by Alex Paul
“The sword is yours,” Yolanta said. “Use it to serve me.” Yolanta turned to go.
“Three comrades of mine are warriors who would serve as well,” the tall black stated.
“Free and oath those three if you judge them fit,” Yolanta said to Brumbal without turning.
“Sir!” Brumbal. “Unlock the three he points out,” Brumbal ordered the Toookan sailor who had taken the keys from the Tolarian slave master.
“Now, let’s see what secrets this ship holds,” Yolanta said to himself.
CHAPTER 4
ORD’S TORMENT
We have escaped our Tookan pursuers at great cost. The Triumph was taken, and all aboard are prisoners of Yolanta, king of the Tookans. We flee across the Circle Sea where these pirates cannot follow, for they do not have a compass. It appears for now that we are safe, barring some accident at sea, so my thoughts turn to my future husband, Prince Dahl. We have never met.
My advisers say he is three years older than me, dark of hair, and not very muscular since he is more interested in scholarly pursuits than a military career. I have no idea if I will grow to love him. I marry for duty, not love, to cement the alliance between his Lantish city-state and my country of Tolaria. I accept my obligation and know I will find love with my children if not the prince. I spend hours in mediation with the priests to learn the necklace’s secrets. Someday, I shall use its power of foresight to destroy Amarrat and these foul Tookans as well.
—Diary of Princess Sharmane of Tolaria
Ord placed the end of the toth spear on the ground and reached up his hand. The flint spearhead ended just below the height of his extended fingers. The spear is the right length, Ord thought. I must be a weak Nander.
He studied the trunk of the towering black oak. He should be able to throw it that far, at least.
Songbirds filled the clearing with ambitious morning chatter while monkeys screeched from the upper canopy, protesting his invasion of their space. The jungle smelled of heady fresh air and the rot of leaves and plants scattered across the jungle floor. Ord raised the spear above his shoulder. It was heavy. He worried he wouldn’t reach the tree from this new distance, much less hit the circle his father had scratched into the bark.
“I think spear too heavy.” Ord felt sorry for himself. A bull’s spear was measured from the extended fingertips to the ground. Father had cut his spear down to match his size. Still, it was thick and heavy and the weight just reminded him he was halfway through his thirteenth year and had yet to start his growth into a bull. Without that growth, he didn’t have enough muscle to throw the spear properly. Yet his father was making him try.
“No think.” Mar stood several paces to Ord’s right to give him room. “Pretend tree is charging swordtooth. Ord have much strength then!” Mar cackled in a high-pitched Nander laugh, but he spoke to Ord in Lantish, the language he’d learned as a slave among the people the Nanders called No-furs. Ord hated it when his father insisted that they speak Lantish, which was every time they were alone.
His father put his weight on his crippled left leg for a moment, and then he shifted back to the strong one. Like Ord, Mar’s golden hair covered his body. Though he still had broad, strong shoulders, they tipped down to the left because a toth had crushed his left leg years before.
The injury had turned him from hunter to healer, prophet, and spiritual leader of their tribe. His thirty-fifth year had passed, making him the old man of the tribe. He towered over Ord by a foot despite his injured leg. But that would soon change when Ord started his bull growth within another year. Then, with a year of growth, Ord would become a full-grown Nander bull.
“Why can’t we speak in Nander?” Ord protested in Nander. “No-fur words hard to say.” He paused. “And bull spear too heavy for Ord throw.”
“Spear not heavy!” Mar refused to break out of the No-fur tongue. “Ord weak!” Then he switched to Nander. “One day, you speak No-fur. It help you. Because I speak No-fur, I fool guards and escape. Someday maybe you do same.”
“You always tell me you speak No-fur it help you escape be slave. I never let No-fur slavers catch me,” Ord boasted. “I die fighting!”
Mar limped forward through the deep layer of leaves, dragging his leg. Ord began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. His father seemed funny to him, limping on a leg turned against him by an angry toth.
“Not laugh!” Mar’s face turned to rage. He raised his arm as if to strike Ord.
“Sorry.” Ord lowered his head.
“You wait. Someday you old man too. You limp.” Mar spat into the spongy, leaf-covered jungle floor. He grabbed his son by the shoulder to force him to listen.
“Ord, never say you fight until you die. If slavers take you, then you wait. They grow lazy. You escape. Make sure escape on first try. If not, they kill you.”
“Yes, father.” Ord bowed his head in submission. “But slavers never come to Water Cave. Nanders safe here.”
“Foolish boy!” Mar growled. “You strong, quick. Climb trees like monkey. You think jungle safe. You think nothing catch Ord. Nothing kill Ord. You pray to Tonlot slavers never come. No-furs cross sea in great ships. They make no noise. They no shout, ‘Ord, No-furs here! Run away!’
“No, they hide in jungle, carry nets. In one breath you on ground, slave forever! I know! They catch me when I young, when I run fast as wind! But I not fast enough. They wait above trail in tree, drop net on me. Later catch others, even my sister. Someday slavers come, Ord. That why I teach you No-fur.”
“Yes, father.”
Mar let go of his shoulders. His expression had gone from rage to great sadness, and there was none of the earlier laughter about swordtooths.
“Ord, Nanders live in Water Cave since beginning of world. You listen to me sing long chant, family names back to tribal mother at each end yar?”
“Yes, father,” Ord said in Lantish.
“No-furs once had few in camps in great jungle. But No-furs smarter than Nander. They mighty. Build cities. Do much I not understand, and I wise man of Water Cave tribe! I teach you language of all No-furs who live in cities by big water. You speak like all No-furs, someday maybe it help you live.” Tears began to fill his eyes. “Someday, Ord, Nanders gone, toth gone. Our world end.”
“No, father. How?” Ord felt horrified. How could his father think the world of the mighty toth and Nanders could ever end when the toth were so many?
“I see in vision of days to come,” Mar said as he turned away. “I also know from vision, Ord learn No-fur, save life someday.”
“Yes, father. I practice.” Ord spoke carefully in No-fur, making sure he used the right words.
“Throw spear now. Pretend tree is No-fur slaver.” Mar stepped back. “You kill him.”
Ord’s right arm strained under the weight as he raised the spear, cocked his elbow, and rocked onto his rear foot. He imagined the tree to be a slaver coming for his family in the Water Cave. Rage filled him as he began his steps to throw the spear. A blue jiy dropped like a leaf from the oak tree. Its light gray head and white throat flashed as the bird stabbed at an acorn directly in front of Ord’s target. The jiy was nearly a foot tall. Ord didn’t want to hit it if he threw too low, so he stopped. He had learned that it offended Tonlot to kill animals for no reason.
“Shoo! Fly away.” Mar waved at the bird.
It shot into the sky, a flash of blue with a raspy call. Ord began again. He took three hard steps forward and flung the spear with all his might. It traced a gentle arc through the air and dropped into leaves a foot short of the tree.
Ord hung his head and felt unworthy to be his father’s only son.
“Throw spear again,” Mar ordered in No-fur. “Use body first, arm last. Shout out loud when you throw. Like this: haaah!”
The birds and monkeys had turned silent, alarmed by Mar’s shout. Rubbing his shoulder, Ord brought back the spear and took his mark. No wind stirred the humid air, as if the world was holding its breath for him t
o succeed. He threw again, this time following the form he had learned: run three steps, twist the body first, and then pull with his arm. Though the spear wobbled, it reached the tree’s base with a resounding thud.
“Spear too heavy,” Ord objected.
“You forgot shout.” Mar hobbled to Ord’s mark. “Fetch spear.”
Ord ran to bring back the spear.
“I show. Toth cripple me. Still I show Ord.” Mar took the spear, his yellow toth skin tunic clinging to his still massive shoulders. The power in his good leg, trunk, shoulders, and arms gave evidence to Ord of the powerful hunter his father had once been.
Ord stood aside. Someday, I will be like him and my legs will be strong.
Mar took the spear in his right arm and stood with his right leg forward. He swung his left leg forward and planted it, and then leaned forward and let his arm catch up with his shoulder as he whipped the spear forward.
“Haaaah!” he screamed.
Birds fluttered from the branches above, startled. Ord watched the spear flash through the air and strike the center of the circle his father had drawn in the bark. Bark exploded as the spear bounced off and dropped to the ground. Ord turned around to offer praise only to see Mar had fallen.
“Father!” Ord ran to help.
“Leg trip me,” Mar said. He pulled his right leg under him and slowly rose. “I be fine,” he said, though his wincing face said otherwise.
“Scream give you power, Ord. You practice. Throw ten times. Scream each time, and then bring spear to chelat. I go, make herbs. Must work.”
“Yes, father.” Ten more times? His arm would fall off! But he held his tongue.
He watched Mar limp away, his slow pace showing the effect of his fall. Ord watched until the jungle shadows swallowed his father before trudging to the tree to fetch the spear again.
Seven times he threw, until his arm and shoulder ached.
“Ord weak like No-fur!”
Ord stiffened but didn’t turn. He had heard that taunting voice even in his dreams. It was Jen, the son of Bruton, the tribe’s chief. Even Ord’s father, healer and spiritual leader of their tribe, deferred to Bruton, who was chief and the strongest bull of the tribe. And now Jen had snuck up behind him. Ord sniffed the air, not believing he had missed Jen’s scent with his sensitive nose, and then realized with a sinking feeling that Jen had approached from downwind, the blind side of his nose.
“No-fur talk make Ord weak. Make tribe weak,” Jen taunted.
Ord clenched his fist and turned to find Jen stepping into the clearing from a covering screen of vines. Half a head taller and a year older than Ord, Jen had already started the quick growth from youth to bull and his rippling muscles bulged as he moved. The hair covering his body glowed like gold as he stepped into the clearing with his back to the sunlight. The sloping shadow of his forehead combined with his thick brows to turn his eyes black in the jungle shade.
Two smaller Nanders, the twins Arn and Poz, followed Jen into the clearing. They were Ord’s height and his same age. Ord could tell them apart because Arn’s nose twisted to his left, the result of a fall, while Poz was missing part of his left ear where a rock had hit it years earlier. All three carried rocks in their hands.
They stood between Ord and the path to the Water Cave. Ord realized he was at their mercy. These boys had bothered him before, but they had never carried rocks. Ord’s heart hammered. He knew he could outrun all of them—he was the fastest runner of all the young Nanders—but that would bring shame on him for losing his spear. Ord spun and ran for his spear before he knew he had decided to stand and fight.
He heard them coming as he picked up his spear. Something struck him hard on the left side of his head. Blood flooded into his eye and he blinked to clear it in time to see Arn picking up the rock he had thrown while Jen and Poz took positions beyond Ord’s spear reach.
“No-fur! Ord is a No-fur!” Jen taunted.
“I not!” Ord protested. His voice was a desperate cry of pain. Why did they hate him so much? Just because his father was teaching him the language of the No-furs? He only wanted them to be his friends, yet they called him a No-fur.
Ord knew he wasn’t a No-fur. He dreamed someday he would kill a toth and become a bull of the tribe. These boys would show him respect then! He would join his father and sit on the council and be honored for his skill as a hunter and provider for his people. Yet until that day came, Ord knew these boys would make his life miserable for learning the language of the No-furs.
“Ord talk No-fur. Ord is No-fur,” Arn taunted in a pinched, nasally tone, an effect of his broken nose. “Bruton say Nanders kill all No-furs. We kill Ord.”
Ord spun in a circle trying to hold them off with his spear and keep them all within his sight, but his left eye was covered in blood and useless.
“Owooo! Owoo!” He screamed the Nanders’ call of alarm, a high-pitched squeal that penetrated the jungle.
“Ord is a crying No-fur!” Jen said, his face twisted in anger. Poz raised his arm to throw his rock.
“No!” Ord charged him with the spear. Poz twisted to the side, but Ord was too quick. Poz’s eyes widened as Ord tripped on a root and stumbled forward. Ord had only meant to scare Poz but, instead, his spear plunged into Poz’s upper thigh.
“Ayeee!” Poz screamed in agony.
Ord let go of the spear, and it remained in Poz’s leg. Ord was horrified by what he had done. They would punish him. Jen would see to it. Even Ord’s family might suffer.
A blur of motion came from his left, and his world turned black.
CHAPTER 5
TORTURE AND BETRAYAL
I wake from a dream and realize it is not a dream at all but a memory of the loss of the Triumph. What has become of the captain and crew at the hands of the Tookans?
—Diary of Princess Sharmane of Tolaria
“Blast this heat,” Yolanta cursed his dark, hot cabin.
He was drenched in sweat. Battle required shuttering his windows, and no one had thought to reopen them when the fight ended. He ignited a candle, and then pulled ropes that swung the black painted wooden panels out and up. Cooler air flooded through the open windows. He secured the ropes to a wall peg while looking toward the far shoreline. A sea mist was forming that hid the land. His cabin’s heat conspired with the damp air and the open window gave no relief.
Yolanta pulled his helmet from his head and examined it. A deep dent marked where the Tolarian’s blow had landed. He felt the top of his head, and a throbbing pain rewarded his search. He hung his helmet on its rack, and then stepped to a bowl of water and dipped his head into it. Though the water was barely cooler than the air, it felt wonderful despite the throbbing pain in his skull caused by bending over.
Yolanta dried his hair with a cloth, and then reached for his wine boda hanging from a ceiling hook. He emptied it in a few deep swallows. Pain and heat slowly dissipated under the influence of the wine. As he stood before the open shutters, he gazed out upon a pink glow on the mist in the eastern sky—the result of Baltak on fire.
For a moment, he thought he heard screams from the sacked city, but realized it was his imagination giving life to the squeaks and groans of his ship.
“How could Baltak fall in a single moonth?” Yolanta asked aloud. One year, perhaps, but not one moonth cycle. He knew the answer to his question: Mork’s fire, thrown by Amarrat catapults over the city walls.
Mork’s fire had previously been known only to the Lantish, which had given them control of the Circle Sea. But somehow, the Amarrats had mastered the secret of the substance. Mork’s fire was a sticky liquid that could be stored in a clay vessel with a lit fuse burning in its throat. When the clay jar was thrown by a catapult and landed on something firm like a ship’s deck, the clay jar would break, and the liquid would ignite as it spilled out. Mork’s fire could not be extinguished by water. Only sand could smother it.
Obviously, the Tolarians had no idea that the Amarrats had this weapon, for
they had not been prepared to fight the fires that had erupted. Rubble and rotting bodies would soon be the only memorials left to Tol, the Tolarian’s god. Gold chalices, silk robes, silver goblets, crystal, gold coins: all would vanish while the city burned. The salted fields would guarantee no crops or human settlement would return to Baltak for five hundred years.
Yolanta toweled his head and stared at the glow of Baltak’s flames. How could a single necklace be so valuable that a city would refuse to give it up to save itself? That was the Amarrat king’s sole demand, yet the Tolarians had refused. Yolanta suspected the legend must be true. If a necklace granted future knowledge, its worth had no price.
He shook his head in disbelief. How did it work? Even the priests said only one pure of heart could use the necklace to read the future; the impure and untrained would go mad. Was their warning merely a trick to keep others from stealing it?
“If it’s true, then I could never wear it.” Yolanta raised his eyebrow and laughed at the sad truth of his words. He was a pirate captain and not pure of heart.
Such is my life. I fight for my people, Yolanta thought as he rang the bell for his cabin boy, who ran in immediately. “Bring me cheese, ban meat, a gazzle egg, and bread,” he ordered.
“Sir.” The boy bowed.
“And more wine.” He turned to examine the boy, surprised he had survived the combat. “You’re unharmed from the battle?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s eyes glowed. “Brumbal wouldn’t allow me to board, so I fired arrows from the command deck. I killed three Tolarian dogs.”
“Excellent! Good service. Here.” Yolanta reached in his desk drawer and retrieved three silver coins that he pressed into the boy’s hands. “One for each man killed. But don’t tell a soul; they’ll pound my doors down wanting equal treatment.”
The boy grinned and touched the closed fist of his right hand to his forehead to show his obedience. After the boy left, Yolanta unbuckled the leather straps across his chest plate that held his swords. He lifted the entire mass from his chest like a man taking off a coat. The front scabbard held his short sword slanting right to left across his stomach so he could draw it left-handed to fight double sword. The back scabbard held his long sword at a slant across his spine with the handle ready above his right shoulder. If needed, he could draw his short sword right-handed as well for battle at close quarters.
