He saw it first out of the corner of his eye—the great yellow-green tail whipping and slithering amongst the tunneling rocks of the reef, a trail of dark blood streaming behind it.
He followed, contorting his body with each twisting turn, and struggled with all his might to catch up to the serpent that writhed and dove throughout the rocky passageways. The creature was massive, perhaps thirty feet long, its girth greater than that of a man, its hide slick with the mucous of the deep. Surely this was the monster the boy had told him about. Surely this was Seirgotha, the she-devil of the sea.
Reiv pushed forward, willing his limbs to work harder, every muscle taut with the effort of conserving his breath. The serpent was just ahead, its whipping tail almost within his grasp. He fumbled for the knife at his waist. It wasn’t much, its small blade designed only to pry sea life from the security of their shells. But it was all he had.
The tail brushed roughly against him, but instead of knocking him aside, it sucked him into the vortex of its current. Seeing his chance, Reiv plunged the knife blade down, and then again, leaving two small but effective wounds in the hide of the great tail. The creature whirled its huge, arrow-shaped head, its eyes flashing. Reiv threw himself back against the biting rocks, nearly dropping the knife from his trembling hand. His eyes went wide at the dreadful sight before him. In the jaws of the great beast was Kerrik, limp and pale, long thin trails of life-blood spiraling from his body.
Reiv clenched the knife tightly, determined not to lose his grip on it. Pushing his feet hard against the rocks, he jettisoned toward the monstrous serpent. For a moment the creature seemed confused, as though contemplating whether or not to drop the small prey in its jaws in exchange for the larger one now heading in its direction. But Reiv gave it no time to choose. In an instant he reached the head and plunged the knife into one of its eyes. He pushed and twisted the blade with all his strength.
The snake jerked and widened its jaws, then shook its head in frenzied response. Kerrik fell from its bloody maw and tumbled in slow motion through the swirling waters.
Reiv kicked forward and stabbed the wounded orb again and again. He could not risk the serpent regaining its hold. The beast writhed and coiled, lurching its head forward, snapping at the red and brown water that churned around it.
Reiv dove down and grabbed Kerrik by a drifting arm. He yanked the motionless body toward him and wrapped his arm around the boy’s waist. He paddled furiously against the water, forcing them upward toward the surface. Please be alive, please be alive, he prayed. He dared not look down at the creature—he didn’t even know if it was still there. All he knew was that he had to get Kerrik out of the water. That he had to get him breathing. That he had to stop the bleeding.
It seemed an eternity before they reached the surface. Reiv swam urgently, but clumsily, for shore, paddling through relentless waves with one arm, cradling Kerrik with the other. He thought of all Kerrik had taught him during their lessons. How the boy had patiently endured his awkward attempts at buoyancy. How he had never given up on him, even when he wanted to give up on himself.
“I will not let you die, Kerrik,” Reiv said through gasping breaths. “I promise. Hold on. Just hold on. We are almost there.”
Torin stopped in his tracks and pointed and hollered in their direction. He sprinted across the sand, then plunged into the water and swam with long clean strokes toward the struggling swimmer and the child being pulled behind. He reached them quickly and grabbed Kerrik from Reiv’s weakening grasp, abandoning the exhausted prince to his own resources.
Reiv felt his feet touch bottom. He dug his toes into the sand and pushed forward. His shaking legs fought to stay upright against the waves that crashed against the back of them.
He reached the shore and staggered across the sand toward the crowd that had gathered. He shoved his way between the horrified onlookers and fell to his knees. Kerrik was sprawled before him, the golden sand beneath him now turned to red.
The ghostly white of Kerrik’s skin seemed in stark contrast to the dark blue of his lips. Deep lacerations encircled his waist, chest, and back, where jagged serpent teeth had slashed tender flesh. One arm lay bent with a probable fracture. Ribs pressed outward against pale, fragile skin. There was no sign of life in the tiny body and very little sign of hope.
Torin blinked back tears as he rolled Kerrik over gently and worked to expel the water from the boy’s stomach and lungs. It was clear the man hated touching the child for fear he might cause further harm to the already brittle body.
The boy vomited bloody water onto the sand and coughed weakly. Torin rolled him back over and placed his mouth over his, forcing air into the struggling lungs. Kerrik’s chest rose and fell in sporadic breaths.
Jensa tore strips of cloth from her skirt and pressed them against the open wounds with shaking hands. Both hands and cloth became soaked with blood. She continued to tear at her skirt, replacing bloodied cloths with fresh ones.
Kerrik convulsed, twitching and kicking uncontrollably.
Jensa burst into sobs. “He’s dying. He’s lost too much blood!”
“No!” Reiv cried. He gathered the boy’s face into his hands and leaned down to him. “Stay with us, Kerrik. Stay with us. I promised I would not let you die, remember? And a prince never breaks his promise.”
The twitching ceased, as though the boy felt calmed by Reiv’s impassioned words. But then the breathing slowed, and before long it stopped altogether.
Reiv grabbed Kerrik by the shoulders. “Breathe, Kerrik! Breathe!”
“Reiv, it’s over. We’ve…lost him,” Torin’s halting voice said.
“No! Kerrik—please, gods, no.” Reiv buried his face in the boy’s sand-encrusted hair. “I should have found him sooner…I should have found him sooner!”
The sobs that wracked Reiv’s body were matched only by those of Jensa who knelt beside him, her blood-covered hands pressed against her mouth.
Torin placed a trembling hand on Reiv’s shoulder. “You did all you could.” His voice cracked, and he turned his face away.
Reiv felt his own face go hard. “No, not all,” he said. He pulled Kerrik into his arms. The boy’s head lolled back.
Reiv gazed at the freckled face, once never without a smile, and the eyes that used to twinkle with mischief, now rolled to white. “You are not going to die. I will not let you.”
“Reiv, please,” Jensa said.
Reiv looked at her, the sorrow in her eyes insurmountable, then at the boy still cradled in his arms. “Kerrik,” he said as though the boy was alert and listening, “I know you are tired, but all you have to do is breathe. That is not so hard, now is it? You can do this. You are a warrior, the bravest one I have ever known. Remember the story you told me? The one about Seirgotha? Well, she is here. I know you wanted to slay her, but I will do it for you. Would that be all right? I will kill her and then you will live.”
The boy did not move.
“Gods, Kerrik, breathe! Do this much and I swear when you are better I will—I will train you with my sword. Would you like that?”
The boy groaned and stirred ever so slightly. Everyone gasped, including Reiv. Kerrik was breathing slow shallow breaths, but breathing nonetheless.
Reiv gathered the boy up and half-walked half-ran toward the hut. Jensa and Torin followed at his heels, struggling to keep pace. Onlookers trailed behind, murmuring words of wonder at the near miraculous event they had just witnessed.
“Send for Nannaven now!” Reiv barked over his shoulder.
Jensa turned to a man walking behind her and motioned for him to do as Reiv ordered. The man took off in a dead run up the path toward Pobu, but it would be nearly two hours before the messenger would reach the Jecta city, and even longer to find the Spirit Keeper and bring her back. It was not likely the boy would last that long. He was barely alive as it was.
When they reached the hut, Reiv laid Kerrik upon his cot and brushed the hair back from his face. Then he stepped as
ide to make room for Jensa to be at her brother’s side. He moved to his own sleeping pallet nearby and drew from beneath it the sword he had placed there the night before.
“Torin, I need you to bind this to my hand.” Reiv said.
“Bind it?” Torin asked.
“Yes, bind it,” Reiv said impatiently. “I do not think I will have the strength to hold it in the water, so I need you to bind it.”
“Reiv, listen to me. Kerrik’s breathing. That’s all that matters.”
“I will do this with or without your help. Now either bind my hand to the sword or I will go without!”
Torin stared hard into Reiv’s determined face. “Think what you are saying, Reiv. You cannot wield a sword under water.”
“Well, I have no choice, now do I?”
Torin hesitated, then walked over to a carved chest next to his cot and threw open the lid. From within it he pulled out a bundle and unwrapped it. He held up a dirk, shiny bright and new, beautifully crafted and decorated with a star at the handle.
“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Take it, it’s yours.”
Reiv gaped at the weapon. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Dayn made it for you. It’s fashioned of star metal, something very hard to find. He says it’s the best material there is. Gair found the metal months ago and had been saving it at the smithy. Dayn intended to give it to you himself when you went to visit, but when you voiced your disapproval of his craft so strongly…well, he sent it along with me in case you changed your mind…or needed defending.”
Reiv set the sword down and took hold of the dirk. “I think you will still need to bind it,” he said. “I do not know if my hand will be strong enough to hold onto it.”
Torin frowned his disapproval. “Very well,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you insist on doing this thing.” He grabbed some strapping and wrapped it securely around the scarred fingers. “You know this is madness, and it will not help Kerrik. You risk your life for nothing.”
“Saving Kerrik’s life is not for nothing! I promised him I would slay the creature and I will. It is his only chance. He may be breathing, but for how long?”
“Seirgotha is legend only. The beast that attacked Kerrik was a large sea snake, nothing more.”
“We shall see.” Reiv brushed past Torin and headed down the path toward the beach, praying the creature was already dead. But if it was not, he would see the job done. He would slay the devil with a heart so cold it would attack a child, and there was nothing that would stop him. Nothing.
BACK TO ToC
Chapter 14: Life or Death
Word spread quickly throughout Meirla that the former Prince of Tearia was on the hunt for Seirgotha. As the crowd gathered on the shoreline, onlookers chatted up various versions of the story, craning their necks for the slightest sign of the red-haired boy in the waters. Anticipation rose as a festive-like atmosphere developed. Perhaps today would be the day the ancient legend came to life. Perhaps today a Transcendor would walk amongst them. Everyone knew the story—it had been told for generations—but while some saw validity in it, others scoffed, convinced that Reiv would either die in his attempt or come out looking like a fool. Before long, bets were placed, not only on Reiv’s chances of survival, but on Kerrik’s as well.
The sun arched high overhead, leaving patches of dark blue water shimmering white. People raised their hands to shield their eyes against the glare and shouted and pointed excitedly whenever a bit of dark hair was spotted bobbing in the distance. But then the flash of auburn would disappear back under the water, and murmurs of disappointment would replace the exhilaration.
Most of the crowd waited patiently, determined not to miss one moment of the spectacle. But others surrendered to the cool shade of their huts. The hunt couldn’t last much longer, they said. The prince would give up soon, or die trying.
A wave of excitement rose. “There! Look there…he comes! The boy comes!” a man shouted.
“Where? Does he have the beast?” others asked.
All eyes shot in the direction of the fingers pointing toward Reiv, who could be seen dragging himself from the water, barely able to stand.
Reiv walked stiffly toward them, the dirk clutched in one hand, a large shell in the other.
“Look, he has slain a sea snail!” a voice cried out amusedly. The crowd burst into laughter and gathered, teasing and pointing, around the exhausted prince.
Reiv held the shell up and gazed at it. He smiled. “Yes, I have indeed slain the snail, or so I shall when I dig my knife into it.”
Some of the spectators appreciated his sense of humor and slapped him on the back boisterously. “Job well done, prince,” a man said. “Too bad it’s not Seirgotha.”
“Oh,” Reiv replied, “Seirgotha is quite dead, I assure you.” He walked on as he said it, never skipping a beat.
“Dead?” Gasps echoed throughout the mob that followed him in mass.
“Of course,” Reiv said. “What did you think I was doing out there all this time? Hunting for shells?” He flipped the shell into the air and caught it back in his hand, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
“But where is the creature? Where is Seirgotha?” shocked voices asked.
Reiv looked at them as though they were insane. “Did you expect me to carry her in my pocket? If you want her, you had best go get her.”
Several men turned and ran toward the water, intent on seeing for themselves whether or not Reiv had indeed slain the beast.
“Oh, and I would take some rope if I were you,” Reiv called over his shoulder.
Reiv made his way through the crowd and hustled up the path toward the hut. He would have run except he could barely put one shaking foot in front of the other. He glanced back, viewing the efforts of those trying to retrieve the great snake. A line of men stood with rope in hand, ready to pull as soon as they felt the signal in the water at the other end. But Reiv had neither the time nor the desire to watch them drag the loathsome creature to shore. He had seen enough of the vile thing to last a lifetime.
He rushed through the beaded flap of the doorway, smiling in spite of himself. He half expected to see Kerrik up and alert, but he was sorely disappointed. Reiv’s arms dropped to his side. “Has there been no change at all?” His eyes darted back and forth between Jensa and Torin. He could tell from their expressions that Kerrik was little better than when he had left him.
Torin approached, his eyes wide with anticipation. “Did you—did you do it?” he asked.
“It is done.” Reiv looked over at Kerrik. The boy’s wounds were cleaned and bandaged, his ribs bound and his fractured arm splinted, but his face was still deathly white.
Reiv’s voice rose in agitation. “Why is there so little improvement? I thought once the beast was slain the sick would be healed. Is that not what the legend said?”
Torin frowned and took Reiv’s limp hand in his, then began to unwind the wet bindings from around the dirk and the fingers that still clung to it. “Yes, but there’s more to it than that.”
Reiv’s face fell. “More? Slaying a she-devil is not enough? By the gods, what more do they want for the life of one small boy?”
Torin remained silent as he continued to unwrap the dirk. But for some reason Reiv’s fingers refused to be released. “Tell me. What more must I do?” Reiv said.
“Perhaps we should wait until Nannaven arrives,” Jensa said from Kerrik’s bedside.
“What does Nannaven have to do with it?” Reiv asked. “If there is more for me to do, then tell me.”
Jensa stroked Kerrik’s cheek, then rose. “There is a ritual that must be performed in order for you to receive the gift, and even then you will receive it only if the gods allow it.”
“Then let us get on with it,” Reiv said.
“It’s not so simple,” Torin said. “Only Nannaven knows the full details of the ritual. It requires a potion. The risk is too dangerous for you even to consider. For one t
hing, if the creature you slew is not Seirgotha, you will not survive the ritual.”
“And if it is?”
“If it is, the gods might still deny you. Then—”
“Then I still might not survive?”
“Yes.” Torin took the dirk from Reiv’s slackening grasp and laid it on the nearby table. Then he nodded toward the shell still clutched in Reiv’s other hand. “The shell?” he asked, clearly curious as to why someone who had battled a she-devil would have taken the time to hunt a shell.
“Oh,” Reiv said, recalling it, “a gift for Kerrik. It was the shell he was diving for when he disappeared. I knew how much he wanted it.”
“He will be pleased,” Jensa said, turning her head to hide new tears.
Reiv walked over to the cot and sat. He placed the back of his hand on Kerrik’s clammy cheek, then tucked the blanket beneath the boy’s chin. “Kerrik,” Reiv said, “Seirgotha is dead. It is true. And it is all because of you. If you had not found her this morning she would be out there still.” Reiv paused and looked at the shell still cradled in his hand. “Here…here is the shell…you know, the big one you spotted on the reef. You have such an eye for them. I swear I would never have seen it had you not told me where it was.”
He laid the shell at Kerrik’s side and placed the boy’s unresponsive hand over it. He watched him closely, hoping for the slightest sign the child had heard his encouraging words. But there was nothing.
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