by Duncan Pile
In the far distance, the gates of Freeport crested the horizon – Ferast’s destination. There he would find a ship to carry him beyond the borders of Antropel, to a place where no-one had ever heard of Shirukai Sestin. Ferast’s ambitions were undimmed – he would achieve greatness and men would fear his name – but he must start afresh and build his empire from the ground up.
He crossed the last few miles of flatland and rode on into the city. The port was ancient and cramped but the waters were deep, and large vessels routinely berthed there to pick up supplies. Ferast went straight to the harbour-master and looked through the manifest. Peering at the scrawling, lop-sided handwriting, he identified three ocean-going vessels. One of them was stopping in Namert before sailing west, which ruled it out, the second was heading straight to Beran, which meant it was an option, and the third was bound for Melachi, a continent of silks and spices far beyond snowy Beran. Melachi…it had a certain ring to it.
Later that day, he sought out the captain of the Peerless on the quayside, and with a little touch of power, persuaded him to give up his cabin for the voyage. Content that he would travel in comfort, Ferast boarded the ship and found a spot by the aft gunwale, waiting for the gangplank to be raised. Mooring lines were freed from heavy wooden bollards on the quayside and flung onto the deck. The boatswain bellowed orders and banks of oars appeared on either side of the ship as it started to drift away from shore. The starboard bank dipped and pulled, dipped and pulled, and the Peerless began its ponderous turn, stirring up great swirls of silt in the shallow waters by the quay. Before long the ship’s prow was pointing towards the harbour mouth. The boatswain shouted an order and both banks of rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the water with long, sweeping strokes.
Ferast watched as the ship slid safely past the harbour’s rocky mouth and was rowed out into open water. Once beyond the protective walls of the port, the sails caught the lively ocean breeze, snapping taut and billowing as the ship gathered pace, carrying him away from Antropel’s shores. Ferast kept his eye on the coastline until it was nothing more than a dark smudge on the horizon, and then it was gone. He was leaving everything he had ever known behind, but this was not goodbye. When the time was right, he would return.
…
Antoine pulled on the oars, keeping the rowboat a safe distance from the cliffs below Namert. The night was dark, lit only by the thinnest sliver of a moon, and the water was still. He’d waited for perfect conditions for weeks, and finally the time had come to act. Namert’s coast was treacherous, the shoreline a forest of razor-sharp rocks that kept the smugglers away, but Antoine was of the Ghannai and not so easily put off. If there was a way to reach shore, he would find it.
Namert was a dangerous place for him since turning on his own during the battle of Helioport, but he’d returned for a single reason – to find and rescue the women he’d helped escape from Elijah all those months ago. He had been sent out to capture them and force them into service as camp followers, but he’d let them go – perhaps the first thing he’d done in years that he felt proud of. They had hidden out beneath the city, which could only mean there was a network of caves, carved from the porous rock by time and tide.
For long, patient hours Antoine rowed up and down the coastline, calling out as loudly as he dared. “Madame,” he hailed, hoping she would hear him and show herself. “It’s Antoine,” he cried, but if Madame could hear him, she didn’t respond. The first faint lightening of the sky warned him of dawn’s imminence and he rowed out to sea, putting distance between himself and the cliff tops and heading out towards the Dart, which sat at anchor among other vessels in the shipping lane. The strait was the busiest in Antropel, providing him with perfect cover.
Reaching the vessel’s towering wooden side, he knocked five times, slowly and evenly, and was rewarded by the splash of a ladder hitting the water, only yards away. He took the rowboat’s painter and secured it to the ladder before scaling the coarse, rope-work rungs and pulling himself over the gunwale.
“No luck?” Francine asked him.
Antoine shook his head and rose to his feet, feeling as weak as a new-born calf.
“What will you do?”
“I’ll try again tonight, if the weather holds. Right now, I plan on eating my fill and finding my bunk. Don’t bother me unless the ship is burning!”
Francine nodded. “Right you are.”
…
The water was like glass that night – a rare sight even among mariners, made possible by many days without a breath of wind. Antoine glided towards the rocks, dipping his oars only occasionally and moving nearer shore without making so much as a splash. The tide was higher than the previous night, which would be a help rather than a hindrance. There would be numerous openings to the caves, where the ocean had crashed relentlessly, century after century upon the rocks. A higher tide meant he could get closer, passing the jagged rocks he’d been forced to stay clear of the previous day and getting nearer the cliffs on his shallow-bottomed boat. It was a risk – if the tide went out and he hadn’t made it back to deeper waters, he would be marooned – but it was a risk he was willing to take.
“Madame,” he called once more. “It is I, Antoine.” There was no response. Before setting out that night, he’d lit a lantern and shuttered it, enclosing the flame within. Reaching beneath the bench, he retrieved the lantern – a sturdy, fat-bottomed device designed for use aboard ship – and unlatched the iron facing on one of its sides, dropping the shutter and letting the light shine forth. It was a risk. If anyone on the cliffs above saw the light, it would be reported. Boats would be sent out into the straights to capture him, and there was little chance he would escape.
“Madame,” he called again, looking for an opening that might be a cave mouth. A dozen times he thought he’d found what he was looking for, only to be disappointed when he drew alongside and the lantern revealed nothing more than a crevice. Each was craggy and deep, but none led into the caves.
The night was passing swiftly and still Antoine had nothing to show for his efforts. Was it possible the caves didn’t open onto the ocean? It didn’t make sense. If there were caves, there had to be a cave mouth! It was possible that Madame and her girls had climbed back through the Happy Drunk’s cellar and attempted to flee through Namert’s main gate, but Antoine gave Madame more credit than that; that way, they’d end up imprisoned or dead. Antoine shook his head. He had to believe they were still free.
What worried him was the tide. This might be the last chance he had for weeks, and Francine wouldn’t stick around for that. She’d already delayed her next cargo to help him out, and was risking her neck to do so.
“Madame, it’s Antoine,” he cried once more, shining his lantern along the cliff. The previous night he’d been forced to stay further out at this point. The lantern light played on the rock, passing over numerous outcrops and crevices before sweeping over a deeper, darker hollow some thirty feet ahead.
Excitement rushed through him as he neared it, keeping the light directed at the opening. The high tide allowed him to drift up close, revealing the depth of the cave mouth – for that was what he had found.
“Madame,” he called, only feet from the opening. “Are you there? I have come to help you.”
At first there was silence, and despondency began to set in, but then a shuffling noise sounded from within the cave. A flame blossomed, making him shield his eyes, and a squat, matronly figure moved towards the cave mouth. She looked unwell – pale, shrunken somehow, her clothes hanging loosely – but there she was, living and breathing.
“Madame!” Antoine said, relief flooding his body. Now that he’d found the women, he would row back to the Dauntless and return with a small fleet of longboats. He would rescue the women that very night, stealing them away under the Eleven’s noses.
Madame was still eyeing him warily.
“Do you not recognise me? It is I, Antoine. Many months ago, I let you go in the cellar of the Happy
Drunk.”
Madame’s eyes widened and she gasped. A crowd of ragged women gathered behind her. “The Man in Black!”
…
When Rimulth reached the foot of the Eagle’s Roost Mountains, he traded his horse for a couple of days’ supplies, leaving an astounded farmer in his wake, and set off up the slope. The trails were steep and unforgiving, and within a short time he was heaving in lungfuls of air, dragging one heavy foot after another. Rimulth grimaced. His long stay among plainsdwellers had made him soft. It would be hard to win the respect of the villagers if he staggered into camp, exhausted from a little hiking.
He travelled light, carrying nothing but provisions, a knife and Talmo’s bow, which was strapped to his back. Talmo wouldn’t have wanted it to remain in Helioport – of that much he was sure – and what better place for it than back in Eagle’s Roost, in the hands of a warrior? Whenever Rimulth handled the bow, he could have sworn he felt Talmo’s approval, as if the fallen warrior were watching over him.
On through the day Rimulth struggled until the sun began to set. He made camp in the lee of a rocky outcrop, ate a cold meal of berries and cured meat, and curled up under a gnarled thornwood, clinging stubbornly to the mountainside.
The next morning, Rimulth arose early and, after a quick breakfast, started up the trail once more. His muscles were aching and stiff – further evidence of plainsdweller weakness – but he was determined to press on, though his limbs cried out against it. He was a tribesman of Eagle’s Roost, and it was time to reclaim his heritage. As he climbed, the icy wind stripped away the civilised veneer of Helioport, and he found himself filled with a fierce longing for home; for cold streams, whistling winds, furs and leathers and open fires. Most of all he longed to be reunited with his people – a much closer community than any you might find in a city, where thick walls separate those who might otherwise be friends, and where suspicion of strangers causes good people to hunker down and stick to the company of those they already knew.
There was no avoiding conflict in Eagle’s Roost – if two men had a problem, they had to sort it out for the good of the tribe. Occasionally Chief Hesketh had to step in, but most of the time the villagers worked their difficulties out among themselves and lived in peace. Rimulth longed for the simplicity of their lives, for the friendship of the men’s circle, for the joy of the hunt and for clear, endless skies. Above all, he yearned for the company of his parents – the quiet, dignified people whose love for each other was spoken of with reverence among the tribes. He hadn’t been given a chance to say goodbye to them when leaving for Helioport, and his heart had pined for them greatly.
He would miss his plainsdweller friends, Gaspi most of all, but in his heart of hearts he knew he would see them again. Eagle’s Roost was where he belonged.
A fierce cry pierced the air and Rimulth glanced upwards, smiling and extending his arm. The air spirit spiralled down from above and landed with outstretched talons. Rimulth stroked its beak with his knuckle, grateful for the elemental’s company. He hadn’t been sure, after Sestin’s defeat, if his bond with the spirit would endure. The elementals had originally taken bodily form to serve Gaspi in his fight against Sestin, but that danger had passed. Rimulth had wondered, with some trepidation, if the spirits would return to their elemental homes now that their quest was over, but he needn’t have been concerned. The air spirit had helped him understand; the bond was for life, and when Rimulth returned to Eagle’s Roost he would not be doing so alone.
Rimulth had been overjoyed, and the more he thought about it the more it made sense. The spirit would be in its element, free to shed bodily form and play in the swirling winds that buffeted the peaks. It was perfect.
The spirit took flight, winging its way out from the trail and soaring up on a thermal. It transformed in a brilliant flash of light, something of its joy echoing in Rimulth’s heart as it took its natural form.
Rimulth felt his legs strengthening as he climbed, as if plainsdweller weaknesses were falling away, leaving only the tribesman behind. He was coming home, in body, mind and soul.
Later in the afternoon, the trail started to look familiar. He recognised that broken boulder, sheltering the trail. He’d hidden there once when playing with the other children, hunting each other with small, roughly-made bows and crude arrows made from sticks. His heart lifted at the sight, knowing he was almost home, but he tamed the smile that threatened to spread across his face. He was not returning as a child or even as a warrior. He was returning as a shaman, shouldering the grave responsibility of restoring long-held traditions to the tribes. He was the last of the shamans, and his duty was to find others with the gift and train them in the ancient ways. No, Rimulth thought, he was not the last of the shamans; he was the first.
It wasn’t long before every rock and shrub was familiar. Rimulth reached the last short climb that led to the rim of a sheltered valley. He took long strides up the slope and came to a stop at its crest, looking down on the cluster of huts he thought of as home. At its heart was the men’s circle – a number of logs, arrayed about the fire pit. Men, women and children were moving about, dressed in tribal leathers and furs. Taking a deep breath, Rimulth started down the hill, his heart thudding in his chest.
The tribespeople spotted him before he was halfway down the slope and began bustling about with a purpose. Chief Hesketh emerged from his hut, his shoulders bulky with the formal furs of his office, and peered up the trail, shielding his eyes with his hand. The chief started towards him before Rimulth reached the bottom of the slope, and they met on the outskirts of the village. The whole tribe gathered behind Hesketh, foremost among them Elder Talmo and there, to his left, stood Rimulth’s parents. His father’s face was fierce with pride, his mother’s eyes brimming with tears.
“Chief,” Rimulth said, bowing his head. Everything in him wanted to run to his parents, but he contained himself.
“Dag-mar,” the chief said, bowing in return.
Rimulth looked up, surprised and honoured. His eyes fell on Elder Talmo. “I must speak with you.”
Understanding and sadness flowered in the seasoned warrior’s gaze. “Talmo is gone.”
“He lost his life in a great battle,” Rimulth said, choking up.
Chief Hesketh held up a restraining hand. “We will speak of all these things later at the men’s circle, where we will hear of Younger Talmo’s deeds and honour him. For now, go to your parents, Rimulth. We have all thought of you often, but they have missed you most of all.”
Rimulth bowed once more and turned to face his mother and father. Suddenly, the burden of manhood fell away entirely and he strode over to them, abandoning himself to their encircling arms.
Forty-nine
Jonn dug his spade into the ground but it didn’t sink deep, embedding itself in a root. He heaved it out and dug in again, but it stuck fast once more. Wiggling it back and forth, he freed the blade for a second time and tried again, but the root wouldn’t give way. Frustrated, he placed his boot on the upper edge of the blade and raised himself up, putting his full weight on it, but to no avail. Disgusted, he wrenched the spade out of the ground and tossed it aside.
What’s wrong with me? He had every reason to be happy, but little by little, the joy he’d known after the wedding had leached away, leaving an aching emptiness in its place. The love of living, growing things he’d felt so keenly after finishing the cottage had faded, and working the soil had become a chore. The sunrise, even now colouring the horizon a delicate shade of pink, failed to touch him. The knowledge that Adela was waiting for him inside, perhaps even making him breakfast, weighed on him heavily. He couldn’t hide his suffering from her and knew she wanted to help, but there was nothing she could do. He loved her deeply but couldn’t find a way to express it. His feelings for Adela, once so strong and pure, were locked away in a cold cellar and he couldn’t find the key. He was draped in misery, a man surrounded by blessings he was incapable of enjoying.
A sudden
desire arose in him, flooding through his veins like fire. He needed a drink. He needed to blunt his senses and dull his thoughts. Without consciously choosing to do so, Jonn began to make plans. He would ride out to the village that morning and get a quart of whisky. No, not the village. If he didn’t want people talking about him he’d have to go to Helioport, where he could buy it in any number of back street dives. It’d be easy enough to bring it back on the wagon and he could keep it hidden in the shed. Adela wouldn’t need to know about it.
Realising what he was thinking, Jonn fell slowly to his knees and, hiding his face in his coat, let out a howl of anguish. Why did he always slide back into this misery? Drink itself wasn’t the problem; it was the pain he was trying to escape. It drove him into the same desperate corner and beat him up until he turned to the only thing that brought him relief.
Jonn huddled on the ground, riddled with despair. What was the point of it all? He’d tried everything to overcome his demons, at times clinging to the slenderest thread of hope. He’d thrown himself into his work as a guard in Helioport, which had served as a welcome distraction for a while, but eventually his misery had returned. He’d given himself to training Taurnil for the Measure, but even then his anguish had resurfaced and driven him to drink. He’d been drowning his sorrows in a tavern when he’d first come across Adela. Rescuing her from Belash had saved him from himself, giving him something to live for. For the first time in many years he had a real chance at happiness, and he’d grasped it with both hands. He’d married Adela, built a home for them to live in and started working the land. It was his dream, writ large across his life, and yet here he was, down on his knees in the mud. He was lost, and this time he couldn’t see a way back.
