THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "Thank you." Dagmar didn't have to feign gratitude, and a monstrous weight lifted. "Are they all right?"

  "We healed their wounds and they will recover soon. The singular exception was an older man, who began his last journey before your arrival."

  "You mean he is dead?" Dagmar asked bluntly. Wasted breath. He knew it, yet his mouth acted for their benefit and some form of closure.

  "If that is how your people define it, yes. He held a great sickness, yet I do not believe it was a natural death. His throat was crushed before journeying with your gods." Tryell replied, touching the location on her own throat. "I healed most without difficulty. The lady is merely exhausted. The most difficult was the boy with the broken skull. Our gods blessed him with their healing, I admit. He was a mighty challenge to my arts, beyond my assistants, and will require some time to recuperate. You had severe bruising and a cracked bone here." Her hand stretched and pointed to the crown of Dagmar's head above his right eye. Dagmar nodded, his respect increasing with the memory of his headache as she turned back to her elders. "With your permission, I will rest, but please call me if you require my services."

  "Of course. You have our humble gratitude, as always, Tryell," Synalavar demurred and blinked as Dagmar caught the healer by the arm.

  "If it isn't presumptuous, I'd like to convey our appreciation. My personal thanks for fixing my headache. It's our fairest fortune in days."

  Her face goofy at the compliment, Tryell flashed an embarrassed smile and gracefully slid through the trees without a backwards glance. Dagmar looked at the man and caught the movement as he withdrew his hand from the red banded hilt of an elaborate longsword. He appeared not to care that Dagmar noticed, and neither did the eldest of the elven woman. She revealed some benching built along the edge of the cove he hadn't seen, shaded under the canopy of several of the giant trees, forming an alcove away from direct sunlight.

  Massive didn't do them justice. Dagmar had never seen the like. Twenty feet thick at the base and two hundred feet high, the sinewy trunks were enormous to his incredulous staring eyes. Each huge branch erupted with large deep green spade-like leaves with thick projecting veins on pale dappled undersides. The benches seemed deliberately carved to a rustic style—or perhaps a creative shaping from choice pieces of driftwood. Solid pieces at that. The four of them surrounded one of the low tables, the swordsman positioning himself last, his sword arm free, scabbard loose.

  Dagmar studied the strange wildlife, feigning ignorance. The place was thick with insects and birds flickering in and out of the canopy. As busy as Tregallon's central market and less smelly. A second massively armoured man entered the clearing, carrying a woven picnic basket in his sword hand. He gave a perfunctory bow and delivered the basket to the older woman with a flourish before turning away. He moved to stand behind the swordsman before removing his helm. Like the older woman, he had the same dark skin colouring, only more weathered—they could even be related for all he knew. The elven lady extracted crystal goblets and placed them on the table and handed a turquoise bottle to the swordsman. With a rueful smile, he tucked his gauntlets into his sword belt and uncorked, pouring a red wine with the heady scent of unknown fruits. So rich a smell, Dagmar surmised he could inhale it across the table and have a guess at which fruits contributed to the aroma.

  Dagmar glanced at all three leaders and studied the table. It was no rustic carpenter's work, but that of a talented master, exhibiting an exquisite diorama of the sea floor. Detailed so fine, the individual scales on fish and sea creatures were visible. Impressive. Damn impressive. It was as skilful as a painting, somehow transferred across mediums to wood. The swordsman handed Dagmar a goblet without speaking, allowing Dagmar to continue his scrutiny and force them to talk. No-one seemed in a hurry to speak. So, elves were chatty conversationalists? Dagmar could also play the waiting game... if his mouth obeyed his brain. There had to be the first time for everything—hadn't there?

  31

  "I am one leader of three from our ruling triumvirate." Synalavar began gesturing at the older woman. "Lady Alleyne and Prince Methyn are the others." Synalavar inclined her head at the man behind Methyn. He was a more muscular—a powerful but weathered—version of the Prince, with elaborate plate armour, acid-etched with exquisite coral-like friezes. "Valindal is the commander of our military."

  "Lieutenant Dagmar, formerly Deputy Sunjammer of Tryphon, from the fleet of Prince Gildan of the Twin Spires. That's the Western Principality of our Twin Spires kingdom." Dagmar commented as a formal response of sorts. He threw the rank in for pettiness. After all, he was that type of person, and he reasoned it would be that kind of conversation.

  "Formerly?" Methyn queried in a quiet voice with a faint lift of his slanted eyebrow. Compared to the other elves they were dark, his irises almost black, with just a hint of brown to differentiate from his pupils.

  "Attacked and sank. We scuttled our ship and escaped with the remaining crew and passengers."

  "Attacked by whom? Do you have more boats adrift?" Methyn pressed, hunching forward like a poised panther.

  "I'm not sure." Dagmar pondered what to say. He felt unsuited acting as ambassador with his habit of jumping before thinking. He was realistic in appreciating that options were limited. If the two men were senior officers, then they'd be skilled warriors. The women he suspected were well versed in the mystic arts. Honesty, then. "They were well-organised magicians and archers, with poorly equipped soldiers by our standards. They wore oddly painted masks, elaborate feathered attire, and obsidian weapons. Despite that, they were effective ambushers with numbers behind their magic."

  Dagmar looked between the elven leaders. Alleyne nodded, an imperceptible bob of her head encouraging him to continue. "In a brief conversation with a noble we rescued before the attack—the man Tryell could not save—he suggested a reclusive race called Aztexa. We departed Tryphon in three boats. They fireballed one as we escaped and the other sank in the recent storm."

  This time the elves exchanged meaningful looks. The general set his goblet down to run his fingers through short brown hair, which unlike the others, revealed his sharp-pointed lobeless ears. Dagmar found himself unable to avoid staring and hurriedly dragged his gaze to his glass before they took offence.

  "I fear your noble was correct." The Prince rued. "We sea elves—to use your terminology—have few dealings with humans. None with the savages to the west until recently, by our standards of time. Unlike your encounter, magic users have been rare beyond their shores, but their systemic raiding has forced us to move our military in response and increase our patrols. They have attacked dozens in recent weeks."

  "Do you think the sinking of Tryphon and the attacks on you are linked in some manner?" Dagmar asked, playing a hunch.

  "We don't know. It is premature to say for sure, but likely." Alleyne spoke for the first time since sitting. "We have unwelcome visits from outlanders that require turning away or dealt with the seasonal winds around now. You are the first encounter this month, and we believe part of something foreordained."

  "Is that why you are being so frank?" Dagmar asked in a dry tone.

  "Your meaning?" Synalavar pursed her thin lips and studied Dagmar.

  "Well, you invited, subdued and abducted us to an unknown location. Yet you have healed us from near death. Then dangled corroboration that our enemies—who we'd never encountered until a few days back—are also your enemies.

  "A remote cove with a pleasant spring and wine, is not where I expect three leaders and your military commander to seek new allies from a species you revile on general principal. It seems a little far-fetched." Dagmar tapped his wine stem twice with the nail of his index finger, more out of petulance than emphasis, making the crystal ting musically. He disturbed an iridescent green bird on a nearby branch who exploded into flight. Dagmar suddenly envied the flighty fucker.

  Methyn's eyes narrowed, but Synalavar nodded several times, as though agreeing. Alleyne inclined her head
at Synalavar, and the younger woman murmured. "You are a cynic, good. I cannot blame your suspicions, but the passage to our city is difficult to outlanders. We use settlements on the island as a boost to our resources. With the weakened state of your party, it is the logical place meeting for all concerned."

  Dagmar sipped the goblet, surprised at the fruity punch, and pondered his next question. He looked at both women and settled his stare on Alleyne. Was she the actual leader? He wasn't sure, but surmised some deference being shown by the others.

  "I'm not the cynic, he is." He hiked his thumb over his shoulder to Van Reiver's blanketed form. "You mentioned our arrival is foreordained. How does that work?"

  "I am a student of the heavens and the stars with a penchant for auguries. Recent events have corresponded with an ancient legend of ours. A terse description of an old passage, even by our standards, is:-

  'A weary band of outlandish folk will visit the forbidden isle of the Shelfkan on the eighth cycle of the sun, a day after a great twin storm, having suffered a grievous defeat to those from the same seed. Two enter the wrath of the Sea God, with one emerging victorious. Their arrival will show a great evil plaguing the lands is unleashed without constraint across the world and heavens, and their fortitude will raise alliances and enable its defeat'.

  There is much, much more; that quote is the key part of the transcript, though. It also ties in with dozens of prophecies, fables, calendars and scholarly research which we have been scrutinising for some time. Now is time for those of us who remain to act on the wisdom of ages."

  "That sounds thin, Lady Alleyne." Dagmar protested, clinking down his glass. "If it were a twin storm, it would explain the ferocity and why the eye of it was beyond treacherous. It was almost the death of us, but frankly, you could make anything out of the passage if you wished it to fit a particular design."

  "I omitted the full details of celestial and lunar alignments, showing a precise year, give or take seven months in one hundred and fifty thousand years of records, journals, and prophecies. The heavens and earth match. Match precisely with time and location. I have copies of pertinent scrolls with me, translated into Latos common if you wish to peruse them. I believe a man of study like yourself will consider them of interest.

  "Other legends from esteemed elven prophets indicated outlanders will visit our shores at this precise location, though lacking… definition." At her last word, she tapped the table in emphasis. "Centuries of study by the greatest scholarly minds in Tuvula are in unanimous agreement. That is rare. When I say we are not playing at politics, or clutching at convenient straws, you can believe me. Be assured, our meeting is not a whim, but millennia of consideration. We are here as destined. You may believe in chance, but here you are. We gain nothing with lies. We may have wished for a better outcome, but events have conspired otherwise.

  "Bluntly, young man, we have reached a precipice for our people, and as leaders, we must act. Many do not see the merits of astrology or prophecy, yet they become telling indicators if we allow enough time to analyse what has already passed. With our borders besieged, time is no longer a luxury we can sit upon."

  .*.*.

  Dagmar was quiet for several minutes. Glancing at the scroll case, he left it untouched as his thoughts churned after the conversation. This initial meeting was more serious than he suspected, even if their motives sounded bullshit. Myth and prophecy? Ha! He needed to pry something more from the sneaky bastards. Something to corroborate their intent and the truth. But what? Companionable silences appeared the norm for elves, and they showed no outward sign of offence or impatience. Methyn glanced at Alleyne in amusement. It seemed to tickle them that a human could show constraint. The sunjammer bit back his resentment and played his desperate hand of Merizus's dodgy dominoes.

  "Why hour of need? From the ease you captured us, why us? Why are we needed? I do not appreciate your purpose?" Methyn looked back over his shoulder at Valindal, who cleared his throat.

  "It's a question of resources." Valindal began in a dry, husky voice like a foot rasping through leaves. It was an odd voice, different from what Dagmar expected, not loud or ferocious by any means. "We've moved companies of soldiers and our principle magic users to counter raider activity on our northern border defences. Those forces have suffered significant casualties, which I will reinforce. We have had reports of disturbances from our settlement to the south, and the expedition we dispatched to investigate has, to all intents and purpose, disappeared. I cannot spare further scouts when I need every wand, sword and bow in Remphsenar's domain."

  "I don't understand."

  "We're not termed sea elves for nothing, Dagmar." Methyn laughed, grinning at Valindal, in what Dagmar guessed was an obscure 'in' joke between the elves. Dagmar wasn't any clearer, but diplomatically he dropped the matter. Pointy-eared gits, he thought in silent rebellion, suppressing a childish urge to glare.

  "I see," Dagmar muttered, unconvinced. Belatedly, he realised they may know his thoughts. They could extract them and planned their eventualities and responses accordingly. If they did—or had, they could swivel on it. Pretending thoughtfulness, he continued. "One further question, and I apologise if I offend in advance." He spoke as sincerely as he could manage, "You are the first elves I have met." The three leaders shrugged, Methyn left it to Valindal to resolve. How amazing that elves didn't differ from humans, and shit still ran downhill to the nearest minion. The hard-faced man gave a bemused smile which faded as Dagmar spoke.

  "Why should we help you? It is clear you have no desire to have regular relations with humans. I'm not referring to a meeting like this, but with formal diplomacy via ambassadors and embassies, or trade. From the stories I've heard, and the manner in which we were brought here, I believe the outcome for us would have been very different without elves possessing ulterior motives. If those stories are true, you have murdered humans of all nations for centuries for the trespass."

  All three elven leaders went silent. The only sound was shallow breathing and the competition between trees and sea on shingle to have the loudest rustle. The sea won, Dagmar mused in biting humour, as he impartially observed the effects of his verbal fireball. A vengeful quip of a powerless human prisoner. It was all he could do to avoid giggling at the tension. One thought lingered though: these pointy-eared long-lived folks will kill us if I do; it's a fact.

  The sunjammer gathered the impression they would've liked to chew the matter over well out of his earshot. It appeared a question the leaders hadn't expected and didn't like from the long glances. Valindal glanced at Dagmar while remaining immovable as granite, aside from the deep crinkling around the eyes. Dagmar interpreted it as wry amusement, finding his superior's discomfort entertaining. Valindal gave an abrupt nod to Methyn and departed. Dagmar blinked as the large man sidestepped the question and no doubt spent the walk back to wherever trying not to wet himself with laughter until out of their earshot.

  "He has duties to see to before departing; his wife's younger brother is one of the missing," Methyn said, his tiredness now apparent, his phrasing stilted to Dagmar's ears. Running his hands through his hair, the elf paused, before setting his helm on the table. Both women looked at him as he continued softly, "It is in both of our interests. The attacks have occurred within the borders of both our nations and against both our forces. They have been a bane to us, and despite our vast differences with humans, we have no wish for this to become a disaster in the lands of our neighbours. Your nation—to use your phrasing—would border a calamitous threat if our homeland if controlled by the savages, or vice versa.

  "It is a strange concept for many of the long-lived, but upon us is another age of change. We would prefer this time for the better, and this world has suffered enough. The Aztexa are a plague. A corruption nibbling at our people to fuel their insatiable practice of sacrifice. To the south, we endure sporadic attacks from the denizens of the blighted lands. Unlike your people, we cannot replenish losses quickly. It will take us centur
ies to recover what has occurred, and none of us here wish it to become millennia or beyond assuming any success. If we lose control of our outlying holdings, it will make the defence of our city much more desperate. An alliance, or merger of interests would ideally serve our people in these pressing times, and perhaps for the foreseeable future."

  "That sounds prudent, sir, but I must ask—given our limited knowledge of each other—how we can trust each other, and I your motives? How is arbitrarily executing trespassers that different to folk committing sacrifices? From ancient histories written after the transition I believe most of the early human tribes performed sacrifices, it fell out of fashion with the rise of the new gods of this world and—I guess—not enough people to rule."

  "That is why we must defend our territory. We have lost much to invaders over millennia of encroachment and the ruination of seas and land. I infer people and knowledge, more than the wealth you humans seem to cherish. The other is their projection of power of realm and divinities. We resist, because we must." Alleyne declared. Synalavar bobbed her agreement but allowed the older woman to speak for them both.

  "Necessity is upon us, as our legends and prophecies decree," Alleyne said with the hint of a wry smile. "As the pattern of fate turns each age, so does life. We do what we must and put aside our reticence for the long term fortune of our people. This is where we stand."

  "Logic too, for that matter," Methyn added. "Our people are few, even by elven standards. It is our concern our numbers will dwindle to an unacceptable level if we do not act now with all our resources. If that means we must revise our relations with neighbouring states by necessity, it is something we have agreed to do. On our terms, and in good faith. If our prophecies are correct, we can prevail by working together. For all our futures." He looked at Dagmar, a penetrating stare that made the sunjammer so uncomfortable he snatched his glance away first. Bastard!