Within a few long minutes, snoring emanates from behind him, and it grows louder and deeper with each breath in and out. Rael slowly rolls toward the sound, sitting upright as he does so. A lone candle still burns, providing gloomy, flickering light, and he can make out Demon’s monstrous form, its chest moving up and down with the snore. He grasps the hilt of his longsword and stands from the bed. The rickety wood frame under the mattress creaks as he does so, and he freezes as Demon’s snoring suddenly ends in a snort. Rael stands perfectly still, hovering over his prey as if he is invisible, until Demon rolls onto his side and continues his nasal ruckus.
In the couple years since learning swordplay, Rael had never delivered a stroke as strong and quick as this one. Whether from the constant flow of his blood for hours, his pure hatred of the man or both does not matter. The sword cleaved neatly through Demon’s muscled neck, through the foul mattress and through the wooden frame beneath it. It collapsed to the floor with a clatter and a thud as Demon’s blood sprayed and spurted on Rael’s bare feet pushed out of the severed neck by a still beating heart. As Demon’s blood spills, Rael feels the holes in his gum filled by teeth, and the pain in his head vanishes.
Rael wipes his bloodied sword on his own mattress and sheathes it. Quickly and quietly he dresses and buckles on his sword belt. Covered in blood, his feet feel as if they want to slide around inside his boots, making him feel unsteady. Careful not to slip and fall in the blood, Rael reaches behind the destroyed bed and pulls out the last sack of gold and silver coins that make Demon’s stash.
Taking a leather knapsack with his own meager belongings, the sack and leather bound book, he leaves the room, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible to avoid attracting any attention. Rael pads down the hall to a door that leads to Sevye’s quarters. From the sounds and voices that come from within, she is entertaining a customer. He pulls a charcoal pencil and a piece of parchment from his knapsack and writes a message across the top half of the parchment. He then tucks it into the pages of the book with the message protruding from the top, and Rael silently leans the heavy tome against Sevye’s door. He then perches twenty pieces of gold on top, more than enough to pay Sevye’s room and board for a month or more. Last, Rael knocks heavily on the thin wooden door, stopping the commotion inside, and he marches down the hall with haste.
By the time Sevye opens the door a few minutes later, an expensive silk sheet wrapped tightly around her naked body, Rael has already left the inn and is well on his way out of Somi. The book falls flat with a bang into her room, spilling and rolling the gold coins across her floor. She slides the note out of the book and looks at the crude Tigolean characters scribed upon it. It reads, “Please return this to the old woman who sells ink.”
6.
In the two years since slaying his mentor, teacher and kidnapper, Rael has paid many times for passage to various islands located off the West’s southern coast. It amazed him how many there were, and it amazed the ships’ captains that Rael had no idea which one he sought. He would arrive at the destination, and sometimes he knew immediately that he was in the wrong place. Other times he would wander around for hours, just looking at the place and its inhabitants or cordially asking questions of tavern dwellers. However, he has no doubt on first sight of this island and its villagers that he is home, or at least once was his home.
He always wears a brown hooded cloak in the hopes that he would go unrecognized by the people around him. That had been easy before as he was always in the wrong place, though he was not as inconspicuous as he thought. Rael waits until the galley begins unloading grain, good wood and other supplies that are not readily available on a small island before he steps onto the dock. This time, he knows immediately that he has finally found the right island. While it has been a few years since Demon fled with Rael under his arm, the island and its village have not changed from his boyhood memories. As he slowly makes his way through the docks, he does not notice the occasional stare of the locals.
In the late afternoon, Rael makes his way off the docks and walks down sandy paths through the village toward the other end of the island, trying to be as quick and quiet as possible. He raises his head to neither look at nor speak to anyone, not to say that anyone stands in his way or otherwise tries to stop him. He hopes that he appears as some sort of pilgrim, a quiet supplicant whose path is unknown to all but him. On the far end of the island, Rael finally reaches his destination, and he stands before it in somber consideration.
The charred ruin of a building lay only fifteen feet away from him. Once great timbers, now blackened, cracked and broken by fire which supported a roof or interior walls are strewn across the ruin. Some of the exterior walls were made of stone, and these are now scorched black and have collapsed within themselves. There is no roof to be seen, for it likely collapsed and burned away. Through the charred remains, Rael can see an overgrown path that leads to an old dock. The ruin is old, for there is no ash, no choking black dust to be kicked up by one’s feet or the wind. All that has been long since washed away by some passing storm.
Rael wonders, What does it mean that they never cleared the area? Did they even receive a funeral?
He starts to move forward to investigate the ruins, but he freezes when a voice from beside him says, “There was a fire here once.” The voice is deep with the bass of manhood, but it cracks once in the middle of the sentence. There is an odd familiarity in the voice, but Rael cannot quite place it. The stink of old, long dead fish hovers in the air despite the ever present breeze off of the Narrow Sea.
“What happened to the people who lived here?” Rael asks, though he knows the answer. He does not turn to address the speaker face to face.
“They died in the fire. It burned so hot that no one could retrieve the bodies before they turned to ash.”
“Did you know them?” Rael whispers; he keeps his voice down for fear of choking.
“Not well,” the man admits, “but I know they paid for their foolishness.”
Rael goes rigid for just a moment at the words, and he hopes the man did not notice as he tries to readopt his pose from moments before. “What foolishness?”
“They had a son. Something wasn’t right about him. He had gray skin, akin to what a corpse has. Some said an evil spirit was in him or perhaps his mother had lain with a demon. I don’t know which, but I know they didn’t see it. They paid dearly for that.”
A number of thoughts run through Rael’s mind, but he cannot decide what to say. Anger at the man’s voice burns him. He wants to respond with words, fists or steel, but he fears revealing himself to the speaker, for clearly this man is no friend of his or his parents. While he silently considers his next action, his hood suddenly jerks backward off of his head.
Rael turns quickly to see that his attacker is also the man who spoke to him, for he is the only one there besides Rael. His unkempt red hair, sunburned fair skin and freckles make suddenly clear to Rael while the young man’s voice is so familiar. Orf has thinned considerably over the last few years, his younger chubbiness obviously driven away by the hard work found in a fishing village. A tall, imposingly strong Orf holds a wide stance only three feet away.
“I knew you’d come back one day,” Orf says accusingly. “They said you died in the fire, but I knew you didn’t. Old Garrick was right about you.”
Rael’s temper flares, and it takes all of his effort to swallow an angry response. “It was not my fault. I was taken by an evil man who did this,” Rael tries to explain. The words sound hollow even in his own ears, and the fact that his hand rests on his sword’s hilt does not make the words sound any more believable.
“An evil man? One of your own ilk, no doubt,” Orf retorts, and the words sting with truth. Seeing his advantage, Orf continues with a raised voice, “That means it’s your fault, even if it wasn’t by your hand.”
Rael looks down at his feet, an action that many would take for an admission of guilt, and maybe on some level it is
. After all, if he was not a Dahken, then his parents would not have died at Demon’s hand. In fact, he had always felt that they lived in this village on this island through some choice they had made in the past. I no longer put stock in Garod or His priests, his mother had said. Was it truly his fault?
Rael looks up to see that a handful of villagers, perhaps a half dozen, had stopped to watch the scene. He recognizes one or two, and some whisper to one another. More appear to be stopping their various tasks to move toward the rest, and Rael removes his hand from his sword’s hilt as nonchalantly as he can manage.
“I just wanted to come back home,” Rael says calmly with a hint of longing in his voice. “I did not know where to look, and I have searched for almost two years.”
“This is not your home, Jameson,” Orf replies. He then adds, “Nay, Demonson.”
“Demon was not my father!” Rael blurts, his anger flaring. Seeing an odd sort of confusion on Orf’s face, Rael realizes he misunderstood the former’s comment. “I mean that I am not the child of a demon.”
“You had best leave,” Orf says with a tone of finality.
“I am not -,” Rael starts, and he ducks just in time as a large rock hurtles from the growing crowd through the air where his head just was.
Orf suddenly has a well-worn knife in his hand. It’s small, used for the cleaning of fish mostly, but its edge is no less dangerous than a larger weapon’s. Before Rael can react, Orf slams the knife right into his gut up to the handle, and the red haired man loses his grip on the weapon. Perhaps his hand is slippery from blood already flowing from the wound, or perhaps he has never dealt a deadly blow to another man before. Rael yanks the knife from his own body and sees dark red, almost black, blood soaking his tunic. Without thinking, he pushes the astounded Orf with all of his strength and dives into the weathered, charred ruin of his old home. He emerges from the other side before the other villagers can circumvent the home’s remains, but he sees and hears them coming for him. Booted feet, curses and angry words fill the air. Rael charges off down a grassy hill toward the remains of his father’s private dock, vaguely aware that the sudden white hot pain has vanished as instantly as it appeared.
When he reaches the dock, he glances back to see that some of the villagers have made it around the destroyed home and run his way. A few more rocks fly through the air, but they miss him harmlessly. Rael considers his sword for a moment, but he doesn’t want to hurt these people. He turns back toward the dock and sees that it protrudes right out of the side of the grassy hill, the latter of which ends in a four or five foot drop to the water below.
He breaks into a sprint left along the edge, trying to put some distance between himself and the growing mob. More rocks and other missiles whiz near him; some fly past to plop into the water beyond, while others thud into the ground. Rael knows that it is only a matter of time before one of those strikes him, and then he may not be able to escape. If he drops off the edge into the water, he’ll have some protection from the attacks. Perhaps once out of sight, he can find a place to hide.
Rael turns slightly to his right and drops off the edge. It’s not quite a vertical drop off, but more of an extremely steep slope made of mud and rock. He slides down, further destroying his poor wool tunic and breeches in the process, and he breathes a brief sigh of relief when his boots sink into mud only a foot or so below the water’s surface. As he hoped, the angry people can no longer see him, but the deep mud concealed by the seawater makes the going much slower and more difficult. It seems he has lost them for a moment at least; he can hear sounds of confusion above, as if they don’t realize he actually dropped down into the water. As Rael moves along the edge, the water and mud grow deeper, and the hillside grows taller. He loses one boot and then the other just a few steps later as the mud pulls them right off his feet. He leaves them behind and actually finds the going easier.
Rael has gone perhaps a hundred feet from where he entered the water, and the villagers have finally realized to where he disappeared. An older man with a hoe of some sort has spotted him from the dock, and he screams at the mob while pointing directly at Rael. Rael pushes himself faster, and by the time the villagers peer over the edge at where the old man had pointed, Rael has already moved another twenty or thirty yards further down.
The hill has turned more into a small cliff of thirty or more feet in height, and they cannot reach him from above now, except to hurl rocks down upon him. Fortunately, none of them seem to consider that possibility as they find ways to drop into the water after him. The mud below has given way to sand and rock now, and Rael moves almost as quickly as he can on land, ignoring the occasional jab of pain from a jagged rock or seashell. He rounds a bend and finds a rocky ending at the base of the precipice. It is virtually impassible with jagged rocks that protrude from water that is deeper blue from increased depth. The sun has dropped low enough on the other side of the island so that the entire scene is covered in shadow.
“Perfect,” Rael says, and he smiles as he wades into the deeper water, careful to make certain that he has firm footing. Only teen feet in or so, the water already comes up over his waist.
At least it is warm, he thinks, and then an idea occurs to him. Rael finds the hole in his tunic from Orf’s knife and uses both hands to tear it open. It is soaked and stained will blood, and he continues to rip the wool garment until it is completely torn open. He takes it off, noticing that the knife wound is completely healed. “I hope I did not hurt him too badly,” Rael mutters as he runs his fingers over the unbroken skin. He looks back the way he came, and he tosses the tunic toward some rocks near the edge of the shallow water. He is rewarded by the soft wind catching it ever so slightly to drape it open across one of the jagged protrusions.
Rael turns and moves further into the rocky waters. He finds a large rock behind which he can conceal his entire body, and in fact, he has to hold onto it tightly for his feet cannot find the bottom and still keep his head above water. It is slippery from algae and seawater, but rough just enough in the right places for him to grip it with two hands. Fortunately, the sea does not pound heavily against these rocks, at least right now.
It cannot be more than a few minutes before he can barely make out the first voices over the sound of the surf. He cannot hear what they say, but more voices add to the conversation. It sounds like an argument takes place, but Rael does not dare to peek his head out from behind the rock. One of the voices comes closer, and he hears, “Look at this!” More excited conversation ensues, and he distinctly hears the words “blood” and “dead”.
It is then Rael realizes just how precarious his situation is. The longer he holds onto the rock, the harder it is to keep his hold. His feet cannot touch the bottom, forcing him to slowly kick his legs to help take some of the pressure off of the already burning muscles in his arms. He wants to let go, but he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep his head above water without making too much noise. A little longer, he thinks. I just need to hold on a little longer. Rael hears some splashing nearby, and he catches a glimpse of a Westerner climbing atop a rock. He pulls himself closer to his rocky shield and presses against the cool, slimy surface, hoping he’ll be missed.
Something passes between Rael’s legs in the darkness below, startling him with the sudden touch. He feels it as it brushes ever so slightly against each leg in turn, and he nearly cries out with the surprise of it. Then it is gone. He continues to hold on, despite his protesting arms. Pain suddenly lances his right calf, as if something stung or stabbed him. No, something bit him and then swam off. The pain of the bite subsides into a constant searing as the salty seawater burns the wound. As he bleeds, Rael focuses on the pain. The small wound is enough to lend new strength to his muscles, and he finds that he holds onto the rock more easily.
How much longer must I hold?, Rael wonders in his thoughts. He thinks of stories he heard as a boy, stories about great toothy beasts called sharks that can supposedly smell the smallest amount of blood in
water. He had seen one once as a boy. Some of the fisherman had caught the monster in a net, and it eventually drowned because it could not keep swimming. They hung it from a hook on the dock, showing it off. It was as big as a man and had a mouth large enough to swallow a boy. The teeth…
Rael starts as he realizes that he hears nothing but the soft sound of the surf against the shore and rocks. Ever so slowly, he peeks around the edge of his shield and sees nothing and no one. His torn and bloodied tunic is nowhere to be seen, but neither are the villagers. He listens carefully, straining to hear anything at all that isn’t normal to the sea. He moves from around the rock, finds footing and eventually pulls himself onto a large flat stack of stones.
Alone, he examines his leg in the growing gloom, and he surely sees a small round bite perhaps only two inches around. It hurts, but the wound is nothing for him to fret over, especially well cleansed by the saltwater. Blood only trickles down the back of his calf toward his heel. The skin of his feet and toes has tightened from the exposure to the salt water. Rael idly finds that fact interesting as it would normally grow wrinkled in a bath.
Rael waits on the rock until the sun drops well below the horizon, and stars fill the night sky. He finds it treacherous moving up the water’s edge without light, and the water level already rises from the increased tide. He takes his time, moving quietly until he can pull himself up onto dry land. Rael skirts the village, moving quickly between houses and outbuildings and using anything he can find to conceal himself from the soft light of the moon and stars.
Finally, he finds himself at the docks, and his bare feet make it easy to move quietly past a snoring fisherman. Of course, the wineskin on its side at his feet may have also contributed to Rael’s apparent stealth. Rael finds a small boat, a fine looking sloop and boards it. After releasing the moorings, he pushes off and sets sail in what he hopes is north. Fortunately, it doesn’t really matter so long as he simply puts some distance between himself and the island. When the sun rises in the morning, he will know for certain what direction is north, for the sun always rises in the east.
Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Page 5
