another way.”
There was silence from downstairs as the boys strained to hear.
“Traditionally, martial training starts at twelve winters, but I think in this case, Master Sharrow will be amenable to their starting early.”
The boys looked excitedly at each other at the mention of martial training. Children played with small, light bows from an early age, but only started to receive structured training at the age of twelve.
Would they really be allowed to enter the training school to start their tuition early?
“Martial training?” Granger said doubtfully, “I am not sure that would be the best path for Kellan to take.”
“What about their studies?” Elan’s mother asked.
“Over and above their studies,” Elan’s father replied. “They will have no energy left for mischief.”
Granger sounded doubtful. “Even so, I am just not convinced that teaching Kellan to use weapons is such a good idea.”
“Believe me,” Elan’s father persisted, “martial training is the best way to
calm a boy down. It focuses the mind, disciplines the body and evens the temperament. What those boys need is a challenge and something to distract them from…”
“What are you doing?” They both jumped at the voice from behind them. “Are you listening?”
Eloya; Elan’s younger sister by a winter. Like most siblings, Elan and Eloya had a constant feud going with one another; a tit-for-tat relationship that frequently elevated to shouting matches, or Eloya throwing something, or Eloya running to her mother to bring her brother to justice. Elan hated her as brothers do.
“Shut up, Eloya,” hissed Elan. “You told on us.”
“You shouldn’t be listening. You’re in big trouble,” she said petulantly.
The two boys were already replacing the chest, trying to cover up their crime in case Eloya called out to her parents.
“You can’t get us in any more trouble today,” Elan said as his little sister turned to head for the stairs with another story to tell the grown-ups.
“Wait,” Kellan said quickly, running to stop her. “Wait, listen.”
She turned imperiously to face him, all childishly haughty with her arms folded across her chest and her head cocked to one side, mimicking the pose struck by her mother when Elan was explaining his latest prank.
“I know where there are some honeycups growing,” he said.
Her eyes grew wide. “Where?” she said.
“I saw them from the cliff, while I was climbing above the pool.”
Honeycups were rare flowers that grew sparsely among the rocks and fissures around the rim of the bowl that held Lythuria. They never grew in the same place twice, and were sometimes not seen for years at a time, but occasionally they could be found if you were lucky. They were sought after jealously by the girls of Lythuria to be worn in their hair or on their clothing, and boys and young men had gone to great lengths to find them as gifts for their sweethearts.
“But you’re not allowed to climb there anymore,” she said, already looking interested.
