The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  "My power becomes the steel, becomes the sword, and reaches for your heart, just as you took my brother’s." He stepped forward, sword ready to strike, moving swiftly and lithely, not at all an old man but a young warrior.

  I stood still like a stalled ox waiting for the butcher’s hammer, but just then something came between us.

  All I can name it is: a presence, one that changed as I half-saw it. First I thought it was the helmeted, armored body of Maranonia, but then it changed, becoming the form of my long-dead, long-mourned Otara, and changed again, and I thought I saw Tries, but it was my mother’s face, and then it was the form of a woman I did not know, one wearing the ancient costume of Orissa’s villages, but it was nothing but sea mist from the storm around us as the binding spell freed my arms and I hurled my sword as if it were a spear, the Archon in mid-attack, almost on me.

  The blade struck him point first, just in the side, below the curve of his ribs on the right side, in the lung.

  The Archon screamed, his muscles spasmed and he sent his own sword spinning high, high, to fall into the sea. He stumbled back, nearly falling, but somehow — and I knew it was the power of his will — kept his feet and my sword fell from his body.

  There was red, red foam on his lips, and he spat, and spat again, and his yellow-white beard reddened.

  He stumbled once more and caught himself on the open lid of one of his magic chests. "Very well, very well. I feared this . . . and made the castings. There are worlds and yet other worlds.

  "Bitch ferret, you struck me, but your blow shall give you nothing. You will still die, now, or mayhap in a day or a month. And what days you have will be spent in pain and confusion. But they are numbered, Antero, and the number is but few."

  He looked up at the dark stormy skies and his voice steadied and rose to a shriek, as loud as when he had railed at me from the clouds outside his seacastle, shouting in some language I knew not, casting some dark spell that I did not understand, but his voice sent ice through my soul. Then I understood his last few words:

  The price I paid

  The debt I’m owed

  I claim the debt

  The blood is paid.

  Then it was as I had never struck him a deathblow, and he was strong and virile, growing to a height much greater than mine. A wizard dies hard, I thought, and my hands found my dagger and unsheathed it.

  But before I could attack, the Archon bent, picked up one of his chests, a chest that three strong men would have strained to lift and went in three great strides to the rail.

  "The blood is paid, and the battle yet joined," he howled and leapt straight out into the storming seas, his magic clutched in his arms.

  I rushed to the rail, peering over, but there was nothing but the rolling waves and scud and foam.

  I had just a moment to realize the Last Archon was truly dead.

  Then the seas went mad and I knew what he meant by his blood price and even understood Gamelan’s words in his tent last night: "To touch that power . . . some sort of sacrifice . . . a great sacrifice I cannot even imagine."

  The Archon had paid that price and the earth granted his greatest spell, as fire smashed up into the skies, driving away gray and rain, and two volcanoes exploded. Lava sprayed from the nearest one’s mouth, and smoke and fire blasted to the heavens.

  I stood gaping and then Corais was beside me, and had me by the arm.

  "Rali! We must flee!"

  My memory is not exact for the next few minutes and hours, but I do remember being half-dragged along the deck, clumsily going across to our own galley, half-carried by my women. I do not remember any Lycanthian soldiers still fighting. Perhaps they were all dead, or perhaps they were like me, staring at fiery death.

  I remember hearing Stryker shouting orders for everyone to man the oars and I remember seeing through the gray haze, Cholla Yi’s ship skittering away at full speed, oars digging deeply as it fled the wrath to come.

  I remember seeing some of the Lycanthian ships wallowing in the swell, as if their helms were abandoned by panicked sailors.

  Great boulders, hurled by the gods’ own trebuchets, boulders far larger than even the biggest ship, were crashing down into the seas around us and there was a steady rain of searing dust-like particles.

  I remember seeing other Orissan ships following our lead, rowing desperately away from the volcanoes’ eruption.

  But there was no safety, for we were caught in the same snare as the Archon and his ships. Behind us were the volcanoes. Ahead of us were reefs, savage rock fingers sticking up from the crashing waves, long sand spits waiting to embrace our keels, stone islets with never a beach for a merciful landing. All of these closed off the safety of the open sea to us.

  I was on the quarterdeck, Stryker having taken over the helm, assisted by two of his strongest, most skilled seamen.

  "Get your women below," he ordered.

  I wondered why? If one of those boulders struck our ship we were all doomed, and I for one, would rather die here in the open air, even though it stank of sulfur and ozone than below in the reeking bilges of the ship — and then one of the soldiers looked back, at the volcano, and screamed.

  I turned to see something that still haunts my dreams and send me shouting awake in panic. A monstrous wave, no, not a wave but truly a wall of water was rushing down upon us. It was gray, struck with white and a line of dirty foam frothed along its crest. It came faster than a tiger at full charge, faster than a spearcast, faster than an arrow, faster than doom itself.

  My eyes told me it dwarfed even the volcano that gave it birth, although I knew that to be impossible. How tall was it? I do not know, I cannot even guess. Taller than our masthead by far. Perhaps twice, or even three times that height, over a hundred feet. It had been birthed near the land, because as it closed on us I could see it bore trees ripped from the earth and even what I thought to be huts and small boats tumbling in its core.

  It roared — louder than the wind, louder than the volcanoes. Perhaps I screamed. Certainly I heard others scream and there would be no shame in that. I dove for shelter, as Stryker, a man harder than anyone had a right to be, shouted final orders for the oars to be brought inboard, and found myself clinging for life to a grating.

  Then the sea took us.

  It lifted us by the stern, up and up, and canting us forward, and I was looking down at the foredeck and the oarsmen, flattening themselves and grabbing their benches for a hold, and on beyond the deck, down at the wave-tossed sea below.

  We rose and rose, being lifted to the top of the wave and I felt a moment of hope and then the crest broke and the sea buried our deck . . . I didn’t know what happened — which way was up and which way was the sky; feeling water pummel me as if I were being beaten in the square ring and my lungs were gasping, shouting for air, no air, no air; my lungs couldn’t stand another moment, but I forbade them the weakness of giving in and then there was air, and we were sliding out of control down the far side of the wave.

  I pulled myself up, had time to see most of my Guardswomen had found holds and few had been washed overboard; and Stryker was alive and shouting orders once more; and Duban as well; and the oars were manned, just as I heard a man scream there were breakers ahead.

  We were about to crash into the reefs. Their claws rose, grasping, just ahead of our bows. And there could be no turning, no evading, as another wave was upon us.

  Again we were lifted, lifted and then buried in the depths and yet again we lived through it, spinning down into the swirling oceans in the wake of these hell waves, and we yet lived.

  I remembered the reef, the reef we were about to impale ourselves on and searched ahead for that new death. But there was nothing and I realized what had happened and looked behind and saw the wave had lifted us up and over those knife-rocks.

  But there were more rocks around us and Stryker was giving commands and the oarsmen were trying to obey but there was no time for anything, as yet a third wave bore down on us
.

  This time, as we rose, I saw two other ships in the grip of the wave — both Orissan.

  Again, we survived.

  The waves came four more times that grim day, each time lifting us and taking us further to the west, further into unknown seas, further from that solid line of reefs that blocked our only known path home to Orissa.

  But finally the last wave had taken us and passed on, and we were tossing in a "normal" storm, able to take stock.

  Through the murk I saw other ships. One of them was Cholla Yi’s.

  We were not the only survivors.

  I saw no sign of the Lycanthian ships. I think, being less quick at the helm, they must have been destroyed by the volcano’s waves. But perhaps some survived, to be driven against the reefs or even to live on, to die on barbaric shores. It mattered not to me. Lycanth was ended.

  But at an awful price.

  We were lost on unknown seas, our charts useless. Men and women were dead and wounded. The only salvation I could see would be in magic. Just as sorcery had brought us to these straits, so our own magic was the only hope we had.

  But lying bloodied, just where his tent had been set just before the battle, was Gamelan. He moved not at all, and there was a great bruise at his forehead.

  He appeared quite dead.

  Book Two

  On Strange Seas

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CRY OF THE LIZARD

  At heart, all gods are malign thugs. I say this without fear, for I have been both favored and damned by the gods, and I’m still uncertain whether we are better off blessed or cursed. I think we are all part of a game of theirs, overseen by a Master Jester, and the board He designed is so littered with pigshit that no mortal can cross without fouling her boots. I’ve also never seen a treasure that didn’t have a serpent hidden in it. Nor encountered a person, no matter how gifted, who at some point did not have just cause to bemoan her fate.

  As I think back on the day of that sea battle, I strongly suspect the halls of the gods were ringing with laughter at our plight. Once again, they granted Orissa victory. But once again, that banner was hoisted on a fouled stick.

  Our losses were frightening: many were dead, and the cries of our wounded echoed across the hissing seas; our fleet of fifteen had been reduced to nine, of which two were so damaged they would soon follow the others into the depths if not repaired. The only real luck that day was nearly all of my women survived the fight unscathed. But those I lost, I mourned deeply, and their absence, as well as Gamelan’s, weighed heavily. But there was no time for mourning, nor for the dead, not yet.

  In spite of the still-heaving seas, I had a longboat lowered, and told Stryker to detail his best seamen to row me across to the flagship. I needed to talk to Cholla Yi, and not by signal flag or speaking trumpet. I also took Corais and Polillo with me.

  The mercenary was somber when I entered his cabin, but after I’d assured him Orissa would bear the cost of replacing his lost ships, his mood lightened greatly. When I offered condolences for his own dead, he shrugged it off.

  "Don’t let them trouble your sleep, Captain," he said. "They certainly won’t trouble mine. They knew the odds when they signed the papers. Besides, they’re nothing but kelp scum, and easily replaced when we return to friendlier seas. Besides, our own share of the spoils will be greater."

  Polillo growled at such disrespect. She’d despised them all, and had even broken the head of one man who’d ogled her too openly. Still, by Polillo’s code, they were fellow warriors just the same, and deserved more from their master. My own thoughts ran along similar lines, so I did not admonish her.

  I was also vaguely uneasy because I felt Cholla Yi had reacted with barely hidden displeasure when I first boarded his galley. It was as if he’d was surprised that I’d survived the battle. I reminded myself not to be foolish and let my dislike for the man read emotions onto his scarred face. Of course Cholla Yi would’ve held a banquet if I fell and broke my neck when we were safely back in Orissa, but on these strange seas every sword counted as ten, and he was no more likely to indulge his petty hatreds than I.

  Corais filled the gap: "You talk of our return as if it were as easy as polishing new steel." She pointed at the chart unrolled on the table. "We don’t even know where we are. We’ve sailed off the great chart, and even that rough map Gamelan had, in case you haven’t noticed."

  "It’s not so difficult as all that," he replied, giving Phocas a wink at the foolish question. "We’ll sort it out once we’re back on the other side of the reef."

  Corais smiled back, but it was a thin smile and I saw a glint in her eye hard enough to sharpen a dirk.

  I looked through Cholla Yi’s big stern window at the black reefs studded with growling volcanoes. From the deck, they’d seemed to stretch forever both to our north and south.

  "I suppose they must end at some point," I said. "The question is, which direction will get us there the quickest?"

  "Too bad the wizard’s not with us," Phocas said. "We could get him to cast the bones."

  I wished Gamelan was at our side for more reason than that. When I’d seen him lying on the deck, blood streaming down his still face, I’d suffered a deep hurt, almost as if I’d lost one of my own. He’d become a good friend in a very brief time, and I knew I’d miss his company, even if he had nagged me about my supposed magical birthright. The sailors responsible for gathering the dead for burial had refused to touch his body. They feared the wizard even in death. I’d ordered him placed in his little cabin until we had time to prepare his corpse for proper purification and funeral ceremonies worthy of the greatest of Orissa’s Evocators.

  His death-rites should’ve lasted for weeks, with an entire city in mourning and the Palace of the Evocators darkened, and the skies themselves cast with a magical darkness. Whoever the Evocators’ Guild would’ve named as his replacement, after long and solemn conclave, would’ve officiated at the ceremonies, and eulogies would be given by all the Magistrates and leading citizens. A square or a boulevard would’ve been given his name and herds of cattle and perhaps even a human soul or two, possibly a grief-stricken volunteer, would’ve been sacrificed. But out here, many unknown leagues from Orissa, we would do the best we could, when there was time. I planned to slip him over the side myself.

  Cholla Yi’s scoffing reply broke through: "We don’t need a wizard to choose," he said. "Either will do. What’s a few days, one way or the other?"

  He fished a gold coin out of his pocket. It was from Irayas, with the head of King Domas engraved on one side, and the serpent and sun symbol on the other. I wondered how the thief came by such a rare coin.

  "Let’s let the tavern gods decide," he said. "If it falls kings, we go north. Snakes, is south."

  I merely nodded. But as he tossed the coin and it spun upward, King Domas’ image leaped into my mind. North. We should strike north. The coin rang against the table and I looked to see the serpent side lying face up.

  "South it is, then," Cholla Yi said.

  I almost told him — No! We must strike north. I prickled all over with the need for the telling.

  Then the prickling vanished, leaving me feeling confused and foolish.

  "Very well," I said.

  With that, I sealed our fate.

  So we sailed south. The chain of reefs was unrelenting, mile after mile of jagged rock ridged with endless volcanoes. Many of them were active, spewing smoke and lava that poured down the sides and set the seas to boiling. At one place, dead fish by the thousands floated belly up. Swarms of birds circled and cried out in delight at the fresh meat. The wind shifted, carrying with it a dense cloud of smoke from one of the volcanoes. As the birds passed through it, I was shocked to see them plummet from the sky. Then the acrid fumes washed over us. The stench was so poisonous many fell retching to the deck. Gasped orders sent us pulling away, but I tell you, Scribe, the rowers were so overcome that we barely moved. And if the wind hadn’t shifted at that moment, I doubt I’d
be here at this moment boring you with my adventures.

  When we reached what we thought to be a safe distance, we hove to, so we could recover. My skull was pounding, and every bone in my body felt as if I had been wrung by a giant. I gulped sweet, tangy air until my head spun; but it soon did its job and I felt cleansed.

  As I turned to see how the others fared, I heard a voice cry out: "Get away from me, you fool!" It was Gamelan! But wasn’t he dead? "By Te Date, I swear I’ll turn you into a frog! And your mother and father will be frog as well!"

  I rushed below in time to see a wizened little fellow with a scar the size of my palm dash out of Gamelan’s quarters. I ignored him, and ran inside.

  Gamelan was sitting up, ripping at the white cotton cloth that had been wound about him. He looked up when he heard me enter. "Another thief," he cried. "Good. I’ll make you a heron and you can eat that other man and his kin. Then I’ll conjure a demon to strip your feathers for arrows and flay your skin for his quiver."

  "You’re alive!" I cried.

  "Of course, I’m alive," the wizard grumbled, tugging at the burial cloth. "Now, if you’ll be so good as to light a lamp so I can see whom I’m cursing, I’ll reward you by putting you out of your misery as quickly as possible."

  I didn’t answer. I could only stare at those great wide eyes. Instead of fiery yellow, they were a washed out and vacant blue. He turned his head this way and that, but his eyes would not focus on anything. I knelt by his side.

  Gamelan sniffed the air. "Rali?" He’d smelled my perfume.

  He reached out a hand, quite tentative, and it touched my breast. I did not push it away.

  "Yes, my friend," I said. "It’s Rali."

  He blushed, realizing where his hand fallen, and snatched it away. "I’m sorry," he said. "But it’s so dark in here. Get them to light a few lamps, will you Rali? There’s a good woman."