by Chris Ward
It was quiet under the sea, and slower too. Rema swam like a porpoise head down, eyes open, ignoring the sting of the salt. His ears screamed at the pressure, his lungs no longer held any reserve, his hand reached out, and then he had her, and gently brought her back to the surface. By luck a fishing smack was nearby and the crew of two hauled them both aboard whereupon Rema tried valiantly to revive the unconscious Serenna. It was the gentle fisherman who did it in the end, for Rema was exhausted by his efforts and hardly had the strength to even lift her head. The weathered old man seemed to know what to do for as he massaged her chest she suddenly coughed and spluttered and took a breath. And she was saved.
It was a different ship which sailed from Lavas harbour two days later. The Scoria was a crew member short, for Wormwood had disappeared and no one knew what had become of him. Captain Lethyne Tyne seemed more at ease with himself and growled less. He had stopped calling Rema ‘lad’ and Serenna had made a full recovery. The crew had feted Rema and their Captain with a deck party the night before they left, at which Commander Bjorkman was an honoured guest, and the major merchants of Lavas were invited. This all meant a slow start the next day but not even Tyne seemed to mind too much.
The township had witnessed the destruction of the Ocean Rose from vantage points around the harbour and the wreck had been towed ashore before it sank, and was now to be displayed as a warning to any who might want to test the defences of Lavas and the Commander’s mighty machine.
Best of all Rema had his bow back, for by chance it had caught in a fisherman’s net and was returned undamaged on the night of the party, much to his great relief for he had been devastated at its loss, full knowing that it would take a year to make another, and without it, all was lost. The only tension on board was that which now existed between Tyne and his faithful Scion, for their relationship had suffered greatly and the two spoke little beyond what was necessary to run the ship. Captain Lethyne Tyne could not forgive him for his words and actions in the Royal Tavern that day. It grieved Rema and Serenna, but it was not a problem they could solve, but instead they offered friendship to the brave Scion whenever they could. He would not speak of it, but they perceived a hardening in his heart towards the captain, and they wondered where it might end.
The Scoria made passage without incident in good winds around the ‘beak’ of Revelyn as Rema now called it, heading for the legendary Needles off the Bay of Fish. They planned to put in at Waterman and from there strike out across country to the Eastern Upthrust, and the forbidden land of the Edenwhood. They passed close inshore and saw the lights of Svind on their third night out from Lavas, and in the morning of the fourth day the Needles appeared to the north east. All seemed to be going well until Scion noticed the thick dark band of clouds gathering on the horizon to the south. He watched it carefully for an hour and then reported to the captain.
‘Captain Tyne, I believe there is a storm approaching from the south. I’ve not seen anything like it for the way the clouds stand up and swirl… it is most disturbing.’ He spoke without rancor, for he knew that Tyne respected his judgment in these matters whatever the ill between them. Tyne climbed his steps on the rear deck mast, and spent some considerable time observing the phenomenon. When he came down he wore a worried look.
‘You are right to be disturbed Scion for that is no storm. That is a beyond a storm. It has death within it and will catch us by nightfall. What fell thing has sent such a thing to find us?’ He shook his head and paced nervously about the rear deck, looking to all points of the compass.
‘We could make the Bay of Fish, perhaps even the safe harbour of Petros, and ride it out.’ said Scion.
‘No!’ Tyne was immediate in his response for he had judged the speed of the maelstrom which was coming up fast astern. ‘If we get caught inshore we will be lost. We will trim sail and head out to sea beyond the Needles. If we can clear them before it hits we may live to tell of it. All hands Scion and quick about it.’
‘Aye captain.’ Scion knew that Tyne’s judgement could not be faulted.
As the crew worked feverishly to prepare the ship, the wind started to howl through the rigging and the sun was lost behind a dark and eerie line of high swirling clouds which seemed to seethe with evil forces beyond the imagination. Dead ahead was the southern most of the two huge sea mounts, and in the now churning waters and rising seas all aboard feared they would be smashed to pieces upon that mighty deadly rock. Captain Tyne worked hard, keeping sail up long beyond the time of danger in order to manoeuvre his vessel past the Needle and into open ocean. With huge seas starting to lift the stern alarmingly, and three sails blown clean away in one gust, he managed it, and left the jagged rocks close off the port rail, close enough to hear the mighty seas thundering ashore and sending plumes of spray shooting skywards three times the height of the tallest mast on the Scoria. She was a well found ship, well sailed and in top condition, but she had become but a cork on a raging sea. Tyne let out two huge hawsers from the stern to keep the ship heading down wind and moving slower than the waves which chased her. They could not afford even the smallest of broaches, for in such a storm as was to engulf them, they had to run before it, not fast but steady, and keep that course wherever it might take them. Finally all was ready, all loose items stowed and hatches doubled battened. The pumps were tested and the crew assigned their jobs. A small number remained ready to go on deck, but there was little need, for the ship would sail herself now, or be lost. Just Captain Tyne on deck and the mighty Smig lashed to the wheel, all else below decks and braced for what was to come. The fire in the galley was extinguished last, after all the crew had had some hot soup, for it could not be left alight, for none could fight a fire if it escaped when the ship was pitching hard and unpredictably.
Rema and Serenna tied themselves to their bunks and waited anxiously. They did not have to wait long, for shortly after noon the sun was lost altogether and darkness engulfed the ship. The wind rose to a screaming howl and the seas picked up the Scoria and tossed her forward like a woodchip flying from an axe. Tyne had finally lashed himself to the rear mast and so in the hands of Smig and the Captain, the Scoria entered the maelstrom and an uncertain fate.
Chapter 12
The water of the Plenty River took Sylvion’s breath clean away, and threatened to stop her heart mid-beat. Although it was shallow where they were crossing, barely up to her waist, the current was dangerous in places and the rocky bottom treacherously slippery. Each step demanded a fierce concentration, for Sylvion knew that to fall meant being swept rapidly downstream into the deeper water below the ford where the cold would certainly kill her. She was shivering uncontrollably before the water reached her thighs, and now, as her waist felt the icy shafts of cold cut her like a thousand knives, it was almost more than she could manage to keep going. Her hands were tied in front of her body which made any progress all the more fraught with danger, for she desperately needed her arms to brace and balance against the force of the current. Despite the challenge she was determined to show no fear, for she knew that the odious Captain Bach, riding safely on his horse was following, and took delight in her every stumble and cry. She moved resolutely onward, one small step at a time, until exhausted and frozen to the bone, she fell gasping on the eastern bank.
As she lay on the unforgiving ground, willing some feeling back into her numb legs and icy toes, the small party assembled around her. Soldier Feebles, who was a nervous rider had fallen from his steed mid way across and was also frozen and miserable. The Wolver had made it across first and already had a small fire going as if in anticipation of the need they would have for its warmth. Soldier Small brought up the rear in the cart, his horse tied by a long rope to its rear posts. Sylvion lay were she was, her head resting on the wet ground, and watched the cart make its way across to her. She hated the cart, for it bore her prison, the box in which Bach had made her travel since the incident two days before, on the banks of the Vigarn. She smiled weakly to herself, for the
memory was fresh, and she had no regrets; at least the evil Sleeman was no longer with them. In some ways it had been worth it.
They had travelled slowly at first. Since leaving her beloved hometown of Wildwood, she had walked for leagues in a daze, hardly aware of her surroundings, and in a pain she never thought it possible to survive. She grieved for her kindma, her home, her community and her country. She grieved for herself and longed for the strong comfort of her Sontim, her long lost kindpa, who in her childhood had always been there to pick her up and hold her close when things went wrong. Sleeman had made her life a misery on that first day, continually swearing at her and pulling the rope which bound her wrists to his saddle, forcing her to walk faster or fall and be dragged through the dirt. It was the Wolver who had intervened eventually by riding up beside Sleeman and without a word, cut the rope, releasing Sylvion from his control. He had then allowed her to ride on the spare horse brought along for her. Sleeman had muttered coarsely to himself in protest but the Wolver ignored his complaints as though he were insignificant, beneath him and not worth the bother. He had Sylvion ride beside him, the rope from her loosely bound wrists attached to his saddle. He did not speak or look at her, but she was grateful to him despite his coldness, for she was utterly exhausted from deep emotions and a battered body.
The road east to Fisher on the coast followed the Vigarn river for two days journey, heading further south with each league until it suddenly struck out across the scattered forest and open grasslands, eastward toward the Plenty river. They had slept the first night under the shelter of a huge oak, which was so richly covered in leaves that the slight drizzling rain did not trouble them, and the deep bed of fallen leaves beneath it provided a soft dry bed for all. Sylvion had heavy iron shackles locked to her legs but was allowed her hands free. She slept without waking or dreaming, and woke to the smell of forest damp and the crackling of a breakfast fire.
Now rested, she found herself more able to focus on her plight as the second day’s travel unfolded. The party was somewhat shambolic despite the best attempts of Captain Bach to keep them all travelling together in some form of organised manner. Small and Feebles were either too fast or too slow, and Sleeman was preoccupied with his anger towards Sylvion, for the wound she had given him was slow to heal and aggravated by the riding. Sylvion found herself increasingly angry. Angry at her captors, angry at men like Zelfos and the mad King Petros who wielded such power and did such harm without conscience. Angry at Rema Bowman for being so far away when she needed him so desperately. Angry at her kindpa for going off on some adventure and getting himself killed, for he had not returned or sent word in five years. For the first time she realised then that she was an orphan, and it grieved her deeply. Mostly however, she was angry at Sleeman who had murdered her kindma and stolen from her what should have been the best years of knowing her as a grown woman. There would be no chance to plan her wedding with her, or talk of children, and having borne them, share them with her. All gone at the end of a madman’s sword in an instant. And for what? Because some mad king in a distant city felt threatened that his right to rule had been challenged by her very existence. A madman who gives power to evil unthinking fools like Sleeman, to wield a sword on their behalf. By the end of the second day’s travel, Sylvion Greyfeld’s anger had grown to sustain her, as with each league she left her home far behind, and rode unwillingly into a new life.
There was a traveller’s hut by the roadside which gave shelter that second night. It had a large stone hearth and the roaring fire made it a cheerful place except for those who shared its warmth, for they were none of them able to enjoy each other’s company. Except perhaps for Small and Feebles who managed a game of dice or two before finding a place on the floor and snoring soundly all night. Sylvion slept in a corner, shackled but warm enough. Sleeman sat slumped against a wall watching her, until he too fell asleep. The Wolver slept by the door, his cloak wrapped around him and his hand upon his sword. Once during the early morning when the fire was but glowing coals, Captain Bach, sleeping in the only small cot in the hut, had woken, and wanting to relieve himself, tried to leave as quietly as a man half awake can manage. The Wolver was up with his sword at the startled Captain’s throat in an instant. Their eyes meet. The captain in terror; the Wolver in deadly earnest. In that moment Captain Bach was powerfully reminded of the sinister capability of this soldier, and shuddered involuntarily. The Wolver just smiled and without a word, let him pass.
The morning dawned cold and fresh. Sylvion could hear the Vigarn flowing noisily over rocks not far off through the forest. She had asked Captain Bach for permission to wash, for two days on the road, stumbling through mud and dirt, dragged behind a horse and then riding in the rain, had left her feeling in great need of scrubbing herself clean. The cool, clear waters of the Vigarn beckoned. Bach had grumpily agreed, but had sent Sleeman to ensure that she did not escape. She had demanded someone else but the Captain was adamant. It would be Sleeman or she would not be going.
‘You keep to yourself, and stay well back for I want privacy to wash, you hear me Sleeman’. Her icy demand had been clear to all in the hut as they left. Sleeman just shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. She knew that he was going to enjoy himself at her expense.
There was rough track which wound downhill towards the hidden river. As she approached the water it became apparent that somewhere close by there was a waterfall, for a fine mist enveloped the vegetation and the noise from the river became deafening. She found a place by the river’s edge where some level rocks formed a platform allowing her to stand in shallow water. It was moving fast, and peering down the river, just before the next bend Sylvion caught sight of the cataract as it dropped from view in a rainbow cloud of spray. She washed as best she could without removing her tunic for she knew that Sleeman would be watching. The long blade which still sat gummed weakly to her chest between her breasts had remained in place despite the many falls and difficult riding. It had however cut her low down just below her belly, and whilst a shallow wound, the pain was ever-present, and she was worried that it might become infected. With great care she washed her body beneath her tunic, worried that the blade might fall, and gasping at the shooting pains which ran through her body as she cleaned the cut. It was then Sylvion realised that Sleeman was standing close behind her.
She had remained calm, but her hand grasped the hilt of her weapon as she turned toward him. ‘Are you enjoying the view, you weasel?’ She taunted him angrily. ‘A woman bathing must be a real thrill for someone such as you. Do you really need to spy on me?’
Sleeman had found her fascinating. Whilst deeply upset that this woman had bested him before his troop, and caused him such pain as to make his every waking hour a living hell, he could not but be entranced by her feminine ways. Her wet skin and long hair lying gleaming on fresh clean skin...the way she moved, the way she looked, so curved and inviting. He had come up behind her slowly with no plan other than to be closer to her, perhaps... well who knows? She was a woman, he a man, she had desires like him surely. He’d known other women.
Her words brought back his anger, for she had spurned him. ‘You whore!’ He swore vehemently using the first words which came to him, for deep down he knew that all women could not to be trusted. She knew he was watching and had led him on. A whore she was and now... he took two quick steps into the water towards her, his fist raised to strike her pretty damned face. Instead he watched spellbound as she pulled a blade from beneath her tunic, he caught a brief glimpse of her flesh, the lovely breasts, and then his eyes could not leave the blade, for it glowed, it drew him to it, and then it entered his body so easily, almost to the hilt. Sleeman felt a painful jolt, and then as he gazed with surprised wonderment into her beautiful eyes, he heard the last words of his life.
‘Go to your doom Sleeman, this is for my kindma.’ And then an awful pain as the blade was torn from him, opening his stomach so that he stood there trying desperately to hold his entrails inside his gap
ing body. The woman stepped nimbly around him, despite her shackled ankles. He tried to turn but his feet would not respond. He felt her push, and he saw the water come toward him. The cold revived him for a moment, just long enough to see his insides explode out into the water and surround him in a fog of red. He was dead before the mighty cataract hurled his lifeless body down into the gorge and onto the rocks far below where he lay crushed and broken beyond recognition; food only for the wild bears.
‘You are avenged kindma,’ Sylvion whispered with tears flowing down her cheeks. She stood on the rock platform, the icy water of the Vigarn swirling around her feet; she held her blade aloft, where it gleamed in the early morning sunlight. ‘I swear I will return to bury you one day soon. I swear it on this blade.’
None of this had gone unnoticed, for the Wolver had followed the pair silently and had taken a position well back in the trees, higher up and out of sight. He remained there like a statue, watching, for he distrusted the soldier intensely. He only tensed slightly when he thought Sleeman might strike the prisoner, but showed no emotion when the soldier disappeared headfirst into the river in a cloud of red. The Wolver was similarly entranced by the blade which Sylvion wielded, and found his mind became puzzlingly slower for the moments in which it was used. He watched with interest, this woman, standing victorious in a blaze of sunshine, unafraid and undaunted by her predicament. And then something in his intelligent brain put together the pieces of a puzzle he was as yet unaware of, for suddenly he saw her for more than the prisoner she was. Trained to serve his monarch unto death, the realisation that this woman was indeed a rightful ruler pierced his tough battle shell and moved him to wonderment; for he had heard the fearsome Zelfos speak as he stood close by outside the room in which he had spoken to the woman. He had understood the message, but the words then had seemed unimportant. But now...? She deserved better respect than had been offered; and she was a warrior too. These thoughts drew a thoughtful frown across his visage, and his lean and wiry arm reached up to run a powerful hand through the short hair on his well defined scalp. He nodded to himself, but was unsure why.
