Child of a Dead God

CHAPTER NINE

Magiere stood on deck with her companions as the crew loaded boxes and barrels into two skiffs. After three days, their ship had reached its next layover.

The cargo grate was still open, and she looked down to see the hold was nearly empty. She turned back to the wild coastline where one dock served a small settlement upon the rocky shore. Leesil stepped up beside her, and everything seemed peaceful.

But it wasn't. She could feel it.

The crew stole furtive glances at them. They were far too quiet, even considering the presence of humans on their ship.

Sgaile, Osha, Chap, and Wynn joined Magiere at the rail-wall.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

Wynn kept her eyes down.

"Last stop," she whispered. "We have reached the end of an'Croan waters. If not for us, the ship and crew would turn back north for Ghoivne Ajhajhe. Because of us, they cannot go home."

Magiere didn't doubt Wynn-as her explanation made sense-but sometimes the sage's interpretations weren't completely on the mark.

"Is that true?" she asked Sgaile.

His thick hair hung loose today, blowing around his face in coarse, white-blond strands. The effect made him look less proper and civilized. Before he answered, the hkomas closed on all of them, speaking short, clipped Elvish. His leathery skin looked rough next to Sgaile's, and the two conversed in careful tones.

Chap stood near Wynn, watching them.

"What's this about?" Leesil asked.

Sgaile glanced at him and then Magiere. "It is true-we have completed the last stop. The hkomas agreed to take you wherever you asked, but now he… requests a more specific destination. He has sailed out of our waters a few times, but the southern coastline is perilous for his ship and crew."

"Is the weather more severe beyond your waters?" Wynn asked.

"No," Sgaile answered slowly. "It is a matter of protecting this vessel, as it is not military."

"So you have other ships guarding your people?" Leesil suggested.

"We have vessels which patrol," Sgaile confirmed and returned his attention to Magiere. "I must tell the hkomas something. Willing or not, he expects to know how far he is to go and where he leads his crew and this ship."

Helplessness made Magiere almost as angry as did fear. She studied the hkomas, who stared back with hard eyes. He looked about fifty in human years-which meant he was much older for an elf. He crossed his sinewy arms in stiff challenge, and for all Magiere's frustration, she couldn't blame him. She'd have felt the same in his place.

"I don't know," she finally answered. "I wish I did. We need to keep heading south, until I get a sense of when to stop."

"That is not specific enough," Sgaile countered.

"What about a time frame?" Leesil suggested. "Ask the captain to carry us south for seven more days. If Magiere hasn't found the right place by then, he can let us off, and we'll go on foot. Either way, we'll get there in the end."

He touched Magiere's arm with a knowing nod. "And well before anyone else."

Magiere only cared that they kept going but shouldn't have felt so urgent. Her half-brother, Welstiel, couldn't know where she was or that she had a lead on what he was after. But sometimes she forgot Leesil's way of cutting cleanly to the quickest solution.

"Yes, tell the captain," she said to Sgaile. "See if he'll agree to that."

Sgaile conversed with the hkomas, but the man shook his head and snapped something back. They fell into another sharp debate, and all Magiere picked out was "Aoishenis-Ahare."

At those words, the hkomas wavered. He nodded curtly and walked off.

Magiere winced. "You asked him in the name of Most Aged Father?"

"You have your seven days," Sgaile answered coldly.

Magiere was even more unsettled by this. Most Aged Father's influence could be dangerous.

Well before midday, the skiffs returned from their last trip ashore, and the ship set sail, heading south.

Chane walked out of one hell to sit and rot in another.

A few nights had passed since they'd boarded, and the Ylladon ship ran south at full sail. The vessel was barely as large as a schooner, and its hull was made of double-thick planks overlapped upon each other. It was reasonably swift, but he had learned little since the night they had boarded- when he was ushered below deck with Welstiel and the ferals to their "accommodations."

Chane stood in the rocking ship's dank, dark, half-filled hold.

Sabel crouched nearby, rocking on her haunches as she hummed a tune Chane did not recognize. Her eyes had turned glassy and lost again. All the monks were starving.

So far, the crew had been staying clear of the hold, although upon boarding, both the captain and the helmsman, Klatas, had studied Sabel the same way the captain had first eyed Welstiel's globe of lights.

Chane expected the crew to attack at any time. Each dawn he fought off dormancy as long as possible, still gripping his sword when he finally succumbed.

Upon rising tonight, Welstiel had gone off on his own, leaving Chane to watch over their tattered and pathetic group. The two younger males and the silver-haired one curled unmoving upon the hold's floor. Sabel and the fierce curly-headed man crouched in place as if vaguely aware of their surroundings.

If Welstiel intended to use these monks in acquiring his treasure, they needed to be fed tonight or risk incapacitation-and Chane wasn't far behind. Should the crew move against them, even these mad undead might not all survive the fight.

Chane held up a hand to Sabel as he headed for the door. "Wait here. I will return."

The hold was in the stern, but crew quarters were located near the bow. Leaving the hold and finding himself alone, Chane crossed over to a port-side stairwell up to the deck. At its top, he cracked the squat door and waited.

He smelled life on deck. Each time he saw someone moving, he restrained himself from lunging out. He waited for the right sailor to come near, ignoring a thin, middle-aged man and one less than twenty years old. He could only risk taking one and needed someone large and healthy.

A portly sailor in a rust-colored shirt and open vest turned around the mid mast, and as he strolled within reach, Chane lashed out with one hand.

His fingers clamped across padded jowls and thick lips. He jerked the sailor into the stairwell. The sailor bucked and thrashed.

Chane slammed his fist into the back of the man's skull, stunning him limp. He dragged his prey halfway down the stairs. A pulse still pounded just below the man's stubbled jawline, and Chane could not hold back any longer. He bit hard into the sailor's throat, drinking in gulps.

He hardly even tasted the blood, and sagged in relief at life's heat filling him. Then he snapped his head up as if someone had jerked a chain around his neck. He had taken enough to sustain himself, but oh how he wanted more.

The man began to rouse, struggling weakly, and grunted beneath Chane's hand.

If anyone heard and came to check, Chane might find himself quickly outnumbered.

He dragged the sailor along the cross hall and down the passage to the hold's lower door. He kept fierce pressure on the man's mouth and throat, only letting go long enough to flip the latch and shoulder the door open. He did not notice the change in the hold until he had the sailor halfway inside.

All the ferals were on their feet or crouched in waiting. Wide eyes fixed on Chane's prey, as if they knew he was coming and what he brought.

Sabel began shaking. Between her parted lips, her canines had already elongated. The curly-headed monk sniffed through both his nose and open mouth as if he could taste the blood in the air.

"Quietly," Chane warned. "If you wish to survive."

The curly-headed one rushed in.

Chane shoved the sailor forward, shut the door, and backed against it.

The sailor sprawled across the hold floor as the two younger monks rounded to both sides. The man tried to shout but only managed a gurgling gag. He backhanded one feral and reached for his cutlass. The curly-headed one slammed his iron cudgel down on the sailor's head.

The sailor flopped limply, and the monks fell upon him, ripping into his skin and suckling his spilled blood like dogs. Sabel was the last to join in.

She bit into the man's thigh, shredding canvas breeches to get at his flesh. Her head lifted with a squeal, and the gray-haired male slammed his palm into her face, knocking her back. He dove for the wound she had opened. Chane almost stepped in, but Sabel snarled at the elder monk and slashed his face with her fingernails.

Her attack launched a frenzy, and all of them began fighting each other as they tore the sailor apart.

Chane began to panic.

A loud ripping of heavy cloth came from somewhere above on deck.

Chane heard men shouting wildly to each other, and then running feet as voices calmed. Whatever had happened above, it did not sound critical, and he was thankful for anything that might mask the raucous sounds filling the hold.

He turned his head away, pressing an ear to the door to listen and hoping the feeding frenzy would not last long. But inside him, the beast pulled on its chains and howled to join in the slaughter.

The sailor had fallen silent beneath the grunts and gibbering, the wet sucking, and the tearing of flesh. When the noise finally waned, Chane was panting-another succulent meal denied the beast inside of him.

He looked back and stared at… it.

One arm and an opposite leg were torn off at the sockets. The head was nearly severed, and only the vertebrae held it in place. A younger male still sucked upon the raw half of a hand he'd bitten off. The curly-haired one licked at the red-drenched floor.

Chane could barely believe the mess on the floor had been a man only moments ago.

Sabel lifted her smeared face from the thigh stump of the severed leg. Below colorless eyes, her smile broadened, exposing crimson-coated teeth.

"Thank…," she stammered at Chane. "Thank."

Chane clenched his jaws against his churning hunger. He did not want their gratitude-only their continued survival, until Welstiel needed them.

All that Sabel had once been was lost. He had to accept that and try not to think of anything beyond this moment.

"Clean this up," he hissed at Sabel, and gestured toward the dismembered body.

He circled round the feast's remains, searching for spare canvas to soak up the gore, and then spotted a hatch high up in the hull wall. Climbing onto a crate, he pulled the iron slide bolt and pushed it open. Sea wind hit his face and cleared the aroma of blood from his head. When he looked back, Sabel was the only one on her feet, watching him as the rest gnawed at the remains.

"Bring the pieces," he told her.

Chane dealt with what followed in cold fashion, from severing the head and remaining limbs to gutting and dividing the torso with his sword so the pieces would fit through the small opening. Sabel hauled these up to him as he returned to the high hatch. But when he reached down to her once more, she just stood there and cowered under his gaze, as if he, like Welstiel, had issued a command she could not fulfill. Then she glanced back at the others.

The other monks were still sucking on their scavenged bits and pieces, like beggars at a noble's back door when the meal's remains were tossed out. The older man's face was slashed from temple to chin from Sabel's fingernails.

Chane climbed down, closing on them.

"Drop it!" he ordered.

The old man merely wrinkled his nose.

Chane whipped his sword around and blade's flat side thudded hard against the old one's back. The elderly monk dropped his morsel and spun away, locking his eyes on Chane. All the ferals froze in place.

"Stay down!" he hissed. "And drop the pieces."

As much as Chane had no wish for Welstiel to walk in on this mess, his presence would have made this far easier. The curly-headed monk inched forward a step. Chane swung the sword tip directly in line with his face.

One by one, the ferals relinquished their morsels. Chane kept his eyes on them as he kicked the pieces across the floor toward the hatch. He backed away, gathering the bits and throwing them out the hatch. But the floor was hopelessly soaked in blood.

Even if he had a way to drain water off after rinsing it, the stain had already soaked into the wood. In the end, he could only goad the ferals into wiping it down with a spare tarp, and then he tried to cover it up. The ordeal was over, and the monks looked more alert.

Chane longed to be away from here and from these mad creatures. Sabel peered at the older man's face and the scratches she had made, and then looked to Chane.

"He will heal," Chane said. "The life he has consumed will do the work." Sabel tilted her head with a frown, and Chane did not know if she understood. A few strands of her wavy dark hair were glued to the drying blood on her cheeks. She pointed to the older man.

"Jakeb."

Chane paused, for it sounded like she recalled some part of the man's name.

"Jakeb," she repeated, and then pointed toward the curly-haired one. "Sethe."

She squinted at the younger pair of men, and twisted her head like an owl, huffing in frustration.

Chane found the sight tragic.

He backed into the hold's far corner and slouched upon a canvas-covered bulk.

Welstiel walked the deck, pretending to take the night air while carefully examining the lay of the ship.

Even the sailors not on duty were still up on deck and sat playing cards as they passed around a clay jug. Clearly, they were unaccustomed to having passengers walking among them, and they stared at him openly. Klatas and his captain watched from the ship's stern.

Welstiel felt relatively safe, though he knew it was temporary. And then this crew would get its own final shock. He counted a total of only fourteen men, but they handled the ship with the relaxed efficiency of a long-term crew.

He strolled casually toward the bow and, with a rapid flick of his hand, peeked under a tarp covering something large up on the rail. Underneath, he found a ballista-a large mounted crossbow that fired quarrels heavier than a footman's lance. He had already spotted three other such covered bulks positioned around the deck. The ship was armed for fighting.

A voice called out above, and Welstiel looked up. One sailor was watching him from a crow's nest. He barely had time to lower his gaze before Klatas was halfway to him.

"What you do?" he demanded. "You say stay below!"

"And we have," Welstiel responded. "I did not count on the smell. I need air."

"Deck not for passenger in night. Go below!"

Welstiel thought he heard a muffled cry beneath the deck's planks. Then a loud ripping sound pulled his attention, and Klatas whirled about. A forward sail had torn loose above.

Its outer half cracked forward in the night wind, pulling on the rigging. The captain shouted, and Klatas ran to the bow, calling out to the men scrambling upward.

Welstiel quickly retreated toward the aft hatch. Judging by the stench in the hold and other signs of wear, this ship had been abroad for a long while. And with so little cargo in the hold, he found this surprising.

Perhaps the captain and crew had not fared well in their scavenging, and they had too long stretched their time away from safe port. Welstiel turned down the steps, but he halted halfway.

He smelled fresh blood-until a gust of wind twisting down the open hatch swept it away. The odor had been thin but unmistakable, more than a lingering whiff from a sailor's injury.

Welstiel's anger flushed. What had that fool Chane done now? He descended, but stopped short and looked toward the ship's bow.

The crew was too busy with the loose sail to notice him, and he might not get this chance again. He needed to know what resources were available in case he was forced to take the ship. Locating something to help him navigate these southern lands and waters would be most helpful-such as the captain's charts.

Welstiel climbed back up on deck. One sailor was nearly slapped from the rigging by the whipping sail, and the rest redoubled their efforts. Welstiel slipped along the rail toward the nearest forward hatch.

Twice he ducked aside for a hurrying deckhand, but all the others were too preoccupied in getting the ship under control.

He inched along until he fingered the hatch open and then dropped down the short, steep steps to find the captain's small, cramped quarters-just a bunk, a table, two chests, and a porthole in a room below the ship's prow.

His globe of flickering lights rested on the table, and Welstiel began searching through papers for a navigation rudder or a map. He found nothing, but was not surprised. The favored hunting grounds of Ylladon crews never remained secret but were guarded as such for as long as possible. It was not uncommon for a crew member to buy favor and advancement on another ship with such information.

Welstiel found a small drawer under the table's edge. Inside it, a cracked leather journal lay atop parchment scraps and worn-out quills. He could not read the entries, but he scanned for any place-names of common stops to reference against those he might find on a map. It was the only way to know how far abroad this ship was traveling, in case Magiere headed for a habitable port. He guessed she would journey far south before searching the heights, for the Blade Range separating the western nations from the eastern coast was impassable. Welstiel briefly scanned the parchment scraps but found nothing useful.

Where would the captain hide his maps and charts?

Welstiel paused, sharpening his hearing. The crew still called to each other above deck, so he had time left to look further for niches or cubbies- any hiding hole known only to the captain and helmsman. But the walls sported no closets or shelves. He picked up the globe and crouched to peer beneath the bunk. There was nothing of note, so he flipped open the unlocked chest and rifled its contents without success. The second chest was locked, and he could not break it without leaving evidence of his passing. In frustration, he returned the globe to the table and grabbed the door to pull it closed behind him.

He caught an odd shadow on the wall beyond the table, and swiveled about.

The shadow looked like a faint warp in the wood. He stepped quietly around the table, but not so far as to block the globe's flickering light. The shadow intensified, as if the aged planking flexed inward.

Such a weakness in the hull would never be left unmended. When he ran a hand over it, he found no seams but those where the plank ends met squarely. He went all the way down before spotting a small square of wood in the floor, flush against the wall's edge. When pressed, it gave slightly. Welstiel stood up and stepped on the square with his boot heel.

The square's outside edge sank down into the floor.

A piece of the faintly warped wall tilted inward and lifted from the floor seam. Welstiel shoved the panel with his palm.

The panel tilted farther inward, but not all the way, and Welstiel inspected its lower edge. The panel rested in some cradle beyond the wall, for he saw heavy iron strips extending from under the foot plate to under and beyond the wall. He pushed one side of the panel, sliding it away and behind the surrounding wall, and then grabbed the globe of lights. Crouched to step into opening, he straightened up as the globe filled the hidden space with soft light.

To the opening's right, iron bars partitioned half the space and broke the globe's light. Black shadow stripes obscured what lay beyond them. But between them and the bars, light sparked in two pairs of amber irises too large for any human.

Two elven women were locked inside the hidden cell-one fully grown and the other no more than an adolescent. They stared at him in silence. In spite of tangled hair and torn clothing, both were lovely and slender, with their smooth tan skin, lithe bodies, and large amber eyes. Both were tied and gagged with knotted cord.

This was why the Ylladon had been so far north. Perhaps the captain indeed desperately needed to make up losses. These two women, offered up in a Ylladon market, would each be worth far more than his globe of lights. Such exotic "items" would create a frenzy of bidding.

He remembered mention among the men in the cove of need to replace their water. Had one of these women managed to get loose and contaminate the ship's supply?

And the prisoners had seen him here, nosing about.

How much would they think such information was worth in bargaining with their captors? It would do them no good, but that would not stop them from trying.

Welstiel gritted his teeth. Killing these women would not serve him either, for their bodies would be discovered within a day.

Both women continued staring at him, examining his clothes, for he dressed distinctly different from the Ylladon. Could he use this to his advantage? But he could not speak Elvish.

"Do you… understand me?" he whispered in Belaskian.

Neither responded, and he repeated himself in Droevinkan.

The adult female perked up.

Welstiel focused his will, calling upon the latent talent that had grown in his years as a Noble Dead. Staring into her eyes, he raised his voice above a whisper, and its low thrum reinforced his words as clear and true in the hearer's mind.

"Not yet… when we near a place close to shore… I will come for you."

She blinked twice.

Had she understood? Did she comprehend enough Droevinkan for his suggestion to take root deep in her mind? He repeated more slowly, word by word.

The young one craned her head, turning frightened eyes upon her companion. The adult frowned and blinked, and glared suspiciously at him.

He looked different from her captors, but was human nonetheless and not to be trusted. Then slowly, she nodded.

Welstiel returned her nod with a soft smile and placed one finger to his lips. He slipped out, sliding the wall panel back into its floor bracket. It took a moment to figure out how to close the portal fully, until he realized stepping on the floor's wood square lifted the panel back into place. He placed the globe back on the desk and stepped out of the captain's quarters.

He was not clear of danger as yet.

Hopefully the adult female would keep her young companion quiet. He had heard tales of human ships trying to round the northern peninsula into elven waters, but in these stories, not one had ever returned. The elves were savage in protecting their own. More than likely, he was not the only one who knew of the two stolen women. Magiere came south at a fast pace, and her vessel had its own purpose.

As Welstiel crept back along the ship's rail toward the aft, and slipped down its steps, the smell of blood rose around him again. His patience was already taxed to its limit.

What had Chane been up to now?