by Damien Lake
Brass walked up from his dock as Lorry arrived. “Hey’la, Lorry! Is that my net you got there?”
“Whose else would I bring you? How’d the day go?”
“Haw! Let me tell you, I had a monster of a sea pike in my nets! Made that stickerfish I brought back look like a minnow! I was this close to the beauty!”
“And it got away,” finished Lorry with a smile, the line and the story as familiar to him as his own hands after a lifetime among fisherfolk. “The big ones always seem to.”
“It’s the gods honest truth! Ask any of my men who went out with me!”
“I’m sure they’d be happy to back you up. After I bought them all a few rounds, no doubt.”
“Aw, you’re just losing your thrill of the chase, living up on the hill all alone. Why not come out with me tomorrow? It’ll be a nice change!”
“I’m quite content spending the afternoon with my grandchildren. Family is one thing I never had much time for when I was riding the currents everyday.”
“I mean it. Have you ever gone into the Deeps yourself?”
“A time or two. When I was young and foolish.”
“Foolish? Look at today’s weather! You could see a breeze being born miles away! And I’m only going out when it’s bright, unlike Harley and his boys.”
“What’s that? I must have missed a bit of news.”
“Oh, Harley’s convinced the schools swarm thicker in the moonlight, the tide take him. He has brought in several nice catches on his night runs but he’s been delving the Deeps in the dead of night, hoping for a rarity that stays too far down to catch during the day.”
“Is he mad? He doesn’t own a deepwater lady! Just that little skiff for skimming the shallows.”
“We’ve all said as much to him time over time. He’ll wash up on shore one of these mornings, you wait and see. If the sea doesn’t swallow him whole.”
Lorry shook his head and glanced across the water, which had become liquid fire under the orange sunset. “I never knew anyone so foolish when I was younger.”
“Sure you did! But you’re old now and want to remember everything as ‘the good old days’!”
“You’re no fresh minnow yourself!”
“Of course not, but I’ve still got enough life left in me to enjoy it.”
Lorry scowled. “Anyway, you owe me for your net. Unless of course you don’t want it back!”
“Fine, change the subject. Won’t change the facts. What’s your pleasure?”
“I already got a meal for the next few days, and I know you’re good for hard coin, especially after that sticker.”
“All right. Let me go in and get it.”
Brass opened the door to his cottage, knocking thatch off the roof when he entered. He brushed his hair absently and ducked lower. Lorry studied the ocean while he waited. Most ships were in port for the night. Those who were still out moved toward shore. Except…
“Hey’la, Brass?”
“Hold on,” came a muffled reply from inside the cottage. A moment later, Brass emerged with a handful of coins. “Here you go.”
Lorry gestured with his chin while he accepted the coppers. “Has that ship been out there all day?”
“Which one?”
“Farthest out. I saw her this afternoon and thought she was a merchant going past. She hasn’t moved at all.”
“Hmm. I don’t know. I didn’t look around very hard today.”
“But you were in the Deeps, weren’t you? Didn’t you see her out there with you?”
“I was out there, yeah. So was Pelrod, Bakston and Della. I know she wasn’t out there then.”
“But I saw her right there while I was mending. She hasn’t moved an inch. How could you not see her?”
Brass gazed with mild interest. “Then she’s farther out than we were. Must be a few miles past my own limit when I go into the Deeps.”
“I think you’re the one the tide has taken! Do you know how big a ship she’d have to be if we could see her from here?”
“That’s all I know. Could be a warship. Maybe several if the king has his armada out. Just looks like one ship from here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why’re you so knotted up about it?”
“I don’t know. A feeling I suppose.” Lorry shook his head. “She’ll be gone in the morning, I wager.”
Worry quickly colored Brass’ features. “I hope so. If she doesn’t move, she could be in trouble. Village might have to send out a few ladies to have a look-see and make sure she isn’t foundering.”
“Not many girls in the village can make it out that far, and one of them’s yours.”
Brass looked sour. “And I bet your ‘feeling’ turns out to be something. Damn.”
“Well, we’ll know in the morning. Maybe I will go out with you tomorrow after all. I’ll at least come by and see you off.”
“Fine.”
Lorry returned home to spend a fitful night asleep, his dreams plagued by slimy, coiling creatures writhing in the black midnight of deep water and monstrous apparitions with burning red eyes hotter than the sun. He blamed Setin’s fascination with his sea monster tales while he left to find Brass on the piers. A day on the water might be exactly what he needed after all.
Brass stood beside his boat while his men worked securing various sails and nets. His hands were balled against his hips and he glared out at the distant horizon. Lorry had forgotten about the far off ship until Brass grunted, “She’s still out there!”
“Oh?”
“She’s bigger now though. She must have moved in closer during the night. Can you make out anything?”
“Not without a Captain’s Glass,” Lorry replied. He strained his old eyes to distinguish details. She had grown from a dot in the distance. The shape looked more vertical than horizontal, which meant she must wear several tall masts. “Wait a minute,” he barked suddenly. “Is she on fire?”
“What?”
“Is that smoke coming off the top? Must be; there’s no mists this morning.”
“Rot and ruin!” Brass swore. He collared one of his men. “Run to the village and round up everyone with a deepwater lady who’s not put out yet. I think we have a rescue on our hands.”
Death at sea; the common fate of sailors and fishermen. A rescue turned into an all hands operation. The entire village would move if it could save lives from the sea’s embrace.
Brass’s man ran off while the fisher jumped on board to help speed the preparations for setting to sea. Lorry watched the far off vessel. The smoke seemed to be acting…unnaturally. Dull panic shouted in the back of his mind. Instead of thinning as it dissipated into the air, the smoke became thicker. As he watched it, the cloud grew larger. And…
“Brass?” His friend worked too frenetically to hear Lorry’s voice. Lorry froze, watching the distant sky and his words came out in a husky whisper. “Brass?”
Still not having heard, Brass continued working feverishly, only stopping a minute later to turn and ask sharply, “Lorry, you coming out with us?”
He saw his friend staring with wide, horrified eyes and turned to see what had spooked Lorry. “Sweet merciful gods,” he whispered in a voice hardly louder than Lorry’s.
Lorry heard him. It broke his paralysis. The old man ran back across the pier, running as hard as he ever had in his life, ignoring the burning pain stabbing through his arthritic joints. He did not know exactly what terrifying events were in motion but he knew one thing with every fiber of his being. It was knowledge that chilled his soul.
He was already too late, but even so he must try to take his family as far away as his feeble body could manage.
* * * * *
This is what comes of trying to blend in with these outlanders. Working duty a half trained village scout could perform in his sleep, not an inch closer to your goals, and paired with a mage! Councilor Orlan would weep!
Colbey picked his way up the rise deep in the Green Reaches with
the casual silence his training had made second nature to him. Behind him, the herd of oxen trampled everything within ten yards, cursed endlessly and constantly grumbled about needing a rest. If an arrow strike from the trees cut them down, it would only be what they deserved.
He paused atop the rise and had to wait two minutes—a full two minutes—before the captain struggled up beside him. The man fought for breath, his head lowered, his hands on his knees, while the other three men labored on the final climb.
This stone rise was steep in many places, yet barely reached two hundred yards in height. That these men were so out of shape they found it a challenge spoke volumes of their worth.
Beyond the rise was hidden the Nolier supply base. Enemy scouts were scattered across the ridge, watching for intruders. Colbey easily led the Galemarans around them. There were only three passes through the forest ridge that a horse could manage and the Noliers concentrated their security forces there, apparently unconcerned that men on foot might simply climb over elsewhere. He glanced back at the leaders of the Galemaran strike force and thought the Noliers had a point.
Their labored breathing finally lessened in intensity. Colbey resumed the trek without a word to the captain or his men. They had gained the ridge’s heights. Next they needed to traverse the crest if they wanted to see the base. Colbey led the way, finding it ironic that the mage best kept up with him of the entire group.
He had been taught from infancy that, of all the outlanders who threatened the village and forest, the mages were most dangerous. Not because their powers made them perilous, but because they would be drawn to the village, unable to avoid the siren call emitted by the forest pool. Now he helped one of the bastards! Colbey shook his head.
The forest’s silence made him wince. All this thoughtless crashing about had scared away the animals. If Nolier scouts somehow missed the noise, then the sudden silence from the sylvan inhabitants would certainly alert them.
“Down there,” he directed, stopping behind several spruces, trees that only grew along these rocky heights within the Reaches. None grew lower down among the oaks and other broad-leafed trees.
“How many scouts are stationed along this ridge?” the captain asked. He had regained the majority of his wind.
“Not many. They’re all down in the passes.”
The captain looked to the mage for verification, which annoyed Colbey to no end. With a shrug the mage answered the unspoken question. “I only saw the one earlier.”
“All right, let’s have a look.”
Colbey set himself apart, perching upon an outcrop to watch for signs the Noliers had discovered them. The men withdrew collapsible brass scopes from their belts and peered through at the enemy camp.
“Not much defense in place,” one of the captain’s aides observed. “They’re thinking we’ll never penetrate the Reaches.”
“That’s one theory,” the captain agreed.
The other exclaimed, “Look how arrogant they are! They haven’t so much as framed an earthwork, or a wall.”
“As I said! They’re overconfident! They expect to have no problem with us! The facts speak for themselves.”
The captain shook his head. Before he could speak, the mage offered his own thoughts. “The difference between us and them is we’re fighting to hold a position that belongs to us, and they’re not. They might not care if they lose this land. The ridge makes a good defense and holds off an enemy long enough for them to scatter if they feel they need to. I suppose they expect to know about our presence before we can ever get through the passes.”
“That makes no sense! Are you saying they don’t care if they lose a supply depot?” The first aide sounded angry.
“Is it a supply depot?” the mage countered. “I don’t see any warehouses. It looks to me like a staging ground, there to protect and hold the supply line. The Noliers knew they couldn’t snatch as much land as they did and not face us! Probably they only want to hold us off as long as possible so they can bring as much gold as they can across the river.”
“And lose how many men in the process? Are you actually saying the trade-off is worth it if they planned all along to give the land back?”
“And what about the resistance up north?” asked the second aide. “They sure didn’t fold at the first sign of opposition!” The two glared at the mage as though he had challenged their authority.
“I don’t have all the answers, or even one,” the mage admitted. “But look at that camp down there. Does that look to you like they’re serious about holding onto this land?”
“No,” replied the captain. “It doesn’t. Marik, can you sense that mage down there?”
“I haven’t tried yet, but I don’t know if I could in any event.”
“Then try.”
“Yes, sir.” The mage squatted near the captain. He adjusted his sword as he did so, the first time Colbey had ever seen one on a mage, and stared down at the Noliers without using his scope. For several minutes, he did not move a muscle, rarely blinking.
Finally he shook his head as he focused on the captain. “I can’t tell. I need to be closer. I’m straining the limits of my sight as it is.”
The captain considered for a moment before addressing Colbey. “Can you bring him closer to the camp?”
“Of course,” Colbey replied, irritated anew by the question to his abilities and by the need to work with the mage.
“We can find our way back to the men if that lookout we passed on the way up was the only one. You take Marik as close as he needs to be, then bring him back when he has an answer I can work with.”
The captain and his two aides reversed course, moving as clumsily as before. While they departed, the aides began extolling their own opinions anew.
Colbey studied the mage, who stood watching him, one hand resting on his hilt. Again a sense of familiarity struck the scout, though he could not place where from, except after two seasons among the Crimson Kings he had probably seen the man in passing once or twice.
“Can you run for long?”
“I left my mail and pack behind. I only have my sword, so I can keep up with you for as long as you can move.” A hint of challenge colored the mage’s words. He probably sensed Colbey’s animosity, but then Colbey never made much effort to mask his dislike of these outlanders.
And a mage in chainmail? With a sword? What is this one’s story?
“Come then,” he stated, before scaling down the ridge.
The rise sloped less vertically here, making it relatively easy going. It was the effort of making the trip while avoiding notice that made it so arduous for the others. After a lifetime among the Euvea and his advanced Guardian training, Colbey hardly noticed the stress on his muscles at all.
They gained the forest floor as the sun descended. It would be dark for the return trip, which bothered Colbey not one bit except the mage would likely have problems. Which meant Colbey would have problems.
Three miles lay between where they stood and the Nolier camp. Colbey turned to the mage. “Are you ready?”
“What, for the run?”
“Yes.”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
“Then follow me. I know the quickest paths that are free of most forest debris. Try not to make too much noise.”
The mage replied but Colbey did not listen. Instead he concentrated with his Guardian’s will.
Colbey visualized himself, his every muscle, his every pore, his every fiber, as he had during the run back to the village before he learned how horrible life could become, how savage the sight of the hells could be. His stamina rose, his strength peaked, his body overflowed with energy.
So, you can keep up as long as I can run, can you mage? Let’s see about that.
* * * * *
“Then follow me. I know the quickest paths that are free of most forest debris. Try not to make too much noise.”
What’s that supposed to mean? This scout does have an attitude, doesn
’t he?
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll try not to hold you back too much!” Marik hated being treated like an inexperienced child. So far this man Colbey had obviously regarded his charges as nothing else.
He wanted to craft a scathing remark, one that would scorch the bark off the surrounding trees, but his spine abruptly underwent that peculiar crawling he had not felt since his talent had awakened. It captured the whole of his attention. Without a thought for it, he opened his senses, peering into the etheric through his magesight.
Colbey’s aura glowed the moss green Marik had only seen whenever he looked at Sloan. Unlike Sloan, Colbey’s pulsed, as if his heartbeat surged though it, a lightning core illuminating a stormcloud for the brief span of its life.
What in all the world?
Before him, Colbey’s aura seemed to…tighten? Rather than the oval nimbus surrounding his body, his aura reformed like clay in a sculptor’s hands, becoming Colbey shaped, a second intangible body existing within the physical one.
“Then let’s go.”
Marik heard the words and worked to free his mind enough to interpret them. While their meaning came clear, the scout sprinted away through the trees.
Half a mark later, Marik’s only concern was avoiding an apoplexy attack and falling over dead. Had he believed himself back in shape, with only sporadic training last winter and the scattered battles throughout the spring? After riding since arriving on the frontline, avoiding the normal marching of the Ninth Squad on contract?
But he would be damned before this holier-than-thou scout showed him up. Of course Marik shook, close to collapse, and the scout still breathed no faster than normal. Marik also had the distinct impression he held his speed down so Marik could remain apace.
All at once, Colbey stopped. Marik nearly crashed into a thorny blackberry bramble when he swerved to avoid running into the scout. “Picket line,” Colbey muttered, which explained enough.
Marik forced his lungs not to bellow while he opened his sight to see what Colbey had already detected. They were near the Nolier camp. Several guards were posted on the outskirts. None were alert, expecting forewarning from the lookouts on the ridge in case trouble flared. Two had left their positions so they could pass the time talking to each other.
