by Bruce Blake
My father is dead. The queen rules the kingdom in his place.
True, but he understood it wasn't the important thought he needed to pick from the morass in his head. He grasped for another as the couple before him separated, though their hands remained on each other—lovers unafraid of discovery.
How long since the battle?
Maybe it wasn't his mother, but someone who resembled her. Or perhaps he'd skipped farther forward in time than he thought and he wasn't the babe at all. The queen held Danya her arms—that must be it.
"How is the prince today?"
Trenan's question slammed into Teryk's brain like a dart into a board, pinning one of the unavoidable thoughts.
My father is dead; Danya will never be born.
His mother smiled, removed the blanket from the baby's face for the swordmaster to better see. "Happy. And hungry."
He didn't look at the baby, instead gazing into her eyes. He trailed the tips of his fingers along her cheek, over her shoulder, down her arm. "When can we tell the kingdom?"
She looked away, moving her gaze to the young prince in her arms; he did the same, but the smile disappeared from his lips as it did from hers. A weightiness filled the air between them, a palpable tension not present the instant before. The master swordsman ran a finger along the baby's cheek.
"You know we can't. The people mourn the loss of their king. The kingdom needs to believe he left an heir."
She whispered the words but, despite the gurgle and splash of the fountain, Teryk heard her as though she stood beside him, whispering in his ear. Trenan didn't respond, instead continued gazing at the babe in her arms. Teryk's teeth clamped together tight enough to hurt his jaw. His mind raced back through his life, searching for hints and signs of this between his mother and the man who trained him, raised him, for a memory of how long passed between what he recalled as Trenan losing his arm and his birth. Was she pregnant when the battle happened? He didn't recall the subject ever coming up.
The master swordsman nodded, the movement barely noticeable. He glanced up at her, forced the corners of his mouth to curve up into a strained smile. He stepped back and spread his arms.
"Can I hold the prince?"
"Yes, of course. Hold your son. The world will never find out he is yours, but their lack of knowledge doesn't change the identity of his true father."
Trenan took the babe in his arm, but Teryk didn't let his gaze follow. His mouth dried up and his forehead prickled.
Hold your son.
He blinked, pushed himself up to his knees.
Son.
Legs watery and unstable, he stood and put a hand to his forehead, lurched an unsteady pace away from the topiary.
"Trenan is my father, not Erral." He licked his lips then wiped his forearm across his mouth. "I'm not the firstborn child of the rightful king. No one is."
Another step, his body swaying atop uncertain legs.
"The world will perish."
Vertigo overtook him, and the prince stumbled back three steps, then ahead before his feet tangled and he pitched forward. He landed hard, the impact jarring his head. Things around him changed instantly. The dissonance of steel on steel replaced the soothing gurgle of the fountain; the scent of grass and brush disappeared, overpowered by the coppery reek of blood and muddy ground. He put his gauntleted hands under himself, pressed against soggy, churned turf and pushed himself up to observe his surroundings.
Men swirled, their weapons flashing. Rain pattered against Teryk's cheek and he understood where he found himself, and when. He climbed to his feet, the ax he'd used to kill his father dangling from his right hand. Without thought to his actions, he trudged forward, moving past the fighting men as though they didn't notice his passing. A few strides ahead, he spied the man for whom he searched on one knee, visor raised. The prince stopped in front of him, lifted the ax's spike to the king's throat with no intention of doing so.
"I am no one's father."
Deja vu sent a shiver along Teryk's spine and his mouth opened, words spilling out despite his not intending them to.
"Not yet."
He pulled the ax from his father's esophagus, raised it skyward. The king lifted his arm to protect himself, turned his face away. A shout from his left gave Teryk pause, and he directed his gaze toward the soldier rushing to save his monarch. The prince amended his stance and brought the weapon down, separating the warrior's limb from his shoulder instead of splitting the king's head in two.
Trenan cried out and fell to the ground, writhing on the sopping grass as blood squirted from his wound. Teryk backed away a step, his stomach threatening to rise into his throat. The ax slipped from his grasp and he looked from the master swordsman to the man he thought of as his father.
Did I set things right?
The king leaped forward, snatching Trenan's sword from his hand as he did. The point of it entered Teryk's belly and, to his surprise, he felt the full length of it slide through him and the tip exit through his back. Pain exploded through him and he gasped, the sudden inhalation sucking droplets of rain into his mouth. He relished the refreshment of them for a moment before Erral wrenched the blade from his gut and he coughed the acidic flavor of blood onto his tongue.
He tottered in place for a few seconds, watching as the king threw aside the sword and rushed to Trenan's side, shouting for a medic as he did. Teryk hacked into his hand, viewed the red clot doing so left in his gauntlet, then fell forward. He didn't stop himself, giving into the inevitable impact of hitting the muddy ground...but he didn't.
Instead, when he hit, it wasn't grass, but water.
He went under, the chill of it shocking him. Briny fluid found its way into his mouth, stung his eyes. He kicked and thrashed until his face broke through and he emerged from the sea sputtering and coughing. But salty water was the only thing he tasted, the tang of blood gone from his tongue.
Why should I taste blood?
His heart beat fast in his chest and he gasped for air, lungs thankful to find it. The smooth surface of the ocean allowed him to keep his head above the water line with little effort. He blinked the briny sting from his eyes, the world around him blurry. Straight ahead, a hazy brown smudge dominated the horizon. He blinked again and again until his vision returned and he saw the ship, words painted on the side near the bow. He squinted until they became legible: Devil of the Deep. Faintly, he made out the shape of a man waving at him, pointing.
The ship's name tickled the back of his mind, teasing out a suspicion that it should hold meaning for him. The feeling remained undefined, an itch he couldn't reach. He concentrated. Why should he recognize this ship? He realized other things he didn't know: where he was, how he got here.
Who am I?
Panic clawed at his gut, but waves washing over him, splashing up into his face, made him forget it for an instant. He craned his head toward the source of the ripples, saw the bubbles rolling across the surface. A heartbeat later, a sliver of gray flashed, then broke through. A flat skull emerged atop a long, smooth neck, a wide mouth lined with pointed teeth opened, a screeching roar tore through the air.
And the God of the Deep rose from the sea.
XXVI Rilum – Long Ago
Rilum gazed at the clump of hair in his hand. The tangled strands lay across his featureless palm like a small, dead animal. He exhaled, his breath stirring it back to life momentarily before it returned to its final slumber.
This wasn't the first shock of hair he'd pulled from his head. It wasn't even what currently caught and held his attention.
The sailor rotated his hand palm down, the fine strands fluttering to the ground, landing around his feet. He didn't watch their erratic fall, instead concentrating on the white skin stretched across the back of his hands.
White.
Not pink. Not scattered with dark hair. He sensed his hands once appeared thus, though he couldn't be sure. Now: white like a frost-covered rock. White like the foam atop an angry wave. White.
His shortest finger had grown to match the others, each of the digits the same length. Or were they always this way?
He reached up with his other hand, took hold of the edge of his thumbnail between his other thumb and forefinger. It rocked back and forth, moving beneath the flesh until it came free. He pulled it out, a last attached string of skin following like a bit of elastic until it snapped. Rilum held it up in front of his eyes, turned it, examined it, then let it drop to settle amongst the hair scattered around his feet.
XXVII Gihl – Road to Draekfarren
Gihl pulled the wet blanket tighter around his shoulders and wiped rain away from his face.
"Why the fuck did I let Krin talk me into this?"
The horse he sat—the fastest in the kingdom, by his estimation—said nothing in response. Its hooves splashed in puddles, the dirt track turning to mud beneath them, and the speed his mount stored in its haunches didn't mean a tinker's damn for keeping him dry.
"What the fuck was with that bird? Who's ever seen a bird shittin' out storm clouds?"
He hung his head, doing his best to hide from the rain pelting against his face, lank, wet hair stuck to his cheeks. A stiff gust of wind threw a sheet of drops hard against him, each droplet a pinprick stinging his skin. The horse took exception to the extra dowsing and shook its snout, throwing more water at him from its mane.
"Damn you," Gihl sputtered. He wiped his arm across his face and thought of a hundred things he'd rather do than ride this lonely dirt road in the rain performing a task he didn't understand for a man who held no more sway in his life than serving him ale. "Fuck this."
He reined the horse to a halt and straightened in the saddle. The muscles in his legs tightened, readying to turn the speedy nag around and beat a hasty retreat to his home, but he stopped when he looked along the dirt track ahead.
More riders than he possessed fingers on his two hands sat in the middle of the road. The length of ten horses separated him from them and how he hadn't heard them approaching made little sense. Another thing to blame on the rain. He considered reaching toward the short sword dangling from his belt, but the strangers wore armor, each of them with swords more dangerous looking than his at their waists. To draw his blade meant his death, to be sure, so he kept his hand as far from the grip as possible.
He sat staring at them, and them at him, as though none of them had ever seen another rider before as cold rain ran down his back. He shivered. After an interval longer than seemed comfortable, the front two riders detached from the others and came toward him. Gihl's fingers tightened on the reins and he wondered if his horse was as fast as he thought. Maybe not the best time to find out.
"Ho, rider. What has you riding a muddy track on this dreary day?"
Gihl didn't respond. Droplets of water dripped from his ragged beard, ran down his face from the unkempt hair plastered to his head. His gaze darted from the man who'd spoken to the second person. This one wore stern features, but softer, and it took him a moment to realize it was a woman. He might have wondered about this, perhaps commented on it, if the first soldier hadn't released the reins and wrapped the fingers of his lone hand around the hilt of his sword. Gihl gulped; he knew of this fellow. The fact didn't relieve any of the stress of his situation. If anything, it produced the opposite effect.
"I know you," he said. His words came out sounding breathless, as though his horse rode him to this place rather than the other way around. He swallowed hard again, did his best to suppress the nervous quake threatening to shake his spine but met with little success.
The rider narrowed his gaze, looked him up and down. He shifted in his saddle but did not relinquish his grip on his weapon. "If we know each other, I apologize for not recalling your face."
Gihl shook his head, sending water droplets flying from his beard, his hair.
"No, we've not met, but I've heard of you." He drew a forearm across his eyes, wiping away the rain. "The one-armed swordsman, the king's man. Everyone in the kingdom with a brain in his noggin knows about you."
"We don't have time for this," the female rider said, leaning toward her companion. He released his grip on his sword long enough to gesture for her patience, then replaced it.
"I am Trenan." He nodded in a way that didn't require he take his eyes from Gihl's. "And you are?"
"Gihl. Krin sent me because I have the fastest horse."
The soldier raised an eyebrow. "Who is Krin? And where did he send you?"
"Trenan," the woman said, annoyance plain in her voice.
Gihl suddenly thought he'd be better off having to deal with the one-armed warrior than his companion. He suspected she'd prefer to kill him and finish it than anything else.
Trenan turned his head toward her and their gazes met for an instant. Gihl couldn't have said what passed back and forth in the look, but he thanked the gods he wasn't standing between them.
He let his gaze fall away, searched his lap and the ground at his steed's feet, scratched his beard. His fingers caught in a knot in his facial hair; he tugged to free it, cringing as he did. A series of heartbeats passed, and he hoped the odd and frightening pair of riders had forgotten him. When he raised his head again, he found both sets of eyes boring into him.
"Well?"
"Draekfarren," he blurted. "He sent me to Draekfarren because I have the fastest horse. Fastest in the kingdom, I'd wager. Faster'n every—"
"I don't care about the fleetness of your steed," Trenan snapped. "Why are you headed for the seat of the king?"
Gihl felt as though someone slapped him across the face. His breathing shallowed as the master swordsman pulled a finger's breadth of steel free of his scabbard. A fat drop of rain struck Gihl's eye, blinding him as he blinked it away. He was about to meet his end on a muddy road in the middle of nowhere carrying out a task in which he had no business being involved. In fact, with the feared warrior staring at him, awaiting his reply, he couldn't remember why Krin had dispatched him on this miserable journey. Because he owed too much on his tab? No, he found himself here because he owned the fastest horse in Woodsel. But why did he send him? What was the message he meant him to carry? He searched his memory for the last things he remembered before the barkeep showed up at his table and tossed the coins in front of him. He'd been enjoying a pint when something disturbed the calm in Krin's Tavern.
But what?
Not a fight—too early in the day for that. He recalled visitors, but nothing out of the ordinary. Just the weapons merchants. What were their names? Sheckle and Pive? But it wasn't them who'd so concerned Krin, but the young women with them. He hadn't seen them, but the barkeep recognized one of them, which caused his upset.
Gihl's eyes widened.
"The princess," he whispered.
Trenan yanked two more fingers of steel free of the scabbard and prompted his horse closer for Gihl to witness the day's gray light glimmer on his weapon. He contorted his face into a frown, a threat not to lie. Gihl shriveled before him, shrinking back into his saddle.
"What of Danya? Have you seen her?"
"See, Trenan? We must go," the woman said.
"Krin did," Gihl replied, voice trembling. "He told me to ride fast as the wind, but I don't think the wind can sit a horse."
The master swordsman pursed his lips. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and he urged his steed two steps closer, bringing him within arm's reach. When he spoke, he did so with precision, emphasizing each word.
Gihl shifted in his saddle, the sudden urge to urinate making it impossible for him to find a comfortable position. He glanced from Trenan to the woman, then past them to the group of riders behind them, wondered who they were, why they were there, where they might be going. The hiss of steel on leather jerked his attention back to the one-armed man. The tip of Trenan's sword hovered a hand's breadth from his neck. Gihl gulped.
"Tell me everything, simpleton, and do it now."
The bump in Gihl's throat rose and fell again, his panicke
d saliva clicking as he swallowed. His mouth opened, lips quivering as he attempted to wet them with his tongue with little success.
"Two men," he said, his arms crossed, hugging himself as he rocked in the saddle trying his best not to void his bladder. "They had her."
"What men?"
"Th...the weapons merchants."
"What do they look like?"
Gihl hesitated, rivulets of rain coursing down his cheek all but unnoticed with the threat of death poised in front of his eyes. Trenan moved the pointed end of the blade forward and he flinched, turned his head away.
"One tall and skinny, the other shorter, wider."
"Fellick and Ive."
He shrugged, the message the barkeep meant him to pass along flooding back to him at the last second. "Krin said to tell the king they were taking her toward sunset."
"The Green," the woman interjected, her words directed to Trenan, not to him for confirmation.
Gihl watched them stare hard at each other but didn't move, the tip of the swordsman's weapon hovering a finger's breadth from his throat. It went on long enough he worried they might have forgotten him and he'd never move again without the risk of slitting his gullet. Finally, whatever held them dissipated, and the soldier lowered his sword then slipped it into its scabbard with more ease and grace than a one-armed should be capable of. Gihl inhaled a shuddering breath, kept it for two heartbeats, and released it again, hoping this meant he might live after all.
"Can..." He stopped, swallowed hard. "Can I go home?"
The master swordsman brought his gaze to bear on him. The intensity of his expression made Gihl want to slide from his horse and run off into the forest, never to look back. His bladder failed him.
"You have a duty to the kingdom. Continue on to Draekfarren and seek a soldier called Osis. Tell him everything you've told me. And tell him I sent you."
The master swordsman put his heels to his steed, and the animal responded at once, moving past Gihl and continuing on the muddy track, hooves splashing in deepening puddles. The woman came next, fixing him with a gaze rivaling that of the king's man. He shrank away from her, happy his rain-wet pants hid his loss of bladder control.
