Winds of Torsham (The Kohrinju Tai Saga Book 2)

by J P Nelson

  Dessi jumped back against the wall as a hefty bolt of orange lightning … z-z-z-zh-h-h-hct-t-t-t … out the front of the staff and into the lip of the tunnel. A huge, man-sized chunk of ice was blasted away, taking with it as much more in small, fragmented pieces. A burned metallic smell lingered as Seedle just stood there, his hair frizzled and a strange, giddy look of astonishment crossed his face.

  “O-o-o-o-o … damn … that felt go-o-o-od-d.” Seedle looked to Dessi, “I can do it again, want to see?”

  Dessi’s hands were up, “No! Seedle, are you alright?”

  Seedle looked confused for a moment, then it dawned upon him what he had done. Throwing the staff down he backed up, “Dee … it was talking to me.”

  “Oh? What was it saying, because I did not hear any of that conversation, and it did not talk to me.”

  “I do not know … it … it … was different, but somehow I understood what it was saying.”

  Seedle stepped back, then sat down next to his plate of fish bones and dodger crumbs.

  Dessi was thinking, “Seed? Your mam-maw … you said she just remembered that vial of magic? Have you ever heard that the ability to use magic is inherited?”

  Seedle just looked to Dessi, “No.”

  “My grandfather spent a lot of time with elves, remember? He said they told him that. It is like, one in a thousand the gene is there, but most never know it.”

  “You saying my mam-maw could do magic?”

  “Could she? Anything?”

  Seedle thought about it, then spoke slowly while remembering, “She used to interpret dreams a lot. She was pap’s mam, he said his pap met her way down south somewhere.” He looked at Dessi with a look of forgotten tales, “Pap said pap-paw claimed she cast a love-charm on him. That is why he quit his womanizing ways, no more a woman in every port.”

  “Seedle o’Shelton, old mate, I have an idea.”

  “But Dee, I have no idea how to use it, even if I have the gene, and I do not want to. I have met a couple of wizards; they are a strange lot.”

  Dessi was sporting a mischievous grin as he spoke with crossed arms and a slanting eye, “You do not need to know. This stick likes you. Maybe it has something more to tell you.”

  Seedle looked at the staff on the ice and raised one eyebrow, then exclaimed, “Oh joy.”

  ___________________________

  At four bells of the next morning’s watch, Captain Ervis was up, fully dressed and sharing breakfast with Fhascully, Kravieu and his sailing master, Rosey in his cabin. Upon six bells they would cast off, off and into hostile waters, more than likely fight an unknown adversary, in an unknown location … ah well … he buttered his bread and thought, ‘It should make for an interesting day.’

  Fhascully asked, “You do not fluster easily, do you?”

  The man calmly shook his head, even as he took a healthy bite of his bread and licked the butter off of his lips. Glancing to the bald, grizzle-faced fellow at other end of the table, he spoke with mouth half-full, “Hith chob-b-b.”

  Swallowing, drinking heavily of his tankard of tea, then wiping his mouth, Ervis addressed Kravieu who was studying, not for the first time, the captain’s collection of books, in particular his history books, “History is of particular interest to me, as we have discussed a many occasion. We, sirs, are making history. I am enjoying it and wish to do it right.”

  Kravieu was packing his pipe as Fhascully carefully cleaned his glasses, still fascinated with the repair from the day before, “Even to the expense of your mortality?”

  Ervis smiled, “You are referring to one of the lines in your list of poems. I am not versed with a blade, understanding of sciences, writ of romance, drama or comedy, but I am a damn good ship’s captain. That is my gift, and what I have chosen to pursue in skill.

  “Jha’Ley goes even beyond. He carries charisma unlike any I have ever seen. The man walks into a room and you know he is there. He does not want you to know, he does not care. But he has presence. The shiking fish know when he is coming through. I once saw a dual line of porpoises and whales make an aisle for him to pass through, and they saluted his as he did.”

  Rosey was fidgeting, Kravieu’s pipe was in full bloom and Fhascully tilted his head in amusement as Ervis continued, “For eight years I captained before we met; I just wanted to trade my goods, roll a sweet pie every now and again, but he comes along and puts me to challenge. How, I do not know, but he made me want to be more, to do more. So … I am here.”

  He winked at Kravieu as the wondrous aroma filled the cabin, “I fear not death, and am long prepared for it. No sir, what scares me is dying without doing. I read and have heard it said, one person can be the difference. By jimmy, I am doing my part. If I die, I die, as long as I did it right.”

  Ervis looked hard at his sailing master, “Alright Rosey, let us make final preparations.”

  The four men rose to step out of cabin and officially engage the voyage north to find the lost expedition, headed by one Commodore Jann Raul Jha’Ley.

  Standing against the rail near the bow, a young blonde woman was absorbing the morning view. Casually stepping up beside her and leaning against the same rail, Gordi asked with a whimsical grin, “You must be Lesli?”

  She looked at him as if surprised he could move up on her without her knowing. Her tone was mildly defiant, “I’m not an elf, there is no gray in my hair, so I must be. How long did it take for you to figure that out?”

  He adjusted his posture, leaning side-ways onto the rail with left elbow, right hand on left forearm and left foot crossed over the right; a bad stance on a moving vessel in choppy water, even when tied in. His body language could be inviting, taunting, challenging, or a blend of any combination.

  Gordi said, more than asked, with narrowed eyes and lift of his chin, “My, but aren’t you the saucy one.”

  Lesli’s voice held a coy, yet icy edge to it, “Are you here to hit on me Mister Gordi?”

  “Do you want me to hit on you?”

  Her eyebrows raised, was she inviting him to hit on her?

  “You are old enough to be my father.”

  “Much, much more than that, actually. Lots of women prefer older men …”

  Her body language twisted. Was she acting in disgust, or playing a game.

  Gordi continued, “… me, on the other hand … I’m into women. You don’t have the experience for a man like me.”

  Her eyes suddenly radiated indignation which was quickly growing into burning anger.

  Gordi slowly shook his head, “I don’t do green apples, little girl, and you haven’t begun to ripen.”

  Her retort was slow and full of acid, “You know nothing about me, you don’t---”

  Gordi’s voice was level, not hostile and not friendly, “Why are you here?”

  “Wh-why? I am signed on to help find Professor Albri’s son.”

  “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”

  She was adamant, “I am here to---”

  “Sixty miles from here, a low-level wizard was assassinated. His throat was slit, a clean job. Six months before that, another hundred miles away a man claiming to be a magician was found dead among his snake oil bottles, his throat was also cut. There was nothing to trace anyone to the killings. And there have been others.”

  There was a calculation in her eyes as Gordi continued with his casual speech still in effect, “I don’t give a damn. The list describes people all who deserved to die, but there is a method, a reason.

  “Albri says you eat magic. Feila says you scouted for her for a couple years and have stealth savvy. Albri just wants to find his boy and tends to be obsessive about things. I think you’re an Eldohrich Vampire. I will only ask you once more, Lesli, why are you here?”

  She thought about it a moment, then offered, “I am not a vampire, of any kind. My father was a shaman, a good one. He served his clan in the mountains west of Kilgore. Then a man came to act as his servant in exchange for food and shelter. B
ut he was a vampire, or something.”

  Lesli looked into the distance, then back to Gordi, “He went into my father’s lodge, then came out looking young and was never seen again. I found sitting next to my father’s meditation fire a shriveled, dried corpse. I used ideas my father had taught me. Instead of using power to create effects, I learned to absorb effects to release energy.”

  Gordi nodded in understanding, “So, why are you here?”

  She looked at him with disbelief, “Did you not hear me? I am looking for the man who killed my father.”

  “And if you find him?”

  He eyes narrowed, “When I find him, I will kill him.”

  “You aren’t ready.”

  She was deadly silent.

  “What do you do when you run up against someone your skill doesn’t work upon?”

  There was no answer.

  “You aren’t ready.”

  Gordi turned away, nobody could be seen standing by. From within her sleeve she dropped a lead-loaded leather sap into her hand, and with practiced skill swung hard for the base of Gordi’s skull.

  Only a half-inch away the sap froze in mid-air, her own hand she couldn’t move. Gordi casually turned to face her as with her other hand she opened her palm to him … and strained … then strained harder … and harder some more. With eyes opened wide in alarm she stared at Gordi and whispered, “What … who are you?”

  With relaxed motion, Gordi reached up and took her hand in his left, sap in his right, and replied, “Someone your skill doesn’t work upon. I’ll give this back when you learn your manners.”

  He left the stunned Lesli and sauntered down the deck whistling as he slid the sap into his pocket.

  A voice to her other side startled her, for the second time this morning someone had succeeded in sneaking up on her. It was Feila, okay, that she could understand. She was quiet enough to sneak up on a snake, but how did she get around her without being seen?

  “He likes you.”

  Lesli glanced to Feila, then back to Gordi, “He is a pig.”

  Feila tilted her head, “Uhm-m-m, an ass, sometimes yes, but a pig, no.”

  “He was going to hit on me.”

  Feila hinted a laugh, “You do not know Gordi. He might play, but he is better to women than you can imagine.”

  “But, I’ve heard the way he talks to you.”

  “We have known each other for years. There isn’t a better, more loyal friend anywhere than Gordi. We know and respect each other and understand what is and what isn’t.”

  They both watched the man whistle his way down the deck, nodding to the crew as he walked by. Lesli asked, “What was that he did? It was not magic.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  They looked at each other again as Feila shrugged her shoulders and added, “We don’t know what it is, or how it works. He says it’s telekinesis, but it isn’t magical …”

  Down below, Albri was talking in private with a taller than average fellow in his mid-forties, a lean athletic build, brown hair with a trimmed beard, “So, JéPahn, what exactly is the difference between telekinesis and psychokinesis?”

  Albri had noticed JéPahn spoke with an infrequent stutter, had a nervous twitch in his eyes, occasionally flexed his lower jaw to stretch his neck, frequently rubbed his lower face as if massaging his beard and interlaced his speech with various vocal sounds.

  “M-mn-n-n … telekinesis is the manipulation of physical matter through enhanced channels of the body, such as fingers, hands, eyes, or even the third eye … uckem … but it is a physical action sourced through the biological emanation of what is called Jhi Energy. It is not the same as the energy read and articulated through Psi Attunement … H­-hm-m-mn … which is the core of psychokinesis, the latter which covers a much broader spectrum.”

  “And what you do is-s-s …”

  “I specialize in intelligence awareness,” he shrugged his neck, “past prominent action extraction, empathic perceptions and psi-craft manifestations and communications.”

  Albri smiled and tapped his fingers on wood, “You realize we are going to have some interesting discussions.”

  JéPahn smiled back and seemed to relax, “I look forward to it.”

  The Qua’Korr had been many places and fought many battles in her run. As her captain, Ervis had seen many things and met many people. But never, in all of his years, had he had such a mix of folks at one time on his vessel, let alone folks that could do magic.

  Before last year, he had only met, forget get to know, two people who could cast anything, in his whole life. Right then, right that minute, he had an elf-woman on board who had killed things that still scared him shitless. In the last two days, he had heard tales about Feila and Gordi that he still wondered how much could really be true.

  Ervis was a devout writer of logs, and he scribed these tales in as much detail as he could put to quill. A woman, a woman, mind you, whose name alone attracted several hundred men in Sterine to fight under her command. Albri had to weed them out, him and that elf-man, Mahrufael. Damn, she was a literal living legend, Flane being a Nahjiuan word meaning something like fantastic, ultimate, amazing, or something like that.

  Gordi, he was the same as Gordi con’Jock. Ervis had even heard the name among sailors in Kohnarahs Bay. A coastal village, known for riff-raff and bad company rose up and tried to encroach on a farmer’s land which turned up rich in coal. The farmer was killed, but his wife was able to send word for Gordi. No one knew where he came from, but he showed up one night in the middle of the new village with nothing but a stick in his hand. He yelled, “You got one hour to close down and get the hell out. Then I’m going to kill every son-of-a-pig-sucker here.”

  The story went that someone shot a crossbow at him, but the bolt stopped in mid-air right in front of his nose. Gordi back-smacked it with that stick and said, “I warned ya …”

  Then he swung that stick around a couple of times and slammed one end of it down into the ground. That village wasn’t very big at the beginning, only a few hundred rough miners. But within a few seconds everything within a hundred rods in diameter was leveled.

  There were a couple variations of the tale, but all said a rippling wave of force smashed everything like a flash flood at storm time.

  Ervis reflected, Gordi was not known for inspiring followers like Feila, but when his name was mentioned even the tough men backed down and looked away. The captain knew nobody like that on the east coast. Of course, that was practically a different world.

  There was Kravieu, a true sweetheart of a man with more wisdom and manners than you could imagine, Fhascully, Klaus and U’Lahna … he looked around as he walked out on deck … and of course his own crew; Ervis could only boast he had the best merchant crew anyone could ask for.

  Flipping his chronograph open, Ervis saw it was nigh time to go. Searching about he saw his first officer, “Mister Anu, are we ready?”

  “Aye sir, we are ready to push away.”

  The bells began to sound, “Then push away.”

  Across the mouth of the Nahjiuan Sea they sailed, then up Pel’Fynqiuah Peninsula’s east coast, around the glacier wall, into every bay and lagoon … moving at such distance and speed so they could see every nook and cranny. Storms hit, the water berated them at times, but diligent was their search.

  Then Rosey yelled down from the crow’s nest, “I see a small boat … she’s a wreck and her mast is busted, but she’s above water!”

  Chapter 63

  SEEDLE AND DESSI were adjusting straps and equipment and preparing to board the Waddles. They had mutually agreed traipsing across the ice to where the last attack occurred would not accomplish anything, and it was a high risk of meeting more of those beasts.

  Dessi made comment, “That leather chest piece fits you well. It would be good to have the rest of it. I say it is made from Bullhead Shark skin with double layers at core points. Way beyond standard issue. That was made for a battleship captain. You can te
ll from the way the tail is made.”

  “It is better than anything I have had before. Are you sure you would not prefer it, yours looks to be in fine shape, but old.”

  Dessi thumped his chest and flexed his forearms; the polished leather chest piece, forearm and shin guards, and thigh pads were definitely in immaculate condition, something to be expected from Dessi. And the fresh oiling was from a compound that treated the leather, but did not leave a sheen.

  “My grandfather claimed this from an enemy whose head he also took. If my own father had been wearing it, he may not have died.” He tilted his head in memory, “At least he may not have died then.

  “I have taken a harpoon to the body, and it did not break leather …” he rubbed his side in memory, “… but it broke a couple of ribs.”

  Looking from under his eyebrows he added, “On the other hand, grandfather and me are, were, built similar. My father was a head taller than us.”

  Dessi was rigged with the nice cutlass and a pair of those dirks, Seedle had the other dirk and that cruel looking machete. The edge was not exactly serrated, but sort of. It looked as if it could slice and saw at the same time. The blade was blackened and made of a metal he had not seen before.

  Seedle hefted the machete and whirled it once, “It is balanced like a cutlass, but it is heavier than it looks. He looked to Dessi, this is not elvin steel … is it … do you think?”

  “Mythril? No. I have not seen it before, but it is supposed to be real light. No, I do not know what it is. I was thinking about that. But be careful of that black, it might be poison or something.”

  The boat was loaded, mast secured in place with canvas at the ready, supplies all in order. Dessi pointed to the staff against the wall, “Do not forget your girlfriend.”

  Grasping the staff, Seedle partially embraced it and did a spin across the floor as if dancing, “If only I could get a hug …”

  Dessi did a chuckle-grunt, “I will shake your hand buddy, but you can forget dancing and hugs.”