The Return of Kavin

by David Mason

  The ship heeled sharply, and he clutched at the rail; as she swayed slowly back, men on deck rolled into the scuppers, or sprawled where they had fallen. But those who could still stand were continuing to fight.

  “To hell with the lot of them,” Hugon grunted. “Come, let’s go back and see whether there’s another flask of that excellent wine left. Also, I intend to keep an eye on our prize to the last. I’m not giving up hope of fetching her to market till the breath’s gone out of me.”

  They went back, through the doors, and into the inner cabin; within, the lamp swung in long arcs, and fallen objects rolled back and forth on the floor. The dragonet was talking quietly to itself, in despairing tones, as it clung to its perch. Seeing Hugon enter, it squawked with joy and spread its wings.

  The Lady Gwynna had emerged from her hiding place, and sat on the bunk now, wrapped in a white woolen cloak, stiff backed and stony faced. She stared at them, her green eyes lit with silent fury, and said nothing.

  Zamor kicked the door shut and braced himself against the deepening roll of the ship; Hugon held a stanchion with one hand, watching the girl with a wry grin on his face.

  “We may all die soon, Lady Gwynna,” he said, quietly.

  “Good,” she snapped.

  The ship rolled heavily, again.

  “Well… it was my thought that it was only fair to let you be warned,” Hugon said, lightly, and gripped the stanchion with his other hand against a wilder lurch. He glanced toward Zamor. The big black man’s face was without a sign of fear, but his lips moved, silently, as though praying to his Numori Snake God.

  Outside, above the now strident wind, there was a sudden new uproar, and the sound of running feet, and shouting. And then, a terrific thud made the deck shake under their feet; there was a steady roaring, and over it the explosive cracking sound of breaking masts and splintered planks. The cabin began to tilt.

  “We’ve struck!” Hugon shouted over the noise, as he clung to the stanchion. The cabin lamp slammed over and went out, and everything in the place fell, seemingly all at once.

  TWO

  The great galley lay broken among jagged black rocks; only the high-pooped after end was entire. The ship had turned as it struck, coming in stern first. Beyond, in the boiling surf, parts of the ship lay; and on the gray sand, there was a drift of smaller fragments, oars and planks, and the bodies of drowned men.

  Hugon, soaked and staggering, came up the slope of sand, toward the scrubby trees at the upper edge. The dragonet clung to his shoulder, whimpering and terrified. Behind him, Zamor came, as wet and weary as he, but lugging the girl over his wide shoulder, slung like a sack. Behind them a man crawled out of the surf, and a few moments later, another; both followed the dimly seen forms ahead, by some vague instinct.

  Among the trees there was some shelter from the wind, and Hugon halted; he scratched together the drier bits of fallen wood, shuddering with cold as he worked. Zamor, arriving, dropped the girl and aided Hugon’s search until they had a small pile.

  Hugon squatted beside the wood, and coaxed the dragonet down, holding it in his blue hands near the wood.

  “Ah, now, Fraak, try hard,” he murmured, through chattering teeth. “You can do it, handsome laddo that you are, just one puff… ah!” Fraak had emitted a tiny orange flame, and a stick of wood caught. As the flames crackled up, Fraak crowed softly with pride, and Hugon stroked his scales, complimenting him.

  “Eh, what a useful wee creature it is!” Zamor grunted, and hunched over the blaze, his cloak steaming. Hugon stood up, and went to pull the girl closer to the fire; he sat her up, chafing her arms and face till she began to return to consciousness.

  Behind them, a hoarse voice called out, and the two other men came hobbling up to the grateful warmth.

  “Any more get ashore?” Hugon asked, squatting back on his heels as warmth returned.

  “Nah, not a one but us,” one of the men said. “I’m Gorash. You’d be the smart lad that had the queer knife, wouldn’t you?”

  Hugon nodded. Gwynna was sitting up now, staring about dazedly. The other man stared at her, interestedly.

  “Ye’ve saved one of the wenches, too, haven’t you?” he said. “Come in handy, may be, for one thing or t’other.” He chuckled hoarsely. “Good tender meat’s got more than one use, it has. This looks like a hungry place we’ve hit…”

  “She’s not for cooking,” Hugon said, with a cold grin. “Hands off the one, bucko.”

  “Ah, now…” the man said, apologetically. “I didn’t mean no harm… my name’s Hazarsh, by the way. Two years in that stinkin’ sea-sty I was, and as innocent as a child, too, at least as far as what they said I did…” He was staring at Gwynna, and licking his salt-crusted lips. “And never no sight of a handy trollop… missed out on what there was aboard last night, because I was too drunk. Not being used to drinkin’ either, after all that time, you understand…” His eyes were still on the girl. “Be we goin’ to share her around, likely?”

  “Not likely at all, Hazarsh lad,” Hugon told him, and laid a hand meaningfully on his sword hilt. “Get the thought out of your head, or I’ll bleed you for your health.”

  Hazarsh grunted and fell silent, looking carefully away from the girl.

  She was huddling close to the fire, and she looked sideward at Hugon, with a strange expression for a moment. Then she said, hoarsely but with a note of mockery, “Ah, still a gentleman at heart, good Hugon.”

  “It’s not your honor I’m worried about, Gwynna girl,” he told her. “That’s gone long since. But I’d like to offer you for sale in at least as good a condition as I got you in.”

  Zamor, listening, chuckled, and Gwynna glared silently.

  Hugon stood up, drier now, and stretched, staring at the sky.

  “It’s possible the sun may yet decide to come out,” he said thoughtfully. “And the wind’s lessening, at least. Has anyone any idea where we might be?” He looked around, but the others were silent.

  After a moment, Gwynna said, coldly, “I think I know.”

  “Ah?” Hugon turned. “Where, then?”

  “An island,” she said, indifferently. “I recall a map that shows a few such in the southern sea. Mere rocks, of no value and impossible to land on…”

  “As we’ve already discovered,” Hugon said, “Are there any folk here, do you know?”

  “Who knows?” she said, with a shrug.

  “Ah, well, girl, you’re no Laquellian Lexicon, but you tried,” Hugon told her with a shrug, squatting down again. “Another moment of warmth, and then I’ll see what can be done about food. Ha, Fraak, my winged beauty, I just remembered your skills.” He reached out and the dragonet climbed to his wrist, trilling. “Had you learned to hunt with the late Lord who owned you?” Hugon asked.

  The dragonet snorted. “Not hunt for that one. I not like him. He put me in cage!”

  Hugon chuckled at the creature’s anger.

  “I help you,” Fraak said, and uttered the oboe note that meant pleasure. “You good.”

  “That’s fine,” Hugon said, and stood up. “Would you help me now?” he asked, coaxingly. “Catch a bird, or a rabbit if we find one?”

  The dragonet spread its wings, uttered a fierce cawing cry, and sprang into the air, circling Hugon’s head.

  “I’m off to the hunt,” Hugon said, and strode into the scrubby wood, the dragonet sailing above him.

  “Ungrateful little beast,” Gwynna said, staring after Hugon.

  Zamor, sitting next to her, glanced at her and chuckled.

  “Your dragonet?” he asked.

  “My lord…” she stopped, and bit her lip, then regained her control. “My Lord Barazan gave that… creature… the best of food, bright toys, a handsome cage… and now it seems to have fallen completely in love with that filthy renegade vagabond, that…”

  “A handsome cage, you said?” Zamor asked, calmly. “Better than the cage he gave us, below there, I suppose.” He grinned at her. “Many bea
sts dislike a cage, no matter how cunningly made it may be. As we Numori, for instance…”

  She shrugged. After a moment, she looked at him, oddly.

  “You… your people were rebels against the Emperor, weren’t you?” she asked.

  “Our Queens were rulers when your Emperor’s ancestors scratched each other’s fleas in a cave,” Zamor said, coldly.

  After a while she said, in a conciliatory tone, “I am sorry. I meant no… well, I have little knowledge of such things. Wars and conquests and the like.” She grimaced. “Dull lists of names and deeds. My… husband’s… only source of conversation, except for court gossip.” She stared into the fire.

  Another time passed. Then she spoke again, with a forced calm. “Poor dog, I’m sorry he’s dead. He had a lusty way about him… but that was all he had, alas. I… I learned to seek for more in a man than a stallion’s skill, in Armadoc.”

  “You seem to know Hugon, lady,” Zamor said. “How is that?”

  Her teeth gleamed in a mirthless smile. “Ah, I know him. And he knows me, too well. Would you like to hear it all, big one? Listen, then. I was mistress of Armadoc, there on the north coast of Meryon. Mistress alone, my parents dead, none to say no to anything I wished…” She stopped, staring into the fire.

  “Armadoc is a great hold, there where the river enters the sea,” Gwynna went on. “It is a key to the north of Meryon, held since the first days, by my own family. No army can pass Armadoc, toward the High King’s seat. Well, he that is King in Meryon now, prince that was, gave me cause for anger, and I gave Armadoc to his great enemy, the Emperor.” She laughed, suddenly. “If the Emperor had slain all, laid Meryon waste, I would have counted it no more than fair return for that insult. But he sent Barazan, who could not hold even Armadoc, in the end. He offered me marriage, at any rate, and high honor in Mazain… and since I had nothing left otherwise…” She shrugged, eloquently.

  “Ah,” Zamor said, nodding. He had heard of that war, in some small part. The Mazainians had struck at Meryon, across the sea, on some pretext; in a summer’s time, they had been thrust out again, and since then an uneasy peace had been made.

  “Your friend, that Hugon,” Gwynna said. “The second son of a house with a great name… and no wealth at all. A maker of poems, I’ve heard, and one that was forever traveling about, pretending to study one sort of wisdom or another. There are many like that in Meryon land. Too many. My people… love to talk and lie and sing, but for anything of use…”

  Zamor grunted, carefully noncommittal.

  “He sent me a poem once,” she said, after a while. “A bad one. I’ve written better myself.”

  “Ah,” Zamor said.

  There was a long silence. He could feel her green eyes on him, probing.

  “You seem a man of… some nobility,” Gwynna said, in a low voice. Zamor glanced at her, but said nothing.

  “I do not wish to die,” she said.

  “No one does,” he said.

  “If Hugon sells me to the High King of Meryon… Rhys will kill me.”

  Zamor shrugged. “You have friends in Mazain, too,” he pointed out.

  “The High King may offer more,” she said, desperately. “Listen… you are a handsome man, a strong one…” Her hand touched his bare shoulder, caressingly. “You could… do whatever you liked with me… and drive Hugon away. If we could find a way back to Mazain; you could be a great man, with my help…”

  Abruptly, Zamor laughed, throwing back his head, a deep bellow of pure pleasure.

  “Hugon!”

  Hugon came out of the wood, something dangling from his hand; the dragonet perched on his shoulder, singing.

  Zamor stood up and called again. “Hugon! Come back, I’m in great danger!” And again, he roared with laughter.

  Hugon came, at a faster pace; at the fire, he dropped his prize, grinning.

  “Hey, one of you two clean the pair of them,” he said, toward the two other survivors. “Hazarsh, you’ve a knife there. Gorash, scramble a bit more wood, and we’ll have breakfast. I don’t know what the beasts are called, but they’re fat, and like enough to rabbits to eat.”

  “Hugon, you’re barely in time,” Zamor told him, grinning. “I’ve nearly been seduced by your prize here.”

  Hugon stared, and Gwynne’s eyes burned in rage, at Zamor.

  “Truth!” Zamor said. “She’s offered me a taste of her pretty flesh, and then I’m to be Captain of Imperial Eunuchs, later, no doubt, after I take her away from you and back to Mazain.”

  Hugon burst into a full-throated laugh of his own, dropping to a seat beside the girl, who glared at both of them.

  “I… oh, Great Mother…” Hugon controlled his laugh with difficulty. “I should have warned you, Zamor. The girl’s a widow, and a Meryon lass. Now, all our girls are most notoriously hot-fleshed, and widows, especially newly made ones, even more so!”

  “Damn you both,” Gwynna said, harshly. “May you rot with the blue pestilence, both of you.” She hunched herself up and stared into the fire.

  “I’ll take your advice, Hugon,” Zamor said, still grinning. “I’ve heard you know much of women. I’ll avoid all widows, I swear it.”

  “Maidens, too,” Hugon told him. “Stick to wives. They’re much the best. Hey, Gorash, spit those two beasts, and let’s begin the roast!”

  Whatever they were, they smelled delicious, turning on a green stick above the fire. Before they were ready, Gwynna was staring at them, avidly; and in a moment, Hugon gallantly offered her a choice portion, on a sharpened stick. She took it, silently, and ate with haste.

  On Hugon’s shoulder, Fraak nibbled delicately at a tender morsel held between his slim-clawed forefeet; satiated, he belched, a foot-long pencil of fire.

  “Careful, Fraak!” Hugon warned, almost dropping his own portion. “You’ll burn me bald, there!”

  “Much sorry, please,” the creature said. “I be careful, yes.”

  “What’s the land back there?” Zamor asked, through a mouthful.

  Hugon shrugged. “An island, I’m afraid, though I did not go all around it. There are no signs of live folk, but… well, there have been people here, some time.”

  “How?”

  “Broken walls, stones, carved rock,” Hugon said, looking oddly nervous He glanced back toward the wood, uneasily. “A stone road… but it begins nowhere, and goes nowhere.”

  The two oarsmen were listening, as they ate. Now, Hazarsh glanced uneasily at Gorash, and cleared his throat

  “Listen, sirs…” he said, in a low voice. “Road, you said? And stones… but you saw nothing alive?”

  “Nothing except these beasts, which Fraak took handily,” Hugon said. “Why?”

  “There’s a sailor’s tale,” Hazarsh said, slowly, and stopped.

  “The Island of the Old Ones,” Gorash said. He was pale.

  “Old Ones?” Hugon stared at the two of them. “What Old Ones?”

  “It’s a tale,” Hazarsh said. “A crew landed on such an island in the south. It would be… about where we are.” He bit his lip nervously, and glanced toward the wood again. “Of course, it needn’t be this’n, but they did say… there were stones, and old walls, and a road that went nowhere…”

  Hugon considered him, thoughtfully. “Why did they call it the Island of the Old Ones, then?”

  “Well, sir, there’s a tale that there used to be… different people, once,” Hazarsh said. “Before we was, you know. Like as if the Great Goddess tried out different kinds a long time back, before anybody.” He shifted a little closer to the fire, but shivered anyway. “They say there used to be a big country, here in the southern sea, and these… Old Ones, whatever they might be, they lived here.” He shivered again. “Suppose there was a bit of the place left, you understand… and maybe… maybe there was some of… of them left.”

  Zamor chuckled. “Old Ones? Aah, what white man’s nonsense?”

  “I’ve heard such a tale,” Hugon said. “That there were o
thers, before humankind. But nothing about any of them being left alive. I’d like to see them, if… ah, but it’s only seaman’s nightmares.”

  “Perhaps not,” Gwynna said, in a low voice.

  Hugon looked at her, and thought, privately, that it was the first time he had heard her speak a word that was not an angry thrust at himself. Fear? He wondered what could make that iron-willed young woman feel even so much as a trace of fear… she who had not shown fear of the storm, or the sword.

  “It’s recorded, in certain places… old, rare books,” she said, staring into the fire. “There were many others, before mankind… uncountable years ago. As there are many others, creatures as wise as man but not like man, in other worlds. Worlds that touch our own, sometimes. You know of tales that say the first High King of Meryon, and many folk with him, came to this world out of another, across the northern seas. And others tell tales, like that…”

  “Tales, my lady, not certain truth,” Hugon said. “I have always sought truth, myself…” He chuckled. “And found very little of it, I fear. But a great deal of what the world holds wisdom I’ve found to be the sheerest nonsense, too.”

  “Oh, so?” Gwynna looked at him. “You, a truth-hunter? I heard differently, Hugon. I thought it was gold you sought, not truth.”

  “The two aren’t enemies, lady,” he said, smiling. “One may often buy one with the other, in fact. But, alas, I’ve found little of either commodity.” He leaned back against a log, stretching his toes toward the fire luxuriously, and scratched himself. “You know my name and something of the rest. I might have stayed at home, in the glens and rocks, and my ancestor’s drafty halls… not my own, since I’m a second son. Indulged myself in the customary amusements of my folk… peasant girls, hunting, drinking and eating, and the music of the bagpipe…” Hugon laughed, looking around the circle of faces. “I’m something of a performer on that monstrous instrument; I left a fine one in Mazain, with all else I possess, except my honor.” He sighed, dramatically rolling his eyes skyward.

  “Your honor, sir pirate?” Gwynna asked, ironically.