by Watson Davis
“Come on.” He guided her to the same bit of shade, setting her down next to Dyuh Mon. He leaned up against the tree, concentrating on slowing his breath, the rough bark biting into his side.
One mast swept up onto the beach, sections of ripped sails wrapped around it. Bodies lay on the beach in all manner of positions, sprawling, arms and legs akimbo, most of them dead. Simthil lay on his back, still clinging to the wheel.
Gartan pointed at Dyuh Mon and said to Tayna, “Don’t let him get away.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Gartan set his jaw and stumbled forward, his first few steps uncertain, but gaining strength and determination as he padded across the hot sand that pulled at his feet and burned their tender soles. He grabbed the edge of the wheel and lifted.
Simthil’s eyes popped open. The big man grunted, yanking back, pulling the wheel toward himself. “I’ve got it.”
“Time to give it up.” Gartan smiled. “Come on and get up, you dunderhead. I need someone to help me.”
“Yeah.” Simthil let the wheel go. “We’re in a hell of endless sun, then?”
“Seems like.” Gartan lifted the edge of the wheel once more.
Simthil rolled over, grunting, and crawled out from beneath. “I never knew a place could be so blasted hot.”
Gartan dropped the wheel and trudged to Simthil’s side, helping the man to rise to his feet. “We don’t have time to screw around.”
“Who’s screwing around?” Simthil leaned over, his hands on his knees, coughing phlegm into the sand before standing on unsteady feet and peering around at the bodies on the beach. His mouth dropped open at the sight, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He whispered, “I wasn’t joking about being in a hell.”
Gartan clapped the man’s shoulder, pointing to the shade where Tayna and Dyuh Mon had started building shelter and a fire. “We can take the injured ones over there. Hopefully we can find some who are just resting like you were.” He pointed to another area on the beach. “I figure we can build a pyre for the dead over there.”
Simthil nodded, his fists on his hips and his jaw jutting forward. “Will a pyre draw the notice of the locals?”
“Let them come,” Gartan said, his tone fierce.
Simthil chuckled. He pointed. “I’ll take this side.”
Gartan nodded. “Sounds fine.”
He trudged to the first body, a woman, and he flipped it over, squinting at the twisted face until he recognized her: Boka. He touched her neck, placed his fingers beneath her nose, but felt nothing. He dragged her to the spot he’d suggested for a pyre.
Simthil lumbered through the sand toward Gartan, toward the pyre, his face a stony mask, with a man draped over his shoulder. He plodded past Gartan, not speaking a word, and Gartan saw that the man was Alvon, Simthil’s son.
Back down at the waterline, one man dragged another up onto the beach. Gartan jogged over to them: Nohel and Henok. Gartan helped Nohel drag Henok further away from the rising tide, but he realized Henok had passed.
“Take his body there,” Gartan said, pointing toward where Simthil still sat on his knees, his head bowed. “And then you can either help, or if you’re injured, join them.” He pointed toward the shady place where Dyuh Mon now sat, a lean-to taking shape between the trees as Tayna, still holding her side with one arm, placed large leaves over a rough structure of branches with the other.
“Yes, sir,” Nohel said, looking up, his eyes following Gartan’s gaze, before his eyes grew wide. He dropped Henok’s body and began to jog toward the shelter, crying, “Tayna? Tayna!”
The two limped together, wrapping their arms around each other.
“Or I can take Henok’s to the pyre, no worries,” Gartan muttered, lifting Henok up and dragging him across the beach, setting him down and rearranging his arms and legs. He trudged back to the beach.
In the water, still a good distance away, a couple of Onei, Yanira Ironcutter and her daughter, clung to a few planks of the hull. Gartan waved to them and they waved back.
“Come on!” he called out, gesturing for them to hurry up. “Kick your feet!”
The water splashed as their weary legs kicked, feet pushing through the water, directing their makeshift raft toward Gartan and his part of the beach.
Far beyond them, light flashed off the water, sparkling, and a glistening cable of something lifted up and slapped back down into the waves, water gushing up from the force of it.
Gartan ran into the water, warm on his legs, the waves pressing up against him, trying to pull him back out toward the sea. “Hurry!”
Yanira looked at him quizzically and turned her head to peer back. She said something, and their kicking grew more intense, their progress toward the beach picking up.
“Come on!” Gartan screamed, the level of the water now just beneath his chest. Behind him, Simthil, Tayna, and Nohel added their voices to his, urging Yanira and her daughter to move faster.
The creature keened, wailing before disappearing into the water.
The water now at his neck, Gartan stopped, began backing up, fighting against the water trying to drag him back out to sea.
The creature erupted from the water, its writhing limbs snaking around Yanira, her daughter, and their piece of the ship. Yanira twisted around, trying to fight, but that massive tentacle guided them to that awful black beak, and Yanira’s raging screams were silenced.
Too close!
Gartan threw himself beneath the water, holding his breath, swimming as hard as he could; the tide pushed him forward, then pulled him back, but he swam, arms and legs pumping with renewed vigor, until his hands hit sand. He pushed himself to his feet, running through the water.
The creature honked.
Before Gartan, warriors he’d pulled from the beach to safety ran away from him, back toward the treeline. A tentacle hit him in the back, the bony projections inside the suction cup slicing his skin, knocking him forward.
He fell onto his knees, but popped back up as quickly as he could. The flat end of one of the tentacles slid toward him from his right, and he jumped over it and dove into the bushes at the treeline.
Hands grabbed him, dragging him deeper into the shadows.
Gartan peered back, pushing the others away. The creature’s barrel-like body, bigger than any five of their Shrian ships put together, rolled almost up to the beach, the sunlight glinting off its skin. The creature huffed, huge flaps of flesh on either side of its body flying open, sucking at the air, spewing it back out. Its monstrous eyes, almost like those of a reindeer or a goat but alien and unblinking, peered at him, and Gartan convinced himself he sensed a hatred in that stare.
Its tentacles reached toward him, slapping out at him with an unexpected focus and anger, the creature rolling further up onto the shore, its tentacles digging into the sand as it tried to pull its body closer to the trees.
“We need to get the hell out of here,” Gartan said. He turned to find all the other survivors had already fled.
# # #
The mob of people muttered to each other, their number growing from people vacating their spots at the fish-seller’s stalls, from people leaving their stations mending the nets, from people streaming from the inn at the end of the quay, the lot of them in threadbare clothes. They talked among themselves, gesturing toward Tethan and the other Onei, toward the dead soldiers strewn across the pier.
“These are just villagers,” Tethan said, scanning the group before him. He held out his axes. “They don’t appear to be a threat. They don’t seem to want to fight.”
“Yeah, well,” Mitta said, snorting, “they’re not going to want to give us their gold and jewels, either, but give them to us they shall.”
A Nayen woman in a brown tunic and thick wooden sandals stumbled out from the crowd, the other Nayen pushing her forward, jabbering at her in their languages and waving their hands toward her, impelling her forward.
“You think these people have treasure?” Tethan ask
ed.
Mitta raised her bow, aiming her arrow, squeezing one eye shut. “Only one way to find out.”
“Tethan?” Kalo pushed her way through the Onei. “Let me speak to her!”
“Wait,” Tethan said.
Mitta let her arrow fly; Tethan’s arm snapped up, his axe striking the back end of the arrow as it swished past, deflecting it. The arrow struck the pier halfway to the Nayen woman, embedding itself into the wood with a thunk.
“What in all the hells?” Mitta nocked another arrow, glaring at Tethan.
The Nayen woman stopped and stood staring at the arrow, raising her shaking hands, her face pale.
Tethan said, “Kalo wants to speak to her.”
“And I care about the Nayen’s wishes, why?” Mitta lowered her weapon and hobbled closer to Tethan, punching him in the arm. “I am the clan leader here, not you. You are nothing more than a translator and an axe-man.”
Tethan glowered down at Mitta. “I thought you might want to know what Kalo had to say before killing a bunch of innocent people in a needless fight. It might be helpful for there to be living people to repair our ship, which is why we are here.”
“Don’t tell me why we are here, Mr. Speechgiver,” Mitta growled.
Kalo appeared beside the two of them, her eyes wide, panting for breath. In Shrian she said, “Can I talk to her? Is that acceptable?”
Tethan bowed to Mitta and said, “Kalo wants to know if she has your permission to talk to the woman, Clan Leader.”
Mitta sniffed, backed up, and nodded her head. “That is acceptable, but make it fast.”
Tethan nodded to Kalo.
Kalo jogged down the pier, speaking in her language. The woman, bowing and scraping, answered her, gesturing, speaking a flurry of words, with Kalo interjecting a word here and there.
Mitta leaned closer to Tethan, touching his arm with her shoulder. “Can you understand any of that gibberish?”
“A word here and there, but they’re speaking too fast,” he said.
Mitta snorted. “Some interpreter.”
“Did I ever say I could speak Nayen?” Tethan glowered at her. “I must have been very drunk, because I don’t ever remember saying I could speak their tongue.”
The woman bowed to Kalo, took three steps back, and then wheeled and darted back to the safety of her crowd.
Kalo ran back. “Tethan. We have a problem.”
Tethan leaned toward Mitta, whispering, “She’s saying there’s a problem.” He straightened up. “Can they repair the ships?”
“There is a larger garrison in the town,” she said, coming to a stop before Tethan and Mitta, puffing for breath. “The people will try to slow them down, but they’re sure that the leader of this detachment already sent word back to the garrison, warning of the arrival of so many foreign ships.”
“The people will try to slow them down?” Tethan asked. “Why would they do that?”
Mitta poked Tethan’s arm with the back end of an arrow. “What is she saying?”
Tethan raised his hand. “A moment.”
Kalo looked from Mitta to Tethan, waiting for permission to speak until Tethan nodded. “The people of Tuth-Yoo hate Lord Sissola, and they want to help us fight against him. They see you as saviors.”
“We don’t need help.” Tethan sniffed at the idea.
“What’s she saying?” Mitta asked.
Tethan turned to her. “There are more soldiers but the citizens of this town want to help us and will slow them down while we prepare.”
“Prepare? How many are there?”
Tethan turned to Kalo. “How many are in this garrison?”
Kalo shrugged, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
Mitta said, “Tell her to signal the other boats to come in.”
“We don’t need this village,” Tethan said. “We can take the ship and leave.”
“All our brethren have been cooped up on stinky ships for weeks now.” Mitta smiled up at him. “They’ll look forward to the chance to kill something besides each other.”
# # #
“You sure we find healer?” Gartan asked.
Sweat poured off the tip of Gartan’s nose, stinging the insides when he inhaled, and his hair fell limp over his forehead, into his eyes, lying across his cheeks. Birds chittered and cackled in the thick canopy of the trees above him, singing more songs than he’d imagined could exist. Little animals scurried through the underbrush, leaping from tree to tree, every movement grating on his nerves, each distant growl and snarl a new danger. Little bugs flitted about, buzzing in his ears, landing on him, trying to take a bite.
“Yes,” Dyuh Mon said from behind him. “Many villages here.”
Gartan never imagined so much life could be packed into such a small place. He pushed through the thick underbrush, stopping when he came to a smooth gray surface set into the black dirt. The roots of the nearby plants stayed inches away from the substance, the surface the width of slightly less than three bodylengths.
“What is this?” Gartan asked, holding the branches and bushes back, allowing Dyuh Mon to come forward.
Dyuh Mon pushed through the gap, skipping onto the surface, raising his hands to the sky with a smile on his lips. He turned to Gartan, saying, “Council road. Village close.”
Gartan remained in the jungle beside the road, kneeling down, touching it with his hand. The surface gave beneath his weight but eased back, springing back to its original smoothness. He pointed at the odd material. “What?”
“Roadstone,” Dyuh Mon said, crossing his hands over his chest, his face twisted with amusement. “Easy on feet. Wheels.”
“Don’t like.” Gartan wiped his brow and pointed back the way they’d come. “Go back? Take shore?”
“No fear, big friend,” Dyuh Mon said, patting Gartan’s shoulder, grabbing his upper arm and pulling him onto the road, directing him to the right. “No fail. We go!”
Dyuh Mon swaggered down this road, his head high, shoulders back, arms swinging freely. Gartan followed him, glancing back over his shoulder to peer into the dense woods, starting at each new sound until Dyuh Mon began to whistle a melody, the tones grating on Gartan’s ear, not seeming quite in tune.
Gradually the canopy of the trees blocking the sunlight from shining down on the road gave way, a few rays of light at a time, until they walked out onto a vista of rolling hills blocked off by rough stone fences appearing to be stones piled up one on top of the other. In the distance, smoke rose up from behind a hill, and a round tower soared into the sky.
“Ah, fire,” Dyuh Mon said, shaking his head, gesturing toward that smoke among the hills, muttering to himself. He reached for his pouch, but pulled his hand back empty with a sigh. “Just small village.”
“Have healer?” Gartan asked, worried now that they’d searched for naught, had come all this way for nothing. “Payment?”
“No worry.” Dyuh Mon led Gartan around a bend. “Big temple.”
The village sloped down to a stream, a cluster of mud huts with brush roofs surrounding the road, at odds with the one large masonry temple of red brick with a tower rising up from one end. The windows of the main building glittered in the sunlight, a multitude of small colored glass tiles set into patterns, like jewels, while the tower sported only narrow arrow slits.
A voice shouted out, a child’s voice, the child scurrying back between the buildings, calling out. In the distance, on one of the fields, sixty people worked at the rich soil, some hacking at it with hoes and rakes, others with packs slung over their backs tossing seeds into the furrows.
Dyuh Mon raised his hand, saying, “Be calm. I talk.”
“Well, yeah,” Gartan said, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, not knowing if Dyuh Mon would register it even if he heard it.
A lazy breeze brought the scents of unusual spices and cookfires made of strange wood. They entered the town, and Dyuh Mon called out in his native tongue. Gartan slowed down, letting Dyuh Mon go firs
t while he studied the humble buildings, flimsy little houses with chickens living in them; the chickens scratched and walked across the road here and there, running from them as they drew close as though expecting to be chased.
A cow lay beside a small tree resting in the shade, other cows beyond it eating grass from the field beyond.
Boots stomped, metal clinked against metal, accompanied by the singing of a sword leaving a scabbard. The hair rose on the back of Gartan’s neck. He removed his axe from his belt and lowered his gaze, staring down at the road, concentrating on his peripheral vision, his hearing, his smell. Besides the guards in the big building making so much noise, there were more soldiers moving into the town, flanking them. From the glints and flickers of the sunlight, Gartan assumed they had archers in the tower and on top of it, with their arrows poised to fly down; he began looking for cover from those attacks.
A harsh voice said something from within the building, and Dyuh Mon stopped. He raised his hands, saying something in Nayen while keeping a friendly smile on his face. The people who had been working in the fields had disappeared, their bags and implements sitting deserted on the ground. Dyuh Mon craned his head toward Gartan and whispered, “No axe.”
The door to the building creaked open, disgorging a squad of ten men in armor unlike anything Gartan had seen: small, overlapping metal plates all blue, helmets over their heads with odd masks covering their faces, the masks appearing to be unhealthy men with their tongues hanging out. The soldiers carried halberds and short, pointy swords, the points of those swords appearing to have been designed to stab between the plates, to search out weak points in the armor instead of hammering through it. They wore thick boots with fewer of those metal plates.
One man in the lead spoke to Dyuh Mon. Dyuh Mon answered him, gesturing toward Gartan, to himself, but the leader of the soldiers stepped forward, his tone changing. Dyuh Mon glanced at Gartan, the blood draining from his face.
Gartan sighed as the soldiers showed themselves from behind the huts, armed with arrows and halberds. Gartan growled, preparing to go down fighting, saying, “Dyuh Mon?”
