The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 5

The journey was not a pleasant one. The road they followed was no Ackal Path, wide and paved and well tended. Instead, rutted and rugged, the dirt track wound this way and that around the foot of every hill, never remaining straight for more than a few dozen paces. With the view so limited, it was a perfect place for an ambush. Everyone stayed tense and watchful, but the first day passed without incident.

The first night in camp, before his people dropped wearily onto their bedrolls, Tol worked out new dispositions for the next day’s ride. Two scouts would ride a goodly way ahead of the wagons, looking for any signs of trouble. A third rider would precede the caravan but stay in sight of it, and the last two would trail behind the wagons so as not to seem a part of the company. In this fashion Tol hoped to keep a wider eye over the territory they had to traverse.

Darpo had the first watch, but before they settled down to sleep, Miya quietly related what she’d observed earlier in the evening.

She had lingered by Faranu’s wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous bandit. She was about to sneak a peek inside when Yull appeared, axe in hand. She had withdrawn, but not before she saw the wagon driver enter the canvas enclosure carrying a bucket of ripe apples.

Kiya scoffed at her sister’s tale. “They feed their prisoner only apples? No bread? No meat?” Miya stubbornly repeated what she’d seen.

“I’m surprised they feed him at all,” Tol said sleepily.

Quiet descended, broken only by the low whirring of insects. Tol’s rest was troubled, however. He dreamt he was lying on cold, hard ground (which was true) and a silent figure stood a few steps away in the dark, watching him. The sensation was so vivid he woke, hand reaching for his saber hilt.

It was very late, when even the night birds are still. Prop — ping himself on one elbow, Tol surveyed the camp. The wagons were arrayed in a semicircle, with the Ergothians in the middle. Each wagoner and guard slept in their conveyance.

Tol spotted motion. Kiya had relieved Darpo, and was walking outside the ring of wagons. Darpo snored softly behind Tol.

All seemed peaceful, so Tol lay down again, but when he fell asleep, the dream returned. This time his dream self got up, sword in hand, and challenged the phantom watcher. Without a word, the silent figure vanished into the greater darkness of the night. For an instant, Tol saw the figure’s profile by starlight.

Felryn!

Tol lurched awake. Kiya was shaking him hard.

“Husband!” she hissed. “Be quiet, or you’ll wake everyone!”

“Too late,” groaned Darpo.

It took Tol a moment to shake off the confusion of his vivid nightmare. He told Kiya what he had dreamed. In the telling, it all sounded very ordinary, not frightening at all, but Kiya did not sneer.

“Felryn’s spirit continues to watch over you,” she suggested. “If you dream of him again, don’t challenge him. Be friendly. Welcome him. He may have a message to impart.”

Orlien’s drivers and guards were rising. Only Miya, a notoriously heavy sleeper, hadn’t stirred. To wake her, Tol resorted to a trick he’d invented, and which Kiya had adopted as well: he bent down and kissed Miya on the forehead.

“If you’re not my husband or sister, prepare to die,” the Dom-shu woman murmured.

“Husband,” said Tol, grinning. “Dawn breaks. Arise!” Grimacing, Miya complied.

The caravan resumed its journey as the eastern horizon warmed from indigo to rose. Crows squawked from the hilltops, and deer darted out of sight as the wagons drew near. Kiya watched them wistfully. Fresh venison would be a welcome change from their campaign rations.

The winding trail they followed merged into a larger path that ran more westerly. The wagoners steered their ponderous carts onto this new track, jouncing hard over tree roots and deep ruts.

For the first time since leaving Orlien’s village they encountered other travelers, all on foot. They had the look of itinerant laborers not averse to part-time banditry. Rangy men, neither old nor young, their faces were hard and eyes sharp. Horses and laden wagons drew their gazes. Word would get around quickly; they hoped none of Faranu’s men were among the wanderers they passed.

The wagoners paused at midday to water the horses at a spring. A rude wall of fieldstone surrounded the waterhole. Tol and Darpo had been riding in the vanguard position; they sat on the wall watching the drivers tend to their animals. The black-haired wagoner who drove Faranu’s prison carried two buckets. One was shared by his team, the other he passed to Yull, who took it into the back of the wagon. A short time later he emerged; the bucket was empty.

“Thirsty fellow,” Darpo remarked curiously, and Tol nodded.

Yull went to the front of the wagon and hauled a heavy burlap bag out from behind the driver’s seat. He filled the bucket from it, spilling part of the contents on the ground. Then he went inside again with the laden pail.

Tol inspected the spill. Grain-oats, to be precise-trickled through his gloved fingers. The wagon jounced as Yull stepped down from its rear, and Tol dusted his hands and sauntered back to the spring.

Darpo queried him with a look. “What do apples, water, and oats suggest to you?” Tol asked.

“Horses,” the scarred warrior replied immediately.

Tol agreed. “Something odd is going on,” he said but had no firm idea yet of what.

They moved on. Nothing untoward happened until midafternoon. Tol and Darpo were trailing in the rearguard position, and Kiya was riding in front of the wagons. Frez and Miya were scouting ahead when a man on horseback approached, the first rider they’d seen.

A slight fellow wearing a leather jerkin, he cantered by Frez and Miya without appearing to notice them. As he drew near Kiya, however, he veered slightly toward her. Without warning, the Dom-shu woman nocked an arrow, drew, and shot the man from his horse.

The lead wagoner hauled back on his reins. The caravan lurched to a stop, beasts stamping and wagoners cursing the abrupt halt. Tol and Darpo galloped forward, ignoring the cries of the lead wagoner that Tol’s “savage” had shot an unarmed traveler.

Kiya dismounted and rolled the dead man over. She yanked back his hood, revealing the shock of braided hair and pointed ears of a woodland elf. When Kiya parted his jerkin, they saw he wore a ring mail shirt. Strapped to his back, its pommel only barely visible above the neck of his jerkin, was a concealed sword.

A warrior skilled in such a method of carry could wait until he was abreast of his target, then draw and stab in one lightning-fast motion. Kiya had acted to save her own life.

“How did you know he was armed?” Frez asked.

“I saw the shoulders of his jerkin rise each time his horse put a foot down. Something under his jerkin was bouncing slightly. A sword, a mace, something.”

Yull appeared, gesturing angrily at them to move along. Not knowing whether the dead elf was a lone warrior or someone’s scout, they rolled him off the road and tied his horse to the back of a wagon. The caravan continued on its way.

Around the next big hill, the road straightened, and they could see ahead almost half a league. Not another soul was insight.

Frez and Miya pulled their mounts to a halt. The Ergothian drew his saber.

“Woman,” he said, “tell Lord Tolandruth we’re in trouble.”

Miya wasted no time questioning the veteran soldier but wheeled Pitch in a tight circle. The wagons rolled slowly up behind Frez and stopped. Miya cantered down the line. As she passed her sister, Kiya nocked another arrow.

Before Miya reached Tol, the air around them flashed as bright as a sun. Pitch balked and reared, but Miya held on. The draft animals neighed in fright and yanked against their heavy traces. The wagons were suddenly burning!

Drivers and guards leaped for their lives. Pitch shied away, nimbly climbing the hillside sideways to escape the billowing flames. Miya held on for dear life and shouted, “Husband! We’re attacked! The wagons burn!”

From their place forty paces back, Tol and Darpo had seen the caravan halt. With a cry of “Fire!” Darpo pulled his sword and galloped ahead.

Tol drew his new dwarf-forged saber and followed quickly. In spite of the cries from his people and the wagoners, he saw no flames. The rearmost wagon, slightly askew on the road, looked the same as always. The driver was crawling away in the dust, beating at his pants legs. Yull emerged from the canvas enclosure yowling and slapping at his head and face with meaty hands. Neither man was on fire, though they obviously thought they were.

“It’s a trick!” Tol shouted, as Shadow galloped toward the beleaguered caravan. “There’s no fire! Watch out for an ambush!”

He left Darpo to guard the rear wagon. Ignoring the screeches of Yull and the driver, Tol spurred Shadow up the hillside and caught the reins of Miya’s terrified horse. Fumbling for the millstone, he clapped a hand to Pitch’s neck, and the horse calmed. Grasping Miya’s wrist, Tol broke the illusion for her as well.

“It’s an illusion,” he said. “There’s no fire! Are you all right?”

She was and very angry at being tricked. “I’m going to crack some skulls for this!”

“Fine! Follow me!”

Tol also broke the spell for Kiya and her horse. Likewise furious at being deceived, Kiya joined Tol and her sister as they rode to relieve Frez. They found him beset, surrounded by eight attackers on foot. He was keeping them off with sweeps of his saber. Her horse at full gallop, Kiya rose in the stirrups and loosed an arrow, taking down an opponent armed with a billhook.

A shower of stones fell on Tol and the Dom-shu. On the crest of the facing hill stood foes with slings whirling. Leaving Kiya to drive the attackers back with swiftly loosed, well-placed arrows, Tol and Miya rode to Frez’s aid.

Their opponents were nothing more than a rabble, armed with whatever arms they had gleaned from earlier victims. Tol’s dwarf blade-”Number Six,” as Mundur Embermore had called it-split iron and bronze with equal ease. He struck down two robbers with only two blows, cleaving a helmet (and skull) in twain and piercing a brazen buckler.

Having lost the element of surprise, the raiding party fled, leaving three of their number lifeless on the road. Kiya got another, a sling-wielder on the hillside, at a range of two hundred paces. Frez had a few cuts, as did his horse, but those were the only injuries among Tol’s party.

They rode slowly down the line of wagons, which had been abandoned by drivers and guards alike. Frantic to escape the phantom flames, the draft horses had torn free of their traces and run away into the distance.

Darpo was waiting by the last wagon. His eyes were wide as he hailed Tol and gestured to the wagon he guarded.

“My lord,” he said, “you must see this!”

Tol peered through the parted canvas. Lying in the bed of the wagon was what appeared to be a young horse, a colt, with a coat the color of clover honey. That made sense, given the rations Yull had been feeding their prisoner. Then the colt lifted its head and all such prosaic thoughts fled.

A single horn, white as cream, protruded from the animal’s forehead.

“Mishas save us!” breathed Frez. “A unicorn!”

The men stared in open-mouthed shock, but the Dom-shu women fell to their knees, gasping. Among their forest-dwelling people, the unicorn was revered as a demigod, the living embodiment of the wild.

“Sacrilege!” Kiya said, her voice choked with fury. “The young Forestmaster must be released!”

Tol did not share the Dom-shu’s reverence for the rare animal, but he pitied the hobbled beast and was angry at Orlien for lying to them. He climbed inside the wagon and drew his dagger. The unicorn watched him with soft, sad eyes, fringed with golden lashes.

“Easy, there,” Tol said soothingly. “I’ll not hurt you. Let me cut those bonds-”

As soon as the thongs holding the colt’s legs parted, the creature exploded into action, driving its horn at Tol’s chest. The Ergothian dodged clumsily, hampered by the close confines of the wagon. The cool ivory horn instead slid along his neck. Then small golden hooves smacked into Tol’s chest. He fell backward against the canvas. It split, and he tumbled out of the wagon to land on the dusty road.

Angry shouts greeted his abrupt appearance. Yull and the wagon guards had returned.

Realizing the secret was out, Yull unlimbered his single-edged axe and led the hired men against their ostensible escort. They were five against five, but having the mighty Yull on their side seemed to offer the attackers an edge.

Tol had lost his dagger when the unicorn kicked him, but he still had Number Six. With the cry, “Juramona!” he rallied his comrades.

Yull’s men charged. Although not soldiers, they were well-versed in this sort of brawl. With spears and round brass bucklers, they drove the Ergothians away from the wagon and backward up the sloping hill. Yull urged them on, waving his ugly axe and growling. He paused at the rear of the wagon to glance in at the captive.

With a loud thock, a pair of tiny, unshod hooves hit Yull directly between his leather eyepatch and good eye. He staggered back, knees wobbling. The unicorn colt sailed out of the wagon. As soon as his front hooves touched ground, his back legs lashed out.

Yull’s cry caused his men to turn. Immediately, Tol charged. He and his people surged down the hill, slashing at their distracted foes.

Ignoring the resurgent Ergothians, Yull stalked toward the unicorn. Kiya raised her bow, but it was struck from her hands by a skillfully thrown spear.

“Tol!” she yelled. “Save the young Master!”

Tol, dueling with a guard, heard her plea. He lopped off his opponent’s spearhead. The guard brought up his buckler to ward off another blow, and Number Six’s point penetrated the brass shield and stopped a hair’s breadth from the fellow’s right eye. Yelping, the guard abandoned his shield and took to his heels.

Tol freed his blade and closed on Yull. The big man was trying to snag the unicorn’s trailing bonds. He planted one foot on the leather thongs. The unicorn stumbled as its hind legs were caught. Yull raised his heavy axe-

“Stop!” Tol bellowed. “What will your master Orlien do to you when he finds out you killed such a prize?”

The idea was enough to give the angry brute pause. Torn between fear of Orlien’s retribution and the desire to slaughter the insolent beast who’d hurt him, Yull hesitated. For the first time in the entire journey, he spoke.

“You not steal!” he said, pointing from Tol to the trapped unicorn.

“I’ve no intention of stealing anything,” Tol replied, continuing to close the distance between them. “I intend to set him free.”

“No! Valuable! Bring much gold!”

Tol didn’t doubt that. The horn alone had medicinal and magical qualities that would fetch awesome prices in the markets of Daltigoth or Tarsis.

Glaring at the hulking man before him, Tol said, “You’ve no right to hold such a rare creature. Yield now, and I’ll spare your life.”

Yull’s face split in a gap-toothed grin. “Many try to kill Yull. All dead now. You, too, little man.”

Tol jerked his head over his shoulder. “You’re alone.”

One by one, the wagon guards had been slain or had given up. Kiya had a bad gash on her forearm, earned when the bow had been struck from her grasp, but she’d wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around the wound. She and the rest of Tol’s party stood behind him, ready for further combat.

“Let the unicorn go,” Tol urged. “Be free of Orlien, and make your own life.”

Yull’s answer was a powerful sideways slash with his axe. Tol felt the wind from it as he leaped back. Regret flashed through his mind. He would have to kill Yull to free the unicorn.

Before battle could he joined, a chorus of shrill, keening whistles filled the air. Frez, Darpo, and the Dom-shu sisters found themselves engulfed by at least a hundred painted woodland elves. The elves swarmed over them, tearing swords from their hands and immobilizing them with the sheer press of their bodies. Tol, Yull, and the unicorn were likewise surrounded, but the elves did not assault them, merely trapped them inside a living wall of half-naked, painted flesh. More than two score short bows, arrows nocked, were aimed at the two antagonists.

Tol raised his hands slowly. “Peace,” he said loudly. “I mean no harm to you or the young Forestmaster!”

A pair of elves darted forward and freed the unicorn. Yull started to resist, but the collective creak of drawn bowstrings halted him.

A female emerged from the crowd. Her short, spiky black hair was painted with streaks of blue and yellow. She wore a heavy collar of hammered silver beads and carried a tall staff with a forked silver head. From the way her comrades parted for her, Tol took her to be their leader. She barked a few short phrases in her native tongue.

“Miya,” Tol said, “tell her we’re hired fighters, and we mean no harm to the unicorn. Tell her we meant to free it.”

“That’s asking a lot of my poor Elvish,” Miya muttered, then spoke haltingly in the elf tongue.

The female elf studied Tol with a cold, calculating eye, then replied.

“I think she called you a liar,” Miya said. “She says we’re thieves, trying to steal the young Master from Orlien’s men.”

The elf woman spoke again, angrily, and Miya struggled to understand and relay the words to Tol.

Hunters had stolen the unicorn from the forest where the elves dwelt, far to the north of the hill country. They’d sold the rare creature to Orlien for gold. Practically the entire tribe had come south to find the unicorn, which they regarded as their personal godling.

Miya’s command of the language was not up to the task of persuading the elves of her party’s benevolent intentions. The unicorn was led away, and the elves continued to hold the Ergothians and Yull.

Tol thought fast. The elf woman was in command, but she was unarmed; perhaps she was not a chief, but the tribe’s shaman. Her silver adornment and staff lent credence to this theory. With that in mind, he told Miya to propose the elves test him to learn whether he was telling the truth.

The elf woman waved the idea aside. Two score bowstrings tightened.

“Do you care nothing about justice?” Tol cried, and Miya translated as quickly as she could. “I’ve always heard the woodlanders esteemed truth and justice above all other virtues!”

That caused some murmuring in the ranks of elves. Miya told him, “They say, ‘The grasslander is right. Evil will follow us if we slay the just along with the guilty.’ ”

The elf woman lifted a hand, and the murmurs ceased. She stood nose to nose with Tol-they were of a height-and repeated a short phrase four times. He felt a faint flicker of heat across his face, as he did when encountering magic, but the Irda artifact he carried shielded him completely.

The shaman drew back, startled at her failure.

Seeking to press this advantage, Tol said, “Tell her, because I speak the truth, the gods protect me from her spells. None of her magic can hurt me. She can cast any spell she wants, and it won’t effect me.”

Miya only stared at him, and he snapped, “Tell her!” Miya did so.

The elf woman threw back her feather-lined cloak, revealing a close-fitting suit of green-dyed deerskin. Planting her fists on her hips and looking Tol up and down, she laughed and rattled off several comments.

Miya translated: “She says she is Casmarell, the fourteenth descendant of the great Casmarell, first shaman of her people in the time of the Awakening, in the Age of Dreams. She calls you ‘Creekstone.’ ”

“What?” Tol demanded.

“Her exact words were ‘one as smooth and slippery as a flat stone in a flowing creek.’ ”

“Never mind the insults. What about my challenge?”

In answer, the shaman snapped an order to her followers. They seized Tol, plucking the saber from his hand. Kiya, Frez, and Darpo tried to intervene, but Tol ordered them back.

The elves propelled him to an alder tree by the edge of the road and lashed his hands around the trunk behind his back. The elf shaman stalked toward him, parting the ranks of her followers like a plowshare turning turf. Yull and Tol’s companions had no choice but to follow along behind her.

She gestured broadly with her staff, waving its forked silver head in a circle above her. Miya translated her words.

“She will, um, test you with all the spirit power of the woodland race and, um, if you are telling the truth, the gods will protect you.”

Darpo said, “My lord, be of stout heart! We’ll get you out of this-”

“There is no reason to fear,” Tol replied quickly. “Be still.”

Casmarell pointed her staff at Tol, and commenced a low, guttural chant. Again, he felt a weak flicker of heat on his exposed skin but nothing more. She lowered her staff.

Tol smiled cheerfully. Casmarell frowned.

Hazel eyes never leaving his face, she backed away five paces. Throwing her arms wide, she let out a terrifying shriek.

The elves nearest her shrank back, averting their eyes and covering their ears with painted hands. Kiya, Miya, Frez, and Darpo blinked rapidly as their vision blurred, then winced as pain flared in their heads.

This was the Death Shout. According to legend, the greatest shamans among the wild elves could literally scream an enemy to death. Tol did not look away and bore Casmarell’s fury with his eyes wide open.

Beneath her tribal paint, the shaman’s face darkened from the strain of the Shout. Slowly, she brought her hands together, raising the pitch of her scream as her fingers touched. The air itself rang with the concussion, and Casmarell bent forward against the thrust of her own spell. Dust and dry leaves took to the air.

Tol lifted his chin. Although it took effort, he managed to smile.

Finally the shriek died. Staggering from her effort, Casmarell reeled backward, to be caught by her followers. She shook off their help, snapping a peevish phrase Miya did not need to translate.

Awed mutterings circulated among the elves. Not only had the human escaped an agonizing death, he was smiling insolently at their shaman. Was he truly protected by the gods?

Casmarell smote the ground with the butt of her staff. A tremor echoed through the earth, and a clap of thunder rolled through the cloudless blue sky. She spoke a terse incantation and rushed at Tol.

The Dom-shu sisters and Frez surged vainly against the arms restraining them. Darpo got a hand free and downed one of his captors with a punch. Yull watched Tol’s imminent demise with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Tol awaited Casmarell’s rush as calmly as he could. The millstone would be little help if she meant to bash his skull. His legs were free, so he tensed, ready to lash out when she came within reach.

The forked silver tip of Casmarell’s staff drove at Tol’s face. One of his knees twitched upward, but the shaman halted suddenly, still out of reach. The staff wavered over the bridge of his nose for a moment then she touched it to his forehead. A prickling sensation passed down through his heels and up through his head, but otherwise he was unaffected.

Trembling, Casmarell opened her eyes. They were shot through with blood from the strain of her efforts. Seeing Tol still utterly unmoved, her strength failed. The staff dropped from her hands. Her legs buckled, and the elf woman slumped to her knees.

The hands holding Kiya, Miya, Darpo, and Frez slowly slackened, then were withdrawn. One by one, the hundreds of Wildrunner elves faced Tol and went down on one knee, their heads bowed. Frez hurried to untie his commander.

Tol picked up the shaman’s staff. It was a dark stave of vallenwood, worn smooth as brass by years of handling.

Casmarell rose up suddenly, a flint knife in her hand. She did not attack Tol, however, but was trying to pierce her own heart. Kiya caught her wrist from behind and twisted the stone blade from her hand.

The elves also had released Yull. The hulking mercenary took to his heels at once, and the elves ignored him. They began to chant a single word, softly, over and over.

“ ‘Creekstone,’ ” Miya translated. “They mean you, Husband.” This time the epithet was said with respect.

An elf with a brass circlet on his head came forward and prostrated himself before Tol. He spoke then looked to Miya.

The Dom-shu woman was startled. “He says he is Robisart, war chief of their tribe. He hails you as the new shaman of his people.”

Kiya laughed briefly, but Tol hushed her with a glance. “Tell the chief he honors me, but I cannot accept. Besides, he has a shaman.” He helped the miserable Casmarell to stand. She trembled in his grip. “Tell them to take the unicorn and go in peace,” he added.

Tol turned away. He located the dwarf-made sword and returned it to his scabbard. The mob of painted woodland elves followed him, watching his every movement raptly.

Casmarell knelt at his feet and spoke quietly. Miya looked very uncomfortable, and Tol had to prompt her twice to translate the shaman’s words.

“She offers herself to you,” Miya said. “She thinks she can, um, partake of your powers if she becomes your mate.”

There was no laughter from the Ergothians or Kiya this time. Casmarell’s distress was too plain.

Tol took the shaman by the shoulders and lifted her again to her feet. Looking her in the eyes, he said, “Go home, Casmarell. Minister to your people.”

Miya translated as he put the staff back in Casmarell’s hands. She took it, but her expression showed plainly that the ancient wood no longer held any power. The nullstone had apparently swallowed it all.

The Ergothians recovered their horses and gear, abandoning the rest of the caravan. Darpo suggested giving the contents to the elves. Tol agreed, and Miya relayed the news. With whoops, the elves fell upon the wagons and carried off Orlien’s ill-gotten goods.

Tol’s party rode away. They hadn’t gone fifty paces before Kiya spotted Casmarell trailing after them on foot.

The Dom-shu woman’s face held an unaccustomed look of sadness. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed her knife,” she murmured.

Tol frowned. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “She has her Forestmaster back. Miya, tell her again she must go and take care of her people.”

Miya did so, but added, “Husband, you have a way of sticking in people’s heads. I doubt she’ll forget you.”

They turned away again, riding on for a moment in silence, and then Darpo asked, “How did you withstand the elf’s magic, my lord?”

He did not answer but urged Shadow to a trot, eager to put distance between himself, Darpo’s question, and the lonely figure of Casmarell still standing in the road.

They smelled the sea long before they saw it. Salt flavored the wind that tossed the juniper trees so common in the hills above the Gulf of Ergoth. Brown soil changed to white sand.

It was late afternoon, six days out of Tarsis. The clash with the elves had cost them an extra day, as had a running encounter with a dozen bandits the day after they freed the unicorn. Six of the bandits had perished and the rest dispersed, leaving Tol’s party free to make the final dash to the coast.

Frez was scouting ahead. From atop a high dune, he spotted the sea and waved to his companions to hurry and join him. Soon all of them were looking down upon the windy bay.

Although there was no proper port for many leagues, three ships lay offshore. The three were “in irons,” as Darpo phrased it. Prows pointing directly into the wind, sails furled, they remained in place, bobbing slowly atop the low swells.

Unscrupulous captains would draw up to any likely spot on the eastern coast, hang a lantern from their tallest mast, and wait. Eventually, thieves would turn up, eager to unload their swag. Later the smugglers would sail to Ergoth, Sancrist, or Tarsis, peddling stolen property in shady seaside markets. Nevertheless, the three ships were a welcome sight. One of them was their way home.

They rode down the dune, the horses’ hooves slinging up gouts of loose sand. Whistles and shouts from the shore showed they’d been spotted. Ox-drawn carts stood on the beach near several mounds of goods, no doubt ill-gotten. Sailors in baggy pants and stocking caps prowled the scene with pikes on their shoulders. The thieves and sailors watched the newcomers with cold calculation.

Tol skirted the crew busy with the ox carts. With such a full cargo on their hands, they’d be less interested in passengers. Further down the beach four longboats were drawn up on the sand, their crews waiting idly for more purloined goods to come their way. Tol led his people to them.

“Greetings,” he called. “What ship are you?”

The mate-so marked by the gray tassel on his black cap-pointed to a blue-hulled roundship rolling in the surf behind him. “The Blue Gull. Captain Torwalder is her master. Who be you?”

“Soldiers, out of work. We seek passage to Thorngoth.” This was the port at the mouth of Greenthorn River, across the gulf.

The mate pushed the cap back on his sunburned head. “Imperial territory? Why would you want to go there?”

“It’s a big port,” said Tol, shrugging. “A good place to get lost.”

“Cost ya.”

Miya couldn’t resist. “How much?”

The mate spat on the sand. “Fifty gold for the five o’ you and the horses.”

“Fifty!” Miya exploded. “For fifty gold pieces we could buy our own ship and hire a better crew than you!”

The mate countered with a cheerfully obscene suggestion, and Miya plunged into the negotiations with enthusiasm. They at last agreed on a price of sixteen gold for their passage and the conveyance of the horses. The mate was red-faced and grumbling by the time the deal was struck, as were most who tried to out-bargain Miya.

A freshening wind stirred the waves, making the trip out to the Blue Gull rather hair-raising. The longboats rose and fell like hatchets, cleaving the sea with great foaming splashes. Tethered behind the boats, the horses swam against the tide, eyes rolling with anxiety.

Drawing alongside Blue Gull’s flaking hull, the Ergothians had to call upon all their agility to make the leap from the heaving longboats and grab the rope ladder hanging down the ship’s side. Former sailor Darpo managed handily enough, but as soon as Tol jumped for the ladder the longboat dropped out from under him, and he was thrown back among the rowers. Only his pride was hurt, and he eventually made it aboard.

The Blue Gull was a tubby vessel, only slightly longer from stem to stern than it was broad in the beam. The roundship rode in the water like a great boot, high at the stern and low at the bow. It had a single flush deck, with timber hoardings built over each end-sterncastle and forecastle. Darpo noted the ship’s rig, although well worn, was in good repair and the crew seemed to know their vessel well.

Captain Torwalder proved to be a young man, with a neatly trimmed, pointed blond beard and very heavy eyebrows. In a resonant voice, he ordered a boom rigged out to lift the horses on board. One by the one the animals were hoisted from the waves. Most rolled their eyes in alarm at the unfamiliar form of transportation. Miya’s Pitch neighed shrilly and kicked his slender legs, and even Shadow balked at first.

The horses were soon safe in the hold, but the ship could not yet weigh anchor. Blue Gull was empty save for Tol and his party; the smugglers needed to take on more cargo.

They lingered offshore the rest of the day but no more goods arrived, and Tol pressed the captain to depart. When the tide turned before sundown, Torwalder finally agreed. His men fell to the capstan, winching the anchor up from the shallow water.

The great buff-colored sail unfurled and Blue Gull wallowed out to sea. Once clear of the surf, the ungainly vessel came into its own and rode the sea with dignity, if not speed.

“Slow passage,” Darpo remarked. He scanned a sky painted scarlet by the sunset. “Fair weather, though. If the wind holds, we should make Thorngoth in two days.”

“Barring pirates, storms, or the whims of the Blue Phoenix,” Frez muttered. He was not a good sailor and clutched the windward rail, his face the color of chalk.

The Dom-shu sisters, on the other hand, were delighted with their first taste of the sea. They went from port rail to starboard, talking excitedly about everything they saw. Kiya was enchanted by the ship and its working, while Miya raved about the sea. When a section of water roiled just off the starboard bow, she cornered a busy sailor and demanded to know what caused the disturbance.

“Dolphins,” said the fellow dismissively.

He’d seen such sights thousands of times, but Miya crowed gleefully. She hung over the railing, watching the capering creatures.

As dusk closed in, Torwalder hung a hooded lantern on the binnacle for the steersman to see by. Kiya asked why the lantern was so small.

Torwalder rested his hands on the buckle of his sword belt. “Light carries far over the ocean at night,” he replied. “It don’t pay to be seen too well too far.”

“Pirates?”

The captain let the word hang in the air, answering by not answering.

They ate bread, and shellfish soup served from a common iron pot below deck. Whether it was the rocking motion of the ship, the hearty fare, or the busy time they’d had with various bandit groups, the entire party was ready for sleep soon after supper. As the ’tween decks was stuffy and smelled strongly of tar and fish oil, they opted to sleep on deck.

They spread their bedrolls on the sterncastle, out of the way of the working sailors, and settled down. Since none of them had passed a full night in sleep since leaving the camp at Tarsis, Tol decided not to bother posting a watch. Torwalder’s men seemed to have things well in hand.

Tol unbuckled his sword belt and lay down between Miya and Kiya. Number Six, Mundur’s wonderful blade, curved neatly up against him. By starlight he noticed a single glyph engraved unobtrusively on the sword’s brass pommel. He couldn’t read Dwarvish, but knew the symbols for numbers; the glyph was the numeral six.

Overhead, the rigging seemed to rake the starry sky, creaking and groaning with every roll of the beamy hull. Only two days to Thorngoth, Tol thought, as slumber settled over him like a thick quilt. The journey upriver to Daltigoth would seem a pleasure jaunt after what they’d been through already.

He dreamed once more of Felryn. This time he kept his nerve and did not accost the shade or let it disturb his rest, and the shadow of the slain priest of Mishas stood by Blue Gull’s steersman all through the night.