by Chris Bunch
The something was a huge tree trunk, its branches reaching, menacing. But as long as he stayed clear, the log seemed to offer no harm, and went past him.
After it was gone Hal realized, that if he were a true river-man, he would've tied up to that log, and let it carry him down to the sea.
But he wasn't, and so forgot about it.
* * * *
Just at dawn, Hal passed Castle Mulde. He tried not to look at it, tried to think like an innocent fisherman, out early to check his nets or whatever sort of fishing they did on the Zante River, in case Ungava was mounting his own form of guard.
He was hard-pressed, as Mulde fell behind him, to not cock a snook, or even show them his bare arse.
But he didn't, and then the castle was swallowed up by the dawn mist.
Hal, yawning mightily, feeling like he was almost truly free, was swallowed by deep fatigue.
He had to sleep, had to be alert when he reached the river mouth.
He saw a small islet, managed to use his pole as a crude oar to close on it. The boat was pulled under an overhanging branch, and Hal had the branch, almost lost his boat, then hand-over-handed it to the shore.
He pulled it up on to the bank a few feet, thought he was adequately hidden, curled up in the stern sheets and was instantly asleep.
* * * *
He wasn't sure what woke him, but something said to lie very still.
Hal peeled an eyelid back, saw it was midday at least.
He waited.
Then he heard a whisper, and the squish of river mud.
From his right.
He braced his left leg, and his right hand found the fish knife.
Dark hair lifted over the boat's gunwale, and he saw a pair of eyes.
No more, for Hal was up, rolling, his knife in his left hand, and lunging.
He caught the man just below his chin line, driving the blade into his neck almost to the hilt.
The man gargled, fell back.
Hal came over the gunwale, into the mud, ignored the man bleeding to death at his feet, saw the man's companion, frozen in horror.
Then he came alive, lifting the crossbow he carried.
But it was too late.
Hal dove across the five feet between them, blade first. The knife took the man just below his rib cage, and he screamed in agony.
Hal whipped the knife free, had the man by his greasy hair, and drove him face first into the muck, and held his thrashing body until the convulsions stopped.
Then he was awake, throwing up, and his body shook.
After a while, he recovered.
The two men were dressed in heavily patched and mended hunting garb. Both of them had crossbows, skinning knives at their waists.
Hal ignored the bodies for a moment, went around the small island. He found the men's boat, not much more than a skiff, on the other side.
Maybe the hunters were good fellows, and had come to see if the occupant of the boat was in distress.
Or maybe they thought they could steal an abandoned craft.
Or maybe word was out, and they were looking for an escaped prisoner.
It didn't matter.
He went through the boat, found, to his great pleasure, blankets tied in sleeping rolls.
And there were oars.
There was also food, loaves of bread with meat stuffed in them, and flasks with beer.
Very good.
He went back to his boat with the blankets and food, and carried the bodies to their boat.
Hal was winded by the time he finished. Not only was he out of shape, but he'd lost a lot of weight as a prisoner.
No mind. He'd gain it back once he reached Deraine.
One of the hunters was about his size, and so Hal stripped off his outer gear, took the other man's coat. He found two very heavy rocks, stuffed one in each of the hunter's clothes.
The current was pulling at that boat. Hal stabbed its hull four or five times with his fishing knife, kicked it off into the current.
Then he went back to his own boat, pushed it into the river flow.
It caught him, and he was swept away.
He looked back at the sinking skiff near the islet.
With any luck, it'd go down quickly, and the bodies would sink, and all there'd be was another mystery.
If they were found, what of it?
Hal was already a self-confessed murderer, he told his uneasy conscience.
* * * *
Hal used one set of blankets to make a crude sail.
He used fishing line to make awkward locks for the oars.
Now he was very close to the ocean, tasting salt when he dabbed a finger into the water.
He heard the ocean's roar growing louder as he neared the ocean.
Hal desperately wished he had Mynta Gart with him, or even that he'd listened more to her sea stories.
But what he had, he had.
It was late afternoon, and he dreaded going out into the ocean at dark.
But the tide was at full ebb.
There was a tiny settlement at the river's mouth, and there was a speck of bright color on its beach.
The figure waved, and Hal waved back, having no idea if the person was being friendly, or trying to warn him.
The river grew choppier, tossing him about.
Hal lashed himself to a thwart with a bit of rope, began rowing hard.
Ahead was the bar, a line of white solidly across the river's mouth.
Hal's mouth was very dry, but the river had him firm, and pulled him hard toward the waves.
One caught him as it broke, and white water drenched him.
Hal ignored the water, pulled even harder.
Another wave lifted him, and his boat almost capsized.
He was caught in a current-swirl, spun, spun again, and then another wave took him high, and he could see all the way back to that tiny settlement.
He teetered at the crest, then slid down its back, and was rowing even harder.
Now the ocean had him, trying to overturn him, but the river current was still strong.
Hal, gasping for air, pulled hard at the oars, caught a crab, almost lost an oar, then recovered his stroke.
He rowed endlessly, afraid to stop, not sure whether he was safe or not.
Then exhaustion caught him, and he could do no more, collapsing over his oars.
His wind came back to him, and he looked around.
He was well clear of the river and the shore, and the swells around him were those he remembered from being at sea.
He'd made it.
Now the worst that could happen to him was drowning.
No, he thought. The damned Roche must have patrol boats out.
But the hells with it. He had two crossbows, and three knives.
He'd not be taken again.
Hal restepped the mast, watched his blanket sail as the stiff wind tried to tear it free.
But it held, and bellied out.
West, there, into the setting sun, and steer a bit north.
North for Deraine.
North for home.
13
Hal, hardly a seaman, didn't know if the weather was supposed to get worse the farther he drew away from the Roche shore, but it did.
He'd been on ferries, and on dragon transports, but seldom this close to the heaving ocean.
He didn't understand it, didn't like it.
With full dark, the world closed in about his tiny boat. The night was as black as any he'd experienced. But maybe that was just as well, he thought. He didn't have to see the waves that rushed on him.
They lifted and dropped his boat, and the wind screeched like a fishwife. His mast was bending, creaking, and he thought he'd better take in some of his blanket/sail. With the sail down, the boat pitched worse than it ever had.
He remembered one of Gart's stories, about having been caught away from her coaster in a small boat when a storm hit, and she set something called a sea anchor.
&nb
sp; Hal grudgingly tied the other set of blankets into a bundle, and lashed rope around them. He'd freeze, but he'd rather be cold than drown.
He couldn't remember whether the sea anchor was supposed to be tied to the stern or the bow, decided the stern had to be more logical.
That seemed to help a little, holding the little boat's prow into the oncoming waves.
There wasn't anything he could do, and so he secured the oars, and crept up into the bow, trying to cram as much of his body into the tiny cuddy.
It started raining, but it took a while for him to notice it, since there seemed to be as much spray as air for him to breathe.
He felt miserable, but not that miserable.
Then he remembered the sandwiches, and dug one out, keeping it under his coat.
The meat was unfamiliar, but that didn't bother him. He inhaled the sandwich and half of one flask of beer.
The beer also tasted strange, and he wondered if it was some kind of bark beer that he'd heard peasants made.
He hadn't had alcohol in some time, not being much at stomaching the home brew the prisoners made, and found himself a little tipsy, and singing.
Maybe it was as much being free and feeling defiant as the brew.
At least he wasn't getting sick from the boat's motion, and as soon as that thought had come, he regretted it, swallowing mightily.
But the meal stayed down.
Hal was afraid to go to sleep, but his body would have none of that, and his eyelids sank, opened, sank, and then it was gray twilight out, and he discovered he'd been right not to want to see the storm around him.
Everything was gray, except the white froth atop the monstrous waves that the wind took and whipped along the water's surface.
But at least it wasn't raining anymore.
And he thought the wind was dying.
No doubt it was his damnable optimism.
But, some time later, he realized the wind was lowering, and the storm was passing.
He chanced putting the sail up, and caught enough of the sun glow through the clouds to get a rough idea of which way he should be sailing, again, into the choppy seas.
The wind held strong, but the waves died, and he was cutting through a gray, calm sea.
He remembered the sea anchor, and brought in the sodden blankets, spreading them across the thwarts to dry out a bit. But they were wool, and still would hold warmth, even wet.
He treated himself to half a sandwich and the rest of the first flask of beer.
Finally, Hal Kailas had a chance to take stock.
He wondered how many days' sail it would take to reach Deraine, hadn't a clue. He knew small boats didn't sail as fast as big ones, but didn't know much more.
He also realized he itched.
Kailas felt a deal less sympathy for one of the men he'd murdered, whose coat he'd taken. The bastard had fleas.
Oh well.
It wouldn't be the first time he'd had armor-clad dandruff in this war.
* * * *
Three days later, Hal had long finished the soggily stale sandwiches. He'd been able to nurse the beer along, since it rained daily, for which he tried to feel grateful.
It had cleared on one day enough for him to improvise a sun compass, and get an accurate reading for north.
To his considerable relief, his instinct had been true, and he had been sailing in the direction he wanted, not, as he'd feared, either in circles or back toward Roche.
Deraine was out there.
Somewhere.
* * * *
Hal was awakened from his drowse by a mournful honk that brought him fully alert.
The honk could have come only from a dragon.
He sat up, and saw, about twenty yards distant, a dragon, dark and light red, bobbing in the mild seas like a cork, its wings folded.
It had been tamed—its breastplate was drilled for a saddle, and the remnants of harness dangled down across its side. Reins had also been torn away, maybe by the dragon itself?
Itself?
Herself, Hal realized.
The dragon saw Hal was alive, honked again.
Hal saw the monster had scars along one side, and the rear of one wing had been torn.
A dragon flier's mount.
The flier must have been killed, and the dragon fled the battleground.
Hal made a tentative noise, comforting.
The dragon replied equally tentatively.
Its huge tail lashed back and forth on the water's surface.
Hal reached slowly for an oar, and began to canoe-paddle toward the beast.
Froth appeared at the dragon's chest, hindquarters, as its talons back-paddled away from this unknown man.
Hal tried more soothing noises.
The dragon waited.
Hal paddled closer, and again the dragon swam away from him.
Hal cursed.
He paddled closer, very slowly.
The dragon bellowed, and its wings unfurled.
"No, dammit," Hal said. "Don't…"
But the dragon's wings were flailing at the air, and its talons digging into the water. It skated away from him, bounced off a wave crest, crashed through the crest of another, and was in the air, climbing toward the clouds.
Hal slumped back.
The dragon circled him once, curiously, then set a course.
Hal didn't need the compass he didn't have to tell its course.
North. Due north.
Toward Black Island and the far northern tundra.
* * * *
Hal dangled one of the lines over the side, wishing he'd saved something for bait.
But it didn't seem necessary.
A fish, a large fish, Hal didn't know what sort, but it looked edible; he took the hook as if it was the only edible thing in this ocean.
Hal grinned, started hauling in, hand over hand.
Then a bigger fish, almost as big as the boat, came from nowhere, and took fish, hook and line away with it.
"Son of a bitch," Hal said sincerely, and found another line.
Another fish took the hook, and Hal jerked the fish out of the water into the boat, just as that monster predator came back for seconds.
Hal sneered at the beast, then regretted it, as the huge fish, with far more teeth than any creature not a demon had a right to have, kept circling him, eyeing him as he cut the fish open, gutted it and then devoured the rest.
It appeared as if this great fish thought Hal now qualified, having kept the fish, for the monster's dinner.
Hal thought of potting it with one of his crossbows. He found it mildly funny that he knew exactly where to hit a man or dragon for a killing shot, but no idea whatsoever for a damned fish.
It was a day and a half before it gave up, having chased all other fishes away.
* * * *
There was nothing Hal could do but keep on his course, and try to keep his mind busy.
He started thinking about Khiri, and his base intentions, but that didn't go very far, considering his rather malnourished condition.
Meals were better dreams, and, even though he'd never been much of an epicure, he planned enormous menus that he and Khiri would inhale, and then he would work his wiles on her, given more energy.
Then an idea came, pushing food and sex out of his mind.
He became very busy making a plan, and deciding how he would broach it to the king, and perhaps Sir Bab Cantabri might be willing to involve himself.
Hal was so busy plotting it took him almost an hour to recognize the thin dark line on the horizon as land.
* * * *
He closed with the land, dropped his sail a half a mile from shore, when he realized what he was looking at was great cliffs, with never an inlet to be seen.
Hal guessed that he was somewhere on the southeastern coast of Deraine.
Or, rather, he hoped, since that was the only part of Deraine that had steep cliffs.
That he knew about, anyway.
Othe
rwise, he might have been cast far into the seas, and might be about to wreck on some unknown land.
Hal guessed what he should do was bear south or north, looking for some sort of port, or, even better, encountering a friendly ship.
Then he saw a bobbing dot, about a mile away.
Very awkwardly, he managed to steer the boat in its direction.
It was another boat, smaller than his, with two men in it.
Fishermen in oilskins, working what looked like crab pots, very close to the surf line.
They saw him, waited.
Hal didn't really know what he should say.
"Ahoy," was what he settled for.
"Eee-yup," was the response.
"I need help," Hal said.
"Looks like," the other fisherman said. "You one of them Roche spies?"
"No," Hal said. "I'm an escaped prisoner."
"Eee-yup," came back. "Who's the boat belong to?"
"Nobody," Hal said. "I mean, nobody now."
The two fishermen looked at each other.
"What sort of rewards they give for prisoners?" the first asked.
"Damned if I know," the other one said.
"Bet they're not as good as for spies," the first said.
"Look," Hal tried. "Help me ashore, and I'll give you this boat. Free. And gold, when I'm able."
Both fishermen looked interested.
"Don't know about gold," the first said. "Everybody's always been promising me some of that, and nobody ever came through."
"You think we could use something like that boat?" the other asked.
"Dunno," the first said. "But spies don't give things away. They need all kinds of things for their deep, dark doings."
"Guess he might be telling the truth, then."
"Maybe so. Welcome to Deraine, mister. We'll take a claim on the boat before we take you ashore. People forget, sometimes."
14
The fishermen searched Hal, took away his weaponry. Then they pulled their nets, keeping a careful eye on Kailas, put him in their smaller boat, took it in tow, and rowed south, rounding a promontory after an hour, and entering a cove with a tiny village nestled in it.
The village had one warder, who also ran the general store and tavern.
Hal introduced himself, and the warder gaped.
"But… you're dead!"
"If I am," Hal said dryly, "then I'm a damned solid ghost."
"But… what… If you're the Dragonmaster, what do you want me to do?"
