by Angus Wells
“How far are they?” Ellyn asked.
And Shara shrugged and answered, “A month, perhaps less. It’s hard to say here, for time changes.”
“And there are strange creatures, no?” Ellyn said. She turned her eyes to me and I wondered if she sought trust or excuse to escape.
“None that shall harm us,” Shara replied.
“Thanks to your magic?” Ellyn wondered. “Or to Gailard’s sword?”
“Perhaps both,” Shara said. “But save you trust us both, what other choice have you?”
Ellyn grunted irritably and we set out across the horrid wasteland.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ellyn followed them, letting the chestnut mare find her own way across the stony ground. The horse needed no directing, but only trailed behind the others as if she were afraid of losing her way in this odd landscape—which suited Ellyn, for she’d much to ponder, and no desire to inspect her surroundings.
The gods knew, they were bleak as her mood. The Barrens seemed to be all grey stone, as if some unimaginably large fire pit had been emptied across the world, leaving in its wake only ashen ground baked hard as ancient clay. Here and there stood stands of stunted trees, like half-grown pines, their limbs contorted by the ever-present wind that seemed cold by day and warm at night, as if it designed itself to disturb. There were streams, but they ran grey as the landscape, turgid and empty of fish; nor did any birds sing, or fly overhead, or game start from the crags and ravines that were the sole disruptions of this miserable landscape.
And to make matters worse, Gailard appeared besotted with the Vachyn sorceress. He danced attendance on her, bringing her water before he delivered it to Ellyn, offering her the first choice of food, gazing at her with calf-dumb eyes and stumbling tongue like some peasant suitor. Ellyn hated her, and knew that was unfair—which only made it worse. She must follow and learn from the woman. It was her only choice now that her mother’s clan was gone away, and she recognized that Shara owned magic that could benefit Chaldor. Was Ellyn to regain her father’s kingdom she must learn to use her power—but still she resented the way Gailard was entranced. The gods knew, he was only a savage Highlander hire-sword, but he’d surely felt something for her before he encountered the Vachyn woman—and that was gone now, as he smiled and preened and bowed. He was, after all her guardian—and surely should pay her more attention than Shara.
I shall learn from her, Ellyn thought as she watched them, and gain my full power I shall raise the clans and dispatch Talan and his hired Vachyn and take my throne in Chorym. And then I shall send that woman away and Gailard shall be all mine.
She liked the thought. Gailard would be her general, set in charge of all her legions, and live in the palace, always at her beck. And did it take awhile, then Ellyn would be old enough to call herself a woman, and as queen of Chaldor Gailard would see her for herself, and … She blushed at the notions that entered her mind and cursed Shara for the threat she represented.
Then blushed anew as Gailard turned back and called for her to move up and join them, which meant she must ride between them, with Shara affecting conversation and Ellyn pretending to friendship as the guardian scanned the land ahead and rode in his usual silence.
Ellyn was convinced he spoke more with Shara than he ever had with her.
“These pirates are become a problem. What shall you do about them?”
Talan held out his cup that a servant might fill the vessel, scowling at Egor Dival as wine poured into the goblet.
Egor Dival shrugged and said, “We all believed the Durrakym secure, and concentrated on the landward conquest. That was your wish, no?”
“The land is secure now,” Talan answered. “Chorym’s ours and all of Chaldor to the borders, but our ships are sunk or stolen, and we lose trade with the northern kingdoms. I did not conquer this land to lose trade. What’s the point of gaining a new kingdom if my ships can’t even cross the river safely?”
Almost, Dival answered: Very little, and you’d have been better advised to enjoy your inheritance and leave Chaldor alone, but you listened to your hired Vachyn and dreamed of grandeur. But all he did was bow his head and ask, “What would you have me do?”
“Rid me of these pirates,” Talan demanded.
“They come from Hel’s Town,” Dival said.
“Then attack Hel’s Town!”
Dival stared aghast at his king. “No one attacks Hel’s Town.” Uninvited, he seated himself and gestured that a cup be brought him. The waiting servant glanced nervously at Talan before complying. “Take that path, and you’ll be embroiled in a war we cannot win.”
“Against pirates?”
“Against Mother Hel, who’s the ear of Naban and Serian, and can send a fleet against us and close the whole river.”
Talan scowled, affecting a dismissive tone. “Even the Sea Kings?”
“Perhaps,” Dival said. “No one knows just how much power she controls, or what allies she commands.”
“She favors these pirates,” Talan said. “So does she ally with Chaldor?”
“I think,” the general answered, “that Mother Hel allies with profit, and the pirates bring her bounty.”
“By raiding my craft,” Talan declared irritably. “By escorting those of Naban and Serian downriver, exempting them from my tolls.”
“You’ve all the wealth of Chaldor now,” Dival said. “Is that not enough? Let things settle, and well get back our trade.”
“No!” Talan hammered a fist against the table, spilling his cup. “I want something done now. See to it, eh?”
“It is not best advised to upset Mother Hel,” Dival said.
“The gods damn Mother Hel!” Talan glowered as his cup was righted and refilled. “I want this piracy ended!”
Egor Dival nodded reluctantly. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Which shall be?”
The old general shrugged. “I’ll order our river patrols increased and send an embassy to Hel’s Town.”
“That is a most excellent idea.” Nestor spoke for the first time. “An embassy, yes.”
Dival frowned; it was unusual for the Vachyn to agree with him, and he wondered what hidden game the sorcerer played.
It was soon enough revealed, for Nestor ducked his oiled head as if digesting the notion and finding it palatable, then smiled and said, “An embassy, yes … But perhaps not the usual embassy.”
“What do you mean?” Dival asked.
“Do you send an official embassy, all pomp and ceremony”—the Vachyn addressed himself to Talan now, who sat all ears—“then I suspect you’ll get back soft words, excuses, and nothing be done.”
Talan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you suggest?”
“A few trusted men,” Nestor expanded. “Let them go unannounced to Hel’s Town—not as your representatives, but only as lost men seeking refuge. Let them watch and listen, and before long, I’d wager, they’ll know just who these pirates are.”
“And then?” Talan demanded.
“Why, then they slay the leader.”
“What?” Egor Dival set down his cup with a force that sent wine spilling across the table. “You speak of assassination?”
Nestor waved a languid hand. “I speak of clearing the river of troublesome rabble; of destroying this nuisance that plagues our king.”
“My king,” Dival said, “not yours.”
“We both serve Lord Talan.” The Vachyn fixed Dival with cold eyes. “Do we not?”
“To my death,” the old general avowed. “But assassins?”
“Why not?” asked Talan.
“Because that is not how Danant fights her wars,” Dival cried, aghast that his monarch should even consider such a plan. “Your father never used assassins.”
“Nor a Vachyn sorcerer,” Talan returned. “Nor ever conquered Chaldor; but Nestor’s given me this kingdom, and I like his plan.”
“There’s no honor in it!” Dival protested.
“But much profit,
” Nestor murmured. “Think on it—we can set our navy to hunting these pirates, but with only poor hope of success, and so many ships tied up in the venture. Or we can send a few men—with far better chance of ending this nuisance.”
“Times change, Egor,” Talan said. “This is a new world we inhabit, and wars are fought differently now. I like what Nestor tells me.”
“And there are spells I can lay,” the Vachyn added, “that shall render it impossible for them to reveal who sent them, even under torture.”
“Mother Hel’s no fool,” Dival argued. “Does she support these pirates, then she’ll know your killers came from Danant.”
“To know,” Nestor said calmly, “is not the same as owning proof. Does Mother Hel know, still she’ll not be able to face the world with firm proof. And has she no proof, what can she do? No more than she does now—which would seem to be the gift of refuge to enemies of our king. I’d see all those enemies destroyed, General.”
“As would I!” Dival barked. “But honorably.” He turned to Talan. “I beg you, my liege—do not agree to this. It shall sully your name.”
“I’d have my river safe,” Talan replied. “I have decided, Egor. Let there be no more disagreement, eh? Only give Nestor what he wants.”
“More honest men to befoul with his magicks?” Dival sighed noisily. “You ask much of me, my king.”
“Too much?” Talan leant forward, fixing the older man with questioning eyes. “Had you sooner be relieved of your command? Perhaps you’d like to return to Danant, to tend your estates?”
Egor Dival met his king’s gaze awhile, then lowered his head. “I serve you,” he said. “And Danant.”
“Excellent!” Talan clapped his hands. Like, Dival thought, a child presented with some new and novel toy. “Then we’re in agreement.”
“I command the Ryadne.” Nassim turned aside to direct a stream of black liquid into the spittoon, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and raised his mug. “Kerid helms the Andur and commands us all. Why do you ask?”
The man facing him—Tyron, he called himself—shouted for fresh drinks and smiled. “Why, because I’d join you. Word’s out along the river that a pirate fleet harries Danant’s vessels, and I’d be a part of that.” He tossed coin to the servingwoman and tapped earnest fingers against his chest. “Chaldor-born, me.”
Unimpressed, Nassim grunted and tasted the ale. “Where in Chaldor?”
“A little place I doubt you’ve heard of,” Tyron answered. “A river town called Fortys—mostly fishing, but I took to the river when I was thirteen. Signed aboard a trader and never went home again.”
“And what did you do in the war?”
“I was a deckhand on the Valiant When she went down I swam to shore and took up a sword against Talan’s army. Then I made my way north, and here I am.”
“And you want to join us.” Nassim cut a fresh plug of tobacco and began to chew.
“Yes!” Tyron nodded eagerly. “I’d see those Danant bastards feed the fishes, and Talan defeated. I’d see Ellyn claim her rightful throne.”
“Folk say that Ellyn’s dead.” Nassim picked tobacco from his lips.
Tyron shrugged. “I’d heard she fled into the Highlands with that traitor Gailard.”
Nassim shrugged in turn. “Whichever, she’s gone, and Talan rules Chaldor.”
“But not the river.” Tyron leaned forward, his expression earnest. “You pirates dent Talan’s pride. You know there’s a bounty on your heads?”
“Enough to set a man up for life,” Nassim said. And laughed. “Save are we beaten we’ll likely rest on the bottom, and our heads shall be hard to find.”
“But you fight on!” Tyron said. “And I’d fight with you.”
“We’re fully crewed.” Nassim spat out more liquid tobacco. “Why not seek a berth on one of Mother Hel’s ships?”
“Because I’d sail with you!” Tyron declared. “Must I wait until you’ve a berth, then I’ll wait. But you’ll speak with Kerid? You’ll introduce me?”
“I’ll speak with him,” Nassim promised.
Tyron said, “My thanks. Another mug?”
Nassim shrugged. “Why not?”
He drank the ale and quit the tavern, leaving Tyron with the assurance that he’d speak with Kerid and make the stranger known to his captain. Then he made his way to Mother Hel’s palace.
Kerid kept him waiting awhile, which was not unusual when they were in harbor. Mother Hel was, Nassim understood, somewhat demanding of Kerid’s attentions, and surely Kerid was dishevelled when he appeared, and Nassim smelled perfume on him.
“Your efforts on behalf of Chaldor are admirable.”
“I do my best.” Kerid grinned. “It’s a hard thing, diplomacy.”
“No doubt. Can we talk privately?”
Kerid heard the urgency in his friend’s voice and gestured toward an oak door carved in bas-relief. A servant dressed in the Mother’s scarlet livery swung the portal open and they walked through into a garden scented with late-blooming roses. Paths of pearly marble wound amongst the luxuriant bushes, and little arbors offered benches where they might sit and speak unseen and unheard over the play of the dancing fountains.
“I met a man,” Nassim began.
“I’d thought you were happy with Cristobel,” Kerid interrupted, then fell silent as Nassim’s swarthy features contorted into a disapproving frown. “Forgive me … Go on.”
“He calls himself Tyron,” Nassim said. “He made himself known when we docked after that last voyage. I was waiting in the tavern for Cristobel …”
“That was three days ago,” Kerid said.
“And he’s been there since.” Nassim glanced around, seeking a place to spit. Finding none, he directed his tobacco onto the ground. “He’s taken a room there.”
“So?”
“He wants to join us. He says he’s Chaldor-born and served on the Valiant.”
“The Valiant was sunk with all hands.”
“Yes, but he claims he swam ashore, and now he’d be a pirate and fight Danant.”
“Then sign him up, and when we’ve a new craft we’ll take him with us.”
Nassim wondered if Mother Hel’s bed addled Kerid’s mind. “He’s too much coin for a shipless riverman. Listen— if he was on the Valiant, then he lost his berth early in the war. He says he comes from Fortys, but he’s not been home since he shipped out at thirteen—so where does his money come from? He’s no berth now, but he can afford a room, and to ply me with ale and questions.”
“What are you saying?” Kerid asked.
“There’s more.” Nassim motioned that he wait. “Yvor told me that he was approached by another refugee from Chaldor who’d sign on, and Martyn spoke of two more. All claim to have fought for Andur and fled when Talan invaded; all have coin aplenty, and seem to spend it readily.”
“Loot?” Kerid asked.
“They have too much,” Nassim answered, “if what they say is true.”
“So what do you say?”
“That perhaps Talan sends spies.”
“That’s not so surprising, eh? We must be hurting him somewhat by now.”
“Even so.” Nassim shrugged. “I don’t like it.”
Kerid nodded. “I’ll speak with the Mother, see what she thinks.” He paused, plucking a rose that he twirled a moment between his hands, ignoring the thorns that pricked his palms. “Perhaps we should speak with these would-be allies.”
“They all want to meet you,” Nassim said.
Kerid grinned and dropped the rose, crushed, to the marble pavement. “Are they spies, what can they learn? That we raid Talan’s boats? That’s common knowledge in Hel’s Town.”
“I think there might be more to it,” Nassim said.
“I’ll speak with the Mother,” Kerid promised.
Gulls sat sleeping on the bollards as Nassim walked the harborfront, seemingly oblivious of the cats that prowled the wharves. Sleek shadows under the filled moon transformed the riv
er to a kaleidoscope of flickering patterns. The Durrakym lapped gently against the stones and the Ryadne tossed on the slight swell like a beautiful woman peacefully asleep in her bed. Nassim watched her awhile, loving her sleek lines, thinking of her speed and maneuverability. She was his first command, and he loved her fiercer than he’d ever loved a woman. Cristobel was a delightful distraction, but he’d others along the river, and none so entrancing as the Ryadne; he swept a protesting gull from a bollard and sat, staring at her. There were no sailors aboard, nor any harbor patrols, for Hel’s Town was neutral territory and none offended the Mother on pain of death. But Nassim wondered about Tyron and the others, and feared that if they were spies for Talan that they might seek to cripple his wondrous vessel. So he sat and cut a plug of tobacco and began to chew, thinking that he might spend this night on board … just in case.
He rose, his knife still in his hand as footsteps came soft across the cobbles. He turned to find Tyron approaching. A cat mewed, looking up from the fishhead it chewed, and the stranger kicked it aside.
“That’s deemed unlucky here,” Nassim warned.
“A cat?” Tyron smiled and shrugged. “A miserable scavenger—like you.”
He closed the short distance between them, moonlight glinting on naked steel. Nassim thrust his own blade forward even as he saw, from the corner of his eye, three other men moving from the shadows, all holding knives. He shouted, hearing his cry echo unanswered off the walls, and spun, launching himself onto the deck of the Ryadne.
Tyron followed, and as he landed, Nassim sprang forward, driving his tobacco-stained blade deep into the man’s throat. Tyron did his best to scream, but the severed artery choked his cry in blood. Nassim kicked him and stamped on his wrist, reaching down to snatch the knife from the assassin’s hand. It was a longer blade than his own, narrow and twin-edged, with a fuller running down half its length. He slashed it across Tyron’s eyes as the other three came leaping down to face him.
Nassim backed away, holding both blades defensively before him. He shouted again, but still no answer came, nor hope of aid, and the three spread out, looking to encircle him.
