The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) Page 6

  Pushing the cart across the beach was a challenge. Were it not for his magical strength, he might not have succeeded. At last he loaded Grimwold and their meager possessions into the ship. Last night it had seemed the villagers had been generous with him, but now loaded into a ship his four sacks and wine skin seemed a paltry offering. He shoved the ship into the sea and then waded out to throw himself over the rails. He laughed as the ship bobbed on the waves and began drifting out to sea.

  Of course, he had no idea what he was doing, but how hard could it be? He was not going to take to the open sea, but just fumble along the coast and enlist the aid of a few men to crew the ship. He would probably only need five, with himself included in that number. In the meantime, most sailors he had seen did precious little real work except for running around on deck and tugging on ropes and whatnot. It was the man at the tiller who did anything at all, and with his own superior strength working the tiller would present no difficulty.

  Once in the water, a number of things became clearer to Lethos. First, sailors did more than run around and pull ropes to guide the ship. The tide beached his ship again farther down strand, and he had to relaunch it. The sail had been taken in, and he spent close to an hour figuring out how to unfurl it. When it finally cracked open and grabbed the wind, he shouted and jumped around the deck, pumping his arm in the air like a conquering warrior. He felt extremely smart as he navigated away from the beach and into deeper waters. Except he continued into deeper waters long past the point where he wanted to turn. He had to tie down the sail to aid his steering, and this worked in getting him closer to land until the ropes broke free. He did not know how to tie the correct knots.

  The futility of his plan became clearest after he had sailed north for an hour and realized the hull was leaking. Enough water to cover up to his ankles had leaked into the center of the ship. So those buckets he had seen were for bailing. That was going to be challenging. Grimwold lay flat in the prow, silently judging him despite his comatose state. Lethos held the tiller steady, but the ship seemed to have a mind of its own. It kept a general course, but if he took his eye off his goal for even a moment the ship would turn to another direction.

  The entire escapade shuddered to a halt as something heavy dragged along the hull, setting all the boards to clattering. The sail was full and the mast strained, but the ship listed to the right and halted. Grimwold slid toward the gunwales along with the sea water and the miscellany on the deck. Lethos looked over the side. He had driven the ship onto a sandbar.

  "So, this is definitely not what I had planned. Of course, I deserve this. I take back all the bad things I've said about sailors." His contrition, however, was of little avail. The ship remained wedged onto the sandbar, and after a few prods with an oar he realized he could not shove off on his own. Despite his great strength, the oar was not enough to dislodge the ship. He ended up cracking the oar before anything else. He flung the broken wood out to sea.

  Then he noticed the other ship. Of course there would be another ship so close to shore. It was a small dark rectangle on the horizon, but it was closing on him. Unless he was mistaken, it was a local fishing vessel. He did not see any square sails on it and knew Grimwold's so-called fleet were all docked at a lake with river access. So help was on the way. Only he was clearly in a raiding ship. If he were the captain of a fishing ship in the same situation, he would turn and flee.

  Lethos jumped in the prow, waving both hands overhead, shouting, "Help!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  "There is no way to sail into the bay without being swarmed by Avadurian ships. We've already been lucky thus far." The captain of this ship, a wiry man with a left arm shriveled from a former wound, spit over the railing. Syrus stood beside him, with Thorgis opposite. The cold wind sliced off the sparkling waters and made him wrap his black cloak tighter around his neck. Syrus scanned the shoreline, seeing no easy place to go ashore. All of Avadur was ensconced in high cliffs and thick, foreboding pine forests. It had all appeared the same to him as they had sailed around its eastern coast for the last three days. Everything smelled of sea air and distant pine scents.

  "You'll have to make the rest of this journey on foot," the captain said. He seemed resigned, his back hunched and his eyes averted to the distance. Thorgis's own piercing blue eyes were lost in an uncertain squint, and he stroked his thin beard as he considered the captain's suggestions. Thorgis had not spoken much during the journey, and Syrus could not tell if he was either frightened or aloof. Perhaps he was both. Thorgis was the king's oldest child and only son. Syrus wondered what pressures a young prince at the cusp of adulthood might experience. He had to act like a man without the experiences of one. Thorgis's hesitation made more sense in that light.

  The ship rocked with the gentle waves and all three men listened to the sounds of water slapping the hull. Syrus held the smooth railing, feeling a burning at the pit of his stomach. When he had last visited Avadur, he and Grimwold had a pair of trolls chase them back into the sea. Did a similar fate await him now? Was the path to Tsaldalr fraught with the same perils? He had hoped never to return to the bosky darkness of these lands, but duty compelled him. He would have to face whatever lurked beyond the cliffs and black pines. Duty and honor was life itself. He had sworn his service to a worthy king. He needed nothing more to keep his feet moving along the path.

  "With your leave, lord, I'll bring you ashore in that cove." The captain pointed with his beard toward a small cove Syrus had overlooked. He had never been the sea-going type, instead preferring to let his mind go drifting in oceans of knowledge. He let others do the physical labor of plying a ship over the waves.

  Thorgis nodded and turned to stand alone and thoughtful in the prow. The captain gave Syrus a skeptical glance, but he could do no more than run his hand over the stubble of his shaved head. He had struggled to keep it short while aboard, the constant rocking making his hand unsteady with the razor. He had a cut on his scalp for the trouble he had taken. Still, cleanliness and grooming were daily mediations on discipline he never skipped.

  They made landfall, expecting some level of resistance and finding none. Settlements on the eastern coast of Avadur were fewer due to the distant blue mountains crowding the coast. Ships and warriors were vigilant to the west, where Valahur lay. The circuitous route to Raffheim from the east coast cost time but preserved their lives. When the ship shuddered ashore, archers were still ready to face any threat, but nothing showed. Birds chirped in the trees and the waves broke on the shore. For the first time in days the rest of the crew murmured happily. They were going to pull out from this land and not return for a month. While all were admirable warriors, they were also practical men. Sailing into Avadur with a single ship could be deadly, and they still had a return journey to make. Syrus noted men holding the silver shark's tooth at their necks and whispering to the Great Shark. They hoped the god's unblinking eye would pass them by and let them sail undisturbed through his watery realm. Syrus had muttered the same prayers.

  Now the gangplank dropped, and the captain stood expectantly. The crew had piled leather sacks of supplies, more than Syrus could carry alone. He doubted Thorgis would stoop to becoming his own porter. They had ample food as well as his tools for study and for survival in the field. As expected, Thorgis stepped past all these supplies as he mounted the gangplank. He paused, glanced back at everyone as if he were about to leap from a cliff, then continued down the gangplank. Syrus gathered what he could, finding one trunk too heavy and bulky to carry.

  "It's Lord Thorgis's mail coat," said the captain. "You might want that in case of a fight."

  "I'll send the quiet lord back up to fetch it," he said. "He can carry it on his back."

  The captain gave a fluid smile, and Syrus bounced down the plank, feeling it sag under his weight. He dumped the bags upslope in the brown grass close to where Thorgis stood staring at the black trees. "You left your mail aboard. I can't manage it with all else, so you should either wear or
carry it. Or feel free to catch arrows with your chest, if that suits you, lord."

  Thorgis's squint widened at the barb, but he still made no answer. Instead he trundled up the plank to retrieve his trunk from the captain. Syrus stared at him as he slouched back down and let the trunk crash into the sand. The captain hauled up the gangplank and his crew pushed the ship back into the sea. Both he and Syrus watched it go until it sailed out of the cove.

  Syrus consulted his map and reconciled the landmarks. They were still days from Raffheim, but their destination would be closer. He had to approach Tsaldalr without being seen, but the map marked no paths. Of course, this side of Avadur was sparsely inhabited for a good reason. The land was mountainous and unforgiving.

  "We will have to skirt the mountains and be on the watch for local people. We have no gear to traverse the mountains, in any case." Syrus watched Thorgis, who made no reply other than a nod of the head. He hefted his trunk and Syrus gathered their packs and they started out.

  The first day of the journey was a challenge, with Syrus dropping the packs and stumbling with alarming consistency. Eventually, Thorgis wore his mail coat, and packed some of Syrus's burdens into his emptied box. Their first night they did not dare a fire, and the weather grew so bitterly cold that the two huddled for warmth. The second day brought more drudgery and no further comment from Thorgis, beyond the minimum necessary. Syrus had grown irritated enough with the boy's reticence to stop referring to him as a lord, and it still elicited nothing more from Thorgis. The High King's sword remained strapped to his back, and Thorgis's own sword was at his hip. The High King's sword seemed to be what weighed on his mind, for he constantly touched it as if to be certain it was still on his back.

  The third day brought them within reach of Tsaldalr. The entrance was at the bottom of a steep shoreline cliff. The city of Raffheim loomed in the distance as a brooding gray square of rock. Too distant to see details, Syrus imagined the warriors patrolling its walls. He also recalled the stories Grimwold and Lethos had shared about its highest tower. He could scarcely believe he looked upon its misty outline as it dominated the entire city.

  "We will pick our way down to the cave entrance," he said. "Once inside, we will have to establish our camp and determine where to go next. The map only shows the entrance, and nothing more. We'll be exploring from here out."

  Prior to this, Syrus wanted to scout the area for hunting potential. They had enough food for a week, then they had to procure their own. Syrus thought Eldegris had been amazingly trusting in his abilities, or he believed his son capable of more than he currently demonstrated. Perhaps he was sending them into certain death, and food was of no concern. That made no sense, yet Syrus knew the High King withheld much more than he shared about this mission.

  By midday, black clouds moved in from nowhere. The forest went silent but for the gentle stirring of branches or the crunch of their feet over dead leaves.

  "A storm is coming," Thorgis said.

  Syrus had a barb ready for this, but swallowed it. Instead he nodded, and they sought high ground. They did so in the silence Syrus had grown accustomed to. A long month stretched out in front of him, and he hoped before that time Thorgis's stony disposition would soften. As they tied their belongings into tree branches, Syrus noted the sky above had turned a strange shade of greenish black. Thunder boomed and a heavy rain opened on them with startling ferocity. They had not even set up a lean-to yet before they were soaked. Thorgis was cursing his way out of his mail coat, the most emotion Syrus had witnessed from him in the entire journey. While well oiled, the iron links were susceptible to rust and a heavy rain like this would destroy mail as efficiently as a cluster of spears.

  They searched for a place out of the wind, but it came in strong gusts from every direction, blasting them with stones, branches, and other forest debris. Syrus had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Beyond the thunder and hissing rain there was a constant rumble like stones falling down a mountain. He heard trunks cracking and the trees surrounding them bent in the wind. The wind shoved them through the forest.

  "The Finger of Urdis," Syrus said. His voice was lost in the howl. Thorgis stopped walking and looked over his shoulder. Through the trees, a black cloud plowed through the forest and tore up both trunks and earth.

  They both broke into a run at the same time. Once a decade, the evil god Urdis took revenge on the land for his banishment from the company of the gods. He raked a finger across the world in the shape of a swirling wind of chaos, tossing ancient trees into the air and throwing even the largest ships from harbors onto the roofs of halls.

  No man could outrun the god's finger if it decided to seek you. Within the forest, trees snapped flat and the air grew full of projectiles. His skin already burned with cuts and bruises from flying rocks and branches. He could hear nothing but the deafening roar of wind, and see little beyond the cloud of leaves and dirt surrounding him. Thorgis had disappeared from sight.

  Syrus hurtled away in blind terror, repeating Fieyar's name and hoping the goddess still had a purpose for his life. He felt himself buffeted forward with the wind, and soon he was headed toward a spot of light in the cloud of dust. His eyes watered, and something heavy hit his right shoulder as he burst out of the forest. He chanced a glance behind, and looming overhead were swirling black clouds that seemed to extend down into the trees. He tried to stand against the wind but it was forcing him back.

  He was on the cliffs overlooking Tsaldalr. Below, water swirled foamy against the sheer red-tinged cliffs. Behind, the howl of the wind forced Syrus toward the edge. Was it the guidance of Fieyar? Should he jump and risk drowning or being smashed on the rocks? He stumbled against the wind, and the twisting cloud, while still distant, now turned toward him. Trees flew up and disappeared into the dirty mass with wooden groans.

  Syrus looked over the edge. The water appeared deep enough. He didn't know how to swim. But he preferred drowning to being battered into pulp.

  He jumped, his stomach rising to his throat as he plunged over the side of the cliff.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Valda stood atop the highest tower of Norddalr and stared out across the mountains to the flat gray sea. The day was as lonely and cold as any autumn could be, and the mountain peaks enfolding her castle home were already covered in snow. She wondered where her brother Thorgis had gone in the company of the strange warrior priest with the shaved head. Even as the oldest daughter of the High King, she knew little about the world of men and their deeds of glory. Her father had sheltered her and her sisters as if they were no better than delicate flowers. Yet her mother was descended from the blood of fierce warriors, and had she not carried a sword beside her father once? During the war of the trolls a year ago, Valda had been made to hide behind her brother, even though she was as capable of holding a weapon as he was. Maybe even more capable.

  The wind tore at her green dress and tousled her long, blond hair as she leaned against the cold stone. She did not like this castle, preferring the cozy wood walls of her childhood hall. This place was built by strange hands, not the work of her people. Her father seemed comforted to be in this place at last. Her mother, Siffred, would not share her opinion, but Valda knew she disliked it as well. It was cold and echoing, like a tomb. Not a tomb for herself, but the tomb of something older and forgotten. Her father had told them one day they would make this hidden fortress the seat of their power, and he had always seemed to have a distant gleam in his eye when he spoke of it. As a girl she had dreamed of living here, but now the reality was so much different.

  In the yards below, the High King's guard practiced their martial skills, swords thudding on shields or clanging together in their mock battles. Craftsmen moved among them on their various duties, and laborers moved carts of hay through the yards. Beyond all that, the blacksmiths at their forges hammered out weapons and armor while expelling black smoke into the wind. Valda absently touched the dagger sheathed in plain leather at her hip, a sign of authority
she was proud to display. One of those blacksmiths had forged it for her on her seventeenth birthday, and presented it with his cheeks flushed red. She had been told she was as beautiful as her mother, which was impossible, as no woman approached the beauty of Siffred. Yet all her looks availed her nothing when her days were spent confined to a mountain castle.

  The height of this particular tower had always fascinated her, but the surrounding mountains limited the view to slivers of ocean. So while she enjoyed the time away from her chattering sisters--who did not share her appreciation for heights and therefore never explored the towers--she quickly tired of the venue. With a strong wind dropping the temperature and her only in a linen dress, she decided to descend the stairs back into the relative warmth inside. Yet as she turned, she glimpsed a strange sight on the water.

  It was an enormous white ship, so faint and ensconced in mist that it seemed almost ghostly. It had five masts with sails either trimmed or billowing full. Along the hull, three banks of oars rose and fell with expert precision. She had never imagined oars so long nor could she conceive of the manpower needed to work them. The ship must be brimming with sailors. She saw no one from this distance, but she expected some colors or flags to identify the ship. It was not from Valahur or Avadur. It could have been something from the navy of Rao-Kharos in the far south. They were said to have mighty sailing ships, but what would one be doing here unannounced?

  The ship was executing a long, slow turn toward the coast. Valda thought it aimed right for her, as if her tower was its destination. But then, from the vantage of the ship, what else could the sailors see? She went to the edge of the tower and watched it make a graceful arc through the water, ethereal and elegant like a spirit. Despite its beauty, watching it made her stomach flutter and the hairs on her slender neck stand on end.