by Ron Root
He fell into a trance. Despite how many times as Goodricke had seen Lavan cast spells, he was still ill at ease around the arts.
Jarek pointed. “That way.”
He rowed while Jarek directed their course. Glancing down, he could see bottom. “Milord, these waters are shallow. What of this lurker?”
Jarek shook his head. “A creature its size would give me a much stronger signature than what I sense. These are small, perhaps squirrels or birds or the like. We’re safe.”
True to Jarek’s boast, they were soon rewarded with the sound of chirping birds. Using their song as a beacon, they quickly found land. Goodricke thanked the gods they’d begun their search before the birds had nested for the night.
They beached. Goodricke tied off the boat and they unloaded gear and pitched camp. Looking over the desolate island, he wondered if they were the first humans to have ever set foot on it. It was a mix of sand, rocks and grasses, the foliage matching the dull gray of the clay soil. Small trees were farther inland, likely where the birds nested.
With deadwood plentiful, they soon basked in the warmth of a roaring fire. However, the heavy mist spoiled any chance of getting a trident reading. “If this fog doesn’t lift, I won’t be able to fix our location. We’re bound to have strayed off course.”
They bedded down. Tired from the day’s rowing, Goodricke was asleep as soon as his head touched his blanket. Despite his fatigue, he tossed fitfully, dreaming he was back in the water, his feet stuck in mud, unable to move. Bird-like creatures haunted the vision. Gathering in ever greater numbers, they circled overhead. Gone were those gentle chirps of the earlier birds, replaced by ever more raucous squawks. As if spurred on by their collective cries, the birds suddenly dove, one after the other, talons flexed, swooping down on Goodricke. Unable to move his feet, he clung to his boat, wondering what to do.
A loud thrumming shattered his dream. Waking, he looked around. It was the sword! He drew the blade. It was vibrating; glowing a brilliant blue.
Jarek yelped.
Goodricke scrambled out of his bed roll, sword in hand. A half dozen dark shadows flapped about just above the Magus’s head, their squawks matching those of Goodricke’s dream. A shrieking form veered away, diving toward him. Instinctively, he raised his weapon and struck. He felled it. Stepping over its thrashing carcass, he rushed to Jarek’s side. A bat-like creature with protruding eyes and long pointed fangs was perched on the Magus’s shoulder. It took off before he could kill it. He spun about, sword raised, but all had fled into the night sky. He lowered his weapon. Silent now, it ceased to glow. He looked at Jarek. “Milord, are you all right?”
Jarek touched the back of his neck. “I believe that creature bit me.”
Probing, Goodricke found a cut. “You’re right, there’s blood.” He removed his sash and dabbed at the wound.
Jarek shooed him away. “Did you see Turpin’s blade?”
“Yes, it glowed. It hummed, too. That’s what woke me.”
Jarek conjured a light globe. “Let me see it?” Goodricke handed him the weapon. Jarek rotated it, examining it top to bottom. “How can this be? Mindless beasts lack the wit to have humors, good or evil, yet the blade responded as if they did.”
Goodricke gathered wood and soon had the fire blazing again, and washed and bound Jarek’s wound. Done, he retrieved the carcass of the creature he’d killed. It looked like an ugly bat with oversized fangs. “Look at this,” he said, handing it to the Magus.
Jarek’s eyebrows rose. “A red bat? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He sniffed. “It smells fishy, likely its usual prey.” He held it up, examining it from every angle. “It hasn’t been dead very long. Since the sword only reacts to evil, I should check for an aura.”
He slipped into a trance. Moments later he snapped out of it. “The sword told true; this thing has an evil residue.” He looked around. “Someone, or something, has used the Gift to pervert this creature. Is this Zakarah’s deed, or is there some other evil at work here?”
Goodricke scanned the nearby bushes as he climbed back into his bed. Does some other evil lurk here, too? He shook his head. As if Zakarah weren’t threat enough. He’d get little sleep this night.
Calamity
Goodricke woke to the pleasant twitter of birdsong, a sharp contrast to last night’s bat attack. He sat up and was instantly overwhelmed by an awful stench. Foul Marsh had been aptly named.
The sun had burned away most of the fog, but a thin mist still hovered just above the water. Islands dotted the landscape everywhere, some only a short distance away. Jarek was awake too, looking around. “Malg’s map isn’t very detailed is it?”
“You’ve the right of that. I’m not sure how we’ll ever discern which is Devil’s Island.” Worse, closely nested islands meant plenty of shallows. “The lurker could be anywhere.”
Jarek climbed out of his bed. “You worry too much. Its signature would be huge. If I sense it, we’ll give it a wide berth.” The grasses swayed as a breeze blew through their encampment. “And won’t this wind be good for sailing?”
“Aye.” Goodricke rekindled the fire and they shared a morning meal of beans and bread, listening to the whisper of dancing tree leaves.
While loading the boat, a sudden hush fell over the island. Only the gentle buzz of insects defied the eerie silence. Goodricke scanned the area, his hand on Turpin’s sword. A loud squeal pierced the quiet. A large boar-like creature came charging through the shallow water, spraying them as it raced past their camp, squealing in terror.
Curious yet wary, they followed its trail of rippling water and fading squeals. They’d walked less than fifty paces when they heard a horrific roar followed by a mournful bawl. Alarmed screeches erupted from all over the island. The sword vibrated.
Waves rippled across the nearby water, washing over rock and bush, bending any plant caught in its wake. The water settled. The whole island had gone deathly still. Goodricke exhaled ever so slowly, “What do you suppose that was?”
“I don’t know,” Jarek whispered, “nor do I wish to find out. Me thinks the sooner we leave this place, the better.”
They made a hasty retreat to their encampment and finished loading their gear. Goodricke launched the boat and made for deeper waters, casting skittish glances at the water as he rowed.
Only when the water was too deep to see bottom did he drop a rock tied to a rope overboard. He lowered it until he ran out of twine. The rope was four times his height and the rock hadn’t touched bottom. He hoped these waters were deep enough.
The breeze picked up enough to resume under sail, careful to steer clear of any island. Their morning was uneventful, but like the day before, around midday they lost their wind, forcing them to furl the sail.
Even though the day was warmer than the previous one, Jarek sat with knees cuddled to his chest, shivering. “Are you all right, milord?”
“I fear I’m with fever,” he said through chattering teeth. “Likely from that vermin’s bite.”
“Should we make shore and get you to bed?”
Jarek hugged his chest, shaking his head. “We dare not lose a day. I just need rest.”
Concerned, Goodricke foraged through the Magus’s bag and tossed him his blanket. “Wrap yourself in this.”
Jarek slid to the flooring and snuggled into it. “All right but wake me every once-in-a-while so I can probe for the lurker.”
Later, Goodricke tried to wake him. “Milord, it’s time for a probe.” Jarek’s only response was a moan. When further efforts fared no better, Goodricke decided to let him sleep. It just meant he’d need to stop every so often and use rock and rope to test the water’s depth.
The repeated stops to check their depth slowed his progress. As the afternoon wore on, the landscape changed. Instead of occasional large islands with long stretches of open water in between, they were now smaller and more plentiful. Giant cypress trees sprouted out of the water every
where. If their roots could find soil, the water wasn’t deep.
The fog was gathering. Dusk was upon them. His back ached. He needed to find a camp spot. The fact that islands were plentiful now worked in their favor. Taking out his spyglass, he scoured the marsh, seeking one large and dry enough to be habitable, but between the gathering darkness and growing mist, seeing was difficult. He picked the nearest one of consequence, took its compass reading, and rowed in its direction.
The moist fog had him shivering, despite working the oars. He hoped Jarek’s blanket was keeping him warm.
The island he’d spied through his glass came into view. Nearing shore, he heard only water splashing over rock, not birdsong. He thought back to how silent the marsh had gotten when the pig was killed. Was it quiet now because the lurker or some other equally loathsome beast was at hand?
He veered for the splashing sounds, sighing with relief as the bow thudded against the shoreline. He roused Jarek, albeit barely. Doubting the man could walk, he scooped him up, blanket and all, and carried him ashore. Propping him against a tree a safe distance from the water, he bundled him up. Shudders wracked the poor man’s body. His forehead was on fire. Goodricke decided to scout to see if the island was camp worthy.
The place lacked any semblance to their previous camp. He’d walked only a short distance before the rocky soil gave way to rancid mire. Uncounted stumps poked through the thick green quagmire in unsuccessful attempts to become full trees. None were dry enough for fuel.
Stopping, he studied one of the mud pools. Mostly quicksand, it smelled putrid. Strange lumps were scattered over its surface. One moved; then another. They were alive. He searched his pockets for the jerky he’d snacked on earlier. He tossed a piece into the pond. It hit with a splash. Frenzied growls erupted from the nearby lumps. Long flat-winged creatures leaped at the serving, snarling after the spoils. Hungry eyes blinked from behind other distant lumps. He shuddered. This place would never do.
Even though the sun had set, daylight lingered. Taking out his spyglass, he climbed atop a boulder and scanned the area, finally spotting a grove of alders. After taking a compass reading, he returned to Jarek.
He gave him a sip of water and poured some on his fevered forehead. “Just one more channel to cross, milord, and then I can cook up a warm broth and tuck you into a proper bed.”
Jarek nodded. “I’m awake, just help me stand.”
Goodricke helped him into the boat, hopped in after him, and aimed for the channel. The quickness with which they crossed it surprised him. He took solace in knowing the day’s ordeal would soon be over.
A sudden churning of the water doused that sense of relief. He scanned the area.
Jarek’s warning broke his concentration. “It’s very large, and very near.”
A huge dark form swam past them, just below the surface. Waves rocked the boat as the creature sank from sight. It swam back and forth—to and fro. A giant gray back broke the surface, looking much like the great whales Goodricke had seen in his seafaring days. He rowed faster.
The beast rose out the water a fair distance away, staring at them through monstrously large eyes. Its head was twice the size of a man. Rows of jagged teeth rimmed its mouth. Several octopus like arms waved above its head, each with suctions spanning its length. It hovered briefly and then dove, the icy echo of its plunge reverberating across the water. The resulting wave caused him to miss a stroke. He struggled to regain his rhythm—they had to move. And quickly!
The lurker burst out of the water directly behind them, its roar reminiscent of the one they’d heard just before the boar’s pathetic death cry, the smell of its rancid breath washing over them. It bellowed, poised above them, eying them. He flailed at the oars, frantic to reach the island. In his haste, the boat ricocheted off a submerged rock and tipped. He tumbled overboard, landing flat on his back. Pain ripped through his ankle. His foot was caught in the bowline. He grabbed it and freed his foot just as the rope lurched, the force of it nearly tearing the twine from his grip. His head popped above the surface. The boat was moving. Jarek was at the oars. Each stroke jerked the rope forward. Each jerk dunked Goodricke under water.
He clung to the rope, knowing it was his lifeline. He couldn’t see the beast but knew the safety of shore was only boat lengths away. Then something slithered past him. A moment later the boat was flipped airborne. Turbulence sucked him underwater, tumbling him to the muddy bottom. He thrashed about in a sea of blinding, swirling murk, swallowing rancid water. A knee touched bottom. He grabbed handfuls of mud to stop his spinning. Struggling to his feet, his head broke through the surface. He was stomach-deep in water. Gagging, he spewed fetid liquid from his mouth and wiped water from his eyes. He drew Turpin’s sword. It was aglow, vibrating.
Long choking tentacles ensnared the shattered fragments of their boat. Jarek was nowhere in sight. The lurker’s grotesque face hovered above the wreckage. Roaring, it lunged, its jaws splintering what remained of their skiff. Both boat and beast disappeared beneath brownish foam.
Fighting muddy footing and turbid water, Goodricke struggled toward shore. Something grabbed his foot, knocking him off balance. He sliced his weapon at his unseen assailant. The sharp blade struck something solid and his leg broke free. An instant later the monster’s head appeared above him, swaying, its mouth open like a snake ready to strike. He splashed through the shallows, desperate to reach the beach, all the while waiting for that inevitable strike that would spell his doom.
That strike never came. Miraculously, his feet found dry sand. He ran far up the shoreline before daring to turn to see what had become of the lurker, to learn how he’d been spared.
It was bobbing and weaving, hovering above the wreckage in some sort of trance. Only paces away stood Jarek, knee-deep in water, arms outstretched and fingers dancing. Seeing Goodricke safely out of the water, he stopped casting and scrambled ashore and ran to join him.
Coming out of its trance, the lurker roared its displeasure, its bellow echoing throughout the marsh. With its prey having escaped, it sank underwater and didn’t resurface.
Jarek arrived, panting. Using Goodricke’s shoulder for support, he eased down beside him. “Heavens preserve us, it doesn’t seem able to come ashore.”
Goodricke sprawled onto his back, drained and spent. Jarek thudded down beside him. They lay there, propped on elbows, watching the lurker resurface twice more, before finally swimming away.
“Are you all right, milord?”
Jarek slapped Goodricke’s shoulder, grinning. “I think I shall live—barely!”
Goodricke flexed his limbs. Although bruised and battered, he detected no serious injury. A remnant of a lurker tentacle still stuck to his ankle. He tried to rip it loose, but the suction wouldn’t release. It hurt to try. Despondent, he stared out at the water. “Without a boat, we’re stranded.”
Missive
Stuffing Prior Rigby’s note into her pocket, Rayna made the short walk to the parish and rang the bell. A manservant greeted her and led her to a sitting room with two cushioned chairs and a table scattered with books. “Please wait here, Lady. Prior Rigby is entertaining an important guest. He should be available shortly.”
Was Prior Rigby talking with her visitor? The waiting rooms had no doors, allowing her to hear them talking in the adjacent room. Sitting straighter, she listened.
“But Your Grace, the magi acknowledge The Effulgence as the source of their magic, how could such use be deemed heretical?”
It was the Grand Inquisitor, here at the parish! Wait until Yudelle hears!
“It’s not what they use, but how they use it. Rest assured, if any crime is descried, I’ll not hesitate to prosecute them the same as I would any other heretic.”
“As you say Your Grace, but I assure you it’s unlikely. I know many of them. All are good men.”
“Perhaps, but if you prove wrong, I’ll show them no more mercy than they deserve. Our ship’s dung
eons await any who profane His Gift.”
Their voices shifted to the corridor, growing louder—they were heading her way. Rayna grabbed a book, pretending to read it. She glanced up in time to see the men walk past her doorway.
A short time later Prior Rigby walked into her room and smiled. “My apologies for keeping you waiting my dear, but I too, had a visitor.”
Setting down her book, she stood to greet him. “You’ve no need to apologize.”
He motioned for her to follow. “Come, your visitor awaits you.” They headed down a short corridor. She inhaled, trying to calm herself. Who would it be? Robard? Her father?
They entered another waiting room, a twin to the one she’d just left. Her visitor spoke. “I assumed correctly then.” It was the fat monk, the one who had the townsfolk laughing at his sermon.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Prior Rigby offered, withdrawing.
Rayna approached the man. “What is it you assumed, Sir?”
The friar stood. “Ah, forgive the vagaries of an old man. When I saw you in town, I was sure it was you. Please,” he gestured toward a chair, “have a seat and let me explain.”
She sat. “It’s Friar Luc, isn’t it?”
Smiling, he nodded and seated himself. “Your memory is excellent, my dear.”
“Sir, aside from our chance meeting at the market, should I know you?”
“No, no.” He paused. “Where to begin? Maybe it would be best to be direct. I was sure it was you because you’re the very image of your mother.”
Her heart thudded! She’d expected to someday find her father, but her mother! This was something she had never dared to dream. “You know my mother?”
The friar shrugged. “It would be more precise to say I knew her. The last time I saw her she was your age, and you were but a babe.” He leaned back, studying her face. “Were the image I see in my shaving glass not so obviously aged, you look so like her, I would swear I’d gone back in time and you were her.”
