The Wayward Knights

Chapter 9

Mirraleen had encountered Wilthur's Creation before, and so had the band with her. She had not seen it when it was killing, however, nor from so close.

The Red Walker knew that she must go even closer still, to try to snatch some of the human sailors from the claws, tentacles, and beak of the monster. She had not been able to do this for the minotaurs, or later with the folk of a human ship so small that she'd left no survivors. Those failures both shamed her, even considering how little she liked minotaurs. They were too quick with their harpoons, as much as the worst sort of human.

But failure tonight could do worse than shame her. If a single man survived from the boat and told of sea otters present when his mates died, surely someone would blame the otters. Then the sea otters of Suivinari would face a great hunt, which might destroy them, perhaps sweep up any shallows-dwellers who answered Mirraleen's summons, and surely distract human attention at the worst possible moment.

She did not know who would gain the most from the Istaran fleet sailing so far wide of its true course, Wilthur or the minotaurs. She hoped it would be the minotaurs, who had limits and knew it.

Wilthur was also bound by nature and the gods, but thought otherwise. Seeking to go beyond these boundaries, he could wreak far more havoc than a hundred shiploads of those who called themselves the Destined Race.

Mirraleen tossed her flippers, driving herself through the shallow water. After her the rest of the band splashed into the water. From offshore those already feeding at sea responded with the quick barks that meant they were coming in ready obedience. A moment later, Mirraleen knew that she was not as much in command of herself as she had thought.

She replied to the sea otters with the clicks and whistles her magic allowed her to use, the tongue of the dolphins. She had learned the language centuries ago, to deal with dolphins seeking to make a meal of a sea otter, as they sometimes did. It also had its uses in speaking to the rare Dargonesti sea-brother who had been in his dolphin shape so long that his spirit was more dolphin than elven, and his attention best gained with the dolphin tongue.

Mirraleen rose, inhaled the night air, and barked quick commands in the proper language for leading sea otters. Their replies gave reassurance. They would move against Wilthur's Creation from two directions, rescuing the humans first and fighting only if they must, to complete the rescue.

Mirraleen angled downward, into the deeper water beyond the reef. She went that deep only to feed or to avoid the Creation. Not only did it seldom pass beyond the reef, but its senses could not reach out past the reef to find those who swam in deep water.

The Red Walker had pondered more than a trifle on this mystery. Had she known more of magic, she might have set herself the task of solving it. But her powers did not allow her more than intelligent guesses. Also, she shared the temperament of those with whom she swam. Sea otters were shrewd and practical. They did not often allow themselves to be troubled by mysteries that did not directly threaten their survival.

A patch of warmer water ahead told Mirraleen that she was coming up on Fountain Grotto. A little farther on lay an underwater tunnel through the reef. Through it, she and her companions could return to the shallows, striking with next to no warning.

From mind to mind, Mirraleen sent her war cry. From mind to mind, it echoed back to her, as a hundred sleek forms surged through the dark water.

Torvik was an experienced sailor and a survivor of fights far more serious than tavern brawls. He was also the son of a father and mother who had not endured and prospered by losing their wits in the face of surprise.

After the first moment of rage and shame, his thoughts arrayed themselves for battle. He let himself be carried downward into the darkness without further struggles. His captor might eat only live prey, think him carrion, and release him.

Failing that, it might send some of its tentacles questing in search of further prey. Lightly held, he might break free. If he broke free while this deep, he might find himself underneath his attacker. There were few living things, whether creations of the True Gods or of twisted magic, whose bellies were not a vulnerable spot.

He had no sword (a loss that now only heated his rage), but he had two arms and two daggers. Anything that believed him helpless would regret that belief.

One tentacle loosened its grip and darted away, toward the surface as far as Torvik could judge. The other two still gripped him, however, and now he was deeper than he had reckoned on. He felt the pressure of water as well as the clutching tentacles.

How deep did this monster lair?

The pressure grew still further, and Torvik sensed invisible bands of something stronger than even magic-driven flesh tightening on his chest. He had breathed deeply before he went under and could hold his breath longer than most, but before long even his endurance would reach its end. Then so would his life, going out in a brief spate of silver bubbles that would never even reach the surface from this depth.

Something struck his leg. Then the tentacle holding his right arm jerked free. Able to use steel with both hands, Torvik wasted no time in drawing his handiest dagger. He thrust it hard into the tough flesh of the tentacle holding his left arm.

The second tentacle recoiled so violently that Torvik's deep-slashing dagger nearly went with it. As he clutched it, he felt the burning in his chest that meant the end of his breath. He had no time left to hunt his attacker or rescue any of his men. Not with his life measured by the remaining air in his lungs, which might not even be enough to take him to the surface.

This time it was more of a gentle bump than a hard blow. Torvik felt himself being lifted by two furry… somethings, one under each arm. A third, then a fourth, positioned itself between his legs, adding to the lift.

He was rising now, faster than he could have done by his unaided swimming. He was still holding the dagger, and his air-starved brain turned over wild thoughts of stabbing out at the beings lifting him.

Dolphins? Even wild dolphins with no elven selves or ties to the Dargonesti had been known to rescue swimmers in distress, or attack sharks and octopi. But dolphins had smooth, sleek hides. He had felt fur under his arms, and now felt it below as well.

Seals. No, sea otters.

It took all the wits he had left to make that distinction. It was beyond Torvik to carry his thoughts one last step farther, to realize how the sea otters must have come to his rescue, or to hope that the sleek swimmers would rescue his crew as well.

The bubbles of his last outward breath sparkled on the water. Before he could draw the inward breath that would have filled his lungs with water, his head broke the surface.

He did not know it. He did not feel the sea otters under each arm or holding him up. Nor did he sense the one who swam up and took position under his chin, lifting his head out of the water.

His lungs drew in air, however, not water, with a noise like a sick whale. He would have heard similar noises from the water around him, had his senses been awake. Torvik heard none of the signs that others among the boat's crew yet lived. He also had no awareness of his swimming bearers guiding him away from the rest of his men, toward a beach at the end of a tiny, almost landlocked cove.

He was as one dead through the brief journey to the beach, dead to the pushing of whiskered muzzles and the heaving of agile flippers. He remained dead to the pricks and stabs of sharp rocks, and to the splashes as his rescuers slipped back into the water, their night's work only just begun.

He did not even sense a sea otter muzzle push above the water and suddenly change shape; nose, mouth, and eyes alike. Fur shrank away from the face, to instead flow from above as long auburn tresses.

But the owner of those tresses sensed that Torvik's life was safe, that he had passed from senselessness to sleep, and that she could now safely leave him. She left to the gods the question of her returning, although she knew what she wanted, in both heart and mind.

It had been arranged for small vessels with signal lamps to form a chain from within sight of Red Elf to the rest of the fleet. The disappearance of Torvik's boat was known aboard Wavebiter and the other principal ships of the fleet within an hour.

Gildas Aurhinius brought the news himself.

"This will kill my lady," the Istaran said, his first words after the bare facts that the lamps had already carried.

Haimya sat up in her bunk, snatching a sheet to cover herself. "You insult your wife and our old friend by those words," she said. "Take them back."

Pirvan looked from his wife to Aurhinius. Haimya seemed in deadly earnest, and Aurhinius more than a trifle taken aback by that earnestness.

"I know now why they call this the Bad News Watch," Pirvan said. "Even if the news is no worse than what comes in daylight, one has less strength to bear it."

Aurhinius sat down on Pirvan's sea chest and put his head in his hands. "I will beg my lady's pardon when I see her again," he said, "and I beg Lady Haimya's now. I-I have lost one who was no son by blood but might have been a son in spirit. How well would you have borne losing Sir Darin in the first year after he became a knight?"

Pirvan and Haimya exchanged glances. "Eskaia will hear nothing of your first words from me," she said, and her husband nodded. "As Pirvan said, bad news weighs heavier in the depths of the night."

Whether or not she had intended those words as a dismissal, Aurhinius took them as such. He bowed himself out, and Pirvan blew the lamp higher and took the Istaran's place on the chest. He did not, however, put his head in his hands.

"Are you thinking of Gerik?" Haimya asked.

"How not?" he answered. "We have it better than Eskaia. The land does not commonly swallow the dead of its wars, as the sea swallows those who do battle on the waves."

"That comes from The Lay of Vinos Solamnus," Haimya said. Her smile sagged at one corner of her mouth, but it was undeniably a smile. "You need more inspiration than such news, to be so eloquent at this hour of the night."

"Then inspire me."

"Perhaps I can."

She let the sheet fall. It pooled around her waist. Pirvan was admiring the play of the lamplight on his wife, when someone knocked.

The sheet rose to its former position. Pirvan opened the door on Aurhinius, who said, "More ill news. The minotaurs have sent a flyboat to our scouting line. They wish a parley. I agreed to be one of those going, suggested you, Haimya, Sirbones, and Darin for others, and wish your answer. Or rather, the council wishes your answer."

Pirvan wanted to suggest what the minotaurs could do with their parley and the council with its sudden need for delegates to it. However, that reply lacked a knight's dignity, if it was not actually unlawful.

Furthermore, minotaurs being the first to propose a parley was uncommon. It suggested shrewd leadership in their fleet, even if all their delegates intended to do was pound the table and bellow demands and threats.

Also, the human fleet's council was plainly not marching entirely to the beat of the kingpriest's drum, if they wanted any of the folk just named in their delegation. Surely there would be others, more in sympathy with the kingpriest-and still more if Pirvan and any of the others refused to go.

"I accept," Pirvan said, "likewise Haimya, subject to the approval of Sir Niebar. I must have that, by law. He should also be asked to join us, as commander over the embarked knights."

"Sir Niebar might command all the hosts of Ansalon, but he knows less of minotaurs than you do," Aurhinius said.

"I forged an alliance with one minotaur," Pirvan said. He knew he sounded tired and out of temper. He was. "One minotaur, moreover, very unlike most of his kind."

"That is still one more minotaur than most of us have dealt with," Aurhinius said. "But certainly I can ask Niebar."

"Sir Niebar," Pirvan said, but he was talking to a closed door, and Haimya had not only dropped the sheet again but climbed out of her bunk to embrace him. The embrace had just become mutual when knocking came again.

Pirvan opened the door just enough to see Aurhinius again.

"Yes?" He sounded as welcoming as a jailor hearing news of an uprising among his charges.

"Torvik's men are good, loyal stuff," Aurhinius said. "A new signal from Red Elf: she is staying to search the area, and has one survivor aboard already."

"As you said, good stuff," Pirvan said. "Or perhaps just with enough sense to tell ale from wine. I would not care to be known along the waterfronts of Ansalon as a man who abandoned the son of Jemar the Fair."

Pirvan took a firm grip on both the doorknob and his temper. "Now, my friend, a word of warning. The next person who knocks on this door before dawn, for anything short of the end of the world or the sinking of Wavebiter, will be bound, gagged, and hung up by his heels from the deck beams. Please send out the word.

"I can hardly be expected to bargain with minotaurs without sleep."

"Ah, but will you sleep more if not interrupted, or less?" Aurhinius said. With surprising speed for one of his age and bulk, he darted back before Pirvan could slam the door on his hand or thrust steel through the crack.

Haimya, meanwhile, fought so hard not to shriek with laughter that she finally had to lean on her husband to keep from falling.

"I-I suppose I said a word too many," Pirvan muttered into her hair.

"More than a few," Pirvan grinned and tightened his embrace. "Perhaps I lacked inspiration."

"Then pray let me provide it."

The first of Torvik's senses to awaken was his sense of smell. He smelled the scent of a tide-swept beach, overlain like silk by the perfume of tropical flowers, and also by overripe seaweed and other jetsam.

His ears came to reinforce his nose. Either he was on the beach of a landlocked harbor, or the sea was as calm as a pond. He barely heard the faintest gurgle and splash of water on the sand-fifty paces away, as far as he could judge.

He was not in the place where he had landed, he thought. He had a dim memory of gravel with as many teeth as a baby shark biting into his all-but-senseless body. Now he was on sand as fine as dust, with what felt like rushes in a bundle under his feet, to raise them above the level of his head.

Torvik was trying to pick out the scent of the rushes from the other scents on the breeze, when a new scent floated by. It had salt in it, and other smells of the sea, and also living flesh, sweet breath-he could almost say the smell of a woman.

Which was so unlikely here and now that Torvik decided to open his eyes, to see what was giving him the illusion of a woman's presence.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring straight up into other eyes-two of them, vast and green, surmounted by thick eyebrows too brown to be called red and too red to be called brown. Above the eyes flowed hair the same color as the brows. Below was a face that lacked perfect beauty-the cheekbones were too high, the lips a trifle weathered, and the chin definitely sharp. The lips lacked nothing, however, including a gentle curve given them by a smile.

Torvik lay, wondering if he was the captive of an enchantress and if so, was this her real form? If the rest of her matched her face, his would be a joyous captivity.

He tried to move, to see the rest of his captor. His head moved, but his limbs refused to obey his brain.

"Lie still," the woman said. "You need to regain your strength. I will give you some water, if you can raise your head a little higher."

Her voice was low for a woman's, and although her Common was fluent, it held an accent he did not recognize. However, he had no trouble raising his head. At her command, he would have tried to dance on his hands.

He sipped fresh water, with a faint hint of herbs in it, which was all she allowed him to do. He would gladly have gulped the water down by the jugful, the more so when he felt strength creeping back into his limbs.

But that swiftly proved an illusion. He was glad enough to lie back down, head pillowed on the bundle of sweet-scented weed. It was only then that he noticed that the woman's skin held a faint but unmistakable tint of blue. It was a color he had previously seen only in the skins of the dying or the drowned, but this woman was plainly alive and in excellent health. She had strands of seaweed woven into that glorious auburn hair, rather like a high-ranking Istaran lady's hairnet.

His lips spoke without waiting for his mind to guide them. "My mother said that it is hard to wear blue and green at the same time," he said.

The woman smiled. "Your mother was wise. But I am also sure that she was human. What guides your folk does not always hold true for mine."

"Who are your folk?"

"We have been called the Dimernesti," she said, "the shallows-dwellers, and other names, some of them not friendly. The minotaur name for us means 'offal with flippers,' and that is not the worst."

"I suppose it would not be," he said. "The minotaurs are seldom polite, but still more seldom stupid." Minotaurs were the last folk he wanted to talk about now, but he did not wish to lie there with his mouth open like a dying fish.

Now his wits were beginning to move again, like the rowers of a galley falling into a faster stroke. "Was it you who saved me?" he asked.

"I did some work. My friends did more."

"Your friends? Other Dimernesti?"

She sighed, and for a moment he saw her looking far away toward something not in the world. He also saw crow's-feet at the comer of either eye. This sea-elf was no green girl-and at that last phrase, laughter nearly choked him.

The Dimernesti woman waited until Torvik got his breath back and sat up before going on. When he had, he missed her first few words. He realized for the first time that she was half a head taller than he, as splendidly formed as he had imagined, and quite unclad except for the net in her hair and a wide belt of fishskin from which hung several bottles and pouches.

"I am the only Dimernesti on this island," she told him. "But the sea otters and I are friends, and enemies to what Wilthur the Brown has unleashed on these waters. We may not be Wilthur's only foes, but we are certainly the only friends to humans."

Torvik remembered the sea otters, who must have worked together as if trained to bear him to the surface and the life-giving air, "Did they-have you saved any others of my men?" he asked.

"All but three," she said. "We saw one hauled into a boat from your ship even before the Creation withdrew into its lair. Two were lost, one torn apart and the other drowned before we could carry him to the air. We have wrapped their bodies and will guide you and your men to them, if you wish it."

"I do." Torvik also wished to spend the rest of the day, and perhaps all night and the next day, simply staring at the Dimernesti woman, talking with her if she wished it but content to look if she wished silence. As for touching her-he did not think it prudent to even let that thought pass through his mind.

"Now, let me see how many of your host of questions I can answer," the woman said. "I am called Mirraleen among humans and elves, the Red Walker by the sea otters of Suivinari Island, and probably vile names by Wilthur…"

As she went on, Torvik wished he had listened more to his mother speaking of Wilthur the Brown, although she knew only what Sir Pirvan had written after the siege at Belkuthas. Still, he realized that he was learning much that neither Sir Pirvan nor anyone else had ever known, would give his eyeteeth to know, and would pry loose his teeth if he forgot.

When the image of Wilthur enslaving most living things on Suivinari and creating more to do his bidding was fixed in his mind, Torvik found himself growing curious. The question as it first took shape in his mind was doubtless rude; just as certainly he needed an answer.

"Your pardon, Mirraleen," he said. "But if you think that Zeboim herself does not favor Wilthur, how is it that you sea-elves have not long since cast down the mage? We shall do the work ourselves if needs be, but why is it yet undone?"

Mirraleen sighed. "Remember, the mage's work would also discommode Habbakuk, Zeboim's rival for domain in the sea. I doubt that she would openly attack one who is an enemy of her enemy.

"Besides, the Dimernesti, though not as much a legend among the sea-elves as we are among the dryfeet, have never been as numerous as the Dargonesti. On Ansalon, we lost more and more safe shores as the dryfoot folk grew in number. Some centuries ago, most of the Dimernesti swam north to shores even beyond the lands of the minotaur, and do well enough.

"I lost my family when I was young, and quarreled with those who reared me. So it was no great matter for me to swim south, find a home among the sea otters of this island, and watch dryfoot ships come and go."

"It sounds horribly lonely," Torvik said. "Like being a castaway."

"Ah, but I cast myself away-Torvik. Is that how you pronounce the name I heard your men calling you?"

"Yes."

"They called it in a way that shows they honor you, for all that they are of two-tribes-and you are young."

Torvik did not know whether to glow at the praise or flush at the frankness. Mirraleen smiled and laid a finger over his lips. "But hold your peace a little while longer," she said, "for I must finish my tale."

Mirraleen had not seen one of her own folk for more years than Torvik cared to think about, even though he knew that elves could live the best part of a thousand years. She did well enough, leading the sea otters of Suivinari, speaking to the rare Dargonesti sea-brother among the passing dolphins, healing sickness in others and in herself as needed, and altogether living the life of a contented hermit.

Then Wilthur the Brown took refuge on Suivinari Island, brought every living thing more than a few hundred paces from the water under his sway, and began creating monsters. The Creation that lurked in the shallows, with aspects of octopus, lobster, and poisonous reef cod, was only the latest. It would not be the last.

"We survive in the shoals because some power-call it Zeboim-will not let Wilthur intrude too far offshore. Had she done otherwise, I would be dead and my friends likewise, or even worse, slaves to Wilthur.

"Go back to your people," she finished, "and warn them not to simply debark and march inland. That is putting themselves into Wilthur's hands, and out of whatever protection the sea gods may offer."

"Such as it is," Torvik muttered. Among human sailors, Zeboim was the Great Turtle, mother of all that was evil about the sea, and protector of no one. Habbakuk was more friendly, but not always free to enter into human affairs.

Mirraleen stood up, and the sun on her made her so splendid that Torvik's arms and lips tingled with wanting her touch. If Mirraleen sensed any of this, she ignored it, only standing with her head cocked to one side as if listening.

"I hear a human boat approaching, Torvik. If you will hurry to the foot of the cliff to the left of the cove entrance, you will find ancient stairs there. Climb them, and wave to the boat," she said.

"Like this?" Torvik asked, looking down at the few tattered remnants of his clothes.

Mirraleen laughed, as sweet a sound as he had imagined it, "I have nothing you can borrow, I fear, and your own garb is at the bottom of the sea if not in the belly of Wilthur's pet."

She ran toward the water, more graceful than Torvik had believed any mortal creature could be. She sprang up atop a rock, then dived. In midair her arms became flippers, her legs a tail, and her body a sleek furry shape. A woman had leaped from the rock, but a sea otter entered the water.

Torvik wasted no more time. Even before Mirraleen vanished toward open water, he heard the horns and drums of the boat. He had best climb up to where he would be easily seen, as he had no way to make a fire, no mirror to flash signals, nor even a stitch of clothing to wave!

Mirraleen did not approach the boat closely until she was sure that it held humans, not minotaurs. The Destined Race might fling harpoons first and satisfy their curiosity, if any, afterward. Even after she saw humans, Mirraleen approached cautiously. She was alone, and while a dozen sea otters might raise no suspicions, after last night's events, a single one might still seem a portent, a sign, or something else to make tongues wag.

If there had been any way to help the humans overthrow Wilthur's enslavement of her island without revealing her own existence, Mirraleen would have chosen it. As it was, she would prefer to remain a secret until Torvik could tell his tale.

But at last it seemed likely that the boat would pass by, without seeing the small figure perched on the cliff or hearing his frantic halloos. Mirraleen swam up to the very prow of the boat, leaped half out of the water, barked three times, then dived back and away, in the direction she wanted to lead the boat.

At least last night's events had fixed every sailor's mind on the matter of sea otters. She heard shouts and urgent words from the boat.

"Hey! Sea otters!"

"Just one, though. Maybe it's lost."

"Maybe it's trying to help us!"

"Oh, you and your stories."

"No story. Remember what happened to Ligvur last night? When the boat went over, the otters came up under him and helped him to a rock. He'd have drowned otherwise."

"Yeah, and Jomo said he saw them going down and hitting that thing like sharks all over a dead whale. Wonder if somebody put them up to it?"

"Might have. Maybe not, though. Sea otters are pretty smart."

In her sea otter form, Mirraleen could not giggle. Underwater, she could not giggle even as an elf. She popped to the surface again, feeling safe and happy, and barked three times more.

It was while she was barking that she heard someone shout, "Hoy! Lookit up there! Somebody else from the boat. Get a rope so he can climb down."

Mirraleen thought kindly of the man who made that last suggestion. If Torvik had to retrace his steps inland, some of Wilthur's animal slaves might be across his path by now. Going down the cliff, facing the sea, he would likely be safe from everything except falling-and she trusted one of Torvik's years, strength, and experience to avoid that.

Her work with Torvik was done. Mirraleen dived deep and began swimming along the bottom. She might spend the rest of the day rallying her friends, counting their losses, and healing their hurts. It would be as well to find something to eat before she began.