by Jon Kiln
Just as he rounded the corner, Ganry came backpedaling out of the Lake chief’s bed chamber. The large warrior’s sword flashed in the dim light, cleaving the air in the narrow hall. Snarling and snapping its jaws, a seven foot monster pursued him. It lurched, dodging the swinging sword, and swiping out at Ganry with the fearsome claws of its taloned hand.
Hendon drew up short, jaw dropping open. Like the others, he had been skeptical of Linz’s story of the Rooggaru. Though they had seen many wonders, Hendon simply had not believed there could be such a creature. But here it was, standing before him. It was very much like one of the water dragons that inhabited the lake, though with the longer limbs of a man.
Ganry slashed at the Rooggaru again, and the dragon man ducked the attack. Bent forward almost double, the creature charged. There was no room to retreat or dodge aside in the cramped corridor. Ganry stumbled back, checking his mighty swing and attempting to bring Windstorm down and around in time to check the Rooggaru’s assault.
“Ganry!”
Hendon started forward, but there was little he could do to help his friend. Ganry crashed against the wall. Wood splintered under the impact, but held. Windstorm flashed. The Rooggaru howled in frustration and pain, staggering back from its human prey. The Grimlock blade had bitten reptilian flesh. Thick, black blood dribbled down one of the dragon-man’s arms from a shallow cut below the shoulder.
Panting, Ganry sidestepped away from the creature and adjusted his two-handed grip on Windstorm’s hilt. The creature snarled a challenge, opening its triangular jaws wide and snapping them shut with incredible force. Its eyes blazed hatred. Shifting its weight from side to side, it held its scaly arms out to the sides and hissed.
“Stay back, Hendon,” Ganry called over his shoulder. “I’ll handle this beast.”
Hendon shook his head in amazement. “But what is it?”
“It’s Linz’s Rooggaru, I suppose,” answered Ganry. “But whatever manner of beast it is, it bleeds. If it bleeds, it can die!”
So saying, Ganry leapt forward. Windstorm lashed out. The Rooggaru’s sibilant hiss became a shriek. The creature threw itself aside, slamming into the splintered wall where Ganry had hit a moment ago. This time the strained timber gave way beneath the fresh assault, and the Rooggaru broke through.
“Not so fast, beast!” Ganry sprinted to the hole in the wall and jumped through after the creature.
Hendon ran to the place they had disappeared, staring through the splintered aperture. On the other side of the wall was an exterior walkway that circled the house. Beyond the edge of this walkway was open water stretching twenty yards to the next nearest house, almost invisible in the thick fog that filled the night. Just as Hendon reached the opening, he heard a titanic splash. The dark water below swirled turbulently, the only sign that Ganry and the Rooggaru had passed this way.
“Hendon!”
He turned from the ruined wall to see Myriam at the corner, still holding Linz by the shoulders. The boy stood before her, no longer struggling to get free. He was shivering, but with a visible effort the boy got his terror under control.
“It was… it must have been this Rooggaru,” Hendon told Myriam. He shook his head. “Ganry chased it out. I think they went into the lake.”
“The lake!” Linz broke away from Myriam, dashing over to where Hendon stood. He stared out into the misty night, shaking his head in helpless denial.
“Linz!” It was Lisl, standing now in the doorway to Clay’s room. “Oh, Linz, thank the gods you’re unharmed!”
“Lisl, is Clay all right?” Myriam hurried past Hendon and Linz to the shaken woman. Lisl sagged forward into Myriam’s arms, forcing the princess to support her. Looking over Lisl’s shoulder, Myriam saw Clay sprawled half on and half off his bed. The chief’s head lolled back, and his eyes stared upward without seeing.
“He’s dead,” sobbed Lisl. Her hands were like claws, digging into Myriam’s arms. “Oh, gods! My brother is dead!”
Myriam looked back at the others. She did not know what to do or what to say. Hendon shook his head slowly. There wasn’t much they could do. Beside him, the boy Linz was still staring out into the misty night. But now he turned from the shattered wall. His expression was grim.
“Ganry went out after the Rooggaru,” he said in a quiet, flat tone of voice. “They went into the water. I’m sorry, Myriam. I’m so sorry. Ganry is dead.”
21
Though the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, it was still uncomfortably hot. Artas tugged at the loose robe he had been given, trying to get comfortable. He felt Zander’s disapproving gaze and stilled the motion. The evening would cool off rapidly, he knew. He supposed he would just have to wait.
Together with Naavos, the two travelers lay prone atop the crest of a sinuously curving dune. Ector and Dristan had remained behind in the clan’s settlement. This was only a scouting foray. Naavos had brought them to see this “oasis of ghosts” that caused his people such consternation.
“It’s a ship,” said Artas in a tone of wonder.
“It was once,” corrected Zander.
Artas looked again down the sloping dune. They were perched above a low area surrounded by several of the shifting dunes. In the center of this valley of sand lay the ruined remains of a large, ocean-going vessel. The craft lay half buried in the sand, leaning crazily to one side.
The wooden structure was broken. Here a jagged spar jutted up from the rail; there, a gaping hole had been blasted through the hull. In the dry climate of the wastes, the wood had not rotted. Sunlight glinted off brass in blinding reflection. It was impossible to guess how long the hulk had lain here, so far from any body of water.
“It must be ancient,” mused Zander. “More ancient than the desert. At one time, this whole area must have been underwater.”
“It is said that long ago there was much water,” Naavos interjected. “I have never believed that. It is a story for children.”
“It looks like it might be true,” said Zander, gesturing down toward the shipwreck.
Naavos followed Zander’s finger, nodding to himself. The desert tribesman had never seen an ocean. In fact, he had never seen any body of water larger than a small stream. He had no concept of the sea, nor did any of his people. It was little wonder they had never been able to identify this alien structure in their desert.
“That is a… water craft, you say?” asked the chieftain.
“Yes, it’s a ship. Or it was, once, long ago.” Zander frowned. “I don’t recognize the design. But then, why should I? It must be centuries old. It’s a wonder there’s anything left of it after all this time.”
“There’s no moisture to rot the wood,” pointed out Artas.
“Presumably there was at one time, though.” Zander cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. “I wonder what happened? Could an entire ocean vanish so quickly that the ship would be stranded? Or were they wrecked, run aground, maybe, before the water disappeared?”
Artas shrugged. He couldn’t see that it made any difference what had happened so long ago. He looked down at the distant ship. Now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, the brass fittings no longer gleamed with their blinding light and he was able to examine the wreck more closely. He shook his head in slow wonder.
“Come, my friends,” said Naavos, breaking into the young man’s thoughts. “We should return to the settlement before the last light goes.”
“I thought you said it would be safe tonight,” said Zander sharply.
“And safe it should be,” replied Naavos. “The full nightsun is not until tomorrow night. But just the same, I prefer not to linger in this place when night falls.”
Without waiting for a reply, Naavos slid backward down the dune face until he could stand upright without being visible on the other side of the crest. Artas quickly followed suit, but Zander remained where he was. Artas looked back up at him, questioning.
“The two of you go on ahead,” Zander said. “I want to s
tay a while.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes.” Zander waved them off. “I remember the way back.”
“The sands can be misleading, especially at night,” cautioned Naavos.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my way.”
Artas was reluctant to leave Zander behind, but it was clear that Naavos would not stay. He waved farewell and hurried after the tribal chief. It was not a long distance, and they had come on foot rather than ride and risk the horses in the dark. Half an hour after leaving Zander on the dune top, they had returned to the canyon-protected settlement. It was fully dark by then, and the nightfires were burning in the open area.
The whole clan was gathered around the central longhouse, awaiting them. Dristan and Ector came forward as Artas and Naavos approached the bonfire. The pair saw at once that Zander had not returned. Dristan fixed Artas with a sharp, questioning glance.
“Zander wanted to remain behind,” he explained.
The two soldiers gathered in close, pressing Artas for details. He told them what he had seen, but it didn’t amount to much. The oasis of ghosts appeared to be nothing more than some ancient shipwreck, a relic from another age. Ector questioned him closely, but there was little more that Artas could add.
Before long, Zander appeared in the camp. He motioned the others aside, and they joined him some distance from the fire. Artas looked back and saw Naavos watching them from his place with the clan. The young archer was about to turn back to his friends when he caught sight of another man watching them. Draagos, realizing he had been seen, glowered and turned away.
“I saw no ghosts,” Zander was saying, when Artas returned his attention to the commander. “More importantly, I saw no fires lit as the night drew in. Nor was there any sign of horselines, or latrine pits, or any other indication. If there are men camping in the shipwreck, they lit no fires and they keep their camp concealed within the ruin.”
“You think the ‘ghosts’ are just men?” asked Artas, who had not thought of that before.
“It was my first thought,” said Zander. “Raiders from another one of the desert tribes, most likely. But the desert night gets cold very quickly. I would light fires, if it were me camped out in the waste. Still, the tribesfolk must be more accustomed to this climate than we.”
“A ship as large as you describe, perhaps a fire could be hidden. It would difficult to see the smoke rising in the darkness, and the remnants of the hull could block the light.”
“That’s true, Ector,” admitted Zander. Then he shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. But whether it be men or spirits that inhabit that ancient ruin, tomorrow night we’re going to find out.”
22
“I refuse to believe that Ganry is dead.”
Myriam, arms crossed over her chest, stared Hendon in the eye as if daring him to contradict her. The two of them were alone in the common area of the guest chambers. Hendon sat, feeling numb. Myriam had been pacing back and forth before the open pool in the center of the floor. From time to time, she glared down into the water.
Hendon did not have the heart to argue with her. Truth be told, he too could not believe it. Ganry de Rosenthorn was a formidable man and a proven warrior. Moreover, he was a survivor. It was hard to accept that anything could kill the former mercenary. But it had been more than three hours since Ganry and the Rooggaru disappeared into the lake. If their friend was alive, where was he?
“Myriam…”
“He’s alive, Hendon.” The princess stopped pacing and stood facing him, arms still crossed defiantly. She shook her head. “I know it, all right?”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Myriam considered. “That creature may have carried him off to its lair.”
“Carried him off…? Myriam, listen to yourself. Why would the Rooggaru do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Myriam said again. She chewed her lip in thought. “Didn’t Linz say the creature fed on the blood of its victims? Think about it. Clay has been wasting away for days, long before we got here. And the Rooggaru came here tonight to finish him off. Apparently it kills its victims slowly, over time. It probably thinks Ganry can be its next meal.”
Hendon sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t you think Ganry would have something to say about that, if he were still alive?”
“Alive doesn’t mean he’s awake, Hendon.” Myriam spun on her heels and stalked toward the door into the hall. Her expression was determined, and Hendon leaped to his feet in alarm.
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Linz and his mother,” answered the princess, already halfway out the door. “Come on.”
Hurrying after her, Hendon kept his misgivings to himself. He recognized the focus in Myriam’s strides, and knew it would do no good trying to dissuade her. He caught up to her just as she entered the main room of the house, where an ailing Clay had received them the previous evening.
The body was laid out on a bier, hastily erected where the dead chief’s chair had been. A dark shroud covered the corpse. Lisl and her son, dressed in the dark colors of mourning, knelt before the bier with heads bowed and their eyes closed. A small number of Halawans stood nearby, eyes downcast, sharing in the communal sorrow. The people of the hidden city had been filing in and out since dawn to pay their respects to the fallen leader.
The subdued and muted atmosphere gave Hendon pause, but Myriam did not break stride. She crossed the room and stopped behind Linz and his mother. For the first time, the princess appeared to hesitate. Placing one hand on the shoulder of each, she bowed her head for a moment in respect.
Linz opened his eyes, glancing up. His heavy expression altered subtly, but from where he stood Hendon could not guess the boy’s thoughts. Lisl, too, opened her eyes, though she did not raise her head. Her thin lips set into a pale line and she drew a deep, resigned breath.
“I need to speak with you,” said Myriam softly. “I’m very sorry for your loss, both of you, but it is urgent.”
“You should not be here,” hissed Lisl, a flush of anger touching her pale cheeks. She shrugged her shoulder, dislodging Myriam’s hand.
“Mother, don’t,” said Linz.
“My brother was right,” said his mother, ignoring his protest. “When the outsiders first came upon our waters, Clay wanted them executed for their trespass. But you chose to free them, Linz, and I allowed my soft heart to persuade me. I even sent you away to them, thinking your gifts had some purpose in the outside world. Now, look what has befallen our people!”
“Mother, stop!” The boy’s voice was firm and laced with a tightly controlled anger. He reached over to his mother, gripping her by one arm. “This isn’t Myriam’s fault. The Rooggaru killed my uncle. That monster has frightened our people since time immemorial. Its return has nothing to do with my friends.”
Lisl glared at her son but said nothing. Deliberately, and holding his mother’s gaze, Linz rose to his feet. He turned slowly to Myriam and offered a faint smile. “You want to go after the monster,” he said. “You think Ganry might still be alive.”
“Whether he is or not,” said Myriam.
Linz nodded. “Yes.”
“No!”
Lisl bounded to her feet and seized the young boy in her arms, pulling him bodily away from Myriam. Rounding on the princess, the protective mother bared her teeth in a fierce expression. But Linz pulled away from his mother, pushing her back.
“Stop it,” he told her, and there was no mistaking the note of command in his voice. A change had come over the boy in the past few hours. Now that Clay was dead, Linz would be the new chief of the Lake Men. He was young, perhaps too young for such a responsibility. But it was his, and one look at him now was enough to see that he had accepted that burden.
Lisl wilted beneath her son’s commanding scrutiny. She could not fail to note the new poise and confidence he displayed. Where there had once been an uncertain boy, now there stood a bold young
man. She found she could not meet his eyes.
“Mother,” said Linz, his tone softening. He stepped close to her, lowering his voice so the other mourners would not hear. “I am chief now. It is not proper for you to tell me what to do, even if you are my mother. And you are, and you always will be, my beloved mother. Never doubt that. But this is something I must do.”
Finished, the new, young chief turned back to Myriam.
“I think I know the way,” he said.
***
Linz guided the boat expertly up to the dock, and Hendon leaned over the side with the rope to tie them up alongside. The sun had risen high in the east, but a heavy mist lay all across the lake. The fog diffused the morning light, turning the world into a gray-white dreamscape.
In that misty morning, the lakeside temple looked much different than it had the last time they passed this way. Myriam sat in the rear of the little boat, looking up at the shadowy edifice of ancient stone that sat alongside the water. It seemed dark and foreboding, and there was a heavy feeling in the air that she was sure was more than just her imagination.
“Ghaffar has not returned,” said Linz, laying his paddle down in the bottom of the boat. Dusting off his hands, he stood studying the mist-shrouded temple where they had met the enigmatic monk. Ghaffar had helped them before, and it had been he who brought Linz to Castle Locke some weeks ago.
When the monk had departed the Berghein Valley, he had given no indication of his destination. Myriam had assumed Ghaffar would return to this temple by the lake. But in truth, there was no reason to believe that. They knew next to nothing about the mysterious man who had helped them. She had only assumed that this place was his home.
Another question took precedence over her curiosity regarding Ghaffar. Turning to Linz, she wore a puzzled frown. “How do you know that?”
Linz looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
