Dryad-Born (Whispers From Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Lydi was a city made entirely of sailing ships and a patchwork maze of docks and harbors. There were no warehouses or inns or taverns, yet the ships became all of these. Rather than constructing new buildings, the surplus of unused vessels had become the means for providing shelter and storage. The streets were the docks. Some ships had their hulls breached, and scaffolding and steps erected to provide entrances. Most hung with signs, featuring whether it was an inn, or a smithy, or a stable.

  The population of Lydi, it seemed, had dwindled over the years. Derelict ships were everywhere, with no signs of life at all. During the time they spent observing, only four or five ships approached, all from the north, and docked in the harbor. There were people milling about in the town, but it seemed most kept indoors. Some of the ships were enormous galleons that had crossed the wide seas. Others were more humble vessels, only one mast instead of three or five. There were seagulls, of course, flitting above the town. Gulls were plentiful in Kenatos as well. Paedrin rubbed his chin, staring at the city.

  “What have you noticed?” he asked Hettie.

  “The woods have been cleared on purpose,” she said thoughtfully. “They don’t want to be approached unawares. I imagine they have lookouts all around the perimeter. I cannot make much sense of the arrangement of the ships. There are large ones and small ones jumbled together. That one over there is listing dangerously. I doubt anyone lives there. My advice would be to approach after dusk where it would be difficult to spot us coming.”

  Paedrin folded his arms. “Then what?”

  Hettie glanced at him. “I would look to find a Vaettir first. A Bhikhu would be my first choice if we could find one.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because they would be the most honest in their intentions. If we are hunted by the Arch-Rike, they would try to arrest us quickly. No games. We’d know where we stood. They would also be the ones most likely to know of the Shatalin temple.”

  “True,” he pointed out. “I noticed those things as well. What surprises me most is what I do not see. Very few people compared to the structures. The lack of trading. The place seems…sullen.”

  “That’s a good word for it. The city has a strange feeling, doesn’t it? It isn’t lively, like Havenrook. It feels…depressed.” She hesitated at the word and he knew why.

  Paedrin stared at the city. “I agree. It does not feel like a flourishing town. It is decaying. So therefore, I propose we do the opposite of what you say. We enter the city now, in daylight. We enter a tavern or place to eat. Try to be gone before dusk. It may be a place, like Kenatos, that gets more lively, and by lively I mean drunk, after nightfall. I don’t want to wait out here any longer. Let’s go. If we don’t learn about Shatalin quickly, we leave and make our way south along the coast.”

  She grabbed his arm. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t trust the Arch-Rike. This place has his taint on it somehow. Let’s see what we can learn and then leave.”

  “We are walking into a trap, Paedrin.”

  He smiled impishly at her, part of his old humor returning. “Remember Drosta’s Lair? I already know it’s a trap. Let’s set it off and see what happens.”

  “The wisest as well as the most dangerous men are those who observe without speaking.”

  —Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  The docks spread through Lydi like a maze. The creak of wood from the massive ships in the waters combined with the strain of mooring ropes and the squawk of birds. The air had the smell of dead fish, which Paedrin found revolting in the extreme. Many of the planks along the walkway were missing, creating treacherous footing. A few wandered the inner streets. No one had challenged them or even asked their names. A few glanced at them surreptitiously but no one engaged. If it was a trap, there was no bait to tempt them.

  The races were a mix of Vaettir and Aeduan, a blending of the two races into something new. There were no Bhikhu, other than himself, and no signs of authority at all. There were carts packed with goods for sale on the docks, all small and very specific, most sold by small, gray-haired women. Debris and droppings littered the way.

  Paedrin quickly picked a tavern and approached, but it was closed. Most of the ships were closed, the gangplanks missing.

  A voice sounded from behind. “He’s waiting for you at the Wharf Rat. Water’s edge.”

  Paedrin turned and saw a young fellow, probably twelve, lurking past them both, pointing to the end of the boardwalk. He had flint-like eyes and a sallow face. An urchin, by his looks.

  “Who?” Hettie asked.

  The boy backed away, shaking his head. “I did what I was paid to do.” He turned on his heels and ran.

  Paedrin was about to go after him, but Hettie caught his arm. “Someone is watching us from that boat. He saw me look and ducked back. These people are frightened of us.”

  “No patrols. No Preachán trying to sell. Do we leave now or listen to the boy?”

  “Who do you think is waiting for us?”

  “I have no idea. Obviously someone who was paid to look out for us.” Paedrin rubbed his mouth in frustration. It was the bait to the trap. But it intrigued him. “He said the water’s edge, that way.”

  Hettie glanced that way. “Could it be a message from Annon?”

  “Doubtful. This place is not very sensitive to nature. Let us go a little farther down this trail, Hettie. Be ready to fight.”

  “I am.”

  They continued down the pier until they reached the end. There were six boats moored there, each broadside and large. They had true sails and the tattered scraps of canvas. The farthest had a gangplank lowered. The sign was a cheap rendition of a blue-furred rodent. Some crew members were visible above, milling around on deck. The other boats were empty.

  Paedrin was about to march up the gangplank, but stopped. “You stay here.”

  She shook her head, catching his wrist. “We go in together, Paedrin. If there is trouble, I’ll jump overboard and you float away. We will meet in the woods where we studied the city. I think they will try to trap us trying to get out, not in. That’s how traps work, after all.”

  “Agreed,” he answered, pleased with her thinking. He walked up the notched gangplank and boarded the vessel. The deck was worn but serviceable. The crew looked real enough, wearing short breeches and belted tunics. They were the same Vaettir-Aeduan mix he had noticed earlier. They all appraised Hettie with undisguised admiration. One of the crew members pointed to a ladder going down into the hold without saying a word.

  “After you,” Paedrin said, smiling broadly. He saw the trapdoor lid and knew it would be too easy for them to bolt it after they had gone down.

  The sailor shook his head. “He’s waiting down below for you. It’ll be a quick visit, I think.”

  Paedrin approached the ladder, staring down into the shadows of the hold. There were four members of the crew on deck. He glanced at the nearest ship and saw no one at first, but then he glanced up at the crow’s nest and saw two figures hunching low and watching them.

  “Who is he?” Paedrin asked.

  “Men like him do not leave their names. But he said a Bhikhu and Romani girl would be coming and to let them board.”

  This felt just like a trap ready to spring. Part of him wanted to jump straight down and surprise whoever was inside. He could do that, but it would leave Hettie with four men on deck to deal with. Not that she couldn’t handle herself, but it would make things more complicated.

  “Describe the man who is down there,” Paedrin said to the crewman. Before letting him reply, Paedrin grabbed his arm, bent his wrist, and flung him down into the hold opening. He whipped around, kicking the second crewman in the gut hard enough to steal his wind and hopefully break a few of his ribs. He glanced and saw Hettie subduing the third in an arm lock he had taught her, leaving only the fourth.

  Paedrin waited a moment and then flung himself down into the hold where the surprised
crewman was trying to recover from the fall.

  Shadows were everywhere. The interior of the hold was not very tall and the crewman was holding his wrist gingerly and kneeling, seeming surprised to find himself on the floor and also in pain.

  The sound of heavy boots thudded. The sound and the weight were familiar to Paedrin and a pit of dread opened up in his stomach. A man emerged from the shadows of the hold. A Cruithne—specifically, the Cruithne from the Paracelsus Towers.

  “Nicely done,” the Cruithne said, his expression bland. “You might want to call the Romani girl down now before they start shooting at us. It will not take them long to discover I’ve betrayed the Arch-Rike when the mooring lines are cut and we depart for Shatalin. I’m here to help you.”

  He gave Paedrin an expressionless look. He was fleshy about the face and lips, his bulk sturdy and formidable. He had dark crinkled hair that was graying at the sides, and the usual soot-black skin of his race.

  Paedrin stared at him, saw the armor buckled to his body, the weapons secured but not drawn.

  “You are wondering if you can defeat me quickly,” the Cruithne continued. “Let me answer that for you. I was trained by Aboujaoude when I was a boy. And I’m a Cruithne, which would be the physical equivalent of kicking a boulder.” He shrugged, opening his hands to show he brandished no weapon. “Your choice, Paedrin. Trust me or fight me.”

  The man had anticipated his thoughts. He was using the Uddhava. But what struck Paedrin was his demeanor. Calm and soft-spoken. If anything his words were a little slurred and hard to hear because they were spoken so softly. He presented himself as a threat on the surface but had said he was also in rebellion himself against the Arch-Rike. The Cruithne was the guardian of the Paracelsus Towers.

  “Who are you?” Paedrin asked.

  “Baylen of Kenatos. We met before.”

  “I thought you came to the temple to arrest us,” Paedrin said.

  “A fair statement. I wanted to try to talk to you before the Arch-Rike cornered you again. I’d rather not tell my story twice, and besides, she would probably do a better job telling whether or not I’m lying. The girl should come down here.”

  “Hettie,” Paedrin called up the ladder. “You should see this.”

  She emerged down the ladder quickly, then paused on one of the rungs, staring in shock.

  “Let me start with a few things you should know about me. First—I’m not like any Cruithne you’ve known. I don’t like long speeches either, but you need information before you can trust me. I’ve been watching Tyrus for a long time. I had a feeling he was up to something. I figured it had something to do with the Scourgelands. He’s very quiet about his plans. I mentioned I knew Aboujaoude. Well, he took on a street kid and taught him something useful. How to fight and survive in the streets. More importantly, how to watch other people. I learned later it was the Uddhava. I’ve been watching ever since. When the Tower exploded, I picked up a few of Tyrus’s trinkets and thought they might come in handy or that he might come looking for them.”

  He turned and looked at Hettie. “I watched your trips to the Towers, Hettie. I noticed you each time.” He stared at her, his expression dull. But his eyes were curious and the ghost of a wry smile passed quickly. “I didn’t tell the Arch-Rike about your first two visits. When the two of you appeared inside without passing through the gate, I paid a Preachán to tell me where you went. I’m guessing that Tyrus is going back into the Scourgelands again. If so, I want to join and figure that you both are the easiest chance I have of finding him.” He hunched his big shoulders, his eyes darting to Paedrin. “You haven’t tried to attack me yet. I’ll take that as a good sign. I’m fairly confident I could take you both though.”

  Paedrin breathed out deeply, shaking his head. “You set a perfect trap to catch a Vaettir and a Bhikhu. We’re below deck, where my abilities are hampered. Confined spaces are an advantage to you. Yet you also know you have the advantage and gave it up by revealing yourself. Either you are crazy or trustworthy. Maybe both.”

  The Cruithne smiled briefly, pleased. “You should know that the only way to get to the Shatalin monastery is by ship.”

  The sailor on the floor rose cautiously on his elbows, eyeing Paedrin with anger. The Cruithne spoke down to the crewman. “Ready to sail?”

  “Aye,” the crewman said. “Assuming anyone is left on deck who can stand upright.” He gestured to the ladder and Hettie came the rest of the way down.

  “Cut the mooring ropes,” Baylen said. “Draw the gangplank. Prepare for arrows and fire. You both look ready for a fight. Hope you are not disappointed it won’t be with me. Once we go atop, are you ready to get attacked by the Arch-Rike’s men?” he asked them with a smirk, a glimmer in his eye. “Because they will send everything at us at once.”

  When the Cruithne mounted the steps to the main deck, Paedrin thought the ladder was going to break under his weight but it didn’t. The orders were given and the ropes were cut and the boarding plank withdrawn. There were shouts of warning and curses from beyond. The ship began to move from the mooring and out into the sea. Paedrin inhaled and emerged from the hold below.

  Baylen’s words were prophetic.

  Arcs of green fire lanced at the ship, coming from the nearby vessels. Paedrin saw the enemy now, the other Paracelsus on deck, sending wave after wave of magical fire at the sails. The flaming globes struck the sails with a hiss and crackle, but otherwise plummeted to the deck and were doused by the wounded crewmen. The sails did not look scorched.

  The Cruithne glanced at Paedrin again, a half-smile on his mouth. “It helps to know their kind and their craft.”

  From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a glass orb. He then clomped to the quarterdeck and held up the orb. He uttered a word. A fierce wind surged in the air, sending the sails billowing. The ship began to pick up speed. Winds surged and rushed, released from the orb in powerful gusts.

  Men were running down the planks of the harbor, some screaming and shouting obscenities at them. The boat rocked and pitched as the furious winds intensified, shoving the vessels into the harbor. The Cruithne reached into his pouch and withdrew a smaller orange orb. He spoke the Vaettir word for fire—thas—and the orb burst into flame. With a powerful arm, he threw it at the docks behind and the orb shattered against it, sending a deafening explosion across the pier. He followed it with two more, Paedrin staring in amazement as the flaming orbs arched into the sky and landed in front of the rushing soldiers where they burst into explosions, devastating the docks.

  Hettie joined them up on the deck, her hair whipping about her face. “What magic is this?” she yelled.

  The Cruithne took a defensive stance, a Bhikhu one, and held aloft the orb, his legs sturdy against the gale. He gripped the wheel and turned, sending the ship knifing into the deep waters. A shaft of lightning came from the skies, striking the mainmast. An iron spike was at the top and the lightning made colors dance in the air, but the ship did not burn.

  “Almost beyond their range!” the Cruithne shouted. “I thought they would unleash a bejaile on us by now, but they probably haven’t thought of that yet.”

  Paedrin still could not believe what he was seeing. Why had the Cruithne joined their side? Was his connection to Aboujaoude more than a boast of his fighting abilities but also an indication that he could be trusted? Had Tyrus trusted him?

  There was a flash of light on deck and a contingent of soldiers appeared wearing the tabard of Kenatos.

  “Tay al-Ard,” the Cruithne muttered. “Should have guessed that.”

  Paedrin vaulted over the rail, flipping in the air, and came down in the midst of the soldiers. He struck as a whirlwind, crippling knees and striking faces—using his entire body to press the attack. They were armored, which helped protect them from his blows, but he knew the vulnerabilities and struck quick and hard, moving this way and that to avoid swords and spears.

  One of the soldiers threw an orb at him and he dodged it, but the glas
s shattered and burst into flames, racing across the deck. Paedrin grabbed the man before he could loose another one and chopped his neck soundly, dropping him. Every sense in his body opened like flower petals, absorbing the scene around him.

  There was a boom of thunder on the deck as the Cruithne also dropped from the quarterdeck. He had a sword in each hand and moved like an avalanche, crushing through the mass of soldiers, using his elbows and the flat of the blades. Paedrin saw how quickly he moved, which was fascinating considering his girth, but he literally trampled the soldiers in front of him and sent others sprawling. The clash of swords against armor rang out on deck. The few sailors on board joined the fight.

  Paedrin was struck from behind, feeling a blade slice into his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but he ducked, feeling the wet blade whistle over his head. Spinning around, he downed the man with a kick to his kneecap then swirled away from a blow aimed straight for his head. Blood oozed into his shirt, mingling with the sweat. He thrilled at the act of battle, ducking low and then inhaling to rise above his enemies, causing two to crash into each other as they attempted to tackle him. He moved liked a wisp, darting back and forth.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Hettie strike a man in the groin with her dagger hilt and then his ear with her fist. She kicked out, moving in a form he had taught her days before, slipping between soldiers like a silk shadow. Paedrin seized another man’s wrist, arched it up and plunged his fist into the man’s armpit, watching the man’s grimace of pain. As he torqued the wrist and the blade clattered to the deck, he realized the fight was already over.