by Jean Lorrah
“I will referee,” said Astra. “The moment either one of you braces his powers, he becomes unReadable-and I call foul.”
Zanos limited the lesson to using an opponent’s weight against him. Wulfston learned how to throw a man over his shoulder. But first, denied the use of his powers, he discovered how it felt to be the one thrown.
Twice he lunged at Zanos, trying to get a grip on the gladiator-and twice he was flipped so easily that he could not believe Zanos used no more than physical skill.
“When you lose the advantage,” Zanos explained as Wulfston discovered the sting of bruises where he hadn’t known he had places to bruise, “you roll away from the blow, or from the throw. Don’t let the momentum go into impact. Keep rolling and it won’t hurt so much. It also gives you time to gather your wits and find a new advantage.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Wulfston as he struggled to his feet for the third time, feinted a stagger-and threw his shoulder into Zanos’ knees, toppling the bigger man full length on the deck.
Zanos rolled to his feet, laughing. “You’re an apt pupil, my lord! I’ll make the lesson a little harder tomorrow.”
The next morning Wulfston awoke to a new awareness of his body. It was not just the minor aches and bruises that persisted despite his use of healing power. Somehow he also felt refreshed and relaxed. The morning’s language lesson went well, and he found himself looking forward to another session of training with Zanos in the afternoon.
But that was forgotten when Astra announced, “My lord! I can Read the shoreline of Africa!”
“What do you see?” Wulfston asked. “Can you find Sukuru’s ship?”
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but it would speed my search to know where the ship might be anchored.”
Captain Laren unfurled his maps, Chulaika at his side. She pointed out a small port called Bosa. “Our journey to your land began from there, most excellent lord. But I doubt that the ship will still be anchored there, if Sukuru and the others have gone ashore.”
“And why is that?”
“Her captain fears your wrath, and will flee as soon as Sukuru releases him.”
Zanos let out an exasperated snort. “And Sukuru will certainly move Lenardo inland, no matter where they landed. So how do we decide where to start our search?”
“Let me go out of body,” said Astra. “Perhaps I can locate Lord Lenardo.”
“But the ship is moving,” said Wulfston. “Will you be able to find your way back to your body?”
Zanos said, “I’ll be her anchor. We have a strong mental rapport. Because of that, even my limited powers are enough to guide Astra back, no matter how far she roams.”
As husband and wife shared a look of confirmation, Wulfston glimpsed in their eyes a special joy such as had never been a part of his life. For one brief moment a pang of jealousy touched him, but he dismissed it, bracing his Adept powers to guard Astra’s body should her Reading be discovered by somebody ashore.
*
Astra’s spirit was gone from her body for almost an hour. When she opened her eyes, she reported that Sukuru and his people had indeed been put ashore at Bosa. And the ship was gone.
“Lord Lenardo was unconscious when they took him off the ship,” Astra reported. “From what I could Read of the local residents, Sukuru must have told them we’re in pursuit of him-and very angry. They’re deserting the area in terror.”
“It is as Sukuru planned it,” Chulaika stated. “You will find no one to help you in your search for Lord Lenardo.”
“Then we’ll do without the help of others,” Wulfston replied. “One way or another, our search will soon be over.”
A short time later, the African coastline came into view. Wulfston found Astra alone at the port rail, staring at the land. He approached hesitantly, drawn by a feeling of concern.
“May I ask what you are thinking, Astra?”
“I… I know this may sound strange,” the Reader responded, “but this view of the coastline reminds me of my first view of Madura. The two don’t look anything alike.” She glanced up at some black birds soaring overhead. “Even the birds are different. But all the memories of what happened there suddenly came flooding back to me.”
“That doesn’t sound strange at all,” Wulfston assured her. “From what little I’ve heard of that journey, you faced hostile forces at every turn. We may have to face even worse dangers here, Astra. But… would it be prying to ask what happened in Madura? What Zanos found in his homeland?”
She considered. “Zanos doesn’t like to talk about Madura because the journey became such a disappointment. After more than twenty years of struggle and heartache, he finally found his brother Bryen. The only member of Zanos’ family left alive, and within days he, too, was dead.”
She turned to look into Wulfston’s eyes. “All the years that Zanos was trapped in the Aventine Empire, he was sustained by his dream of returning home, taking with him all the Aventine slaves who wanted to live as free men in Madura. But Vortius the Gambler destroyed his plans to help the slaves escape, and when Zanos finally reached his homeland he found that the sorcerer Maldek had turned Madura into a place of ugliness and sterility. A land of death.
“So Zanos’ dreams all ended in frustration. He doesn’t talk about them anymore, but I know-”
She stopped, her eyes taking on the unfocused look of a Reader concentrating completely on Reading, to the exclusion of her immediate surroundings.
At the same time, Wulfston shuddered. Something was wrong. It took him a moment to realize that it was. the silence. The birds had stopped their harsh cries, the creaking of the ship’s timbers had ceased, and the sails no longer flapped against the rigging.
The silence lasted hardly long enough for him to recognize it before a sound came out of the distance-a wind, rapidly building to a gale!
The Night Queen pitched and swayed as choppy waves drove against it, then huge breakers slammed the hull as the wind tore at the sails.
This is no work of nature! Wulfston realized.
“An Adept wind?” Astra answered his unspoken thought.
“It has to be!” he replied, shouting over the increasing howl. He had no need to raise his voice for the Readers, but: “Captain Laren! It’s not just a storm! We’re under attack!”
As the sailors scrambled to haul in the sails before the ship capsized, Astra exclaimed, “I can’t find the source, my lord! The Adepts are beyond my range. I’ll have to go out of body to search.”
“Too dangerous,” he responded. White clouds were churning into black thunderheads. Bracing his powers, Wulfston prepared himself for battle against an unseen enemy.
Zanos fought his way to them against the wind, and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “My lord,” he shouted, “we must combine our powers to combat this storm!”
“We have to try!” Wulfston agreed. “Unless we can locate the source, the best we can do is shield ourselves and try to get the ship out of range.”
They had to struggle for every step to the center of the deck. The first bolt of lightning struck the top of the mainmast, exploding it into splinters. The Adepts deflected the falling shards from passengers and crew, but the ship was hopelessly crippled. They were trapped!
“Support me!” Wulfston commanded the minor Adepts, and felt their power flow to him. With increased strength, he fended off the next shaft of lightning. But we cannot keep this up indefinitely.
“Where’s Chulaika?’ he demanded. “She might know where the Adepts are gathered to attack us.”
But Chulaika was not on deck. Captain Laren was shouting to his men to lower the sails on the surviving masts, while the steersman hauled hopelessly on the rudder, trying to keep a southward course. Captain Laren reached for the rudder, to add his strength-and another thunderbolt turned him to a pillar of fire!
Wulfston recoiled in momentary horror as the corpse was pitched from the heaving deck.
Fireballs rained on the s
hip.
Wulfston felt his powers drain as he deflected them.
A wave of flame broke through their shield, death screams erupting around him as he was knocked to his hands and knees.
A lightning bolt sliced through the deck in front of him-the last sight he saw as the brightness blinded him.
There has to be a way to fight back! his mind insisted, but he was helpless, blind, unable to get back on his feet as he heard people screaming around him, smelled the stench of burning flesh.
He groped, found a handhold on one of the small boats, and hauled himself to his feet as his vision began to return from the edges inward.
It was just in time to see Zanos rolling Astra on the deck, smothering the flames from her dress.
Bodies were burning, ropes were flaring, sailors were hauling buckets of seawater to pour over the writhing form of a man screaming as his flesh was consumed.
Wulfston put out that fire and sent the man into healing sleep, but even as he did so he felt his growing weakness and saw how hopeless his small efforts were. He turned to help Zanos and Astra-
The deck exploded under him, tossing him high into the air before dropping him amid the rest of the debris in the roiling madness of the storm-wild ocean.
Chapter Three
Gasping for breath, Wulfston felt the surf carry him toward the beach, but a powerful undertow swept him back to sea again. He struggled to pull air into his burning lungs, and took in a mouthful of sea and sand.
Another surge swept him toward shore, but pulled him under and rolled him in a helpless tangle. As it retreated he felt sand beneath him, and thrust his feet down. The wave carried his purchase from beneath him, but his feet sank ankle-deep in the shifting sand.
Lurching to his knees, he wheezed, the water a cold ache in his lungs, closing out the air. But there was land under him!
He forced gritty eyes open and saw the beach, stumbled toward it pursued by another voracious wave, and fell on his face at the edge of the water.
For an endless time he coughed and vomited sand and seawater, leaving his throat and nasal passages raw. When the spasms finally passed, he was weak and sick… and alone.
His eyes still burned, but he could open them. To the west was the empty sea, all traces of the Night Queen swallowed in its depths save for black smoke drifting toward the clearing horizon. The tide retreated in a steady ebb and flow. North and south stretched the beach, with no signs of life except three little brown birds following the edges of the waves back and forth, snatching exposed edibles.
To the east stood a forest, impenetrable as a solid wall. It lined the beach in both directions, as far as he could see, unfamiliar and forbidding. But unless he found a stream running down to the shore he would have to go inland to search for fresh water.
When he could stand, Wulfston assessed himself. He was bruised and aching, but in the uncertainty of what lay ahead, he dared not waste energy healing such minor ills. He seemed to have no broken bones, but when he tried to walk his feet responded with sharp pain.
Wulfston quickly discovered the problem: he was wearing hose, a silk shirt, and a lightweight tabard that was now soggy and uncomfortable. His hose had been torn in the surf, and a few recalcitrant threads clung between his bare toes, cutting into the tender flesh. He reached for his knife, but it was gone.
Picking up a broken shell, he cut off the hose at his ankles, leaving his feet bare.
From the calves upward, although they bore holes, his hose were in good enough condition to provide some warmth against the coming night. He took them off, along with the tabard, letting the shirt dry on his body. Ordinarily he would have had everything dry with a thought; alone and exposed, he feared to waste what power he had left on mere comfort.
Above the tideline, the sand was dry. Wulfston laid tabard and hose out there; they couldn’t get any sandier than they already were. The waves had driven sand into every pore and crevice of his body.
It was warm enough to go without even the shirt, but although there was no one in sight, he felt defenseless enough without stripping naked. Modesty was better served, though, by turning the shirt into a makeshift loincloth.
Remembering the women Reading through his clothes on Freedom Island, he wondered if anyone were Reading him now, or even watching from the dense forest. He couldn’t worry about that. He had to try to find survivors of the shipwreck.
He wondered whether he should try north or south, until he remembered that Chulaika had said the harbor Sukuru had used was to the south.
Surviving Readers would be scanning for him-for anyone who had reached shore. Further reason not to use his Adept powers: they made him unReadable except to visualization, a technique a weary Reader would not be using after the battle with the sea.
So he picked up his soggy clothes and trudged down the beach, keeping as far as he could manage from the edge of the threatening forest.
Before he had gone half a mile, his feet were cut and bleeding from sharp shell fragments buried in the sand. He cursed himself for kicking his boots off in the sea-but they had filled with water and weighed him down. Rather than risk infection, he used healing power to close the cuts, and continued on his way.
Up ahead, he saw a shape at the edge of the water-a survivor! He broke into a run, but the man didn’t stir. When Wulfston touched him, he knew at once that he was dead; the body was cold and stiff, already starting to bloat.
Wulfston turned the man over, and recognized one of the Night Queen sailors, one rigid hand gripping a piece of railing. Should he use the strength needed to create a funeral pyre-white heat to return the body properly to the elements? The man’s clothes were so wet-
And, sturdy workman’s garments, they were in much better condition than Wulfston’s.
He was uneasy at the thought of robbing the dead, yet this man had no further use for that heavy seaman’s shirt and those thick-soled shoes that might well have been what pulled him under and drowned him.
I will give him a proper funeral pyre in exchange for what he can no longer use, Wulfston decided, and bent to the task of stripping the rigid corpse.
But the moment he began to move the body, a shout rang out from the edge of the forest.
Wulfston looked up.
A dozen men ran toward him, armed with knives, spears, and clubs.
Like Wulfston, they were naked except for a covering about their loins, but they wore chains of what appeared to be bones about their necks.
Other than that, they wore only headbands, all alike, each with the same symbol in bright beadwork.
They charged down the beach, then paused to throw their spears-and Wulfston saw a weapon new to him.
What had appeared to be a spear was actually made of two pieces. When a man flung one, he kept the heavier lower end in his hand, while something like a long, heavy arrow shot forth with the strength of his swing and whizzed toward Wulfston!
He used his powers to deflect the arrows, but his attackers kept coming.
He sent a sheet of flame leaping before the startled band, but the moment it disappeared they charged toward him. As they spread out in a semicircle, Wulfston knew he had made a mistake in giving his Adept powers away. They knew how to take an Adept: divide his attention and make him use up his strength.
If his powers had been at full strength, he might have withstood them. But at twelve to one, given his current condition, he had no choice but to run.
He darted to the right, angling up the sand, abandoning his bundle of clothes beside the drowned sailor.
Using Adept power to strengthen his tired legs, he plunged through the dry sand at the top of the beach, deflecting the spear-arrows that pursued him.
One of the men was fast enough to catch him. He felt a hand on his arm, turned, and saw the upraised club. He stopped the man’s heart. His attacker fell, pulling Wulfston down with him in his death spasm.
Wulfston peeled the dead man’s fingers away and sprinted for the forest, Adeptly for
cing his lungs to take in air, his limbs to move in rhythm.
He plunged into a different world!
This forest was like none he had ever known. It was jungle, as thick with undergrowth as with trees. He staggered and slid on rotted vegetation, blinded by the difference between the hot yellow beach and this dark greenness where the sun could hardly penetrate. Birds screamed at his noisy passage, and small animals fled through the trees.
The air was cool and moist, a relief to his aching lungs, but the smell was frighteningly different from any he had ever known.
To avoid his pursuers, he zigzagged through the trees. The jungle would not let him choose his own path, but made him go where it provided openings. Over and over he found his way blocked by roots, rocks, thickets.
He ran until he could run no further. Exhausted, he leaned against the sloping trunk of a huge tree, gasping for breath. The jungle had fallen silent.
Through the roaring in his ears, he listened for pursuit. There was nothing. As his breathing calmed, he realized that it was too silent around him. The jungle was watching this intruder like a cat, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
He was lost.
Sunlight filtered through dappled green shade, diffused so that he could not tell what direction it came from, nor could he hear the pounding of the surf. He didn’t know how to get back to the beach-and if he could, would those warriors be waiting for him?
He needed rest, but first he needed food. In the woods near where he had grown up, he would have been able to put together a meal in minutes; here he could see berries, fungus, some yellow fruit on a nearby tree… but which of it was safe, and which poisonous?
Besides, he needed meat to restore his strength. And he was desperately thirsty.
His heart stopped pounding in his ears, and his breathing returned to a rapid but normal pace. Through the silence he heard a soft rushing; it had to be water.
Pushing himself away from the support of the tree, he moved toward the sound, pausing often to listen, following as the sound became slowly louder until he came out at a pool into which a small cascade fell from a rocky but overgrown hillside.
