The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith

by Douglas Van Dyke

  Lindon made sure he stood within hearing range when Korrelothar re-emerged on the sundeck. The minstrel approached as close to Duke MigRelke and his bodyguards as would be allowed. When Korrelothar appeared, the elf looked slightly pale, as if he had just swallowed something which even now turned his stomach against him. The elf wizard explained to the provincial ruler what occurred in the inner sanctum below. The duke listened with visible alarm. The bodyguards kept people a good distance from the hushed conversation, yet Lindon was close enough to catch many snippets of conversation. Friends had once compared the minstrel’s sharp sense of hearing to an elf. His ears served him well enough to hear of the plight of the pilots, and that the cause involved some theft rather than an attack on Orlaun’s nobility. Aside from the reasons for the attack, Lindon heard about the rotting afflicting the ship.

  Korrelothar tried persuading Duke MigRelke they must all abandon the vessel. The noble argued against it, but the elf wizard displayed his inner strength and hold firm. To Lindon, it seemed unthinkable to flee the divine chariot. His mind weighed the implications even as he listened. Wilder continent lay below, so aptly named due to its primal nature. There were few cultures in the way of great cities or advanced races. Small trading ports dotted the northern coast, little more than frontier settlements on the edge of the uncivilized world. The geography of the land remained unmapped. Forests and mountain ranges stretched endlessly. Abandoning the questionable safety of the ship meant asking the passengers to brave the dangers of that unexplored wilderness.

  Though others on deck remained ignorant of the conversation going on near the helm castle, the results soon became apparent. The duke conceded to disembark, at the urging of a few advisors. The other royal passengers did not miss the significance of a few of the levitation lifeboats being readied by the side of the deck. The conversations of everyone shifted to hushed whispers as the duke’s entourage began filing towards the first boats. All eyes focused on the most influential member of their society.

  Duke MigRelke shared more hushed words with Korrelothar before turning to the gathering crowd. The others silenced as the man addressed them. The speech was probably the shortest and most pointed he had ever given in his life. The noble, in his heart, could not simply be the first to step off without saying a word. He warned the rest of the royalty the vessel was in grave danger, to the point they should all follow the wizards’ guidance in evacuating the ship. The duke helped quell panic by reminding them of their duties as royalty. MigRelke asked the lords and protectors of the realm to act like proper gentlemen as they chaperoned the ladies off of the ship. Lindon watched the faces in the crowd for reactions. Some seemed stirred to commit themselves to act with honor, yet for others the fear on their faces made any such words lost.

  The duke’s entourage of bodyguards and advisors took up two of the large boats. The boats sat outside the railings on retractable planks and rope moorings. When time came to cast off, the crew pushed the levitation boats away with long poles while removing the underside planks. It was with some trepidation they left the relative safety of the larger vessel, since only open air existed below. The levitation boats soon proved their worth after so many years of service. Once free of the ship, the holy water contained within the globes at the bow of each lifeboat emitted a soft glow. The lifeboats settled on their own cushion of air as they slowly sank to the clouds and forests below. The Doranil Star continued making headway on a course deeper into the continent, so the smaller vessels fell behind as they left contact with the ship.

  The Brotherhood of the Circles attempted an orderly evacuation as the duke’s boats drifted into the sky below and behind the ship. Crewmembers dragged the lifeboats to the railings of the vessel. The esteemed passengers appeared hesitant, wanting to linger on board until forced to go. Many people on board feared the lifeboats more than the danger afflicting the great ship. Some of the nobles formed lines in a way that blocked other escape craft from getting to the sides. A few flaunted their rank in order to get off faster, or tried reserving a large escape boat for only their families.

  Standing there in view of it all, Lindon began strumming his mandolin. He knew the rush of royalty streaming towards the rails would delay any lowly minstrel from leaving soon. He could do nothing but play. Maybe a few tunes would better soothe anxieties. Lindon recalled the unfinished tune he played to honor Doranil Star when it left Orlaun. Listening to the weak mantra driving the ship, as people surrendered the vessel to the night sky, some notes came to him with perfect clarity. He felt it would be an ending worthy of the demise of the last divine chariot. As people filled the boats, Lindon played the strings of his mandolin with a sadness rivaling any mournful tune he had ever learned in his travels.

  He observed everything with an unrivaled level of detail. Debris and discarded belongings cluttered a deck which survived war and peace for over a millennium. Splotches of dried blood blemished places where the abrupt plunge resulted in injuries. Banners of the city Orlaun and the god Ganden snapped back and forth in the cold air over the heads of the departing people. Blemishes marred the golden figurehead at the bow. Doors started sticking as hinges became frozen. The ship had become arthritic and brittle with age. Masts groaned from the weight of the yardarms as rot took them. They still had most sails furled for the celebration, reflecting a peacefulness of dying as if the vessel retired at some dock. Misty clouds parted as the bow continued slicing its way through the night. The vapors of the clouds drifting along gave Lindon the feel of a coffin floating through fog, searching its final resting place.

  A person, unknown to Lindon, ascended the stairs from the level below. When Lindon caught sight of her, she exemplified the plight of the divine chariot from a personal view such as no other source. Sondra wore the ceremonial robes of the patron god of the ship. He noted her slow, reluctant rise from the inner sanctum. Lindon immediately recognized the symbols on her robes and the relationship they held with the similarly adorned vessel. In her eyes, he saw the emptiness of utter despair and complete loss. His tune shifted to better communicate the personal grief which marred that beautiful face. The woman had lovely soft blue eyes and dark red lips; both spoiled by the haunted expression she wore.

  He played for her, listening to the beat of her broken heart and matching it to the rhythm of the weakened mantra. The song found new life and significance in the robes of one of the faithful. Sondra became the essence of the Doranil Star as it sailed aimlessly in a dark sky, not knowing how to face the doom yet to come. Soon enough the cleric’s attention turned to the sounds taking shape from her loss. Sondra looked at Lindon without expression, and he met her eyes as he continued to define the moment in music. The young acolyte of Ganden willingly stood entrapped in the bonds of heartrending harmony.

  The music cut the night air with the grief of the dying ship. The gold-trimmed relic, descendant of the ancient days when gods walked the lands, left behind a trail of descending lifeboats. The smaller, oval vessels were shed like tears of mourning before the coming of its final fate. Those who slowly drifted to questionable safety in the night air watched ship pass like a shadow against the stars. Several were moved to tears even without the hauntingly tragic melodies from Lindon’s mandolin carried on the wind. Just an hour before, they enjoyed a celebration of achievement and power; however, the sabotage in the night made their prideful vessel seem more like those empty towers stranded in the deep waters off the shores of the Highwater district. The Doranil Star drifted towards the heart of Wilder continent, straying into the unreachable bounds of history’s glory.

  * * * * *

  Peering from the dark recesses of a door, Revwar watched the proceedings on deck. The elf attempted glances to either side, searching for opportunities along the nearby railings. His finely chiseled elven features, still tarnished by blood from Cat’s rapier strike, withdrew when he saw their chance at escape.

  He whispered to his fellow band, “Most are down the deck from us. There are a couple lif
eboats lashed nearby. If we can move out there without notice, we could untie one rather quickly and be over the side.”

  Jentan moved forward, “Leave that spell to me. I can give us invisibility as long as my concentration is unimpeded. I shall start the tune of the spell, but you will need to lead me along to make any speed. They may see the boat being moved, but they won’t see us as long as the illusion continues.”

  Revwar and Savannah stood on both sides of Jentan as the mentalist invoked his spell. The two of them guided him across the open deck. Kemora trailed slightly behind, holding the simple cloth bag containing the stolen relics. They could see each other only as faint, ghostlike images. They looked about, still feeling very exposed on the crowded deck. The invisibility illusion seemed to be holding, for no one spared any glances in their direction. They noted that most of the activity was near the aft where people were evacuating. It made sense to evacuate using the boats in the rear first. The levitation boats fell behind as they cast off, so efforts to disembark starting at the rear of the vessel left less chance for boats to collide or drift down over top of each other.

  Revwar and Savannah worked fast to unlash the weathered ropes from the craft, Jentan standing nearby. They were impeded by the inability to see their own fingers as other than phantom images. Kemora stood silent, holding the bag while she keeping an eye out for danger.

  Danger arrived on deck, wearing her red hair in a long braid tied at the bottom by the torn, pink piece of fabric. Kemora’s jaw would have hit the wooden deck if it wasn’t firmly attached by skin and muscle. The halfling couldn’t figure how a pursuer could be that stubborn and resourceful as to somehow show up at every bad opportunity. Even worse, Montanya had two familiar companions arising from the stairwell. The holy champion of Abriana and the black-clad half-elf ascended into the torchlight of the top deck.

  The halfling didn’t even realize she was starting to utter audible words until Savannah cuffed her on the side of the head to shush her. Kemora sneered at the barely visible outline of the cleric. The emotional display was wasted, for the human had already returned to undoing the knots.

  By the time Montanya and her rescuers had reached the deck many lifeboats had already disembarked. As mesmerizing as the scene was, the chiaso reminded herself to search for the halfling rogue. Somewhere among all these people were thieves trying to make their escape. While Trestan and Katressa mumbled some quiet conversation over the evacuation, the teenage brawler began to scrutinize her surroundings with a keen eye. Unconsciously, she adopted a defensive fighting stance as she scanned the deck.

  When she looked at the empty parts of the deck closer to the bow, she detected some movement. A rope seemed to slip off of a lifeboat. No one stood anywhere close to the rope. Her thin eyebrows dropped down into her customary scowl as she saw parts of the rope continue to wriggle like a snake. Montanya blinked her eyes at what she thought was blurriness coming from her own vision. The blurry field of view was not from her eyes, but rather something almost misty next to the levitation craft. Once she realized she wasn’t imagining things, that the ropes actually seemed to move of their own accord across an optically distorted area, Montanya moved into action.

  A solution came to her in the form of a bucket of sand sitting by the railing. Even divine chariots sometimes faced the threat of fire on the wooden deck, and the bucket of sand was one means to combat such a disaster.

  Montanya took off at a run towards the railing. Trestan and Cat turned around in surprise. They watched as Montanya hardly broke a stride lifting the bucket clear of the deck. The braided red hair trailed as she continued a fast jog towards the bow.

  Kemora saw the threat coming and had little time to react. Anything the halfling did could reveal the hidden band to other eyes, and yet this stubborn woman came right at them. All the halfling could do in time was close her eyes as Montanya prepared to heave the sand at them.

  The thrown sand splashed over the heads of the four. It got into Revwar’s silvery braided hair, seeped down the inside of Savannah’s dark plate, left streamers pouring down Kemora’s shoulders…worst of all, Jentan got a dose of it right into his mouth. Trestan and Cat saw the sand pouring off of the invisible people moments before Jentan’s sputtering voice allowed the spell to expire. The two companions looked on in disbelief at the sudden unmasking of their quarry. Revwar, Kemora, and Savannah looked at each other and at Montanya in disbelief as Jentan spit out sand. Montanya stood in an equal state of shock, staring back at the formidable opponents.

  The young martial artist reacted first, noticing the cloth bag which the rogue held. The chiaso whipped both hands forward in rapid succession. Her left hand grabbed the bag while her right hand followed with a slightly awkward punch to the halfling’s cheek. Kemora backed away empty-handed from the blow as the chiaso hopped out of reach. Now Montanya had the two holy relics, though she still stood an unsafe distance from the thieves.

  Kemora drew her sword. Savannah held aloft her flail, deadly enough even without its dark enchantment. Montanya wore no armor except for the leather padding. If a steel flail or sword hit her hard enough, she would be in no position to take the relics from them. Savannah confidently gazed upon the youth’s unarmed hands. Kemora had already faced the chiaso in combat, and knew she was a threat with only bare hands. Halfling and abbess both charged after Montanya.

  The chiaso tried to immediately retreat back down the deck from which she had ran, but the cleric’s fast attacks turned her away from the railing. Montanya jumped and twisted to avoid the two attackers. She nearly lost her footing on the edge of an open hold, too wide to jump across. She could see down to a pile of supplies on the deck below. Skirting the edge of the pit with her acrobatics, Montanya was forced further up the bow by the two attackers. The bag with the relics became ballast to help her balance as her footwork kept her a step ahead of death.

  * * * * *

  Trestan and Cat moved to assist Montanya, but they were several long running steps from being able to help. The half-elf once again lamented leaving her deadly crossbow in Orlaun. Nimble fingers retrieved the silver rapier as she went forward. Beside her, Trestan reached over his shoulder to where the hilt of his sword projected. The Sword of the Spirit gleamed even in the dim light of the night as it was pulled free of the scabbard.

  “For Abriana and those that I love,” Trestan yelled as he charged, “Goddess guide me!”

  Yellow, elvish eyes fixed on the two heroes as they approached. Revwar reached into a bag of tricks at his side. As his hands sought a quick solution to the charging couple, his voice called to Jentan. The mentalist was still spitting sand out of his mouth as the wizard spoke.

  “You are the one often saying you are more of a lover than a fighter,” Revwar sneered, “So it is your task to get the lifeboat loosened and ready. I will take care of the threats but I can only buy us so much time.”

  A few words of arcana and Revwar unleashed a summoning. A small ball of light whisked from his hand towards the advancing companions. Trestan and Cat almost ran headlong into it before the half-elf cried for Trestan to slow down. Trestan had not seen this spell before, occupied as he had been with the abbess at the time, but Cat remembered it from four years ago. The light exploded in a mass of fur and teeth.

  A dog-faced creature that moved with the gracefulness of a predatory cat barred their path. The two companions barely skidded to a halt before they were within range of its snapping maw. Trestan found himself distracted by an abomination that the creature had in place of a tail. Arched above its back like the tail of a scorpion was a crab-like claw appendage. The claw shot forward and snapped close to Trestan’s arm, barely missing. The creature seemed to be testing its reach.

  Trestan and Cat had to deal with this summoned monstrosity before they could get anywhere near Montanya to assist her.

  * * * * *

  Korrelothar had been preoccupied with his fellow guildmates as they ushered pompous, unyielding nobles to either board li
feboats or stand back. A commotion coming from the bow soon turned his head that direction in curiosity.

  The elf noted with alarm the abbess and her swinging flail. The blackened armor honoring the Goddess of Death had no place on board this ship. He quickly took note of all the people involved in the scuffle. His eyes went beyond Trestan and Cat to the summoned abomination, then peered further to fix on the man stealing one of the lifeboats.

  His voice spoke with venomous distaste as he spotted the mentalist. “Jentan Mollamos! Betrayer! How dare you show your face in the open after what you have done?”

  The elf wizard pulled aside other members of the Brotherhood of the Circles. He pointed out the mentalist. The other mages voiced their anger at the man as Korrelothar told them about the theft and sabotage. Wizards, conjurors, mentalists, alchemists, diviners, evokers and simple acolytes began to form an angry mob. Some simply did nothing more than slander Jentan’s name as they watched him pursue an escape. Most others began to draw forth the mystical reagents needed to bring forth a cataclysm of spells worthy of matching the light show in the sky earlier. Hands grabbed wands or twisted about in arcane gestures, and voices uttered the syllables of magic. Personal magical shields flared into existence. Anger clouded over the assembled mages like a thunderhead, as the air crackled in advance of the approaching thunderstorm of arcana. Korrelothar had rallied the mages into the mood for a fight.

  The nobles still on deck became less hesitant about fleeing the questionable safety of the vessel. None wanted to witness a spell duel. Crewmen had no need for urging the civilians. People rushed to board the available levitation boats. The tiny craft cast off in rapid succession.

  In the midst of the throng stood a young woman with no rush to face the future. She watched as royalty scrambled in panic for the boats with dispassionate eyes. She had no wish to move her feet in that direction. The acolyte of Ganden could not abandon her ship so casually.