Her words sobered Sir Eldrick, and he thought back on the jinn.
“My name isn’t Eldrick van Albright,” he suddenly blurted, surprising even himself.
She looked to him with patient curiosity.
He gave a sigh and looked up to the blanket of clouds, which was now a ribbed, mackerel sky, its seams bright with the glow of sunset beyond the dark rolling clouds.
“My real name is Henry Miller, and I’m not a native-born son of Vhalovia, but of Magestra. As the name might suggest, my father, and his father before him, and a dozen fathers before him were all millers. I suspect that my brother is as well.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah, and a sister too. I guess they would be your aunt and uncle. Their names are Breck and Susie. Hells, they would be what, thirty-six and twenty-eight by now?”
“How long has it been since you saw them?” Akitla asked, her face kind.
“Shit, twenty-odd years. After I…after Father died, I left the village, and haven’t been there since. I’ve sent money every year, nearly a quarter of my salary, which surely went to good use. If not for my brother, than for my sister’s dowry or whatnot.”
“Aren’t you curious about them?”
“Of course. But…I don’t know. Some wounds are too deep, Akitla. What I did…”
“What you did, you must have done for a good reason. I have not known you long, but I have a keen instinct when it comes to males, and you do not strike me as the bad person that you are so fond of calling yourself.”
“Kit, the greatest sin a man can commit is killing his own father.”
“Says who? Are you a religious man?”
“Well, no, but…it’s just what I think.”
“Tell me then, why did you do it?”
Sir Eldrick gave a sigh, eyeing the now churning clouds warily. “We should go belowdeck, it’s getting—”
“Not until you tell me the story,” she said, crossing her arms, and he saw his own stubbornness in that stare.
“I came home from the academy on first break. I was eager to show off my uniform, though I knew my father would only scoff. Mother would be proud, and little Breck and Susie would think me a hero. I was on top of the world. Barely nineteen and full of piss and whiskey. I had done it, I had gotten away. But I didn’t think what my absence would mean to my family. You see…Father used to beat me pretty regular; that is, once I got old enough to take a punch. Up until then he hit my mother. I remember her having at least one black eye per season, maybe a fat lip to boot. When people started to comment on it, he got more clever and hit her in places that didn’t leave scars. She had us three kids, but I daresay that she was pregnant half a dozen times. When Father went too far, like one time when he caused her to miscarry and nearly die, he swore up and down that he would change his ways, that he would stop drinking. And he did for a time. But through it all my mother hung on with quiet desperation. She always tried to hide it from us, though in the silence of night a sleepless child hears everything in a small house. Then in the mornings, when Father was gone to work for the day, she would cry all alone in her room. The older I got, the angrier I became. I told her that she didn’t deserve him, that she didn’t have to put up with it. I said…I said that I would protect her. But she always had an excuse for him, how he too had been abused, how he had been forced to do things during the war, terrible things that made him wake up at night screaming in a cold sweat. She was a mother to him in a way as well.”
Sir Eldrick’s voice cracked and he half coughed, half grunted. He looked again to the sky, trying to compose himself. The clouds now mirrored his emotions, low and forlorn, yet angry as a god and black as oblivion.
“When I came home I found Mother in bed, eyes blank, head bandaged, and fresh blood staining the white cotton. Breck and Susie were by her side. I think they were trying to feed her, Breck spooning soup into her mouth, and little Susie wiping up what dribbled down Mother’s chin, which was most of it. I took three steps into the kitchen and stopped when I saw the lifeless stare of our mother, and in that moment I knew that by going away, I had sentenced her to death.
“Father came home just then, and when I turned and looked into his bloodshot eyes, I saw guilt, and for the first time…fear. Like a wild beast sensing the terror of his prey, I attacked, drove him to the ground, choking him. I watched as his light slowly went out.”
Akitla put an arm on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “You probably saved your brother and sister’s lives.”
“Perhaps, but not my mother’s,” said Sir Eldrick, determined not to cry. His hand habitually went to the pocket that he always kept his flask in, and to his dismay, he found it empty.
“You had no way of knowing—”
“I knew,” he said, as though the words were poison. “In the back of my mind, I knew they would be in danger without me there. But I also knew that if I stayed, I would never leave. And I chose myself over my mother, my brother, and my sister. My mother died because I am a selfish bastard.”
“Your mother died because your father was a disturbed man.”
“Why are you trying to justify this to me, why are you—?”
“Because this guilt is poison to your soul. You must forgive yourself.”
Sir Eldrick turned from her, feeling thirstier than he had ever been. He had never told anyone this story, and he didn’t know why he was telling her now.
“The clouds are going to break soon. I can smell it on the air. Come. Let’s go below with the others.” Without waiting for a reply, he started down the rope ladder to the deck below.
***
“She’s going to be a bitch of a storm,” McArgh yelled over the wind as Murland and Caressa joined her beside the wheelwoman.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” asked Murland, watching the lady pirates scramble about the deck to secure everything.
“Your magic might come in handy. You any good with wards?”
“I’ve never tried to cast one,” said Murland, feeling foolish.
“I guess that is a no then.”
“I can use him,” said Ravenwing, who suddenly dropped down from somewhere up in the sail. Or perhaps she had been flying in her bird form.
“I bet she could,” said Caressa under her breath.
“You go on belowdeck, Princess,” said Ravenwing with a smirk that made Murland think she had heard Caressa’s remark.
“No,” said McArgh. “You are the most valuable thing on this ship, Caressa. I want you close to the life boats. You can wait out the storm in my cabin.”
“Lifeboats?” said Murland.
“You see that?” said McArgh, pointing north at a nasty thunderhead. “That’s the biggest storm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been sailing for thirty years.”
“Go on,” Murland told Caressa. “I’m going to try to offer what help I can.”
Caressa glanced over his shoulder at a grinning Ravenwing and then kissed Murland deeply. “Be safe.”
“You too.”
Caressa hurried to the captain’s quarters as McArgh began barking orders once again.
“I hope that backpack is good in hard winds,” said Ravenwing.
“Packy can hold his own. What do you need me to do?”
“This ship has more wards around it than Roddington Castle, and there isn’t much that we can do against the wind but redirect it. I’ve been preparing a spell that will create an oval energy shield around the ship, which in turn, will make it more aerodynamic.”
“Aerodywhatic?”
Ravenwing gave a dry laugh. “You just let me worry about the big stuff. All I need from you is the power of your wand.”
“I’m not giving you my wand,” said Murland.
“Magi’s sake, don’t be so paranoid. I’m not asking you to give it to me…I just need you to amplify my spell. Do you think you can do that?”
“I…I guess.”
“It’s an easy spell. Repeat after me. Volectum, ardum, strezular esht na rezlar
.”
“What language is that? It sounds rooted in the language of the magi that we wizards use, but there is only a hint of it.”
“It is the other way around, my naïve friend. The language that you have just spoken is much older than the one your wizards use.”
“But, that’s not possible.”
“We can contribute to the age-old argument some other time. Just repeat the incantation,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the dark storm brewing. “And hurry up.”
“Volectum, armon—”
“It’s ardum. Volectum, ardum, strezular esht na rezlar.”
Murland repeated the words, but missed the inflections of several of them. Ravenwing patiently corrected him a dozen times before telling him that he had finally gotten it right. Even then, she insisted that he repeat it correctly.
“Good,” she said. “Now follow me.”
She stepped back, spoke a different string of her strange words, and to Murland’s astonishment, her cloak sprouted feathers, and two large black wings unfolded from the garment. Beneath it, she wore tight black leather with dozens of small chains connecting a variety of hoops. She ran and leapt off the side of the ship and took to the sky, a black silhouette against the thunderhead as it erupted with inner lightning.
“Come on, Packy, time to go to work.”
Murland ran and leapt into the air as the white wings of the backpack unfolded, and Packy brought him out over the tumultuous ocean. At that moment, the rolling thunderhead broke with a deafening crash and a rumbling roar. Night became day in dizzying flashes, and Murland cried out, gripping the straps tight and hoping that Packy was a braver soul than him. The trusty backpack proved brave indeed and brought Murland unflinchingly into the downpour, high above the Iron Fist as she crashed through the growing waves.
“Can you hear me?” Ravenwing yelled over the howling wind. She was as dry as ever, and looking closer, Murland saw how the water sparkled and cascaded down a thin orb, an energy shield of some sort.
“Yes!” he called back.
“Good. I will begin the incantation, and when I give you the signal, I want you to cast that spell I taught you, through your wand and into my left hand. Do you understand?”
“What’s the signal?”
“The signal will be me saying to cast the spell.”
“Oh, alright.”
“Watch and learn, wizard,” she said with a smirk, and turning in the air toward the Iron Fist, she began to conjure a ball of light between her open palms.
Murland watched, hovering with Packy in the pouring rain. Every few seconds lightning ripped through the sky, and he glanced nervously at the heavens, wondering what would happen if one of those powerful bolts hit him. He had only ever heard of one man who was struck by lightning, and that man, Bartholomew Dunkin, was said to have spent the rest of his days speaking gibberish and insisting on eating nothing but oysters and grape jelly.
With a flash nearly as great as the lightning crashing above them, Ravenwing released her incantation, which floated through the downpour and consumed the Iron Fist, covering her with a glowing, elliptical orb that reached from bow to stern.
“Now!” she yelled over the tumult.
“Volectum, ardum, strezular esht na rezlar!” said Murland, careful to get the words just right. He pointed the wand at her outstretched hand, but nothing happened.
“You’ve got to mean it!”
Murland tried again, but still nothing happened.
Ravenwing kept the spell going with the wand in her right hand and glanced over at Murland with urgent eyes.
“I’m trying, it just isn’t working.”
“Well try harder, backpack boy! Or else your fair princess is going to die in this storm!”
That gave Murland a jolt, and he focused his power at his core, channeling it through his arm and into the wand as he bellowed, “Volectum, ardum, strezular esht na rezlar!”
White light shot out of the wand, hitting Ravenwing in the palm, and her spell suddenly glowed with renewed power. A great hum began around the ship as it crashed through the waves. Down on the gangway, Captain McArgh pumped her fist triumphantly.
Murland kept it up for as long as he could, intent on impressing Ravenwing. He felt his power draining quickly. It felt as though the strength was being drained from every fiber of his being, but still, he let the magic pour from him. His vision blurred, and he began to slump in his straps until finally, there was no more to give. The wand fizzled out with a pop, and Murland slipped through the straps lifelessly. He saw Packy above him turn and dive, yet he was helpless to offer so much as a desperately grasping hand. He hit the cold water and was devoured by a wave, which sent him tumbling below the surface. His breath exploded from him as another wave battered him down deeper into the dark sea, and Murland weakly regarded the flashing surface, his left hand feebly reaching upward. The silence of the water was intoxicating, and he felt himself being beckoned to sweet sleep. He wanted to just let go, just give in to the inevitable.
There in the water he faced his doom, and in a lucid moment, he realized that whether it was now, or a hundred years from now, the darkness would eventually find him. He stared into the endless abyss, awed by its magnitude, its majesty, and its utter control over his fate. There was no escape from the endless deep, the timeless black that swallowed him whole. He faintly registered Packy diving into the water above him, only to be swept away by a churning wave. Murland sank deeper and deeper still, yet he did not panic. He felt his air running out, and would have swam if he had the use of his arms, but there was nothing left. For him, there was only the deep black and the promise of sleep.
***
Gibrig’s hands white-knuckled the gangway rail as he watched Murland slip from Packy’s straps and fall lifelessly to the cold waters below. All the companions were there with him, and a collective gasp went out as they watched their friend’s fifty-foot plunge. Caressa tried to climb onto the rail to go after her beloved, but McArgh grabbed her and tried to tear her away. Sir Eldrick stood beside Gibrig, breath held, as they watched Packy dive into the water. A moment later the backpack came back up and barely escaped the crashing waves, but there was no Murland with him.
“Murland!” Brannon screamed, and he too tried to climb over the rail, but Valkimir was there to hold him back, warning that it was suicide to swim into those frigid waters.
“Someone give me a drink!” Sir Eldrick cried, wild-eyed and frightened.
Gibrig looked to Willow, but she was helping pull back a kicking and thrashing Caressa. Hagus was frantically turning out his pockets, looking for a flask for Sir Eldrick, and Wendel was nowhere to be seen. Knowing that there was no time to waste, and without thinking much about what he was doing, Gibrig climbed over the rail, plugged his nose, and jumped into the thrashing ocean.
Back in the valley nestled between the Iron Mountains, there sat a mile-wide lake known as Old Pine Lake, where Gibrig and his brother had spent many summer days fishing and swimming. While most dwarves were not the best swimmers with their short legs and short arms, Gibrig and Gill proved to be exceptional swimmers, a fact that had gained them the nickname “the Mermaid Twins” for a full year when they were thirteen. Gibrig had liked the name, but Gillrog hated it. Nevertheless, his abilities in the placid waters of Old Pine Lake could not have prepared Gibrig for the violent ocean caught in the middle of a terrible storm.
Gibrig had all he could do to keep his head above water. He took as full of a breath as he could, and as a fifteen-foot wave crashed down on him, he dove. The wave spun him round and round until he didn’t know which way was up. When he thought that surely he was swimming downward, he suddenly emerged in the flashing surface. The Iron Fist was nowhere to be seen, and Gibrig began to get scared. Wishing that Snorts was with him, if only to give him strength, he dove again as the wave that he had been riding brought him crashing down. The momentum shot Gibrig deep into the cold, dark water, and he frantically searched the d
eep for any sign of his friend.
He might have been tall, but Gibrig had the lungs of a dwarf, and he had once been timed by Gill, holding his breath for a full four minutes. He had no idea how long he had been holding it now as he swam deeper and deeper still. He saw no sign of Murland, for there was no light but that of the lightning crashing far above, and that light only penetrated so far. Knowing that he would soon need air, Gibrig reluctantly began to swim to the surface, but then he saw a flash in the deep. It was quick, and it was faint, but it was there. He looked again, but saw nothing. He wanted to swim down to investigate, but his lungs burned with the need for air, and so reluctantly he headed for the surface once again.
With the urgency of a drowning man, Gibrig burst through to the surface, gasping. A wave hit him hard, crushing the air out of him and sending him tumbling every which way all at once. He broke the surface once more and took in a deep lungful of air before diving down again in search of the blip of light. Gibrig pumped his arms, kicked his legs, and swam in the direction that he thought he had seen the light. Above him, it seemed as though the end of the world had come. He had only gotten a glimpse of the sky, but it had been mean and terrible, like the frothing maw of a devil of the deep, one set on devouring the world.
The light pulsed again.
It was far to the left of where he thought it was, and deeper than he liked, but Gibrig redoubled his efforts and swam with all his might to reach it. He dove until his ears squealed in protest and the weight of the ocean sat heavy upon his chest and back, the pressure threatening to make his head implode. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but instead he continued on into the deep, into certain doom. Whether he could make it back to the surface from here, he did not know, but he kept on anyway, swimming toward the blinking phantom light.
The light became brighter as Gibrig desperately swam toward it. He reached out his hand as the light drew closer, engulfing him in its glow, and there at the center he saw the wand of Kazam, clutched in Murland’s fist.
The Legend of Drak'Noir Page 11
