∗ ∗ ∗
In the morning they held a wake.
The Smoke-Tongued still had only dim recollections of what had occurred, and some bore resentment in their eyes as they were unshackled. Ozrif told Gideon that a sterner captain would have whipped the defiant crew, compulsion or no compulsion. This made Gideon glad he was never a sailor.
Any resentment soon faded away in the business of praising dead Oakstave. As was usual at such events, Gideon regretted not knowing the man better. In the crew's recollections, Oakstave was becoming something of a saint among sailors—a foul-mouthed, violent sort of saint, to be sure, but one loyal to his shipmates, and resolute at his station until the end. His comrades swore to hunt down the fog-makers responsible for his end.
But as if in mockery of their loss, the next few villages provided little information. Their most recent fog manifestations—doom fog, bane fog, nightmare mist, fright cloud, as various villagers had it—were weeks in the past. Riposte learned nothing new.
They'd come now to the region where the Verduran Forest dominated. The trees grew taller and thicker. The final Taldan village before the deep forest was Solscrene, a small settlement rising from a craggy little island. Riposte stopped for victuals and tales and found plenty of both. They heard stories of fog attacks, and stories also of the terrible nature of Andorens, Galtans, druids, and gnomes.
But no one gave them a genuine lead to follow.
"The pattern's consistent," Gideon told Sebastian as the crew cast off. "They know the fog affects their minds, but the hatreds and fears persist anyway."
"Hm. From here on the settlements will all be Andoren. Their side of the river's untouched by the Wildwood Treaty. I wonder if the pattern will be different for them."
∗ ∗ ∗
Judging by the villages of Rippleden and Whiterush, the effects were worse.
The two tiny Andoren settlements, with their cheery houses, thatched roofs, and gregarious people, looked nearly identical apart from the southern village's situation in a region of still shallows and the northern village's perch in an area of gurgling rapids.
But the inhabitants agreed on exactly two things. First, that there was a dangerous fog about; and, second, that they were far superior to their nearest neighbors.
"So these Whiterushers," Gideon asked in Rippleden, "they're vicious brutes?"
"Can't never trust a man born near rapids," sneered an old woman. "All that roarin'. Ruins their heads. Probably they conjured up that fog themselves."
"And the Rippledens," Corvine asked a few hours later in Whiterush, "thieves and scoundrels, I take it?"
"You have that right!" jeered an old man. "Stagnant water breeds stagnant souls. Mark me, that fog will turn out to be their witchery."
"So much for Andoren solidarity," Sebastian said as they left Whiterush and its rapids behind. The traverse had been tricky, requiring the help of Leothric's fan of winds, and the captain was in a foul mood.
Gideon's spirits were little better. "I haven't exactly seen universal love from the Taldans."
"Taldans don't claim to be sweeter and kinder to each other."
Corvine intervened. "It's often the case that people alike in almost everything will come to blows about how to wear their hats."
Ozrif nodded. "The nastiest infighting I ever saw in Katapesh was between two priestesses of Sarenrae the Dawnflower, one who supported Qadiran expansion, and one who didn't."
"Yet another reason to keep both branches of that cult outlawed in Taldor," Sebastian said.
Gideon noticed that the black-garbed sailor named Dymphna lowered her eyes at that. He changed the subject. "I have to admit, Andorens sometimes claim an idealism they can't live up to. It's one reason I left. I breathe easier in Taldor."
"That surprises me," Corvine said.
Sebastian laughed. "Gideon merely has good taste! All right then, onward. I want to make up time lost in the rapids."
It was the Night of the Pale, when the dead were said to walk, and although Sebastian officially discouraged observance of that peculiar holiday aboard Riposte, many of the crew muttered prayers and made signs against evil. The bright moon was only a few days past full, and the stars shone like freshly polished jewels, and Sebastian had them press on through early evening. Even the Andorens had no settlements nearby. The region was high-banked and thickly wooded. Eventually the moon set and even Sebastian conceded there was no reason to risk passing onward in the darkness.
They were anchoring for the night when Zethril, the elven bosun, caught a glimpse of lights.
"A village?" Sebastian called, peering ahead. "None is listed in our charts."
"Not a village, I think," Zethril called back after ascending the rigging. "It's in the water. A ship, I think. What say you, Grizzendell? Crallak?"
"I think you're right," answered the gnome.
"Not seein' it," said Crallak the half-orc. "But I trust your eyes, gents."
Gideon noticed Zethril did not consult his fellow elf Tyndron, the remaining crew member with keen eyes for darkness. Tyndron volunteered nothing.
"It's in some kind of trouble," Zethril said, returning to the deck. "Lantern-lights moving around in a hurry." He shared a troubled look with the captain. "This is unexpected."
Sebastian grimaced, studying the sky. The stars blazed, but that counted for little on the river.
"Get us to that ship," he called to Adebeyo. "Grizzendell, take the helm. I want the elves on lookout to port and starboard. Bards, to the bow."
When they'd gathered by the figurehead with the dagger in her teeth, Sebastian said, "Anyone who can light our way, do it now, if you would."
Gideon was about to offer, when Corvine raised a small envelope and said, "I'll handle it." Reaching the bow, she hummed a few bars of "Daybreak at Mount Antios," incanted a bizarre formula, and removed a dead firefly from the envelope. She stretched and tapped Riposte's figurehead on the nose. Light filled the river to a distance of twenty feet.
They approached the other ship.
It was a sailed cargo vessel, and although smaller than Riposte, it was likewise suited, albeit awkwardly, for ocean as well as inland travel.
But it would do no more voyaging. The ship was wrecked, leaning upon a bank and embraced by the piercing branches of trees. Gideon knew legends of trees that walked, and it almost seemed an angry grove had claimed this ship. But he suspected it was something else, for an unnaturally thick fog surrounded the vessel, making eerie red blurs of the torches waved erratically by the figures on board.
"It's a fight," he said. "They must be afflicted by the fog, just as we were."
"I see it," Sebastian said. "Get us alongside!"
"We might wreck, too," his gnome quartermaster objected. "It's an inauspicious night for battle—"
"Nothing about the Night of the Pale, Grizzendell. Not now."
"I'm just saying, Captain, better we send the boat."
"No time. But we can deploy the corvus. And you know how I normally discourage grappling the enemy's rigging and swinging aboard?"
"Aye. No fun, you are."
"It's too risky against determined defense, but this is different. Our job is to quell a mob. Swarm that ship however you can."
"Aye, aye!"
"Bards!" Sebastian called.
"We're ready to fight," said Leothric.
"I want you to perform."
"What?" Gideon said.
"You've never fought a boarding action. And you know well what effect this fog may have upon my crew. I observed that song-magic had some effect on the Smoke-Tongued." Sebastian leaned closer to Gideon. "Watch well those who were afflicted before. If the fog claims them again, cry out, 'Ware! Ware!' and I'll be alerted."
Gideon nodded, and Sebastian turned away to order the deployment of the corvus.
This device turned out to be simply a boarding ramp with a steel spike on the underside, shaped like a beak. As Riposte came alongside the derelict, with the light from Corvin
e's spell illuminating the deck, the corvus slammed down with a jolt.
A force of Riposte's sailors charged across, calling out their desire to help. Meanwhile the Maestro, the elves, and other daredevils employed grappling hooks and swung onto the beleaguered ship's rigging, just as if they belonged in an opera.
In the shadows and fog, there were answering cries of hope.
"Allies!" a woman's voice called like bright steel. "Allies are here! Rally, my knights!" Her accent was Andoren.
It seemed criminal, somehow, not to directly help. But the Seasick Troubadours, now fortified with the voice of Corvine Gale, rose to the occasion. They knew "The Rat Song" now. They also sang "The Qadiran's Merry Widow," and Admiral Kasaba's birthday song, and the Taldan national anthem. Ozrif, Viridia, and Leothric weren't the strongest of singers, but Ozrif also juggled daggers, Viridia danced, and Leothric used puppets to mime the action of songs. He was particularly animated during the ditty "Ocean God's Chest."
So they quaffed their elixirs to breathe in the sea
And they weighted their ankles to drop fathoms three...
Even with the lanterns and the figurehead's light it was hard to discern what was occurring aboard the wreck. There was considerable running about and screaming. As near as Gideon could tell, a small group of people, some armored, were attempting to hold off a larger group of fog-possessed people, and had been losing when Riposte arrived.
Matters were clearly desperate. Perhaps the fog was stronger this time, for Sebastian's privateers seemed unable to quell the attackers with anything but violence. Gideon felt a sorrow at this, but there was little he could do.
And Crumb spied a treasure box, stout and tight-latched
And it looked quite peculiar, with two lines attached...
"Something's wrong," Corvine said, leaving off her singing. "Our group's being pushed back."
It was true. Gideon saw the privateers and the derelict's defenders start a fighting retreat back to the corvus.
"Performance isn't going to be enough," said Ozrif, daggers twirling around him.
"All right," Gideon said. "Corvine is our finest spellcaster—"
"Also our best singer."
"Less flirting, more action," said Viridia.
"Who's flirting?" said Ozrif.
"Corvine, guard the corvus," Gideon said, talking over him.
"With pleasure."
"Ozrif—you guard Corvine."
"Why not me?" said Viridia.
"We need to keep singing, and I want a female voice for balance. Leothric..."
Leothric, without having to be told, had kept puppeteering and singing throughout. Gideon patted him on the shoulder and pointed toward the corvus. Gideon picked up the thread of "Ocean God's Chest" as Leothric ran.
And now a voice rumbled from just overhead
"Drop my locket, you knaves, or you'll soon be dead!"
Now the boarding party and those they'd rescued backed up onto the corvus, the warriors and privateers swinging blades and shouting oaths, and Corvine and Leothric casting their disenchantments and sonic blasts.
They cut loose their ballast and swam for the air
As giant green hands sought to keep them down there.
Certain of the possessed regained their wits, and others fell. But more kept coming, and those who were freed swiftly became possessed once more. Now Gideon could see that the warriors from the other ship wore the blue-and-white livery of Andoran's military. He wanted to join the fray, but he and Viridia had to continue the performance if they could.
Now take my advice and consider ye blessed
That ye've never set foot on the Ocean God's—
Before he and Viridia could finish, the fog-maddened figures overwhelmed the group upon the corvus and shoved aboard. Gideon and Viridia ran to the aid of their friends, for Ozrif was suddenly flanked, and Corvine and Leothric were left vulnerable.
Gideon noted there were several Leothrics now, so he left the illusion-guarded puppeteer for the moment and joined Corvine, even as Viridia assisted Ozrif. Gideon found himself blocking the approach of an Andoren man whose eyes and breath dribbled fog.
"Die!" the man screeched. "All who oppose the new revolution will die!" Then the Smoke-Tongued lost his rhetoric and chose to rely on his molars.
Gideon found himself wrestling with a lunatic, the man's teeth digging into his throat. Even now he didn't want to kill what was (probably) his innocent countryman. He dropped his dagger, choosing instead to remember the lessons of the Master of Steel and Sinew.
To know pain thoroughly, to feel it in all its jabs and waves, is to come to recognize it as a kind of sense all its own. It will become your servant, instead of you its. We'll begin with this tiny flame ...
Gideon had not much liked the Novice's Course in Pain. And for all his simulations, the Master hadn't included the sensation of having a deranged combatant try to bite one's neck off. But the lessons proved useful this night. He was able to drop, roll, knee, and kick.
If overwhelmed in an unarmed brawl, your best defense is to drop and kick. Dropping makes you a less exposed target. And if you have any notion that kicking is undignified for a man, Gull, drop it and kick it away now.
Kicking caused the Smoke-Tongued to break the bite, though Gideon felt blood dribble down his neck. The man teetered on the edge of the ship, and Gideon considered offering a hand to him, only to see Corvine step forward and stab the possessed man in the chest with Gideon's dropped dagger.
The force of the blow took the man overboard. He splashed and sank.
Gideon and Corvine shared a long look.
The moment was interrupted by a bellow from Leothric. The puppeteer stood alone upon the corvus, confronting the bulk of the enemy.
"No!" he shouted. "This is my ship! You shall not take her! These people are under the protection of Leothric, son of Vandric! You are dismissed!"
Leothric wielded no weapon, but his puppet of Sir Gothmoor brandished the magical fan of winds. With a keen sense of drama, and an overhead wave, he unleashed it.
An enraged pack of the fog-possessed fell upon Leothric, popping his illusory duplicates into nothingness even as the force of a gale exploded across the river bend, blasting its way onto the opposing ship.
The fog shattered. It tore apart into small quivering pieces, writhing serpentine toward the waters. Even so, some unnatural liveliness within it tried to fight back, and one of the tendrils lashed at Leothric as the bard fell beneath his attackers.
"No!" Gideon cried. With Corvine, Ozrif, and Viridia beside him, he leapt among the attackers. Daggerless, he fought with foot and fist and elbow, the growl of the Lion Blades in his throat.
The bulk of the fog was gone, but many of the frothers continued to fight, the last wisps of the mist reluctant to abandon their hosts. All around him, people screamed and stabbed, yet Gideon fought only to reach Leothric.
He was the first to make it through the press. As soon as he grabbed the fallen bard, his hands were covered in blood.
"Healer!" Gideon cried.
"Too late, I think..." gasped Leothric, finding some will within him to speak. "Should have tried fan earlier. Gideon, the fog...it has a mind..."
"Shut up, man." Erastil damn it, Gideon thought. Why hadn't he bothered to learn a healing spell?
Leothric turned toward Gideon, a puppeteer forcing the last performance from his body. "I sensed herthoughts, Gideon...don't trust..."
"What? What are you saying?"
But Leothric could answer no more.
The last of the fog dispersed, and Sebastian held up his hand to spare the last two combatants, Andoren sailors who were crouching and blinking.
Lunette, the carpenter who was also ship's surgeon, reached Gideon. All she could do was shake her head and close Leothric's eyes.
Gideon lowered his head.
"He's a hero," said a woman's voice at his side. Gideon looked up to see a woman in a bloodied blue-and-white uniform of Andoran, a comman
der by the look of it. "He'll be accorded the full honors of my country."
And although Andoran was Gideon's country too, all he could answer was, "He was a bard. That was enough for him."
Chapter Eleven
Anthem for Andoran
The grim half-hour that followed, in which losses were tallied and the derelict ransacked for supplies, would become a blur in Gideon's recollection, obscured in the crimson blaze that was his memory of the battle.
Of the possessed Andorens, only the two had survived. Their names were Hammerton and Briar, the merchantman Hawkslight's accountant and cook, and Gideon gathered the two middle-aged men were a couple. Well, he was glad they had each other, for they'd lost everything else. Their armored countrymen were Golden Legionaries of the Eagle Knights, and under other circumstances having them aboard would have brought Gideon confidence. But there were only four.
Their leader bore a shield but otherwise wasn't armored. This surprised Gideon, as in his limited experience with warriors, greater status meant better armor, better weapons, better horses, and in all ways better odds of survival. But her white shirt and breeches, black spatterdashes at the feet, and lace doublet at the neck, were typical of any Andoren warrior. Only the insignia on her blue waistcoat announced her as a commander, and only the eagle figurine around her neck betrayed her as a member of the Golden Legion.
Or rather, that and the bloody blade she still gripped, with its pommel like a golden raptor with outstretched wings.
"No arguments, Kester," she was telling a subordinate. "The provisions belong to our rescuers now, Taldan or no. Our ship is done."
As an Andoren who'd lived long among Taldans, Gideon was ashamed to find himself thinking of the commander's visage as a commoner's face. There was a young-old look to her that implied long hours of work outdoors, rather than indoor leisure broken by the occasional battle or hunt. In the firelight he saw fierce blue eyes beneath a bundled-up head of honey-brown hair. There was a hint of freckles about her face, and lines about her mouth that suggested a woman who grinned frequently, though there were no smiles now. Rather, there was a set to her jaw that implied no one—not bard, mariner, king, or god—ought to get in her way.
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