The door slammed shut as the tornado broke against the impenetrable skin of the Torch. Company and crew stood stunning in the sudden silence, their faces illuminated by cold, blue light.
“What do we do now?” Tenna asked.
Doulos slumped to the floor. “Now,” he said, “we wait.”
74
Yashar’s Torch
The sinister tempest buffeted the Torch throughout the night. Inside the Tower, the castaways from the Sunsets’s Trace hardly knew the storm still raged outside the walls. After a nervous hour of huddling in the dim blue light they were finally convinced they were out of harm’s way.
It was then Doulos used his waning strength to create several fires across the tower’s floor. The blue flame of the Torch overhead gave off no heat and only very dim light. There was no firewood to be had, but Doulos assured everyone the fires would stay warm and bright throughout the night. Nearly everyone stripped down to their smallclothes, laying their soaked garments out on the hard stone of the floor. The men turned their back on one quadrant of the room in an attempt to give the women a modicum of privacy.
Doulos lay asleep against the wall and everyone tried their best to keep the noise down for his sake. They knew they owed him their lives.
Stile ordered his crew to take stock of their supplies, laying waterlogged items out to dry and pile whatever couldn’t be salvaged near the door. He hoped the ship would be in fair condition. The storm had focused on the ship’s passengers and crew once they had fled for the Torch, so maybe the ship and her stores were spared.
The night passed in low comfort, but safe enough that everyone was able to sleep their fill. There was no need for a watch and the fires stayed bright all night, true to the wizard’s word. Stile let everyone sleep past what he felt was the dawn, then moved to rouse Doulos. He shook the old man gently.
“Doulos, you need to let us out of here.”
The elderly wizard bolted awake, weariness lining his already ancient features. He rolled and sat up, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He flicked his wrist and his fires sputtered out, dimming the Torch’s interior light to stale blue. He seemed to draw strength from snuffing the flames and pushed himself to his feet. He teetered and steadied himself against the wall.
“Will you be alright?” Stile asked.
The wizard waved off the captain’s concern. “I need time and rest, as always. It will pass.”
“You’ll likely have time in abundance, my friend. Even if the ship survived, we’ll have weeks of labor to make her seaworthy again.”
The wizard gave a tired nod and pushed away from the wall. He zig-zagged between the sleepers until he stood at the entrance. While hidden from the outside, its outline was clear from within. He waved a hand in front of a recessed square engraved in the door just at eye level. The door pulled itself inside the Tower and floated up out of the way to allow the daylight to come flooding inside.
“Don’t tell me,” Stile rolled his eyes, “I could have done that myself.”
“Of course,” Doulos said. “The Torch keeps vagrants out, not refugees in.”
Stile followed the old man into the morning sunlight. Debris left in the wake of the storm’s rage littered the beach. Palm trees were snapped in half and seagulls covered the beach picking at the carcasses of thousands of sea creatures dumped on the sand. Whole swaths of shorefront had eroded away and piles of driftwood lay at the bottom of the rock outcropping below.
The Sunset’s Trace lay where they left her. Drifts of sand had been blown up around her, in some places covering her completely.
“Shards,” swore under his breath. “There wasn’t time to close the hatches. She’s probably filled with sand.”
“Which was likely the weight she needed to keep her from being washed back out to sea,” Doulos countered. “At least the hull looks sound, and the masts. The damage to the keel looks minimal.”
“Aye, thanks to you and your sword.”
“How long until we can get back underway?” Doulos asked.
“Several days to get her cleaned out and repaired,” Stile frowned, “but I’m not sure we can get her back in the water. She may be too far inland for the tide to buoy her.”
“We’ll try to call for Mahir to help with that,” Doulos said. “A dragon should give us the muscle we need to get her back in the water.”
“Aye,” Stile said, “that it would. After that, we’ll need a day or two to get the spare rigging and sails assembled. We can spend the days until then hunt for some fresh meat and whatever else we can find. I’m sure our stores are spoiled.”
“We’ll send Quist out with a hunting party. Have your men gather some firewood too. I’d rather not expend any more vital energy on comforts.”
“We should have them look for Lon too,” Stile thought of the sailor who’d blown away the night before. “I doubt he’s still alive, but…”
Doulos nodded. “Yes, we’ll have Quist look. If anyone can find him, it’s that elf. I’m going back to sleep. Wake me if there’s news.”
Quist took Katalas, Tander, and a pair of crewmen to hunt for game. The remaining crew and passengers set about removing tons of wet sand from the ship, passing it in buckets down a long line and dumping it out on the shore. They found the extra sail canvas and laid it out on the rocks to dry, along with what foodstuffs they thought hadn’t been spoiled. Once dry, they folded the canvas up and transferred it along with the food to the Torch for safekeeping.
Quist and company returned with Lon’s body at midday.
They buried the sailor in a small grove of trees east of the Torch in the early afternoon. There was little to say about him. He’d been an acolyte at the Shrine, a shy and reserved man who’d kept to himself aboard ship. Stile had tried to get to know the young man, as he did all his crew, but little could ever be drawn out. He died as he’d lived, working hard and looking out for others more than himself.
“Too much death,” Tenna said to Tander as they walked along the beach together in the late afternoon sun.
“What’s that?” Tander asked.
“This journey has brought too much death,” she said. “Our cities, family members, clansmen, Eldinn’s war, and now Lon. What’s the purpose?”
“People are defending their way of life,” Tander shrugged, “protecting their families. That has to count for something.”
“But the people involved are nothing but game pieces,” Tenna said. “The players care nothing for who wins as long as there’s chaos.”
Tander fell silent, biting his lip as they walked. “I…I had to kill someone,” he finally stammered, “back in Parthiy, when we raided the New House. It was him or me. All that man was doing was protecting his chief, but his chief was the problem. He’d become one of those game pieces.”
“The war with Maehdras is the same,” Tenna said. “Eldinn’s become a pawn, but it’s the people who’ll pay the price. The men and women he’s pressed into service. They’ll die in battle, but as long as Eldinn wins he doesn’t care. It’s all so senseless.”
“It sounds selfish,” Tander said, “but at least we’re safe here.”
“Oh sure, but we still plan for the worst.” She pointed back down the beach where Quist followed the pair. He was fully armed and walked with his bow in one hand and a ready arrow in the other.
“Looks like Doulos isn’t taking any chances,” Tander grinned.
“Well, you Bearers have a world to save.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he said.
Without thinking about it he moved his hand to Dilkah on his hip. Since the storm, Doulos had ordered the Bearers to keep their Xigara swords close, even when sleeping. The wizard seemed on edge, as if he was expecting their enemies to find them no matter where they might go.
“We’d better get back,” Tenna said. “There’s still work to do.”
“I suppose so,” Tander said with a sigh. “I think most of the sand ended up in my cabin. We haven’t found my bunk yet.�
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Tenna laughed and put her arm through his. He stiffened when he felt her touch, but she didn’t seem to notice. Tander looked back at Quist, receiving a smirk in return. Tander blushed and turned his head away so Tenna wouldn’t see.
They walked the last mile or so back toward the ship, the waves crashing pleasantly nearby. The coast was an idyllic refuge in the wake of the storm, if only a temporary one. A momentary respite from the death and destruction that had followed them for weeks.
Tander swallowed hard, then pulled his arm down to coax Tenna’s hand into his own. He turned and looked her in the eyes and she gave him a warm smile and a reassuring squeeze.
Then the screaming started.
It wasn’t a scream of fear, but of rage. It cut through the air with such power to make the birds overhead veer away from the beach. Quist was on the run before the young couple registered the danger, nocking his arrow as he sprinted. Tenna let go of Tander’s hand and ran to follow. Though not as fast as the elf, she soon left Tander far behind.
The sailors were bunched up near the rock face below the Torch. Tenna burst through their ranks to find Quist pointing his arrow at Tawn’s head.
Tander arrived moments later, blowing hard. “Shards,” he cursed.
The shamaness held Y’neth hostage, holding a wicked-looking knife at her neck. Y’neth’s face twisted in rage, her black eyes wide as she struggled to break free.
Stile stood a pace from Quist, a sword clenched in his white-knuckled hand. “Let her go, witch.”
Tawn flicked a contemptuous glance at the captain, then ignored him. Her attention was on Quist and his arrow.
“Would you shoot me, brother?” she sneered.
Quist cocked his head, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“You never guessed, did you?” she taunted. “I commend your improved skills at shape changing, brother. You’ve learned to mask your eyes, but I can still smell you. Your stench gave you away.”
Tawn’s eyes lost focus and began to swirl. A sickly yellow glow flooded her irises.
“Kitrinos,” Quist breathed, lowering his bow.
“What are you doing?” hissed Stile. “Shoot her.”
Quist stood glowering at Tawn. “Wood and steel cannot harm me,” Kitrinos sneered, “no matter my form.”
“What’s going on?” Stile demanded. “I thought it was The Fang’s shaman who was the dragon.”
Karah walked out of the crowd and laid a hand on Quist’s arm. He looked down as something unspoken passed between them.
“Kitrinos played both sides,” Karah said. “How better to ensure chaos than to become the chief advisor to both sides in a conflict?”
“I have my brother here to thank for the idea,” Kitrinos said. “Masquerading all these years as something he’s not. Following in his footsteps has allowed me to ensure at least one of the Swords is kept from you. Soon, we’ll have the heir as well, and your last hope will be gone.”
“What do you mean…” Zalas started, but was interrupted as a searing bolt hit the false shamaness in the back, sending Kitrinos sprawling to the sand. Y’neth, pinned beneath Kitrinos’s bulk, struggled to dig her way out.
Quist moved to help, but was flung away as Kitrinos recovered enough to swipe his arm, sending an invisible wave of energy to crash into his brother. Stile and Zalas were caught up in the wake and all three were launched several yards down the beach.
Kitrinos scrambled up with Mesha in his hand. Y’neth tried to wrestle the sword away, but a backhanded slap sent her down to the sand unconscious.
Another bolt of blue lanced down from above, driving Kitrinos to one knee. Doulos stood on the rock above, his palm held out toward the impostor. Every time the doppelgänger tried to rise the wizard drove him back down with another searing blast.
Kitrinos suddenly lay still in the sand and Doulos halted his assault. Then the body began to change, elongating as the legs merged to form a long, barbed tail. Doulos started his barraged again, but hard yellow scales formed to deflect his bolts.
The yellow dragon roared in anger and refused to release the sword. The wizard’s assault kept him from forming wings to fly away, but he had other powers at his disposal.
A swarm of tiny insects burst out of the sand to encircle the wizard. He was forced to stop his attack in a futile effort to keep the creatures from crawling up his nose, in his ears, down his throat. So thick was the swarm that Doulos was lost from sight.
Free of the wizard’s onslaught, the dragon shook himself and sprouted wings. The people on the beach screamed, turning to flee as his dragonfear flooded the beach.
Karah, Tander, and Tenna did their best to fight the unreasoning terror. They tried to help their friends, but neither Quist nor Y’neth would respond. Stile and Zalas came to their feet slowly. Tenna turned and left her father, running to help Tander try and revive Y’neth.
As they tried to pick her up under her shoulders and drag her away, a trumpeting roar split the air behind them. Tander looked back with a shudder, but the roar hadn’t come from Kitrinos.
More of the gnats rose up to harry them and the wind began to swirl. Sand and bugs whipped through the air as the sound of wings echoed off the face of the nearby rock.
Doulos let out a great cry of frustration, yelling a word beyond the comprehension of those who heard it. The swarm of insects fell away, those that didn’t die surged back into the safety of the sand. Sand still swirled, but the air around him was noticeably clearer.
Tenna looked through splayed fingers to see a violet-colored dragon glittering overhead. A black-robed man sat hunched on its back, holding a length of silver chain attached to a thick collar around the beast’s neck. The dragon circled the Torch as the robed man threw globs of green ooze toward Doulos. The wizard answered each of them with balls of searing flame.
Shaking with fear, Katalas fired arrows at the purple dragon from the midst of the panicked throng. He might as well have been throwing straw.
Kitrinos, reaching his full size and strength, reared up on his hind legs to tower over the outcropping. Liquid fire spewed from his mouth to envelope Doulos in an unforgiving stream of heat. A faint blue nimbus glowed in the midst of the inferno, a small shell of energy encapsulating the kneeling wizard.
That’s when Tenna saw it.
As Kitrinos pinned down the only real threat, the violet dragon was free to attack those gathered below. Judging by the angle of its flight, it was headed back up the beach.
Directly for her father.
“Hey!” Tander yelled as she sprinted away. The shadow of the dragon closed in as she struggled to run in the sand, struggled to stay ahead of the dragon. She could feel the heat of the dragon’s breath on her neck and saw violet scales out of the corner of her eye.
She slammed into her father and pushed him to the sand. Then she felt herself gripped in a crushing grasp that lifted her from the ground. Had she the breath, she would have screamed.
Her father and Tander screamed for her. “Tenna!”
Kitrinos bit down on his fire and flapped hard, lifting his sinuous bulk into the air. Y’neth’s sword was still gripped in his fore claws and he bellowed a mocking laugh as he took flight.
“You lose, Doulos,” he crowed. “We have one of the Swords and your precious hidden heir. Without them your prophecies are nothing. Chaskak will be master of this world.”
The old man launched a feeble bolt at the dragon, but Kitrinos shrugged it off, laughing as he flew away.
“Mahir!” Karah screamed as she slapped at Quist’s face. “Mahir! You must awaken. We must fly after my granddaughter.”
“That’s Mahir?” Stile was still groggy. “Quist is Mahir? Are you all dragons?”
“Hush,” a dazed but conscious Y’neth chided. Tander helped her hobble to Karah’s side. The boy’s face streamed with tears, echoing the choked sobs of Zalas kneeling in the sand nearby.
Duras helped the wizard negotiate the uneven stone stairs down to Quist’
s side. Doulos knelt down and put his hands on the elf’s forehead and chest.
“Stand away,” the wizard commanded. He closed his eyes and pressed down hard. Quist’s body began to shudder and his limbs began to shift and twist. He flailed about and flung the wizard back on his haunches.
A growl of rage and pain came from the changeling creature, then his eyes flew open. His form finally settled into the shape of Quist and he jumped to his feet. His eyes swirled like a fire and his voice was hard.
“Kitrinos, I’ve got to catch him.”
“No!” Karah was distraught. “You have to rescue my granddaughter.”
“Granddaughter?” Stile was confused all the more. “How is Tenna your granddaughter?”
“I am Xilana, mother of Xigara,” Karah declared with an edge, “and Tenna is my son’s true heir. Without her…”
“Without her,” Zalas sobbed, “all hope is lost.”
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About the Author
J. Mark has been a writer since his childhood years. Like most adults, he got distracted by other things and left his stories to languish for a while. He’s picked them back up again, and wants to share them with the world. With the ever-changing nature of modern publishing, he was convinced that this self-publishing thing would be a better fit, and decided to give it a go.
J. Mark has been a minister, a musician, a school teacher, and an amateur chef. He lives in North Texas with his wife, three budding authors, and several Apple products.
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 41
