“Your fervour will be rewarded, but the Council is in no hurry for my sainthood. Do not fear, Jando will survive another season and I will endure. The Council is less concerned with redemption and more so with pirates and rebels leeching our strength.”
“Then I will bring you proof of the pirate lair from the mouth of our new Commodore.”
“Yes, that will serve all our interests, Brother. Redemption is but one of the Lord’s miracles. We must accommodate compassion for the Lord’s faithful with equal measure.”
“As you say.”
“Lord’s blessings go with you, Brother.”
“Also with you, Your Grace”
The ether retracted from Uighara’s mind. Three neat white piles, tiny dust mountains, were all that remained of his sacrifice, the essence now degraded. He puffed across the blackstone, blowing the dull powder off its mirror surface. A gentle press and shake of a belt pouch was sufficient to reveal about a hand and a half remained. That would serve for the moment. The redeemer pressed another pouch and tucked his fingers in; both treasures were still there. Pulling them out one by one, he felt the energetic potential tingle up his palm. An incisor and a molar; they’d be a godsend if there was an emergency. He’d not waste them on the blackstone. Bones of the faithful just weren’t as clear over these distances, though blessed or not, they would have to do for now.
Removing his cowl, Uighara lay back in a hammock, enjoying the gentle lull of the ocean. His shoulders and neck ached from the day’s mental exertions, there were so many details to arrange, so many powers to appease; pawns to manipulate.
Considering the logistics of it all, only a few problems had arisen, all solvable of course. The greatest of all the Lord’s work would be done; things were falling into place nicely. The young upstart Commodore had a whiff of pirate and wouldn’t let up the chase until he knew the location of the lair. He was no different from his nit-picking father, always seeking proof to the detriment of faith. He wouldn’t take Uighara’s word for it, as obvious as it was.
Uighara’s father was the same, so powerful, yet so weak. He couldn’t grasp what he had and would surely let another opportunity slip away. The fool had no idea.
The tide of sleep came in and Uighara drifted to the deep rest of the exhausted.
***
A milk faced undanae with black saucer eyes and a pointed grin stood by the door. He bent sideways like a waning moon, his head tilted, eyes devouring all light.
“How nice to have a nap, yes?”
“Zarkas,” announced Uighara with a boy’s voice steeped in innocence long faded. He rocked on a wooden painted horse in his childhood home. The walls were decorated with endearing pastel murals, the floor warmed with colourful rugs.
“Why do I always find you as a boy, hmm?”
Uighara grasped his lucidity and refurnished the dream. He weaved his surroundings into a spacious stone walled chamber with blazing hearth, ornate tapestries, redwood furniture and gilded finery.
“More to my taste, certainly,” Zarkas enjoyed a wry smile, deepening the dark wells of his dimpled cheeks. “Though, I must say the horse is a little small for you now.”
Flustered and ashamed, Uighara dismounted from the wooden horse. He willed it gone, but it would not be undone. Dreaming an axe into his hands, he hacked it to pieces, throwing them to the fire. The angels of the Lord knew his every weakness.
“Why do you call?” Uighara dusted his hands off then warmed them by the fire, watching the lacquer crack and blister the head of the horse. “Everything is in order.”
“That perhaps, is your problem. Shall order bring the return of our Lord?”
“It is just an expression, our plans proceed without complication.”
“Humans make little sense.”
“The barges are built and armed, our net is ready. I have already told you this. What do you want?”
“When, is the question. When do I want?”
“We await our reserve supply of reagent to be loaded. Once it is stockpiled and secure at Lord’s Landing we will proceed to engage the pirates.”
“Do you have the armada?”
“No, not yet, the Lord’s High Admiral will not rally the armada without proof. I will extrac—”
“You dally when you need speed. The Lord will be displeased.”
“Everything will be in its place.”
“Time is short. If you are incapable, then I will find another. Perhaps the High Priest would have made a better choice.”
Uighara sneered. “That old dolt barely understands the process, let alone the ritual. You need me Zarkas. You know you do.”
There was no reply. Zarkas was gone and the room had transformed back to that of his childhood; his horse burned in the fire, a crippled mess of charred limbs and broken memories.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rum Hill
Elrin woke the next morning to the sun rising over the sea. He had walked through the night to get there, trudging on until the moon set and fatigue forced him to rest. In the darkness he hadn’t noticed how close he was.
Cane fields filed off beside the worn road, which stretched on to Rum Hill. The port town was a shamble of buildings strewn around a small harbour. The town centre nestled against the foot of a grassy hill that rolled up and out into the ocean, ending in a sheer headland. Elrin drank in the view of the sheltered bay and breathed in the sweet scent of molasses.
At the edge of the town people were busy. Teams of mules turned cane mills and workers hovered over steaming segmented vats, cooking down cane juice into rich brown syrup. In the town centre bunkhouses, storehouses and distilleries lent on each other in a patchwork of repair and extension; the structures were opportunistic like the people on the streets. Elrin avoided the drunkards begging favours and promising friendship, blushed past the barely draped welcome girls, and made haste to the dockyards.
Elrin knew the border towns were under Jandan control, but there was no sign of it through Rum Hill. There were no lawmen or town guards, unless they were in the pubs and pleasure houses. Elrin’s mother had likened the border towns to poor orphans abandoned by Jando. His father said they had the best and the worst of everything in equal measure. Honest folk with character and spirit worked to feed their families and shady malefactors schemed and skimmed from the unwary. Border towns were places to right wrongs and sing songs; heroes could rise and make things right.
The main road curved around the base of Rum Hill and descended upon the docks. The bay bloomed into a vast ocean, more expansive than he ever imagined possible. As a boy running about Calimska, he thought the Lake of Tears was the sea. His father’s stories of the open ocean were incomprehensible until now.
The morning sun skimmed across a horizon without end. The cool kiss of the ocean breeze tasted of salt and filled his mind with the romance of what he could be. He hadn’t lost everything; he had his father’s dagger and a quest. There was a life of adventure ahead where he could be a hero and save his father. It was as clear as the summer sky.
He walked on in the sunshine and convinced himself that the dead letter against him was just part of the adventure. It was another verse for the bards to sing. There was no better tale to tell than one of adversity overcome.
The bounce in his step petered out; a niggling doubt lodged in his mind like a stone stuck in his boot. The bounty hunters who chased him into the forest were just a taste of the sorts that would spill his blood, and they were so well-equipped. Elrin began to question how a dagger alone would serve as an adequate defence in all situations. He would have to get awfully close to an enemy to strike. If only he had a sword ... if only he knew how to use a sword. Elrin polished the shine in the situation, picking up his step again; his father started out with a dagger and his wits, he could too.
Elrin rested his palm on the dagger’s black jewelled pommel. The bedtime tales of his father’s adventures were all he really knew of battle. Fighting off goblins and giants to take their ill-gott
en treasure. Saving villagers from raiding orcs and recovering the plunder to give to the poor. Something within the dagger reached out to him with comfort, making the tales of his father possible for him too. He was destined for adventure and could learn on his travels; he didn’t need to waste his years polishing someone else’s steel, he’d sharpen his own.
“Watch where you’re goin’ son!” A wiry man grabbed Elrin’s arm and pulled him back. A stack of planks glanced past Elrin’s head as a gantry crane moved to load a cart nearby.
“Sorry.” Elrin held his hands up in apology. “Do you know where I can find the head dockman?”
“The what?” shouted the skinny docker.
Elrin waved him off in apology, his voice would only be drowned out by the racket. Dockers hollered and whistled at each other positioning heavy lifts on the gantries while draft horses clattered about pulling cargo. Gulls squabbled around the fishing boats and the ships groaned and jostled in their moorings. It was impossible to have a clear conversation. Dockers used hand signals or whistled to organise loads. Elrin often had made deliveries to the docks on the Lake of Tears and recalled yelling there hadn’t been very effective either.
Rather than ask around, Elrin decided to look around. The head docker usually stood out as the most frustrated; some burly, barrel-chested, pot-bellied hulk, pointing and yelling abuse. He jumped up on a stack of unloaded crates to get a better view. Sharing the docks with a few trade galleys and fishing skiffs was an intimidating Jandan frigate, its three masts towering higher than any other. It was at least twice the length of the biggest merchant ship in the harbour.
The immensity of the frigate and the number of crew that worked its decks impressed upon Elrin the muscle Jando flexed to control Rum Hill. With the Navy holding the port, they secured trade and tax revenues for Jando without having to fortify an outpost on land. It was a simple minded strategy, with merit for expanding Jandan control along the coast, but did nothing to improve life for the locals. One of the books he had snuck from the merchant guild’s library articulated a treatise on the failings of these ham-fisted approaches to rent seeking. Elrin thought it was obvious enough without the lengthy explanation; if the people suffer your revenue base suffers.
A shrill whistle from the centre of the shipyard caught Elrin’s attention. A man sat on a chair so tall there was a ladder to reach the top. He was like a brusque canary on its perch, whistling commands through a loudhorn. Piercing notes rose and fell, alternating between broken pulses and long calls. His shirt was bright yellow and he had a matching hat with a piece of cloth hanging over his neck and ears. The peak at the front shaded his eyes. He wore loose trousers that extended to his knees, exposing his leather brown legs below.
Elrin jumped down from the stack of crates and walked to the high chair. From below he couldn’t see the man, just a pair of hairy brown calloused feet dangling over the chair.
“Hello.”
The little man kept on whistling, ignoring Elrin below.
He yelled louder. “Excuse me!”
The lead docker leaned forward, staring down between his feet with a dark look.
“What? This is no safe place for a shiner. Go home.”
“No, I think you misunderstand, I wa—”
“There’s no throne down here, lad. Head back to town or muck in the bushes, then bugger off!”
“No. That’s not what I mean—”
A loud explosion sounded from the central pier where the Jandan frigate was moored. Smoke drifted above a stack of crates and barrels, flames licking at the timber.
The little yellow man put the cone to his mouth and shouted down at Elrin. “Get out of here boy. Now!”
In a moment of brilliance, Elrin knew exactly how to earn his way to Jando. He ran to the smoking crates while the canary went berserk atop his perch. Men raced about in all directions. Elrin got to the fire and realised that he had no pail of water and an empty bladder.
More crates were lighting up and workers nearby leapt into the water, swimming to safety. Elrin stood alone on the pier, unaided by the marines on the frigate who only stared at the barrels in terror. The officers were shouting orders to raise anchor while sailors jumped overboard.
The barrels bore the stamp of a cannon and a flame. Elrin’s stomach dropped; black powder. He was going to be pierced with splinters and fried for the fool he was.
The frigate captain’s face begged for a miracle, but Elrin was no sorcerer. The heat from the crates intensified. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and imagined what his father might do.
He kicked out at the flaming crates in the hope it might prevent the volatile barrels bringing his quest to an abrupt end. Sparks leapt into the air and the flames licked out, singeing his leg hair. The crates rocked forward in their stack, but then rocked back towards him. He kicked again and several flaming crates fell into the water, sizzling as they were smothered out. Encouraged by that, he struck out once more. Some tumbled back along the pier, but he quickly knocked them off before the decking itself caught alight. Soon all the crates were in the water, even the ones that weren’t on fire had accidentally gone in; victims of his enthusiasm. When he stopped he noticed his boot and pants had caught alight.
Elrin was just about to dive off the pier when a gush of water sloshed onto his legs, dousing the flames. The head dockman had rushed to help with a bucket of water, his yellow shirt glaring under the sun. No one else wanted to come near; most of the dockers had taken shelter behind the cargo stacked about the shipyard. Others had run halfway up the road to town, hoping to witness the impending explosion from a safe distance.
“By the root! You’re a brave shiner,” said the head docker, slapping Elrin’s back. Most men I’ve known don’t run towards certain death.”
Now that the man was off his perch, Elrin realised his small stature. He only came up to Elrin's elbow, which presented a problem of clarification; was he dwarven or a shankakin? He was leaner than a dwarf, but taller than any shankakin he had met in Calimska. He had no beard, but that was no sure sign he wasn't a dwarf; he had no boots, but that was no sure sign he was a shankakin. Elrin tried not to stare and mumbled a reply. “I suppose death wasn’t so certain. You ran here too.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I saw you doing a stand up job, but I thought I’d lend you a hand. I’ve found running toward fires with a full bucket of water works out better for me.” The canary man pointed to his large feet. They were covered in thick hair and disproportionately large in comparison with his short, compact frame; he had to be a shankakin.
“Didn’t want to cause a bushfire on your hoofers huh?” Elrin laughed. “Thanks for saving mine.”
“Not at all, lad. You saved me rebuilding the pier. The thanks are mine. You’re a bloody idiot though.” He beckoned Elrin closer and lowered his voice. “Next time kick these barrels of hellfire off instead. I know many who’d thank you for that around here.”
The officers screamed orders down the chain of command, rallying the men back to their posts. A ramp pushed past the bulwark and dropped onto the pier with a thud. Two Jandan marines escorted an ogre in chains down the gangplank.
One of them, an officer with a brutal grimace, cracked his whip across the ogre’s bare back. The ogre shuffled his legs faster in an awkward motion that strained the planks. They bowed and flexed, yet held against the punishment.
Every ogre Elrin heard tell of was covered head to foot in grotesque images of their tribal totems. This one had no ink, only scars, new and old, carving a painful landscape across his brown green skin. Blood caked over the shackles and heavy chains restricted his movement; slavery had reduced the fearsome warrior to a beast of burden.
He grasped a barrel in each hand and lifted them with the ease of two mugs of ale. For a moment his keen blue eyes considered Elrin. The officer behind him dispensed another lash and the ogre winced, dropping his eyes to the ground. His enormous body shambled around and stomped up the gangplank to load the black powder on th
e ship.
The frigate's commanding officer strode down the gangway. He was a handsome man with an air of insistence that projected from him like a spear. Sunlight spun sharp lines off his polished buttons and buckles. His blue overcoat highlighted his sunburnt cheeks and the crisp white collar of his undershirt.
“What’s your name boy? You just saved our dear Juniper a week in drydock.” His voice carried an expectation of compliance.
Elrin hesitated to answer—he couldn’t use his real name.
The head dockman moved between them, his yellow shirt playing in the breeze. He was the blazing sun stealing the horizon from a dark blue sky.
“Keep your mitts off him, Pelegrin. He’s not interested.”
Pelegrin stretched a difficult smile, refusing to look at the shankakin. “I’m sure the boy is interested in a reward for his bravery. Aren’t you boy?”
Elrin was about to answer, but was cut off.
“Bravery! Ha! Stupidity more like, should have pushed your hellfire off before risking his life.”
Pelegrin’s attention snapped away from Elrin and thrust upon his antagoniser. “I’ll have you for conspiracy against the Council for that. Who by divine redemption are you?”
“Delik. Name ring any bells in your hollow head? Or are you still listening to the sound of your own divine trumpet?” Delik’s big feet were set firmly in place. Like the frigate to the galley, Pelegrin towered head and shoulders over him.
“Recant, grub!” Pelegrin spat onto the deck and reached for his sabre.
Delik kept his voice even, his demeanour pleasant. “If I’d known it was you up here in this murdering hulk you call a ship, I’d have come to welcome you sooner. I heard you had a promotion after wiping out Tillydale, or did you dress up some other cowardice as glory for your bloodthirsty Lord?”
The shankakin held his ground, daring Pelegrin to draw his weapon. Delik had nerve; positioning his body close enough to strike before Pelegrin could draw his sabre. The smaller man had to be betting he’d be fast enough in close quarters to have a chance against a military officer.
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