Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “All done, then?” Hadrian asked, tying the end of one of the lines Royce had dropped to him.

  Myron nodded. “Well, mostly, but I thought…” He looked up once more. “I thought Royce might be willing to say a few words, since he knew him best.”

  “Royce is a bit busy,” Hadrian replied.

  Myron’s shoulders slumped.

  “How about if I come? I knew him too.”

  “Can I come?” Arista asked. She had been on deck coiling ropes and generally clearing the clutter. No one had asked her to. No one had asked her to do anything. Women were unexpected on board a ship and she did not think Wyatt knew what to do with her. She had tried helping Alric with building the raft for the anchor, but that had gone badly. Her brother noticeably winced each time she suggested something to Mauvin, Degan, or Magnus. After only an hour, she excused herself, saying she was not feeling well, and returned to the ship. She hoped Wyatt would have some use for her, but he only smiled and nodded politely as he passed.

  “Of course,” Myron said eagerly, a smile brightening his face.

  Arista jumped to her feet, feeling oddly relieved. Somehow she had expected Myron would exclude her as well. She regretted volunteering, as getting off the ship required wading in chest-deep water. It was very cold and took her breath away. Her robe billowed around her as she struggled to find traction in the ground below.

  A strong wave struck her from behind and she started to fall face forward. Hadrian caught her by the elbow and held her up.

  “Thank you. I thought I was going for a swim there,” she told him.

  “Bad form on the wave’s part, sneaking up and attacking you from the back like that.”

  “Not very chivalrous, was it?”

  “Not at all—I’d complain.”

  Myron moved ahead of them, splashing his way to a high point where the water was only a few inches deep. “He’s under here—at least, he used to be.” Myron looked about, concerned.

  “I’m sure he still is,” Hadrian said.

  “We’d best get started before he slips away,” Arista said as a wave’s retreat sucked her feet into the sand. “You start us off, Myron.”

  “Dear Maribor, our eternal father, we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Bernie. That’s his name, right?” Myron whispered.

  Hadrian nodded.

  “We ask that you remember him and see that he crosses the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Hadrian, motioning with his hand for him to speak.

  “Ah…” Hadrian thought a moment. “Bernie wasn’t a good man, exactly. He was a thief, and a grave robber, and he tried to knife Royce once—”

  Seeing Myron’s expression, Arista nudged Hadrian.

  “But, um… he didn’t actually ever try to kill any of us. He was just doing his job, I guess. I suppose he was pretty good at it.” Hadrian stopped there, looking awkward.

  “Would you like to say something?” Myron asked Arista.

  “I didn’t know him.”

  “At this point I don’t think he’d mind,” Myron said.

  “Okay. I suppose.” She thought a second, then said, “Although none of us knew him well, I am certain Mr. Bernie had virtues as well as shortcomings, like any of us. He likely helped people, or showed courage in the face of adversity when others might not. He must have had some good in him; otherwise Maribor would not have sent one of his most compassionate and thoughtful servants here to ensure he had a proper passing.”

  “Wow, that was much better than mine,” Hadrian whispered.

  “Shh,” Arista said.

  “And so, Lord,” Myron concluded with a bowed head, “we say farewell to Bernie. May the light of a new dawn rise upon his soul.” Then in a light voice Myron sang:

  Unto Maribor, I beseech thee

  Into the hands of god, I send thee

  Grant him peace, I beg thee

  Give him rest, I ask thee

  May the god of men watch over your journey.

  “Is that it?” Hadrian asked.

  “That’s it,” Myron replied. “Thank you both for coming and standing in the cold water.”

  “Let’s get back. My feet are going numb,” Arista said, hopping through the surf.

  “Your Highness?” Myron asked, chasing her. “I can’t help but ask. Who is the servant of Maribor you were speaking of?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “You, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  When they got back, Alric and the rest were tying up their makeshift raft to the side of the Harbinger. Arista was impressed. The raft was eight feet square, lashed tight and caulked with pitch.

  On board, Wyatt and Elden were pushing everything that could be moved from the bow to the stern. The back of the ship began to rock in earnest, making it hard to stand.

  Once everyone was on board, Wyatt looked up as if to the heavens and shouted, “Loose the tops’l!”

  She gasped as Royce pulled a line, then without hesitation ran across the yard to the far side and pulled another. The topsail fell open and Royce dropped to the masthead and, running along the top of the mainsail yard, tied off the sheets.

  “Loose the mains’l!” Wyatt shouted, and Royce released the big sail. “Hands to the sheets!”

  Hadrian and Elden, on opposite sides of the ship, pulled ropes connected to the lower corners of the sail, stretching it out taut.

  “Hands to the braces! Back all sails!”

  Elden and Hadrian grabbed hold of ropes attached to the ends of the yards and pulled, twisting them around so that they caught the wind on an angle, pushing the ship backward toward the sea. They looked to Wyatt, who waved them over until they had the right angle; then they tied off the braces.

  “Everyone to the stern!” Wyatt called, and each of them moved to the back of the ship. The wind and the waves rocked them, and at times it seemed they were lifting, but the ship failed to move.

  “The keel’s dug in,” Wyatt said, then sighed. “We’ll need to kedge off. Elden and Hadrian, hoist the anchor to the raft and lash it tight. Alric—forgive me, Your Majesty, but I need to use you like a deckhand and will be dispensing with formalities. I hope you understand. Please take Mauvin and launch the raft as soon as the anchor is on it. Now this is what you must remember: paddle out directly behind the ship. Any angle will reduce our traction. We want to pull the ship in perfect line with the keel. When you are out so far that the chain is fully extended, drop the anchor, then return to the ship as fast as you can.”

  Alric nodded, and with Mauvin following, they climbed over the side of the ship. Using the pulleys attached to the main yard, Hadrian and Elden hoisted the anchor out over the raft, which bobbed and bucked in the surf. Alric and Mauvin straddled it, tying the anchor fast to the deck; both were sprayed and soaked by crashing waves. Hadrian handed paddles down, and with one on each side, the two worked to push the weighted craft out over the swells.

  The chain played out through Wyatt’s own hands as he stood at the stern, carefully watching their progress. Alric and Mauvin appeared like two rats on a barrel lid when the chain went taut. Arista saw the flash of Mauvin’s blade, and the anchor went into the water, nearly flipping the raft.

  “Hands to the capstan!” Wyatt called. “That’s everyone—except, of course, you, Your Highness.”

  Arista sighed but was just as happy to stand at the stern rail and watch Alric and Mauvin, who were paddling back. They were moving much faster now that they had the swells pushing them.

  In the center of the ship, poles were passed through the holes in the big wheel and everyone put their weight into pushing the capstan around. Arista could hear the rapid clank, clank, clank of the pawls as they took up the slack. Then the sound grew slower, the time between the clanks longer.

  Everyone aside from her, including Wyatt, heaved on the capstan. Each pole had two people on it except for Elden’s. The giant commanded his own pole and his face was turning red from the strain. Arista heard a fearful creaking as
the anchor and the ship fought each other.

  “Show us the waves, Arista!” Wyatt called to her. “Put your arms up and drop them just before a wave is about to hit the ship!”

  She nodded and looked out to sea. Alric and Mauvin were already coming alongside. She looked at the swells. They were in a lull, but she could see three humps in the distance rolling toward them like the slithering backs of serpents.

  “It will be a minute,” she shouted back.

  “Everyone rest,” Wyatt told them. “When you see her drop her arms, really put your back into it.”

  Mauvin and Alric scrambled over the side, soaked and exhausted. They flung themselves down on the deck.

  “No time to rest!” Wyatt shouted at them. “Find a spot on the poles.”

  The swells were nearing and Arista raised her arms. “Get ready!”

  They all braced themselves and took deep breaths.

  The first swell rushed in and Arista dropped her arms, but she did so too late.

  They heaved. There was a grinding sensation; then it stopped and the men fell, exhausted, hanging from the poles.

  “I timed it wrong,” Arista shouted. “I was too late. Here comes another.” She raised her arms and they all braced again, with Mauvin and Alric finding places at the poles.

  Arista watched the swell rushing at her. This time she lowered her arms while the wave was still a few feet away. By the time the men heaved, the rear of the ship was rising. There were a noticeable lurch and more grinding. This time she heard the sound of wood scraping and felt movement.

  “One more!” she shouted, raising her arms and then dropping them almost as soon as they were up.

  Once more the men pushed, the chain tightened, and the boat rose. This time a gust of wind managed to catch the topsail and the ship lurched dramatically. The bottom scraped and broke out of the sludge. They rocked smooth and free, drifting backward.

  A cheer rose and everyone was grinning. Wyatt ran back to the stern beside Arista and grabbed hold of the wheel. “That was lucky,” he said, sweat dripping from his forehead. “Great job, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Keep cranking! Let’s see if we can save the anchor.”

  The men pushed the capstan around easily now. They quickly covered the distance Alric and Mauvin had paddled and passed it. Arista watched the cable swing down beneath them. There was a sudden lurch that staggered her; then she heard the rapid clanking of the pawls as the anchor came in.

  “Man the braces!” Wyatt shouted. “Stand by to come about!”

  Wyatt looked out at the swells and gave the wheel a hard spin. The ship turned. “Swing round the yards—starboard tack!”

  Everyone else cleared out of the way as Hadrian, Elden, and Royce went to work twisting the yards and tying off. The ship turned its nose out to sea and the wind filled the sails, pushing it over to one side. “Tacks and sheets, catch that wind!”

  Arista grabbed hold of the rail, frightened at the sudden speed the ship acquired and the disturbing tilt of the deck. Concerned that they were about to capsize, she watched apprehensively as the mast leaned and the ship rode on its side.

  “There she goes!” Wyatt exclaimed with a great smile on his lips. “Fly, Harbinger, fly!” As if the ship heard him, the bow broke through a crest, dove forward, and hurdled the surface until it splashed down with a burst of spray. “Atta girl!”

  Arista carried the hot cup with difficulty. She held it with both hands, but the deck refused to stay in one place for long and caused her to stagger. She approached Myron, who sat shivering with his back against the base of the mast.

  “Here,” she said, kneeling down and holding out the steaming cup.

  “For me?” he asked, and she nodded. He took the cup and sniffed. “It’s tea?” he said as if the drink were some kind of miracle. “It’s hot tea.”

  “You seemed like you could use something warm to drink.”

  Myron looked at her with an expression of such gratefulness she thought for a moment that he might cry. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s just tea, Myron. It wasn’t much work.”

  “You had to get the stove going, and that must have been difficult. I wouldn’t know how to do that on board a ship.”

  “I—ah, I didn’t use the stove.”

  “But you had to boil the water… Oh,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Yeah, I used a little trick.” She wiggled her fingers.

  He looked back down at the cup.

  “If you don’t want it, that’s okay. I just thought—”

  He lifted the cup and took a noisy sip. “It’s wonderful. Created by magic and made for me by a royal princess. This is the best tea I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

  She laughed a bit and sat down before the lurching of the ship knocked her over. “Lately, I sometimes forget I am a princess. I haven’t thought of myself that way for a really long time.”

  “Still, it is astoundingly thoughtful.”

  “It’s what I can do,” she said. “I feel useless lately. The least I can do is cook. Problem is, I really don’t know how. But I can boil water like nobody’s business. I’d like to make a cup for Royce. Hadrian says he gets seasick and I always thought tea soothed the stomach, but he’s up in the rigging. Still, at the rate we’re traveling I don’t think it will be much longer before we land.”

  Myron tilted the cup to his lips and sipped. “It tastes wonderful. You did an excellent job.”

  She smirked at him. “You’d say that even if it was awful. I get the impression I could serve you dishwater and you’d act perfectly happy.”

  He nodded. “That is true, only I wouldn’t be acting.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  He nodded and took another sip.

  “It doesn’t take much to please you, does it, Myron?”

  “Antun Bulard once wrote ‘When you expect nothing from the world—not the light of the sun, the wet of water, nor the air to breathe—everything is a wonder and every moment a gift.’ ”

  “And you expect nothing from the world?”

  He looked at her, puzzled. “I’m a monk.”

  She smiled and nodded. “You need to teach me to be a monk. I expect too much. I want too much… things I can’t have.”

  “Desire can be painful, but so can regret.”

  “That is the one thing I have too much of.”

  “Sail!” Royce shouted from somewhere above them.

  “Where?” Wyatt called from the wheel.

  “Off the starboard bow, you’ll be able to see it in another minute.”

  Arista and Myron got to their feet and moved to the rail. The dark prow of the Harbinger cut a white slice through the luminous green waves. Ahead, the city was much closer. Arista could see some detail in the buildings—windows, doorways, stairs, and domes.

  “Which side is the starboard side?” she asked.

  “The right side,” Myron told her. “Starboard is derived from what they used to call the rudder—the sterobord—which was always on the right side of a ship, because most people are right handed. As a result, when docking, the one steering a ship always pulled up placing the opposite side of the ship next to the pier so it didn’t interfere with his paddling, or the rudder. And of course that side, the left side, was the port side. Or so Hill McDavin explained in Chronicles of Maritime Commerce and Trade Practices of the Kilnar Union.”

  “Hadrian said you could do stuff like that—but until you see it, it’s hard to believe. It’s amazing that you can remember so many things.”

  “Everyone has talents. It’s like magic, I guess.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “I suppose it is.”

  “Look,” Myron told her, pointing.

  She spotted dark sails coming out of the dim light. They were far larger than their own—big sweeping triangles of black canvas with a white mark emblazoned on them. The des
ign was a symbol of slashes that looked vaguely like a skull.

  “Everyone get down!” Wyatt shouted. “Royce, tell me if they change course toward us!”

  Arista and Myron lay down on the deck but continued to peer out at the approaching vessel. The hull came into view as if out of a green fog. It too was black and glistened with the ocean’s spray, looking like smoked glass. With the underside reflecting the unholy glow of the sea, the ship appeared ominous. It looked as if it were something not of their world at all.

  A light flashed from the top of the masts.

  “They are signaling us,” Royce called down.

  “Damn,” Wyatt said. “That’s going to be a problem.”

  “She’s changing course toward us.”

  “Hands to the braces!” Wyatt shouted as he spun the wheel and the Harbinger turned away from the oncoming ship. “They’re onto us now.”

  Arista heard a faint shout across the water and she could see movement; small dark figures loped across the deck. As she saw them, a chill ran through her. Like anyone, she had heard tales of the Ba Ran Ghazel—the sea goblins. They were the stuff of legends. Nora, Arista’s nursemaid, had told her fairy stories at bedtime. Most often the tales were about greedy dwarves that kidnapped spoiled princesses, who were always saved by a dashing prince in the end. But sometimes, she spoke about the Ghazel. No prince ever saved a princess from them, no matter how dashing. The Ghazel were vile creatures of the dark, inhuman monsters, the children of a malevolent god. Nora’s tales of the Ghazel always included villages burned, warriors killed, and children taken—not to be ransomed but to be feasted on. The Ghazel always ate their victims.

  When Arista was sitting in her bed, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by pillows, and safe in the warmth and light of a crackling fireplace, Nora’s tales were fun. She always imagined dwarves as nasty little men and fairies as tiny winged girls, but the Ghazel she could never conjure entirely—even in the vast imaginings of her childish mind. They were always as they appeared now: distant threatening shadows exhibiting fast jerky movements that no human could make. Nora had always begun her stories the same way: “Not all of this story is true, but enough is…” Looking out at the ship, and the dark figures on the deck, Arista wondered if Nora had realized just how true they were.