Behind them, the fading outline of the grove fell from view. The polar lights above them rippled and shined brightly as the storm in the south flashed with sparks and thundered loud enough to make them jump with every strike.
Slats stood at the front of the ship, his axe strapped on his back, tissue from dead legionnaires still a crimson stain on its edge. To Sviska, that seemed fitting for the dwarf. Slats’ spirit was strong, and he looked back to Sviska with a nodding smile. Garoa set on the deck about midway between him and Slats. He fiddled with his gauntlets, shaking each of them until they were free. He rubbed his wrists and stretched.
"Good to be rid of those for a while. They are a bit heavy," he said, raising both of his eyebrows and staring around. His choice to talk seemed little more than boredom to Sviska. They had all been silent since they left the grove, but in that silence, there was little comfort.
Berie slouched, looking over the deck. Her bow lay on its side, her quiver filled again with arrows. The elven enchantments upon the quiver had restored her stock of bolts; however, it was obvious to all that she did not concern herself with anything save the loss of those in Elinathrond and the last tie to her family. The death of Brethor weighed on all of their minds, but it was Berie’s tears that stained the deck.
Sviska was not without grief, but he held back what tears he felt behind his eyes. It was strange enough for him to feel as he did at all.
The world and sanctuary of Elinathrond was no more. He knew what world awaited them. Following Meredaas' order, they were to head east for three days. He was not too sure of the shores they would find this direction. His time under the Order had kept him in the more southern and western lands. The northeast was less civilized, less of a threat—at least, a threat where an assassin was necessary.
The sea began to calm, and the propelling force that had ferried them east faded. The ship still moved by its own enchantment, and other than the occasional thought to avoid small pieces of ice, Sviska did very little at the helm.
Garoa stood and went to the opposing side from Berie, who looked back toward the south. Reaching into his tunic, he fumbled and found, after moderate searching and a concerned look on his face, the silver whistle he had used at the Foundry. Slats joined him on the side of the deck as he blew into it, not making a sound any of them could hear.
"I'd say your horn is dreadful when it comes to musical instruments," Slats commented, shaking his head.
"Not all things are obvious, dwarf. This is no musical instrument," Garoa replied. He looked up into the clouds and said, "You see, look there!"
Slats looked up to spy shapes high above, circling downward.
"Looks like he's bringing a meal of birds down," Sviska jeered. "I hope you have a way to cook them."
As the figures drew closer, it was obvious that no mere birds were coming to land on the deck. Garoa's dragons had escaped the fall of the city, or so it seemed, as two small dragons came to rest before Garoa.
He knelt down and rubbed under their chins. Both of them closed their eyes, lowering their heads further into his rub as their wings stretched outward.
Garoa sobbed. "Momma didn't make it, I guess, and neither did your siblings."
He shook his head, looking at them. "I bet she took at least twenty of those Legion men, thirty if she could have been flying, but she wouldn't have left you two defenseless."
Both of the dragons leaped on his forearms and nuzzled into his tunic.
"I have you. You are safe.”
Berie turned to Garoa, went toward the two dragons, and said, "I sense their sadness. Are they well?"
"Seem to be. Nasty sight, seeing what they did. They were just born a few moons ago, and to witness such horrors at the hands of the Legion."
In the distant past, the Grand Protectorate had been known to tie up captured dragons for games of war. They would cut the wings, bind the jaws, and in drunken brawls, wager how many knives or spears it would take to kill one. Garoa thought of this and of what the mother dragon must have endured.
Berie smiled and said, "Gentle creatures to the right hand, dragons. You are lucky to have them, as well as they you."
Garoa nodded, putting the images of the death of his mother dragon far from his mind.
"How are you?"
"I am strong. It is what Brethor would've wanted, and we must honor that. The Galhedriss Arcana is safe."
Sviska felt his side, and the shape of the book quelled his sudden fear. He feared losing such an item. If the Order obtained the text, things would be far more terrible than he could imagine, worse even than his once-brother Kasis using magic.
The world had changed for him. Many weeks ago, he believed magic was no more and those of magic origin were dead from a disease. However, the world he knew was gone and the Order was more malevolent than he could have ever imagined. No longer was it his life alone he worried of—evil grew in the world.
The “disease” was a curse, created for the genocide of all magical creatures. After Sviska refused to complete his task, the Legion of the Grand Protectorate swarmed Elinathrond. Even worse, with the armies came the enslaved god Kel, somehow under the control of the Order.
Sviska did not understand all that had been revealed to him in the past few weeks, but he knew the Order would hunt his party. Kasis had seen their escape. The Order would not rest until they were found, and there would be few in the world they could trust.
A first night passed and a second one was upon them when the ship became hard to steer and then stopped. Slats, who had just caught some fish, looked up to Sviska, who was as perplexed as was he.
"What happened?" Berie asked, walking to the side of the ship and looking into the water.
"I don't know."
Garoa had not quite noticed the commotion. His thoughts were on making a fire from random thatch he had spotted in a small room, or more appropriately named, alcove, due to its small size. The storage area was just under the helm and had numerous supplies. The sea god had given them some provisions, knowing of their journey to come, but had left out food. Inside, he found a large clay pot the size for making a large stew, and took it for his soon-to-be "roaring fire" he had promised with a smile. They could at least roast fish over the fire.
Garoa placed his hands over the thatch and twigs and attempted to summon flames.
Sviska watched as a red glow began in his palm, but no flame, no spark. The kindling remained unlit.
"Aye!" Garoa shouted. He stood and then knelt back down, his hand over the twigs again. He began to sweat as his focus centered, his hand over the twigs.
"What is it?" Sviska asked.
He did not reply.
Slats slapped the final of three fish and walked over to him.
"Never in my life has this happened," he whispered to himself.
"Use a flint rock. We should have one of those,” Slats told him.
Garoa remained silent to the others.
"I will go look for one," the dwarf continued.
He dropped his fish and went toward the alcove. Sviska still did not know why the ship would not move.
Berie felt the air with her palm and then looked up into the night sky. The stars above were bright, but an emptiness chilled her skin. A tinge she had known all her life was no longer as present as it has been.
"Sviska," she said, her eyes widening, "we have passed from the realm of magic and the grove. What enchantment was on this ship is gone, as well as Garoa's power."
The Rusis slapped the thatch and stood. "I don't understand this!" he said. "And what do you mean my power is gone, elf?"
Sviska joined the others on the deck.
"There is no magic in the rest of the world; at least, not to the degree seen in Elinathrond."
"No magic? This just makes it better, then," Garoa said, turning away from them and stomping to the front of the ship. It had not taken much to sour his mood.
Slats appeared from the alcove with a flint stone and knelt with his knife,
casting sparks and eventually starting a small fire in the clay pot. He added larger sticks and soon had a decent fire going.
"I noticed some torches also back there. We need to remember those. A few candles and glass lamps were there, also. We need some light on the deck."
The glowing white wood from before was now dull and almost as that which made any other wooden ship. Aside from a few areas, the wood was actually beginning to darken, as if aged.
Sviska had found sails in the alcove, as well as ropes.
"A gleaming white ship would draw too much unwanted attention. We don't need that going into unknown waters," he said to the others. "Sails will work well to get us moving. Although fish is good, we will not have much in our stores for long. Especially, the fuel to cook."
Garoa had just finished roasting the fish on a metal stave. They each took some and then got to stringing the sails. Sviska had sailed before, but not much more than a fishing boat. Slats seemed to know a bit, too, having read of sailing in the Estate library.
They tied the lines as best they could, and the winds that were about began pushing them further east. At last they were moving again, and not soon enough. A fog had rolled in, and it was difficult to see.
They continued on, hoping that eventually the fog would lift, but as a cruel and turbulent northern sea began to toss, it was clear a storm was upon them. The waves grew larger, and the wind began to bite at their skin. The spray of the sea cast over the deck, and Sviska pointed for them to let down the sail; they would no longer be able to control their path. Water crashed onto the deck, nearly knocking Slats from his footing if it wasn’t for Berie’s watchful grasp.
“We must take cover,” Sviska shouted.
But the ship rolled to the side again. The four of them slipped and fell, struggling to get themselves and their belongings into the alcove. With his two young dragons, too small to take to the air with the sudden storm, Garoa was the last in. Closing the door, he let down a latch to lock them in. They peered at each other, each soaking in the suds of the storm.
They were in the dark, unable to move much more than their limbs, and had they had any other room, they would have found themselves tossed from side to side. Given their conditions, they struggled to sleep and found resting difficult. But it was here they would remain. Twice they attempted to open the door, but the winds were too much and none of them had the experience of the sea to guide the vessel.
Berie closed her eyes and placed her hands on the door. “May Wura protect us,” she intoned.
Many hours passed with no change in the storm outside. Then there was a sudden jolt, and a shock shot throughout the room. They tumbled, rolling and beating upon one another inside the alcove.
The sound of the waves remained, but the ship no longer moved. Garoa pushed open the doors, rolling out onto the deck. The others followed, somewhat disheveled, but thankful they were alive and, so far, uninjured. The dragons scurried out, fearfully jumping around the splintered wood.
Sviska looked out from the deck as the storm above still roared. The ship had come to rest on a rocky outcropping lit by the flashes of lightning above. A land bridge of no more than a quarter mile led to more land and what seemed through a haze of wind and rain to be a structure. Garoa fitted his gauntlets as Sviska pointed that direction, and they disembarked, running for what cover they could find.
The narrow land bridge was dark, riddled with rocky holes and sudden drops to the left or right. The sea, stewed by the storm above, tore into the outcroppings of stone that led out from either side. Waves erupted into the air, and foamy arms of water whipped the path ahead. Not once but twice as they ran toward the structure, coming closer into view, they dropped to the ground, clawing into the earth as waters rushed over them and then back out to sea.
"Hurry!" Sviska yelled, motioning for them to follow him further.
He had not been doing as much physically in the last few weeks as he used to. The wandering ways of his life before kept him on the move and adept at such things as narrow paths and slippery places. But even he struggled to keep a proper path—his boots slid in the mud and the occasional drop in the path caused him to stumble. He was thankful he had not fallen.
The path began to open up as they waded through ankle-deep water, which tugged at their legs as the tides swept a sandy shore. Climbing an embankment, they found their way to tall sea grass and collapsed.
Slats coughed and sucked at the air as he tried to catch his breath. Garoa wiped his face and spat.
"Salt! I am about sick of it," he said, looking around.
The small dragons were soaked, licking the water that pooled from the rain. A sand crab scurried away, and they both chased after it, snapping as their prey fled into the water.
Sviska stared at Berie. She was not out of breath or even somewhat weary. Her curved, lightning-lit eyes, alert behind a curtain of wet hair, surveyed the scene around her. She pointed into the darkness.
"There is a structure there, over the hill. It is dark but should provide shelter." She began to walk, ahead of the others.
"Go, my friends. Dig you some shelter!" Garoa commanded his dragons. They both flapped their wings, coasting a distance away, and began digging into the ground. "Join us at first light up the road!"
He followed Berie as Sviska took Slats, who although breathed slower now, still appeared shocked by the events of the storm. He opened his eyes wider as they pulled him to his feet.
"Going to kill a dwarf yet, sir!"
They followed Berie through short grass riddled with boulders and small streams rushing toward the sea.
Sviska bound his coat tighter as the winds grew stronger and frigid gusts blew upon them. The storm was moving out to deeper sea, and the sky above was patchy gray with a slight glow on the horizon.
They came to a stone structure, decrepit but seemingly sealed shut with stacked wood. To the left of that, there were the remains of a section of tower, a length of wall of around thirty feet, and a small hut-like house built into the end of the wall, with no discernible door visible from where they stood.
Garoa wasted no time tearing into stone rubble near the tower before crawling into the space he had made.
"It’s good. Well, not good, but better than out there. It is at least dry and seems to be secure."
Tired and not wishing any debate, they followed in after the Rusis. The space was better than the alcove of the ship, but it still was no bed. The wind seemed to move the structure above them. Whooshing into the cracks in the stone, it found its way to the four, who were beginning to doze. A moaning sound above them caused Slats to jump and hit his head on the ceiling above. As pebbles and dust fell on top of them, Garoa kicked at Slats and then rolled onto his side away from the others. Sviska brushed his face of the debris and closed his eyes. The howling of the wind beckoned him to sleep.
It was no more than a few hours later when he awoke, his eyes opening and spotting Berie and Garoa peering out from the structure. A sweet smell in the air, reminiscent of an herbal tonic he had many years ago, caused his mouth to water, and he sat up, moving toward the other two.
They turned to him, signaling him to be quiet, each touching a finger to their lips as Berie grasped her bow and fit an arrow to the string. There was a small fire lit outside, but none of them had lit it.
A man was outside just a few paces from them. He was as short as Slats, but older, with long gray hair that hung down his back and a beard that hung down below his belly. It rustled in the wind as the man worked. He hummed a tune to himself. Rolling bags stuffed with different plants, he worked hastily, binding them.
"What do you think?" Garoa asked, rubbing his hands together nervously.
"I think we should drop him now, save the trouble of him giving us up. I doubt we look the type to be from around here," Berie stated, her eyes set on her target.
Sviska shook his head. "Berie, not everyone in this land is a threat. He seems to be a simple gardener or a healer. We cannot ho
pe to get help murdering the first person we see. Most people wouldn't believe those of magic origin still existed."
A groggy Slats tapped him on the shoulder. "You saying that to a dwarf and a pointy-eared elf—we are not exactly your normal sorts, hmm?"
"It will be done, then," the elf said. She pulled her bowstring to her cheek.
Sviska cringed and scampered out from hiding. Garoa reached for his leg to pull him down, but missed.
"Good sir, I mean you no harm," Sviska said.
The man jerked up, drawing a knife hidden in his belt. In a rush of motion behind Sviska, Garoa and Slats were at his side. Sviska sidestepped to block Berie's view, knowing the elf would be well-ready to loose her arrow.
Slats held his axe in hand, and Garoa stood a step back from Sviska.
"If, ya, um . . . meaning me no harm, why do ya have your . . . um . . . weapons drawn now?" the man muttered, his hand shaking the blade in front of Sviska and his comrades.
Sviska held his hands up, showing that he held no weapon.
"We are travelers from afar. Our ship wrecked on the rocks during the storm, and we sought refuge here near these ruins. We do not wish trouble."
"Wishing trouble you are, holding those weapons! The legionnaires have weapons, and trouble they are! I saw wreckage from a ship up the beach. The shallows are no good for ships, particularly after a large storm."
This man was no fighting man. He held his dagger up with the confidence of a small child at the face of a raging river. His knees quivered and he bit his lip, while his eyes bounced between them.
Sviska lowered his hands, and as Berie came to his side, her bow was not drawn, but an arrow still rested on the string. Slats let his axe head fall to the side, and the man retracted his dagger.
"I am just gathering herbs, you see, for stew, I swear," the man explained. He went to his pot and pointed for them to look.
"Why do you give us an explanation? We need none nor have we asked for any. You would think it is illegal to gather herbs," Slats said.
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 27
