City of Jade: A Novel of Mithgar
Page 14
Voices stilled, and the sounds of mallets and other such fell silent, though the tumble of water persisted.
One of the sentries called down: “Lady Aylis?”
“Who the kruk else would it be?” growled Brekk in response.
The sentry laughed and turned to his comrades and said, “The warband is here.”
At the far end of the grotto Aylis could see the gleaming face of a narrow dam embedded in what appeared to be a broad ledge receding toward the far back of the grotto. Upon the dam itself, men manned wheel pumps—like those used to suck out a ship’s bilge—and water poured over the barrier from the pump outlets in two separate streams. Beyond the dam and jutting above, Aylis saw a part of the stern of the Eroean, the ship captured in a long slip of some sort, its masts rising up into the shadows above.
The Dwarves and Aylis continued wading, as the shelf they followed carried on about the wall of the grotto. Slowly the way rose up until it was above the water of low tide. When they reached dry stone they followed the path to come to the wide expanse of the stone ledge, and carved deep into the rock was the long slip—a Dwarf-cut channel—where they found the Eroean sitting in dry dock above a bottom of sloping sand. The dock itself was sealed away from the brine of the cove by the doors of the gleaming dam, for the barrier was crafted of brass and was Dwarven-made as well. Aylis and the others then saw that the waters were also kept at bay by periodic pumping to rid the dry dock of slow seepage. Aylis also saw that the Eroean—awaiting the renewal of her silver bottom—lay cradled from stem to stern in huge brass trestles mounted on stone pillars—twenty-two in all, or so Aylis later learned. As they crossed the gangway and reached the deck of the ship, Aravan greeted Aylis with a smile and kiss. Brekk set Vex to her feet, and Lissa hopped down and comforted the fox, the vixen somewhat disgruntled at having to have been carried so very far.
At Aravan’s side stood an enormous man—he was tall and sandy haired and as broad as a great slab of beef—and Aravan introduced him as Long Tom, the first officer of the Eroean, who shuffled his feet and crushed his hat in hand and said in a Gelender accent, “Oi’m moity pleased t’meet you, Miss Aylis. Me ’n’ th’ crew welcome you ’n’ t’others t’this here foine ship.”
“Why, thank you,” said Aylis, even as she thought that with his massive hands the huge man would twist his well-crushed hat to nought but raggedy threads.
One by one, Aylis and Aylissa and Brekk and Dokan were introduced to various members of the crew: Second Officer Nikolai, Helmsmen Fat Jim and Wooly, and the cook and carpenters and riggers and so on, down to the cabin boy Noddy. And all were agoggle to see a real Pysk actually standing in their midst, tiny little thing that she was. But Long Tom assured Lissa that they would take every precaution “t’keep from steppin’ on y’r wee little self, though, if’n Oi were you, Oi moight taike’t upon m’self t’be extra alert t’th’ clumsy oafs we be.”
Using the formula given to him long past by Dwynfor, the legendary Elven weapons master who at the time had been living on Atala, Aravan set aside a quarter of the silveron for future use should the need arise, and he blended the remainder into the ingredients needed to make the starsilver paint. Then Aravan and several sailors began coating the Eroean’s hull from the waterline on down. The crew marveled over the fact that the bottom was completely clear of barnacles and growth, and that the previous silveron overlay did not at all seem to need renewing. Yet the captain insisted, and so they plied on the paint. As they came to where the ship rested against each trestle, brass lifting levers were sledgehammered off-angle to lower the given cradle into a slot in the stone pillar, the cradle moving down and away from the hull just enough so that the bottom could be painted there. And when the coat at that place had dried, they hammered the levers back on-angle to lift the cradle on the lever cams to share in the support of the hull once more, and they moved on to the next trestle and repeated the process.
In all it took four days to finish coating the hull. During those same four days, the warband completely refitted the ballistas at the bow and amidships and aft, and they made certain that the missiles laid by and those in storage were sound, especially the fireballs. In addition, they refurbished each of the weapons in the Eroean’s armory—polishing, oiling, honing, truing, and replacing whatever parts were worn.
A sevenday after Aylis and Lissa and the warband had arrived, the Eroean was ready to sail. Men moved the wheel pumps from atop the dam, and then cranked two brass slideways up to let water pour into the dry dock.
Slowly the slipway filled, and by midmorn the Eroean floated free from the cradles below. Then the great doors of the dam were unlatched and winched open, and men backed the ship out by haling on lines as well as drawing her out into the grotto by rope-towing dinghies aft.
The few men still ashore then made their way to the vine-covered entrance, and, using fixed hawsers, drew the curtain aside.
Yet towing, sailors in dinghies maneuvered the ship out from the grotto and down the channel well into the open waters, where Aravan had the crew drop anchor.
The rowers then cast loose the towing ropes, to be drawn in by those aboard, and then plied their dinghies to fetch the handful of sailors who had been left ashore. As they rowed back to the Eroean, the men in the boats looked on the Elvenship with something akin to awe. Three-masted she was, was the Eroean, and swift as a gale in the wind. Her bow was narrow and as sharp as a knife to cut through the waters, the shape smoothly flaring back to a wall-sided hull running for most of her length to finally taper up to a rounded aft. Two hundred and twelve feet she measured from stem to stern, her masts raked back at an angle. No stern castle did she bear, nor fo’c’s’le on her bow. Instead her shape was low and slender, for her beam measured but thirty-six feet at the widest, and she drew but thirty feet of water fully laded. Her mainmast rose one hundred forty-six feet above her deck, and her main yard was seventy-eight feet from tip to tip. As to the mizzen and fore masts, they were but slightly shorter and their yards a bit less wide. And dark sea-blue was her hull above the waterline, and silver below, but her masts and silken sails were azure to blend in with the sky. Tinted as she was, nigh invisible she seemed until she was running up another ship’s stern or bearing down on her bow or hoving nigh alongside. And no ship asea was swifter, not e’en the Dragonboats o’ the Fjordlanders. Aye, this was the Elvenship o’ Captain Aravan, and to serve on her was a rare privilege. It brought tears of pride to those who had done so, and tears of envy to those who had not.
When all were aboard and the dinghies lifted on the davits from the water, Aravan glanced back at Aylis, leaning aft against the taffrail. Lissa stood at hand, curiosity in her gaze, for she had never been aboard a ship of any kind. Vex was nowhere to be seen, for the vixen was below and hunting rats. Aravan smiled and winked at Aylis and mouthed the word, Ready? Aylis grinned and mouthed back, Oh, yes. Aravan then turned to his first and second officers, as well as the helmsman and the bosun standing by. “Tom, set the spanker to help her to come about, and pipe the sails for a larboard run, then up anchor.” Against the blue sky above, Aravan eyed the wind pennant streaming in the braw breeze. “We’ll take her close-hauled into the wind and make a run for the outlet of Thell Cove and the Avagon Sea beyond.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” replied Long Tom. He turned to the bosun and said, “You heard th’ cap’n, James; pipe ’em f’r close haul larboard. Nikolai, step to th’ fore winch ’n’ ready t’ up anchor. Fat Jim, spin th’ wheel t’steer her f’r th’ Avagon. That’d be nigh due sou’, I ween.”
As James piped the orders and men clambered up the ratlines to bend on all silk but the studding sails, Nikolai leaped down the ladder and ran forward to the men at the winch. Slowly the spanker brought the ship about, and with a rattle and a clatter of chain up came the anchor. Fat Jim spun the wheel, and slowly, majestically the ship got under way, gathering speed as she went, her silken cloud of azure sails harvesting every last breath of air, and soon her hull cut a tr
ough in the water, white wake spinning behind.
Aylis took a moment to peer aft, looking for the entrance to the hidden grotto. But it was as Aravan had said: the vine-laden bluff looked all of a piece, and no entry or channel could she see. She frowned and invoked her
Then Aylis turned once more and faced forward. She looked down at Lissa and said, “Come, Liss, let us go to the bow; there might be dolphins racing, or even Children of the Sea.”
And together they made their way forward, dodging this way and that to avoid interfering with members of the crew as they hauled on halyards at the behest of the bosun to trim up the sails to catch the full of the quartering headwind.
And still the Eroean gained speed as faster and farther she went. . . .
. . . While far behind and standing ashore, two fairly young Dwarves watched as the craft drew away, each wishing that he could have been one of the warriors chosen for Brekk’s warband. And the Elvenship diminished as onward she ran, her hull seeming to sink into the sea with distance, and finally the hull could no longer be seen, though the masts and sails—azure all—yet jutted above the horizon, blending into the sky and just visible . . . if one knew where to look. One of the young Dwarves turned to the other and said in Châkur, [“Ready?”] The other sighed and nodded but said nought in return. And they mounted up and wheeled about and slowly rode toward the remaining seventy-four ponies and the lone horse to begin the long trek back to Kraggen-cor.
18
Plot
DARK DESIGNS
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
Ragged in flight, Nunde had struggled across some six hundred leagues—eighteen hundred miles—to reach his dark tower clutched among the crags of the Grimwall, just east of Jallor Pass, there where the western reaches of Aven cross over to the long steppes of Jord. From the nexus, southerly down into Khal he had fled, emerging from the mountains to come perilously close to the dreaded Skög and the Wolfwood, there where vile Dalavar—the Wolfmage—dwelled. West and away from that dire danger Nunde had veered, to cross Khal and Garia and Aven, to come at last into his domain. And in rage he had slaughtered nearly one hundred Chûn, and had nearly slain his apprentice, Malik. For his plans had been shattered, and all because of Aravan and his ilk. Yet even this bloodletting had not assuaged in the slightest Nunde’s terrible rage.
Including the long time of his flight to safety, Nunde had spent nigh nine months in all, seeking a plan to destroy the bane of his existence. He had no doubt at all that the schemes of that vile Elf had led to the downfall of the Black Fortress and the ruin of Nunde’s dark designs, a disaster from which the Necromancer had barely escaped with his life.
And at the coming of this day’s dawn, down the stone steps of the shadowy stairwell Nunde descended to his torchlit quarters below, and there he fell into a restless sleep, his mind still churning with thoughts of revenge, as it now had done for months on end.
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It was as the sun rode across the zenith—though no glimmer of its light reached his chamber—that Nunde bolted upright.
“Radok, to me!” he shouted without thinking, but then he remembered Radok was dead, slain on a raid into Arden Vale a number of years ago.
But from an adjoining chamber, “Yes, Master Nunde,” called Malik and, bearing a lit candle casting wavering shadows, he hurried to the Necromancer’s side. A not-well-hidden look of anxiety played across the pale white face of the corpulent apprentice—for he never knew where the master’s wrath would be directed.
“I have it,” declared Nunde, his dark eyes gloating as he ran his long, bony fingers through his waist-length hair, tossing it back and over a shoulder to hang nearly to his hips.
“Have what, Master?”
“The plan, you fool,” hissed Nunde, irritation flashing across his narrow face with its hooklike aquiline nose, “the plan for that Dohl Aravan. The way to reave from him all he holds dear. And when I am done with his immediate companions, then will I do him in. After which I will recover his corpse and raise him”—the Necromancer clenched a black-nailed fist—“and ever will he regret that which he did. For then I’ll send his rotting remains forth to extract even more of my revenge by having him slay others of those he loves, and he will be able to do nought to gainsay me, even though he will be horrified by that which I will have him do.”
With his apprentice bustling at his side, Nunde strode out from the chamber and down a torchlit dark-granite hallway to a corpse-littered laboratory, the flayed bodies on the many tables in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. But Nunde did not pause to admire his handiwork; instead he stepped to and ’round a large desk made of an esoteric gray wood and sat. Hovering nearby, Malik wondered at what his master intended, but as Nunde pulled a sheet of parchment out from a drawer and began to write—the razor-sharp quill scratching across the vellum, leaving a trail of bloodred liquid behind—the apprentice frowned in puzzlement. The Necromancer brewed no potion, compounded no powder, cast no spell, raised no corpse, and this did not seem to be any arcane scroll the apprentice recognized, so how this could possibly gain Nunde his revenge, Malik did not know.
But at last Nunde passed the parchment across to Malik and hissed, “Bring me these ingredients.”
Malik looked at the list, recognition dawning in his eyes, for these things the apprentice did know. Yet how this might further his master’s scheme, Malik had not the slightest answer.
The next night, locked and barred in his quarters, Nunde drank the fresh-brewed concoction, and after long moments he slipped into unconsciousness, and sent his aethyrial self winging far eastward.
19
Plans
BOSKYDELLS
LATE AUTUMN, 6E1
“Well, buccoes, you’ve trained extra hard this past year, and, Pip, you’re fifteen summers old—”
“I’m three moons older,” said Binkton, even as Pipper said, “Bink’s three moons older.”
Arley laughed. “I was just about to say that, my lads.”
“Oh,” said Binkton, as Pipper joined his uncle in mirth.
But then Pipper’s face took on a puzzled look. “So, I’m fifteen?”
“Of course you’re fifteen, Pipper,” snapped Binkton. “Have you gone ’round the bend?”
“No, Bink, what I mean is: so I’m fifteen and Bink’s three moons older; what has that to do with ought?”
Arley smiled, for ever did Pipper pop up with statements that seemed to drive Binkton to distraction. Pipper never seemed to say or ask what he meant to say or ask, and Binkton always took umbrage when he couldn’t follow Pipper’s mental leap—one a dreamer, the other more material.
“Oh,” said Binkton, and he turned to Uncle Arley. “So, what have our ages to do with anything?”
“Just this, buccoes: next spring, as you approach sixteen summers, I think it’s time you put this show on the road and earned a bit of copper for yourselves.”
“Yes!” shouted Pipper.
“Hmph!” grunted Binkton. “I think we were ready last spring.”
“Oh, no,” said Arley, “there’s much more I have to teach you, and this winter is the time to do it. Besides, I can still see places where you need more skill: you, Binkton, in opening locks with nought but a wire as a pick as well as working while hanging upside down; and you, Pipper, need more practice in sleight of hand, and your juggling could use some sharpening, as well. And both of you need to be able to perform all things in all sorts of weather, when you are dripping with sweat in the heat and your hands are watery slick, or when your fingers and toes and every muscle in your bodies are numb with chill. You never know when sudden winds will blow or the rains pour down or swirling dust and grit will blind you, and you’ve got to be safe up on the rope or to get out from the trap you find yourselves in.”
“Hoy,” exclaimed Binkton
, “you make this sound like a dangerous business.”