by Andy Roberts
‘They won’t follow where we’re going,’ Nolaan said trying to reassure her.
‘And when we return?’ Philly asked.
Griff glanced at Madoc and then back at the girl. ‘We’ll cross that bridge another day.’
They allowed Philly the shortest of breaks, the commander insisting that she re-immerse herself and bring the druid back to Randor without delay. She closed her eyes and felt the familiar sensation of floating that came with the act of seeing. She felt weightless—a feather caught on a wisp of a gentle wind—lifting her from the couch and carrying her off to a far and distant place. She looked down on the farmhouse, its imprint barely visible, camouflaged almost perfectly against its winter backdrop. But the barn opposite looked strangely out of place, rust-coloured like old blood, the snow outside disturbed by a dozen or more sets of untidy footprints.
A sudden flash of orange colour caught her eye and drew her away from the barn. Its existence was fleeting, yet deliberate and inherently evil. Another that circled in the opposite direction, the two working together like pack dogs trying to confuse and disorientate. Philly made a break for it, out and over the barren expanse of no-man’s-land, the wind-riders already close on her tail.
‘I told you it was too soon.’ Milda leaned over the girl as she tossed and turned on the couch, crying out and speaking words they didn’t understand. ‘If anythin’ happens to her then we have no chance of callin’ on the druid.’
Madoc drew deeply on his pipe and shut his eyes until the worst of the smoke had cleared. ‘This is the only chance we have,’ he said shaking the burning wick until it went out. ‘Gendrick must be well on his way to Ocantis by now.’
The faceless creatures rode the wind like autumn leaves snatched from the trees, swathes of orange silk trailing several arm-lengths behind them. Below, the ground sped past at an extraordinary rate, the speed of it pulling at Philly’s jowls, making her eyes sting and water. She could hear people speaking about her—a woman’s voice that called for them to stop, and a man’s that insisted they couldn’t.
The wind-riders split and tried to force her to ground. Philly dipped under the one to her right and come up on the other side of it, careful to not make contact with its trailing silk. The creature barrel-rolled, cutting across her front, trying to snare her. Its partner did likewise, its own clothing so dangerously close. Philly pushed them from her mind, searched a place far beyond, and at last saw the hooded druid.
Tamulan had broken contact his side to convince an old woman that he wasn’t trying to force open the door to her home. His word meant nothing and the foreign coins he offered were worth even less. He stepped away from her doorway, the beads tap-tapping and drawing attention to his presence. He needed an alternative place to hide and reconnect with the seer. He came across a livery yard and a farrier who was preoccupied with shoeing what looked to be a fine horse. He pushed between the stable wall and a bale of hay, whispering reassurance to the animal the whole time. The horse whinnied and the farrier struggled to keep hold of its raised leg. The druid chanted something more complex and blew it their way—the horse settling almost immediately. He found a dark corner and disappeared almost entirely.
Philly called the druid’s name and Milda leaned close to calm her.
Griff rocked on his crutch. ‘She’s doin’ it, so she is.’
It came in flashes only, like someone flicking through a deck of playing cards, one image appearing for no more than a second before the next pushed it out of view. She saw a young druid—a book—wind—fire—death—the young druid again. And so it repeated over. She forced them away and screamed his name when the wind-riders pushed her low and towards an outcrop of sharp rocks. ‘We need your help,’ she told him, though spoke no words.
‘Meet me on the road to Brindmere,’ he replied without delay.
Philly ducked again, swooped low, narrowly avoiding the grasping branches of a wicked tree. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘Call her name.’
Madoc shook his head and fingered the empty bowl of his pipe while he listened to her shout it over and again. ‘Windsong can’t help you now,’ he said.
‘Why would she keep shoutin’ its name?’ Milda asked. ‘Knows it’s gone, so she does.’
‘Doesn’t make any sense,’ the farmer agreed.
‘You did see it burn?’ Milda straightened and faced them full on. ‘You saw it go up in flames?’
Madoc scratched his stubbled chin and had to admit that they hadn’t.
Philly was close to exhaustion, had never before been worked so hard as a seer. She screamed Windsong’s name, though wasn’t at all sure what damage, if any, the wind-riders could inflict during an out of body experience. The ground below them darkened suddenly, a heavy down-draught forcing everything in its wake towards the road.
The farrier came away to see what all the fuss was about, a long pair of heavy nippers swaying in his hand. Tamulan skirted the stable, made his way towards the partly shod horse and called it towards him with a syrupy tongue. The noise outside had increased—talking, shouting, doors opening and closing as people came to see if it was true. The druid took advantage of it and led the horse beyond the tack-shed and through the gate that led out onto open ground. By the time the farrier got fed up with gossip and came back inside, his current job of work had mysteriously disappeared.
Windsong burst through the first wind-rider like a stone hitting a large pane of glass. The creature let out a shrill scream and fell from the sky as nothing more substantial than a handful of dust. The second one looped and pulled away from Philly, knowing it was no match for the druid’s dragon.
In the distance she saw a white horse galloping along the dusty path, its rider hooded, his head lowered to the prevailing wind. She came to a halt at the roadside and ducked as another shower of black dust rained to ground all around her. Windsong circled above and Philly whispered to her in unfamiliar words. The sound of hooves came louder now—slowing finally and pulling up alongside.
‘He’s on his way,’ she said rubbing her eyes and pushing herself off the couch.
‘Can he slow them?’ Nolaan wanted to know.
‘Of course,’ Philly told him. ‘He’ll meet us aboard the Vanguard.’
Chapter
— 31 —
Brae had been sent back to his cabin after putting more wind in the sails. He checked on Farrel, but the healer insisted that over-handling of his back would likely cause black-rot and so waved him away. With nothing better to do, he wandered the lower deck, opening doors and checking behind them. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular and at first didn’t notice the shadow clinging to the wall of the dark tiller-room. He shivered beneath the embrace of chill air and recoiled from its unpleasant odour. The shadow slid quickly to the door and slammed it shut, then reached for him without warning and let its ice-cold fingers caress the firemark stain. Brae put his hand to his cheek and pushed it away. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he told it.
‘Soon,’ the shadow whispered, manoeuvring its way about the room with the mannerisms of an agitated spider.
‘You can’t make me do anythin’ I don’t want to.’ Brae put a hand in his trouser pocket and made a tight fist. ‘Took some poison from the bodyguard, so I did. I could end it all here and now.’ The shadow kept still a moment, as though testing his mettle before darting past him and slipping under the door. Brae spun and grabbed at the latch but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t lift. He used both hands and growled as he pulled—but still it refused to budge. He heard Farrel’s voice call out at the other end of the corridor, scream and then fall deathly quiet. Brae let go of the latch and kicked at the door; leaned against it and slid to the floor with his head in his hands. He was exhausted, frightened and had no idea what to do next.
The Vanguard waited patiently at the dock for its final passenger—a two masted brigantine, it was built for supreme speed and manoeuvrability, and would give them every chance of making up lost time on the R
aven. The last of the provisions had been stowed away, carried aboard by a crew who’d negotiated the bowing planks as skillfully as any circus acrobat.
‘This is it,’ Philly said. ‘I guess there’s no going back now.’ They sat at a modest table in the captain’s quarters, a small huddle of men standing opposite.
Griff stirred his fish stew and blew on the spoon. He grimaced when the hot liquid met his palate and pushed the bowl away in disgust. ‘Why do you Southsider’s have to make everythin’ taste like the sea?’
Elyon glanced over his shoulder and then went back to his huddle without answering. Griff watched the slight back of the Vanguard’s captain, not yet convinced of the man’s suitability for such an arduous voyage.
‘Don’t let his size fool you.’ Philly took some bread and tore it in half. ‘They say there’s none better.’
‘None shorter, that’s for sure.’ Griff forced himself to take a couple of mouthfuls of stew and washed it down with copious amounts of water. ‘Doesn’t come any higher than my chin.’ Elyon glanced a second time, and this, a little while longer. ‘So what’s with you?’ Griff asked returning his attention to Philly.
She stared into her bowl and chewed her bread more slowly. She knew what he meant, that he wasn’t at all interested in the incidental things in her life’s backstory, but was instead probing the circumstances that had brought her to Randor. ‘They killed my father and were hired to do so.’
‘But why—who would do such a thing?’ The innkeeper lay a hand on hers, more understanding than most of the grief she felt.
Philly shook her head. ‘I really don’t know, someone powerful I guess—the Salamanders don’t come cheap after all.’
‘Tit-for-tat?’ Griff spoke in a whisper, watching over her shoulder occassionally.
‘Narda is a curious place,’ she said sitting up straight, ‘but home after all. For the most part, our laws are complex and beyond interpretation of the common masses. But one is very simple—The Life for a Life law.’
The lookout was at it again. ‘Fire in the water,’ he called from his perch on high. The man gripped the rail of his basket, left hand shielding the light of the setting sun. In the black ocean behind them were fingers of bright red that reached out and grabbed at their ship.
‘Guardians,’ Giblin told them. ‘People of the sea.’
Gendrick shook his head and screwed his eyes as tight as they’d shut. ‘What next?’
Snake hawked and spat on the decking. ‘Stuff of myth,’ he said confidently and drew his blade all the same.
The lookout decided he needed the security of company and began a precarious descent of his ratline, Giblin calling loudly for him to return to post. The captain went to the port side, to where the ship’s hull churned the sea into a hissing froth. ‘I hope for all our sakes that it’s you who’s right and not me.’ He called for the quartermaster and had him see to it that every gun port was locked down.
Gendrick peered into the water below and saw several of them pass beneath the ship, their pointed tails propelling lithe, humanoid bodies through the water at high speed. He shook his head and wiped a handful of greasy curls from his eyes. ‘The dragon must have called them with its flame.’
‘Been lying dormant for centuries,’ Giblin agreed.
‘What do you think they want?’ Snake asked. They both stared at him, though neither could find the right words to answer.
‘It’s exactly as it sounds,’ Philly told him. ‘I killed my father’s assassin as he sat and played cards with his cronies.’
‘In front of witnesses?’ Griff took his hand off hers and tugged at his beard.
‘Not a thing they could do about it—not officially that is.’
‘Dare I ask how?’
‘Not if you’re at all squeamish,’ she said with a mischievous wink.
Griff pursed his lips and reclined in his chair. ‘Far more to you than first meets the eye, so there is.’
‘You haven’t yet scratched the surface.’
Darkness caught up and walked amongst them in almost total silence, the guardians doing nothing more than to cut back and forth beneath them. When in plain view, the bright glow of their bodies resembled rivers of marine lava, and when not, they could be heard knocking on the underside of the ship’s keel. Several sailors threw bolts and secured latches wherever they found them; weapons handed out like charity at the city’s soup kitchens.
‘Do you see it?’ Gendrick asked. He needed no spyglass to view the phenomenon. A light danced in the distance, bathing the horizon-line in a green plasma-like glow. ‘Ocantis.’
‘Are you sure of it?’ Snake asked.
The minister licked his lips. ‘What else could it be?’
The screams came again, after many minutes of silence. But now that Brae listened more carefully, he knew they didn’t belong to Farrel. He tried the latch and was surprised to find that it lifted with ease; pushed his head into the corridor and saw men running in all directions. He weaved between them and headed to his cabin, all the while calling the healer’s name as he went.
Farrel hadn’t moved and was still face down on his bunk. His wounds weren’t as pink as they had been earlier and he’d stopped sweating at long last. ‘We need to hide,’ Brae told him, though received no answer. He sat down alongside the healer, careful not to touch his back, unsure as to whether or a not a person felt pain so soon after death. He bent and reached under the bunk and slid the leather case from under it. Farrel hadn’t spoken of a father but Brae wondered if there might be mention of other family—someone that he might inform of the student’s passing. He used his thumbs to prise open the brass fasteners and for a moment sat still, the memories of his lost tanore-tan cruelly rekindled. He rifled through the case and found nothing but short lengths of quill and cracked, rubber tubing. A few folds of cotton and a tin of cream, and that was it. He sat back deflated, then thought again and reached into a side pocket that he hadn’t already checked. Deep down in the material, he could feel something—small, cold and irritatingly difficult to retrieve. He held the bag upside down and watched the coin—his coin—fall to the floor and roll about in circles until bored with its silly game. He picked it up and held it between finger and thumb. He didn’t know if Farrel had taken it from his sea-sodden trousers for his own gain, or if he’d simply put it for safe keeping and forgotten to give it back. It didn’t matter now. Brae put it in his pocket and decided to find out what was going on above deck.
Something grabbed at him as soon as he got there. He slapped at it and shouted a warning to anyone close by. He grabbed a lantern and swung it as the creature’s serpent-tail contacted the wet deck and morphed into a pair of shoeless feet. Its eyes were blacker than the night sky, its odour more off-putting than any fish-oil lamp he used or known. The guardian rustled as it moved towards him, its scales shimmering in the faltering light of the swaying lamp. Brae had no idea as to what might happen next, but the creature ignored him and passed on by.
The quartermaster let go with a double-barrelled fire-lance that spewed cordite and hot gasses with each thunderous explosion. The dispatched creature lay on the deck twitching violently, its severed head rolling about as the ship moved on the undulating waves. An arm reached out of the darkness to reclaim the body and deliver it back to the sea—no-one aboard the Raven daring to step before it and get in its way.
Snake took a grappling hook and stuck it in the back of a guardian as it climbed on the main sail. It whistled loudly and arched its body under the savage attack, its webbed claws ripping the thick material to shreds as it fought to hang on. As soon as the hireling had pinned the creature to the deck, Gendrick dropped to his knees and drove his blade deep into an area of pulsing flesh behind its gills. He stood and wiped the dark-blue ink from his hands and then went in search of another victim.
The quartermaster reloaded quickly and rushed to get another shot, but the fire-lance was knocked from his loose grasp and took out a pair of oil-lamps near th
e ship’s wheel. Glass mixed with lead-shot and blinded the boatswain instantly. He screamed and grabbed at his eyes, stepping unknowingly into the puddle of fish oil as it burst into flame.
They left as quickly as they’d arrived, leaping overboard to escape a heat that dried their slimy bodies. Several took trophies—men who pulled and screamed before silenced in a cold and wet grave.
‘Fetch every bag of ballast we have,’ Giblin ordered. ‘And get those sails hauled in and away from the flames.’ The men did as told, working quickly, knowing their very lives depended upon it.
‘Find the boy?’ Gendrick told Snake, worried that the guardians had saved him from his unenviable fate. He edged around the flames and used his hands to shield his face, all the while screaming at the nearest sailor to put it out. The man grabbed at a water barrel and hauled it over before Giblin could stop him, the deck promptly exploding into a bright yellow fireball, hot flame and fluid raining down everywhere. The ballast arrived and was poured onto the worst of it—the captain ordering all those able to climb the rigging and cut loose the burning sails.
Snake found Brae hiding in one of the stowed boats and grabbed him by a handful of his singed hair, willing himself over and over to not run him through and just be done with it.
Gendrick stood on the deck and surveyed the damage, then turned as he heard the poisoner arrive with the boy.
The Vanguard’s bell rang quick and loud, announcing the arrival of the druid at the far end of the dock. Philly pulled at Griff’s arm and warned him to be civil. The innkeeper refused to hold her eye and for once, didn’t say a word.
