“LAND!”
Together, Raz and Argoan joined two score of the others on the deck below in turning in the direction the lookout was indicating. There, like a rippling mirage, the horizon had gone from a shivering line of white and blue to a darker band of tan, brown, and green. Even Raz couldn’t see much through the undulating heat, but as he peered at the approaching shore he could just barely make out the broad leaves of palm trees and the pale sands of a broad, barren beach.
“Perce?” he asked the captain.
In response, there was a familiar click-click, and Raz glanced over his shoulder to see Argoan bringing his spyglass up to his eye. After a moment the captain took it down again, then offered it to him.
“Aye,” Argoan said with a frown and a nod as Raz accepted and lifted the instrument to peer through its eyepiece. “Though we’ve still at least half-a-week of sailing before making port. We’re a fair ways more north than I thought, judging by the thinness of the trees.”
Raz didn’t miss the worry in the man’s voice as he made out the shore in truth. Indeed, the palms stretched as far as he could see in either direction, by they were small and sparse, nothing more impressive than anything he’d seen along the Garin or the shores of the Emperor’s Ocean around Acrosia.
“Why do I get the feeling that’s not good news…?” Raz asked, bringing the glass down to squint at the horizon again.
Argoan chewed at the corner of his lip nervously. For a man who’d literally laughed in the face of a storm that had nearly pulled him to the bottom of the ocean, it was a concerning expression.
“Nothing we should have to worry about,” he answered after a moment’s contemplation. “The shore villages and I have a long-standing bargain. We shouldn’t have any trouble from them.”
Raz stared at him blankly, making it clear he wasn’t about to let the man off so easily.
Argoan sighed. “The locals survive mostly off fishing and pirating. There aren’t enough ships that pass seasonally for them to ransack without scaring the rest away, so they strike deals with most of the captains who sail through their waters. They make some easy gold, and we get to pass by undisturbed. Nothing complicated.”
Raz whistled darkly. “First storms, then pirates. I’m glad we didn’t run into any sea monsters, or I’d start to think I was living in some far-fetched fantasy.”
Argoan paled as he said this, then mumbled something quick and unintelligible Raz was fairly sure was a prayer in the man’s native tongue.
“Don’t speak of such creatures, Dahgün,” he said when he was done, licking his lips and glancing down at the water shimmering below them. “It is bad luck to summon their names aboard a ship.”
Raz hid a smirk by looking down at the main deck of the boat. Along the portside banister, facing west, more men and women had gathered to gaze out at the shore in the distance. Among them he quickly made out an oddity, a pair of women, one in what looked like a white hood, and he had to stop himself from laughing again.
“Let’s pray your bargain holds firm, Captain,” Raz said with a chuckle, moving around the man and handing him back the spyglass as he made for the steps behind him. “I can’t imagine what beasts would turn up if I have to toss a bunch of dead pirates into the sea.”
Then, laughing to himself as Argoan cursed under his breath, Raz descended to the deck.
The men and women of the ship’s company had embraced the heat of the day with a lazy fervor, stripping down to nothing more than pants or shorts and thin shirts as they went about their tasks. Some, with nothing to do in the kinder climates of these strange waters, were lounging about in the ratlines, or seated over the edge of the Sylgid’s rails, enjoying what sea spray they could get to cool themselves off. As Raz passed by and beneath them, several called out asking if the crew would get to spar that afternoon, but he gave them vague answers and generally dodged the questions, distracted by the figures still leaning over the portside banister.
“You look hot enough to enjoy a dip,” he said roguishly, coming up behind the closest of the women. “Shall I toss you over?”
Syrah turned on him at once, glaring. At least, he suspected she was glaring. Her face was largely hidden, masked behind a pale veil of thin silk that hung from a wide hood of the same fabric she’d pulled up over her head. He could only make out the vaguest details of her features through the cloth, as well as the distinct black outline of her eye-wraps against the paleness of her skin, but even that was enough to tell him she wasn’t happy with her situation.
“Damn your sun, Southerner,” she said in a huff, glancing up at the sky in annoyance. “I would have preferred to say I’d seen the last of these clothes. If we ever return to the North, I swear by the Lifegiver I’m burning them and dancing for joy around the fire.”
There was a chuckle, and at Syrah’s side Lysa turned to lean back against the rail, looking the Priestess up and down. The pair had grown closer over the last fortnight, and could almost always be found together when Syrah wasn’t with Raz. It was easier for her, he suspected. She could speak and touch Lysa as she pleased, whereas she still had trouble spending any time alone around the men of the crew, Argoan included.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the first mate said with a wink. “I think it suits you. You could be some noble’s daughter, come in a veil of innocence to be given away to a Percian noble.” She gave Raz a sidelong glance. “She’d make a fine bride, wouldn’t she, Dragon?”
“Quit your teasing, Lysa,” Raz grumbled, looking Syrah over himself, “or it will be you I throw overboard instead.”
The Priestess had seen fit to bedeck herself only partially in the gifts the Laorin had provided her as they’d left the Citadel. Her hood was attached to a light robe that hung to her ankles, with sleeves that tapered to her wrists. She wasn’t sporting the thin gloves and boots of bleached leather Raz knew she had stowed away somewhere in their cabin, and he couldn’t blame her. She was likely to develop a sunburn on her hands and bare feet before the day was done, but he flashed back in that moment to the first time he had ever seen the woman, strolling along the market streets of Karth nearly a decade ago. He’d thought her mad to suffer the oppressive warmth of the clothes and, even now, in the more temperate light of the Percian shore as the cooler season began to take hold, he didn’t envy her outfit.
“Stop staring,” Syrah grumbled, snapping him out of his memories. “It’s rude to stare.”
Raz started. “Sorry,” he said quickly, but he couldn’t help but grin slightly. “I was just recalling the first time I saw you.”
“Ooh, here’s a story I need to hear,” Lysa said scandalously, shoving herself up to sit on the banister as the ship swayed under their feet. “Do tell.”
He wasn’t sure, but Raz thought he saw Syrah smile beneath the veil. At the very least, she looked away from him, toward the first mate.
“You’re terrible,” she said with a snort. “It’s nothing like that. Raz just…” She hesitated. “He pulled me from a dangerous situation. That’s all.”
Raz thought he knew why she seemed tentative. His rescue of her had been the trigger that had burned his old life to the ground. There had been a time, in fact, when he had tried to blame her, tried to hate her for that fact.
He’d never managed it.
“A very dangerous situation,” he prompted her, pretending to egg her on, hoping she would understand that it was all right. “Syrah had managed to get herself trapped by some local slavers.”
“Slavers?” Lysa said, sounding amazed. “How?”
“They tricked me,” Syrah said, sounding relieved that Raz appeared to be comfortable talking about the subject. “One of them—Bastard. I still remember his rat face—fooled me into thinking he needed my help. From there…”
After that, they spent much of the afternoon in Lysa’s company, trading tales with the woman. Argoan joined them several times, at one point uncorking a rare bottle of wine for the four of them to share as they ate an early s
upper on the Sylgid’s raised bow. It was a pleasant evening, all in all, and as night fell and the Moon and Her Stars appeared once more across the heavens, Raz couldn’t help but begin to feel a building excitement stoking itself to life in his gut. As the four of them talked, exchanging stories of their lives and the people they had met over the course of their adventures, Raz could feel the shores of Perce gliding by at his back, a presence that pulled at him like someone calling his name from far away. They’d drifted closer over the course of the day, the horizon growing more distinct, and the trees had thickened and grown as they’d moved further south, hinting at the verdant splendor he and Syrah had been promised. He was starting to feel—despite whatever evils and cruelties lurked in these new lands—that thrill of eagerness which inevitably comes with the discovery and exploration of new worlds. He recalled his elation upon stepping over the Southern border into the North, then his awe when he’d first set eyes upon the great city of Azbar, thousands of stone-and-timber homes enwalled against a bottomless canyon. He remembered the breathtaking minutes it had taken the silence of winter to settle over him as he’d ridden into the Arocklen Woods, then the sense of infinite irrelevance when the ramparts of Cyurgi ‘Di had risen above him for the first time, looming out of the winter storms.
Maybe, just maybe, the Twins would be kind, and he and Syrah would be allowed a moment or two like those before the hardships of Perce came to weigh down upon them.
Whoosh! Whack-whack-whack!
“Good!” Raz said, backing away from Syrah and shouting to the crew gathered in their familiar spaces about the deck and above them. “Now, watch carefully. Syrah is going to disarm me in three moves, then sweep my knee and take me to the ground. Are you ready to—?”
Wham!
Raz staggered back, the unexpected blow catching him in the stomach. Fortunately the woman pulled the strike, or he would probably have had trouble breathing. He’d just started to recover, bringing his gladius up defensively, when the steel of Syrah’s staff looped under the sword’s cross-guard and twisted it out of his hand. An instant later the other end of the staff took him in the back of his left leg, and he twisted as he dropped to one knee.
There was a roar of approval and amusement from the crew, several whistling and shouting good-natured insults as Raz fell.
“What was that you said?” Syrah asked sweetly, moving to bend over him, one hand around her staff and the other planted at her hip. “Did you say ‘three’ moves to disarm you?”
“Apparently, I was mistaken,” he grumbled with a snort, picking up his blade from the deck before shoving himself back up to cower before the woman in mock fear. “I’ve definitely taught you too well.”
Syrah feigned an indignant scowl. “‘You’ve’ taught me too well?” she scoffed. “Talo is rolling in his grave at the thought that you would claim credit for all his hard work.”
Raz chuckled, sheathing the blade over his shoulder. Syrah had been able to forgo the hooded robe and veil the previous day had forced her into. It was another bright day, but the sky was studded with clouds that fell thickly over the Sun every few minutes, and the heat was much more tolerable. Her white hair had grown over the course of their journey, well past her shoulders, and she’d allowed Lysa to wind it into a plait that fell along one side of her neck. The scarred remnant of her right ear was bared to the wind, and Raz was almost pleased to see it. She was becoming more comfortable with herself, comfortable with the hard sacrifices she’d had to make to survive. It was good to see her laughing again, especially in the company of other men.
“All right, settle down!” Raz shouted to the crowd, raising both hands as he looked around at the gathered crew. “Believe it or not, it isn’t the first time I’ve lost a fight, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Now, did everyone see how Syrah did that?”
There were scattered mutters and general nodding from everywhere.
“Excellent!” Raz clapped his hands together as Syrah moved to sit down again. “The let’s have volunteers. Three pairs, alternating offense and defense. Who would like to—?”
He was about to start picking from arms, already being thrown in the air, when a shout cut Raz short.
“PERCIAN SAILS! PORT AND BOW! PERCIAN SAILS!”
There wasn’t more than half-a-moment of stillness as the words reverberated over the emptiness of the ocean.
Then everyone leapt up at once.
From an outsider’s view, it would have seemed then that the deck of the Sylgid had been thrown into instant chaos. Men and women rushed about this way and that, calling to one another as they did. Some climbed up into the masts, while others scattered along the portside railing. For almost a minute they milled like bees, the nervous buzz of excitement and concern palpable in the thrum of their voices. Over everything, the captain and his first mate could be heard shouting orders, the former calling out names and assigning posts and positions, the latter ordering for weapons and supplies to be brought up from below deck.
When the ship finally settled, however, it could not have been more apparent that there had been a distinct order to all that commotion. A solid line of sailors stood at the portside railing, blades sheathed but every hand on the hilt of their swords and daggers. Above their heads, a dozen others had perched themselves in the rigging and were busy stringing shortbows—retrieved from the stores at Lyra’s command—and checking their quivers of arrows were well stocked. Tension was palpable in the air, not helped by the fact that someone must have disturbed the horses below deck, because the animals were now screaming shrilly and stomping against the wooden floor of their lodgings.
They had come across other vessels over the last month. It was nothing unusual. They were—aside from the few days they’d lost making repairs after being pushed several miles out to sea by the storm—largely using the common trade lanes that spanned the eastern seaboard of the world. It was bound to happen. On each of those occasions, no alarm had ever been raised, no cause for concern ever made.
Now, though, the lookout in the nest above had made a distinction.
Percian sails.
Raz had pulled Syrah out of the way as soon as the crew started running about around them, tucking them both against the covered crates and cargo in the center of the ship that had survived the journey. As everything stilled, he glanced toward the stern.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” he said, jabbing a thumb to indicate the aft-deck. Syrah glanced in the direction he was pointing, then nodded. Together they hurried along the clear starboard rail, making for the steps that led up to the helm.
Lysa appeared to be among those lined up along the portside, but the captain was still at the wheel, the diagonal red lines across his face wrinkled as he frowned toward the southwest. Raz and Syrah had just started up the stairs when he caught sight of them, and he blanched.
“No!” he hissed, his voice a shrill whisper, like he was afraid of being overheard. “Down! Stay down!”
Raz and Syrah both froze, then crouched. From their place at the bottom of the steps they could barely make out Argoan’s head over the lip of the stern.
“What’s going on?” Syrah asked him impatiently. Her question was apparently louder than the captain was comfortable with, because he stiffened.
“Probably nothing,” he told her in a voice steadier than his posture conveyed, but he glanced down at Raz. “A ship from one of the local villages I was telling you about yesterday. They’re likely just looking to collect their fee for passage.”
Raz nodded. Once again, though, the captain’s nervousness did not make him feel any better.
“What should we do?” he asked, glancing south and west. Over the heads of the Sylgid’s crew, he could just make out the indistinct shape of grey and maroon sails in the distance. “Do you want us to be ready?”
“No,” Argoan said quickly. “I don’t want to put the crew more on edge than they have to be. These exchanges are always tense enough already. Have you seen Lysa?”
<
br /> Raz and Syrah shook their heads.
“Find her,” the captain ordered, turning the helm slightly east as the nose of the Sylgid started to drift toward the shore. “Tell her to get you into the hatch, and quick. Go!”
With a nod, Raz took Syrah’s hand and—still staying low as he moved—led her back up the ship.
They found the first mate near the bow, holding onto a tethering line as she leaned out over the water, her free hand shielding her eyes to peer at the approaching ship. They caught her attention, getting her to swing back down onto the deck, and she frowned as they relayed the captain’s orders.
“The hatch?” she said, looking disconcerted as she continued, apparently mumbling to herself. “If he thinks they might search the ship, then he’s more worried than he’s letting on…”
Then she looked up, her green-blue eyes fiery.
“Follow me.”
Still holding on to each other, Raz and Syrah trailed the first mate back toward the stern once again, careful to stay below the heads of the sailors standing shoulder-to-shoulder to their left. Without pausing, Lysa led them down the looped stairs to the hull, stepping out into the rowing galley and hurrying across the walking platform that bisected it. From there they moved through the crew’s quarters, then into the stores, Gale and Nymara’s screams getting louder with every step.
As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4) Page 28
