He took his axe from his back and threw it down to the bottom of the boat.
“That’s different. I spend more nights sleeping on the ground than I do at home.”
“But that’s on account of your wife,” Rotrick jested.
“Come now,” Wellspoken said. “You know it’s against the rules to bring up wives.”
“Aye,” Billy said. “We’s all got ‘em, and we all wish we didn’t.”
“It’s all right,” Collus said. “I was actually just thinking about her.”
“Why? Did a wasp sting you?”
“No, nothing like that. Just something she had told me before we left.”
The Company left it at that, giving Collus a wide berth as he entered the watercraft. A distant expression plastered on his face.
“So, what exactly are we doing?” Rotrick asked. He was the last one to enter the boat.
“Scouting,” Collus said. “The barman said it’s not due to show until tomorrow night.” He said those last words louder than the others.
Collus and Rotrick took the ores and began to ferry the dinghy out to sea. The fog got thicker, to the point that all they could see of the town were its three lights. And even those were dim in the waning sun.
Collus stopped rowing and began to take off his boots. Rotrick put the ore in his lap and looked over.
“We’re not out very far,” he said.
“Far enough for what I need to do,” Collus said. He took off his leather jerkin. He put his feet over the side of the boat. Using his arms to keep the boat level, he pushed himself quietly down into the cold water.
“What the blazes is he doing?” Wellspoken asked.
Rotrick shrugged.
Collus returned several minutes later towing fishing nets. He heaved what he could into the boat along with him. For a few moments, he was shivering with cold. But as he wrung out his clothes he began to feel warmer. He put his boots back on.
“Let’s go out that way,” he said through chattering teeth and pointed toward the edge of the cliff, where the water crashed menacingly into rock.
The effort of rowing warmed his body, but his clothes stayed damp, clinging to him.
“Will ya tell us what the hell is goin’ on?” Two-finger finally asked, his voice as course as the ear splitting roar of the waves.
“I guess it’s only right,” Collus said.
The boat rolled over the water, high toward the cliff face before it rocked back down to safety.
“This place,” he said, pointing to the light towers, “they’re luring in Rangers.”
“I thought you said—”
“I say a lot of things, don’t I?” Coe warmed his hands, rubbing them together. “Listen, I didn’t want you fellas to let on I knew anything. This town, they’re not sending out any of their own. It’s all been Rangers. And none of them have come back.”
“And you asked us to come with you?” Rotrick said, abashed.
“That’s the thing; each Ranger has been solo. I thought, maybe with help, we could kill this beast for good.”
“And help this town?” Two-finger said gruffly. “Why should we, if they’s in on it?”
“I agree,” Collus said. “I have other plans for them.”
He began to unfurl the nets; he’d stolen several.
“Give me a hand. We need these woven together.”
They worked to weave the netting into one large shape. Then they rowed out from the cliff, making a circle as they strung the net out. One end of it sat on the front edge of the boat and the other on the back. But the remainder of the net was spread out into the sea, invisible below the surface.
“Can I ask,” Billy started, “why we’re doin’ all this with the net? Didn’t they say the creature won’t be out until tomorrow?”
“Aye?” Two-finger grunted, seconding the question.
“They just said that to get our guard down,” Rotrick said.
Collus nodded; he eyed the water suspiciously. It was a cold dark blue, and the sky was beginning to turn the same color. Another layer of fog rolled in.
Hours passed until the white of the fog had its own sort of brightness. The lights of the towers were like stars twinkling above them.
Still, the waves rocked them, perhaps creeping them into the cliff by inches with each break.
“I really thought it’d happen by—”
There was a sudden splash as if a fish meant to be in the water had decided the water wasn’t such a good place for it anymore.
“—now,” Rotrick whispered.
Collus put a finger to his lips.
Two-finger clutched his axe with stubby misshapen hands.
Wellspoken drew a bow and pointed it at the dark water. While Rotrick took the other side of the netting, Collus tugged a bit of the rope at the end of the net into his hands.
“Not yet,” he whispered. “It could be nothing.”
The way things go, in stories such as this, that was seldom the case—nothing always turns out to be something.
But in this instance, it was nothing. The Company waited another long hour before anything happened at all.
3
The thing, whatever it was—Necie, as the town’s people called it—broke water quietly several yards away from the dinghy. But quiet to a Ranger is relative, it might as well have been the crashing of a cymbal to Collus. His hands tightened on the netting, tendons popping with the strain he put on them.
“Now!” he called.
The monster’s long neck rose from the deep water. There was no end to it. It was like a shadow among the fog. As gray as stone, its yellow eyes were like bulbs of electric light.
For a moment, all Collus saw was teeth, row upon row of them, as the creature’s long neck bent down. It took a slow swipe at them, carefully building the momentum of its attack. But it seemed unready for a group of well-trained mercenaries. Wellspoken sent a well time arrow straight into the beast’s throat. Then Billy took his sledge and thrust it at the beast. It landed solidly on the bottom of Necie’s jaw and knocked her backward.
Both Collus and Rotrick began to pull in the netting, attempting to close the monster inside the invisible loop.
It flailed, its fins entangled in the rope and wire. This time it came at them, not out of menace, but with even greater desire—that of something afraid for its life.
But the timing was off. The beast miscalculated this attempt, its long snout missed the boat. The brunt of the beast’s body landed on the side of the dinghy, rocking and almost tipping the thing over.
It was Two-finger’s turn to get in a swipe. The axe landed on its mark. It took only seconds for the thin line along Necie’s neck to sputter and dribble out a purplish ooze of blood. But as Two-finger had done the hard work of catching the beast with a blow, the dwarf lost his footing and fell overboard.
Collus took stock of the situation. He continued to draw in the net. The beast now moved to get away. Its thick tail padded hard against the side of the boat. It splashed and flailed wildly, sending buckets of water into the boat. For now, it was caught.
The water was now as black as night itself. It still rippled where the dwarf had fallen. Coe grunted, heaving his side of the netting as hard as he could manage. He hated to delegate a task, but even more, he hated to lose a man—even if in this case the man was actually a dwarf.
“Take this,” he said, pushing the net into Wellspoken’s hands. The dwarf dropped his bow and took the mesh. The beast was still writhing, thrashing against the net and the waves, trying to get free.
Coe took a deep breath, and then he dove into the dark water.
He opened his eyes, but there was nothing to see. It was as murky black a nothing as Coe’s nonexistent dreams. Using his hands as both paddles and feelers, he searched for the sunken dwarf. His boots were heavy and hard to kick, but they helped to sink him further into the abyss. He hoped that the dwarf’s stout frame and iron armor had kept him from drifting in the undertow toward the
cliff.
Collus’ lungs began to burn, but there was still enough breath left in him. He continued to dive down until finally his hand slapped something hard and metallic. Quickly, he grabbed hold at the neck of the dwarf’s chest plate. This was where it got hard. He turned his body and tried desperately to kick the two of them up.
No dice.
With one hand, Collus scooped his boots back off and left them there in the murky depths. Now he was able to propel them both to the surface.
As their mouths reached above it, only Coe took in a large gulp of air.
“Was wonderin’ if you’d find me,” Two-finger said.
Collus sputtered.
“You damn miners and your black lungs.”
“Aye,” Two-finger said, “you could’ve left me down there 'bout a day. Maybe two.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
He pulled the dwarf to the dinghy.
Then the unimaginable happened. And Coe really did wish he’d left the dwarf to the depths of the ocean. They both watched as the monster broke free of the hastily knotted-together net. The beast found a weak spot and tore it apart. Then it took the opportunity and dove headlong into the water. After its splashes had died away, there was nothing, no trace of it through the fog.
Rotrick and Billy helped yank Two-finger up out of the water. Collus stared out through the fog, treading water.
“I’m sorry,” Wellspoken said. “I thought we had her.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rotrick said. He looked down at Collus. “There really wasn't anything he could have done.”
“I know,” Collus groused. “Now get me out of this damn cold ocean.”
Rotrick grabbed him by the hand, pulling Coe partially into the boat, just as something else grabbed the Ranger’s ankle.
It pulled Collus down hard. Coe struggled to keep his grip on Rotrick’s outstretched hand. The dampness and the suddenness of it all took both men by surprise. And soon Rotrick only gripped fingers were locked. Soon after, he had nothing. Collus was dragged down under the waves.
What had him was not the beast. It was not a giant creature with huge jaws. There weren’t teeth holding onto his leg.
No, it was a hand—a strong one—that gripped him tightly.
It was the Ranger’s turn to kick and flail, to thrash around. Caught in some other sort of trap.
At first, he thought whatever had him was dragging him toward the bottom. But that wasn’t true. Instead, it tugged him across the water, toward the cliff. Toward the rocks.
As a wave crashed overhead, it spun them both upward, and Collus was able to gain one more precious gasp of air.
With his lungs now full, he regained the ability to think. To plan. To act.
The creature swam back toward the rocks. Collus could tell by the placement of its hand and by the pulse of the water beside his ear. It surged every few seconds across his hands and up past his shoulders and head.
Two could play at the grabbing ankles game, he thought.
First, with his left hand, he found the thing’s leg. It felt as much like a man’s as anything. A bit slimier, but there was bone underneath. Then, Coe brought his right hand together with the left and pulled the thing toward him.
Caught by surprise, the creature let go slightly of Collus’ ankle. That was all he needed.
The momentum brought the two of them together in some sort of underwater melee. Collus didn’t know what parts of the beast he was punching, but he punched, elbowed, and even head-butted the thing. It tried to do the same, but only landed glancing blows.
The problem—its mission may have already succeeded.
They were close now to the cliff. As Collus went up to the surface for air, he heard it crash. Loud. And even in the darkness and fog, he was able to see the outline of rock—a barrier to the mist. Only a few more seconds and his body would be nothing but a bug crushed between the rock and the ocean’s toe.
The man, the creature, whatever it was, must have sensed this too. As Collus went back down, he found nothing.
Coe rode under a wave, trying desperately to get away from the cliff. But it was pointless. There was nothing he could do to get free now.
Again his children came to mind. His wife, Marga, was as mean as any beast or foe. But she was his. His mind danced over the words that she’d said before he left.
“I’m pregnant,” she had said.
“But how?”
For ten years they had tried and failed to have another child. Ten years Marga wanted a girl. And Collus wasn’t able to give her one. Not a girl. Not another boy. Nothing.
This was it, he thought. One good swell and it was over.
Coe faced the rock wall. He let all three of his boys cross his mind. Brock and D’arreck, his oldest two. Their faces were as rough and jagged as his own; both would become Rangers one day. He’d even taken Brock out with him on his last journey. They traveled to the outskirts of King’s Way, and along the road, they came across a band of orcs, only about ten. Brock had made his father proud, slaying his fair share of them.
But it was Tristan’s face, his youngest, that stayed rooted in Coe’s mind. He bobbed in the water as a swell brought him high and then low, a few feet closer to the cliff.
Tristan, his secret favorite. The boy was as smart as they come. But he was stunted and stopped growing at age three; he looked like a cross between a halfling and a man.
Collus had always known that the world was unfair, but it was watching Tristan grow—or not grow—when he saw just how disheartening the world really could be. And while he knew that Tristan’s brothers would protect him, Coe still wished he could hang on a bit longer.
Now there was another on the way—another child. One he would never see. He hoped it was a girl—not for Marga’s sake, but for his own. A girl raised without a father seemed easier than a boy.
But… Perhaps not.
Collus searched the cliff face for anything of value. Behind him, the dampened echoes of Rotrick and the dwarves calling for him echoed off the cliff wall.
He knew he couldn’t make it back to them. Each time he tried, the undertow took him like a petulant child. No matter how hard he swam, no matter which way, the current wasn’t allowing escape.
The swell rolled him over again, bringing him so close to the rocks now. Coe could see them well through the murky blackness of the night.
He swam under again as another wave attempted to crash him into the rock wall. Coe was able to stay rooted in the same spot, but he couldn’t do this all night. And Rotrick and the dwarves would never get close enough.
He searched his Ranger’s mind. Was there anything he was missing? Anything he’d learned he could put to use? Where he’d learned to swim was a pond. His father threw Coe and his three sisters from a rock at the edge of the water, just high enough over the pond to force them into the deep water. The pond had no waves. There was nothing really but the water to be afraid of, so, like the Ranger’s son he was, Coe wasn’t afraid.
It's just water, he thought. There’s no reason to be afraid.
At the beaches of Dune All-En, Coe had seen boys take wooden boards out into the water. There, the waves break against the reef, well before they reach shore, and the boys ride these waves—without the need of sails or oars.
Maybe if instead of succumbing to the waves, he embraced one, like those boys. If he timed it just perfect—if his calculations were correct—Coe could ride at the top of the wave. And before letting the wave push him under, he could grab hold of the wall. There—at the highest point, where the wave was a mere spray and not a thunderous smack.
If he timed it just…
4
And of course, he did.
Collus was a Ranger after all, and the best one he knew of.
Well… The best one that was still alive.
He hung on the slippery rocks, cold and wet. His hands and feet didn’t feel like he owned them at all. They were numb. And each time he
tried to reach higher, something would go wrong. His foot would slip off from the bit of ledge he’d found, or his fingers would betray him.
He pressed his body tight to the cliff, using the slight incline to give his aching muscles rest.
How did he get here? How did it come to this? These thoughts weren’t those of a Ranger. Still, he wondered what all it meant. Could the people of the town summon the beast at will? What was it that grabbed him and pulled him under the sea?
A Ranger had many enemies: orcs, trolls, dragons. Whole kingdoms had fallen to the likes of a Ranger’s subterfuge. But this was something different. He could feel it.
And he had to make it up the cliff wall to stand any chance.
A tuft of moss ran down from somewhere above. It was thick and somehow dry. Collus tested it, first with just a tug of the wrist—afraid to put too much weight behind it. He couldn’t lose his balance now. Next, he put the weight of his whole behind it. It stayed true.
Finally, Coe trusted it enough to put both hands around the rope-like tendril. Keeping his feet curled around rock, he tested it one last time.
He climbed several feet this way, until the moss joined with more of the stuff, making each tendril untrustworthy, short, or slick.
The fog was too thick to see anything below him. Only thirty feet from where he started, it dampened the sounds of the waves crashing below. But above him were the towers, their lights steady and beaming.
When a Ranger is young, he trains. Coe had always been sure with a sword or bow. It was so much easier to prepare for a fight. Throughout his life, he’d passed about a hundred cliffs and rock walls, without giving them a second’s thought. Now he wished he’d tested his mettle against at least one. If he made it out of this alive, God knew he would add it to Brock and D’arreck’s training.
It took longer in the dark. He struggled to find holds for both his hands and feet. But slowly, he made it up the wall. Grueling as it was, Collus was used to that. He wondered how such slow work could make his heart pound out of his chest. If felt slower than it was. Finally, he pulled himself up to standing at the top of the cliff, close to where the three towers stood. Their lights still pierced the darkness.
Fog Lifted: An Epik Fantasy Short (The Great Ranger Book 1) Page 2
