The Isle of Ilkchild (The King of Three Bloods Book 4)

by Russ L. Howard

  She placed her hand on his arm. “Even though I know I’m just wasting my breath, I have to for my own peace of mind say, please, be careful.”

  Wose took her hand and kissed it, “I promise I’ll be safe.”

  He looked into her eyes for a long silent moment, before she said with obvious regret, “As much as I’d rather remain here with you alone, I believe we must attend our other guests who are no doubt arriving for breakfast.”

  Arm and arm they walked along the sun dappled path to the gate and through the gate into the public garden where Wose spotted Lilly and Ilrundel walking towards them with arms locked, laughing, and oblivious of their surroundings.

  Wose hailed them, “Yeoh! Ilrundel, Lilly, over here.”

  Lilly blushed and the queen whispered to Wose, “Well, I certainly hope the Pitters don’t stage an attack right now, because I can see Lilly has totally disarmed the heretoga of my fyrds.”

  Ilrundel smiled as they joined them. “She has indeed, my queen. In fact Lilly and I plan to marry within the next moonth.”

  Va-Eyra appeared both surprised and pleased. “How remarkable, Lilly, that you are not frightened by my commander’s ferocity as have been the other maidens.”

  Lilly beamed and Wose was touched by the happiness in her eyes. “Just the opposite, my queen, I find it to be one of his most irresistible qualities.”

  Va-Eyra looked up at Wose with soft eyes. “I agree, I too am drawn to ferocity in a man and in a warrior. And I have always found such a man to be irresistible. But sometimes love has its own timetable.”

  * * *

  The wyrm carried Ilkchild skyward on its long wriggling snake-like form. Pushing Ilkchild up by the sheer might of its serpent’s tail, the shark-wyrm twisted its head in a practiced motion to swallow Ilkchild down in one gulp. Those frightful teeth sealed the youth’s mortal fate like slamming a coffin lid.

  To Sur Sceaf’s horror, Ilkchild had been swallowed whole by the gaping jaws of the hell-monster. He was powerless to come to his son’s aid. The surf roared behind him and a mighty wave beat down on him, sending him churning in the water below. When he resurfaced, the monster wyrm and Ilkchild were gone, as was the ship and his crew.

  “Cursed bastard,” Sur Sceaf roared, struggling to get more air. Ilkchild, so young, so fair, so full of Elf blood and yet, he is no more. How could the gods and Norns have allowed this? Shock settled in on him like the kick of mule to his gut.

  He groaned in agony and burned with rage over the loss, wailing above the angry surf at the beauty and marvelous joy of youth cut down by a monster in a mere moment. What had started as an adventure full of hope and promise was now ended with tragic loss of his son, his crew, and his dignity.

  The roaring waves were drowned out by the waves of horror and grief that now lapped his mind and he longed to simply sink beneath the waves and find his own death in the murky depths, but duty and honor drove him to swim to shore. With each labored stroke he had to fight the spiteful undertow that tried to carry him back out to sea and perhaps into the jaws of that monster. After what felt like hours, he reached shallow water and was able to stagger ashore, where he collapsed into the dry sand, utterly exhausted.

  Although the warm sand was a relief to his cold body, his mind was still swallowed up in hot horror. He had a pervasive feeling that he was still down in the pit with a stone atop his back, unable to breathe. He wept, “Ilkchild, you were so dear to me, the manly likeness of my lovely wife, Faechild, and my prized remnant of Ilker’s brood. By Woon, I can never bear to face my lovely Faechild again.”

  Faechild’s grief had already been compounded by the losses of Ilker and Pam-El-Ea. She would never be able to bear another blow from death’s cruel hand. It would break her. He wept as his thoughts wandered to Ilkchild’s beautiful young brides, Ethelflaeda and Godgifu. In his mind their faces hauntingly appeared in great grief before him and he recoiled in gut-wrenching agony of soul. It’s all my fault.

  He rolled over, and to his shock realized that he had not lost the sacred sword of Govannon, but that it was still attached to his belt. The tide was coming in, forcing him to stagger to his feet. He looked out to sea searching for any sign of his crew or the Honey Bee, but he saw only the grey expanse of sky and the punishing waves of the turbulent sea. Furious, enraged, and grieving, he drew his sword and stabbed the sand in his wrath.

  “Oh, Elf Father, deliver us from the evils of this day! The sea has harmed us. It has betrayed me!” Over him towered an immense cliff. He surveyed his surroundings, assessing possible whereabouts. Gulls, sea birds, puffins, and pigeons swarmed above the roar of the surf and covered the misty air with their effortless flight and continuous mewing.

  Looking up, he spotted two ravens watching him from a nearby rock, but all he could think was that the young blood, Ilkchild, was now in the belly of some hell-fiend at the bottom of the sea. He cried out again, his throat too hoarse to articulate the broken words of, “Why? Why? Why?” For a moment hope entered his breast. Two ravens were my guardians in times past. Mayhap, Odhin, is watching over me. Eagerly he scanned the beach and then the rocks beyond for the All Father Yggdyung. To his great despair his god was not there.

  Utterly alone, he sank to his knees next to his embedded sword. He assumed he was far, far south of Ur Ford, maybe even as far as the Kalifornias, although that seemed unlikely because they had gone westerly. The sea mists were still thick and he could not ascertain the movement of the sun. Ilkchild had their only sunstone. He knew he must begin walking, but in which direction. He looked to his left and saw endless beach. Then he turned to the right and froze. Down the beach, two men were staggering out of the surf, one supporting the other. The long dark hair and bronze skin marked the one emerging from the waves as that of his blood-brother, Mendaka. His heart soared with a new hope. If Dak survived then perhaps some of the others had also.

  Mendaka was pulling a grey or red haired man, not yet recognizable from the grips of the sea. Sur Sceaf just began to make out the form. Then he realized it was Old Grokk, spewing the contents of his stomach amid coughs and gasps. Surrounding them were flotsam and baskets from their boat.

  With a spark of hope he ran toward them. “Tend him well, Dak,” he yelled to his friend as he ran past them. “I’ll comb the beach for the others. There must be others. There has to be.” It was more of a question than a statement. Gods of my fathers, there must be others.

  Sur Sceaf ran along the frothy edge of the surf, hoping against all odds that there were yet more comrades alive, but he saw nothing but the sea and sand. No others were visible. Returning slowly to his comrades on the beach, he was disappointed, exhausted, and overwhelmed with twisting grief. Old Grokk was still queasy and shaking from swallowing too much salt water, but the warm sand and stability of the land appeared to be reviving him.

  Old Grokk gave an up turned look at him. “We need to search further for any other survivors, Surrey. It gives me great pain to say I saw Ilkchild eaten by one of those wael monsters, but there were others I saw alive when the boat flipped and they went into the waters.”

  Sur Sceaf croaked out with his now hoarse voice, “It’s more than I can bear to think about at this moment, Grokk. I should have never entered the fog bank. By the gods, what in Hellheim was I thinking?”

  “Sur Sceaf, the loss of Ilkchild is unspeakably horrible,” Dak coughed with his long dripping hair still lying over his face, “and perhaps the others as well, but his death cannot be laid at your feet. Remember the Battle of Frink Glen. We have to count our losses and still go forward. The gods will it so. The gods are on our side. We are still here even with our losses. We must live on and be true to our mission, for the gods always leave us with something, no matter the losses.”

  Sur Sceaf sank to his knees, “I hear your counsel Dak, but I would gladly exchange places with Ilkchild. As always your words ring true. You have been a guiding star throughout my life.” Sur Sceaf looked up the beach again. I do not recall any beach
like this along the Herewardi coasts. Do you?”

  “Perhaps no one has explored this far down the coast since the earth changes.” Mendaka reasoned.

  Old Grokk surveyed the towering wall of rock above them, then grunted, “In my many travels in the ea-urth, I have never seen rocks this color before, yellow, red, and black, all mixed together.”

  “Nor have I,” Mendaka admitted. “Nor do I recall seeing so many bamboo and palms this far north.”

  Sur Sceaf wrinkled his brow and considered. “Is it possible that we are not on the Herewardi coast or is it possible that we have landed on some island in the deep?”

  Dak said, “Surely if there was an island this close in the deep, Raven’s Tongue would have mentioned it.”

  Old Grokk remarked, “Even on land, I have often come upon places I didn’t know existed. The sea is far greater and besides we crossed over the bend in the deep and not even Raven’s Tongue has done that until recently.”

  Sur Sceaf wrinkled his brow, brushed sand off his arms and said, “Shocking as that may seem, we must admit we may have found an unknown island.”

  Dak declared, “By the location of the sun in the sky, I’d say you’re right. The only way we will know for sure is to explore.”

  “It’s a real puzzle, but I agree. I will go right for four plough lengths and you two go left for four, then let us return to this point and share our findings.” He drew a large X with his foot on the beach, ran over to the cliff and found a sprig of gorse. “With this gorse, I do mark this as Ilkchild’s grave. Here shall be our point of rendezvous, and here I shall build unto him a dolmen fit for an Elven prince.” He pulled his sword out of the sand, wiped it clean on his trousers, and returned it to its scabbard.

  Sur Sceaf went to the wet sand along the beach where his lambskin moccasin boots tread a lot easier on the compact sand. He trudged forth with water-logged hope.

  Had not many of the elders in council fire predicted the seas were still too dangerous to travel just yet and have been too severely disturbed for these past five hundred years to dare venture upon? He could still see Ann Welsh’s scolding finger shaking at him about taking Ilkchild, the newly-wed, to sea. Had not Dak refused to let his own son, Redelfis, come on this expedition because he sensed the danger was too great?

  Once again, my over confidence and my greed for prosperity caused me to ignore all the damned warnings. The press of protecting our people from the Pitters drove me to want to harvest the whale oil so that we could buy time, and increase our numbers, for the inevitable conflict with the Pitters.

  But then, did not Redith predict this voyage would bring great promise? Great joy! Did I not feel the Ur Fyr burn in my chest? Surely, the oracles have not failed us. Surely, the stones are true. But at what cost?

  Suddenly, it was as if he heard Woon’s piercing whisper again. Faith, you must go forward, my son!

  Sur Sceaf heard a familiar call, then glanced up to see two ravens perched on a megalith. He addressed the ravens, “Brothers of the sky, I didn’t know it would be this hard.” He called out to them. With an answering cry they flew off into the mist and disappeared. As he searched the shoreline, he caught sight of a large woven basket cast up by the sea, floating in on an arriving wave with most of the floaters gone or dangling from the side. He retrieved it with some difficulty. Managed to open the basket, and saw that the provisions were still secure within—crocks of acorn flour, wheat, rice, and honey, with their seals unbroken and miraculously dry. He closed the lid and with great effort he strained his tired muscles to drag it up beyond the reach of the surf.

  “Thank the gods! At least we won’t starve.” Glancing back at the surf, he caught sight of three other baskets heading ashore on the crest of a frothy wave, as well as several kegs of mead floating in like ducks sliding onto shore. Upon examination of the basket’s contents, he discovered fur robes and blankets and others containing pemmican, dried fish, kelp, and whale oil, with more flour, grain, and hard tack. He opened the last chest and found it to contain medicinals, including sassafras, opium, elfwort, and comfrey. Eagerly, he cast his gaze out to sea once again and was rewarded by the sight of two cages of pigeons floating in on their base of floaters and knew they would provide a way to send for help once they figured out where on the Great Aurvandilean Deep they were.

  He laboriously pulled everything up to the sedges above tide mark for safe keeping. Looking to the heavens, he cried, “Thank you, Ur Father!” He knew this to be no accident. The gods had heard him and the Ur Fyr burned anew.

  Sur Sceaf found renewed strength as he moved around the dunes where he discovered a large horseshoe-shaped bay cutting into the land. To his great relief, he spotted the Honey Bee cast ashore on its side like an upset basket. He ran to the boat, and with his heart pounding he looked inside. The prow had broken off, but remarkably, the keel appeared to still be intact. However, the sails were gone, as were many of the oars, but most of the harpoons were still secured in their place, as were the cauldrons and tripods. He tugged and grunted, but the boat did not move. He attempted to push from the rear, but the boat was too much for one man to move above tide mark. On the sand lay the glass floater with a ewe’s foot and a honey bee imprinted on it encased in a rope net. The pounding surf had planted it firmly in the sand like a seed. He searched through the kelp and driftwood littered on the beach, looking for other useful items and implements.

  He found a pickax and the anchor still attached by its chain. Glancing around, he saw a huge drift log and secured the anchor to the jutting roots and prayed it would keep the Honey Bee from from being carried back out to sea.

  Panting from his exertion, he perched on the tree trunk to scan the horizon. There was no more salvage or sign of any crew, alive or dead. Despite what Grokk had said about seeing some alive and swimming, he feared they must have all drowned in that strong rip tide and roaring waves of the bay. After all, the sea had become like a devil’s cauldron before they crashed. Although they were all good swimmers, they were not yet seamen. His heart returned to wallowing in grief as he walked heavy footed through the sand for his last two plough lengths, disappointed he had found no survivors.

  After some wearisome plodding he thought he heard sea lions barking somewhere ahead. Squinting for better vision, he scanned his surroundings. His attention was drawn to something on the surface of the surf. Another basket he thought, but as it grew closer, he was astonished to realize it was someone swimming in to shore by him. Soon he recognized it to be the excellent swimmer, Elfwin Elfdane, who always looked pinkish white no matter how much time he spent in the sun. Farther out to sea on large sea rocks, he made out more of his men crossing their arms above their heads and yelling the Sharaka call. He quickly counted but still was one short. No Ilkchild. Of course. His joy was diminished by his grief. He returned the Sharaka call, “Yeoh!” and waved his arms. After a moment, they began plunging into the bay and swimming for shore.

  He quickly ran over and helped Elfwin to stagger up the beach where he collapsed onto the dry sand. “I am so damned glad to see you alive, Brother Elfwin.”

  “No more so than I, my lord.” Elfwin said, shaking the excess water from his hair and beard. “I could have been eaten by sea-wylfs.”

  Hartmut and Elijah had shucked their heavy coats and were pulling the unconscious Fromer out of the surf, still clad in all his heavy Quailor clothing, and looking for all the world like a drowning crow, his puny frame feebler than a boys.

  As soon as the men had all safely made it to shore with half-drowned Fromer in tow, Red Fox inquired urgently, “Has anyone seen Elf Beard or Mendaka?”

  Sur Sceaf said “They are both with me.” He ran over and revived Fromer by placing him face down and pumping his arms from behind. Soon the dycon began to wretch and breathe.

  Sunchild swept back his hair and uttered with a voice broken with emotion. “The sea wyrm swallowed him whole. There was nothing I could do, my lord. He was just too far beyond my reach, and the bo
at was spinning too much to get a grip on him. By the god of Abraham, my strength failed me.”

  Sur Sceaf swallowed his own grief and could not look at Sunchild for fear of breaking up before his men. Ilkchild was a prince from the Baldurean bloodline and represented a great loss to the Herewardi tribes. Sur Sceaf finally declared through tightly drawn lips, “Let us return to Mendaka and Elf Beard. I have found the boat and quite a few provisions. If the gods will, maybe even more will come ashore.” He would have preferred death over losing Ilkchild.

  Red Fox signed wait, “My lord, before the mist blew in, just a little further up the beach to the right, we spied many caves in the mouth of what appears to be a huge cavern. Hartmut claimed to have seen a stream running from it that may provide fresh water. Perhaps that would serve us better for a shelter tonight rather than an open beach.”

  * * *

  On the morning of the fourth day of their stay with the queen, Ilker, and the women gathered at the oaken gates of Fort Rock. The trumpets blasted atop the great fortress announcing the approach of the expected Hickoryans from Redmond. Va-Eyra had received the news during breakfast in the Queen’s Hall when the chamberlain arrived to relate the word from the scouts that strangers were approaching and had been identified as the Hickoryans from Redmond. She immediately ordered the gates to be opened and the fyrds to be assembled.

  Wose escorted Va-Eyra to her ceremonial pavilion directly before the gates and by request remained next to her to be seen by all as her new consort. The Hickoryans poured through the gates in great droves, some afoot, some in wagons and their leaders on refined horses. Wose estimated four thousand Hickoryans with wagons and livestock were gathered outside the gate. They did not look as travel worn as he had feared. Suddenly, Wose heard a cry behind him.