Day stole over the harbour so subtly that she almost missed it. One minute she was feeling like the night would never end; the next, she realised it was already morning. A swathe of clouds separated in two as if sliced by a giant sword, exposing the bare, white-blue flesh of the dawn sky.
Kanthyre and her fellow adventurers had settled into a rhythm over the past months; she’d gotten used to having someone up on watch, to prevent a repetition of catastrophes like the orc ambush, and she’d been on-edge all night anyway – it wasn’t like she could’ve slept even if she’d tried. They’d be sailing on out over the open sea soon enough, and she could rest through the day, at ease in the knowledge that stepping onto those ‘outland’ shores was no longer an option for her. It would be so easy to cross the gangplank now, with the Incursion already over, just to prove a point – but it would only turn out that her doom was to die at the hand of some unscrupulous cut-purse rather than to get skewered by a demon. Prophecies were twisty that way. No, far better to wait on the ship, wait for them to set sail once more.
Fate locked-in.
Decisions made for her.
But the crew were waking. The sailors were up at the crack of dawn – the Dremmedine’s captain, Ulfathu, would apply the threat of a lashing to those who didn’t pull their weight. (She’d never heard of him actually having to use it, thankfully – it seemed the mere possibility of a flogging was plenty motivating.) He woke with the sun no matter how much ale he drank to put him to sleep, no matter the season, the weather. Already she could see him stalking the aft-deck; Ulfathu wore a leather coat over loose pants, but despite the early-morning autumn chill he wore no shirt – his chest was covered in a rug of thick hair, which she guessed must’ve been enough to protect him from the cold. His black eyepatch was hard to pick out against his dark skin; it almost looked from a distance as though he were just squinting with his left eye, so cunningly-designed was his accessory. He went around, ‘squinting’ at those of the crew who’d made it above-deck in time for the meagre sunlight to make its entrance. Once he’d completed his checks he stomped back below-deck to make sure the others were working at their various tasks, granting them a close-up of his curled whip and perhaps even brandishing it in their faces. Anything to apply the proper incentive for a morning of good, solid labour.
She watched them at work for a few minutes, clambering all over the rigging, the languor of fatigue in the motions of some of them. Those who’d stayed up latest at the ale-cask, most likely.
She raised a hand towards them.
Maiden, bless these poor souls. Fill them with vitality; drive away their maladies!
The radiance in her hand was as clear as it’d ever been, like a white lantern, shining out over the sailors.
They all stopped in unison for a second, dazed, then quickly gathered their thoughts and continued their tasks with renewed fervour. A few thanked her with murmurs and nods. One ran to the port rail and was sick noisily over the side, but when he recovered he too flashed her a toothless grin and inclined his head in gratitude.
She wondered what beer tasted like, and not for the first time. It was a banned substance for the clergy of Wythyldwyn. Many faiths allowed their faithful to sample alcohol – some even encouraged it (priests of Nentheleme and Ismethyl were famous for it, and who knew about the cultists of gods like Vaahn and Mekesta?) – but not the Maiden of Compassion’s. It seemed to drive many men wild with the desire to consume more and more of it, until they were acting like babies, or even completely insensate. Why anyone would willingly subject himself to such a substance was beyond her. It had to taste amazing. Yet Phanar, a sensible person who only sipped the stuff and never had too much, said that most alcohol tasted horrid the first few times. ‘An acquired taste,’ he’d said.
Then why acquire it in the first place? That was a question to which, seemingly, no one had the answer.
The harbour was abuzz with movement now. Dock-workers unloaded crates by the hundred. Rat-faced fellows met one another beside those boats that looked to be filled with more dubious contents, talking quietly as they cast glances around. Dozens of ships were heading out of port at any given moment; the winds were unfavourable, so some moved by oar-power, others by wizardry, aided by the morning tide. Meanwhile, dozens more replaced them, sails filled with mage-wind, the waters around them sluggish despite the currents that should’ve pushed them away from the shore. There were red-gold schooners from Myri, loaded with great casks of wine; dark-blue ships marked with the sigils of the Amranian war-fleet, heading to the yards on the eastern end where the shipwrights were based; a sleek silver vessel, surely bearing nobility on some pilgrimage or mission of diplomacy, cutting above the waves, heading straight for the river mouth of the Greywater on wings of wizardry.
It was then that Kanthyre spotted the sorceress, walking alone along the pier, careful to avoid the sailors carting buckets of tar up and down the rows of ships. The cleric guessed sorceress due to the gold-trimmed black robe, its hood thrown back to reveal the face of the woman. Her features were studious but pretty rather than plain. She was perhaps in her early forties, her curly brown hair pulled tight into a little bun.
There was an ugly scar running from her hairline to her eyebrow on the left side of her face, but she’d done nothing to hide it, instead wearing it like a badge of honour.
It soon became apparent that she was heading for their ship.
The cleric moved towards the rail beside the gangplank and, when the sorceress was well within earshot, she called, “Night’s Guardian?”
“Rala Ainsbothe, at your service,” the older woman replied in an exquisite accent, contrasted with the smile on her face that was a little grim. She halted at the other end of the gangplank, then went on, “You would be Kanthyre Vael?”
“Come aboard, Rala Ainsbothe,” Kanthyre said, gesturing. “If you’re as good with your spellcraft as your guesses, you’ll be a welcome addition to our expedition.”
The sorceress crossed the bridge. “It’s with some regret that I have to inform you: Lord Ghemenion and I will no longer be travelling with you.”
Kanthyre moved aside, drooping against the rail, and Rala joined her. Now that she was up-close Kanthyre could see the same tiredness in the mage’s face that must’ve been in her own. A few of the crew gave the pair of them a second glance, but that was the extent of their intrusion. They’d learned the hard way not to meddle in the adventurers’ business without dire need.
She pulled her attention back to the sorceress. “Oh? I’d been told the two of you were keen on coming.”
“My lord Ghemenion was injured during the Incursion. Worse than I.” She said it with pride, waving a hand at her scar. “He’ll recover, so long as I ensure he gets his meals regularly… and that they’re cooked by the right chefs. He can be awfully picky that way, you know? And… And I shall have to have this healed, of course – once the critically-injured have been prioritised…”
The eyes of the sorceress were suddenly wet, and Kanthyre wordlessly offered her a clean square of cloth from her pocket.
“My thanks,” Rala murmured, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry; I haven’t slept, and –“
“Don’t be silly,” the cleric said gently. “Your husband was hurt –“
“Husband?” Rala tittered, “Oh no, dear child; he is the Master of the Night’s Guardians – I’m merely his, ah, assistant.”
Kanthyre heard Anathta’s voice going ‘Assistant – yeah – right…” inside her head.
“I see,” was what she actually said aloud.
“In truth, I’m… glad,” Rala went on. “I saw Phanar’s memories. I saw Ord Ylon. I’m impressed with your bravery, Sister of Wythyldwyn. I had in myself the desire to see a dragon, to fight it. I… I’m no longer certain it’s something I want to put myself through.”
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It isn’t, Kanthyre thought.
“Would you like me to heal you?” she asked.
“Ah – no, thank you, Sister.” Rala smiled mysteriously. “These things go under expenses, don’t you know, and we have insurance to consider. If I sought treatment outside the licensed bodies, well… Let’s just say it means even more paperwork next time I make a claim.”
Trying to go over the pertinent bits of information in her less-than-perfectly-responsive mind, doing her best to ignore the pervasive madness of Mund and these Mundians – Kani said, “And what about Redgate?”
Rala merely spread her hands, careful to keep hold of the handkerchief.
Great. Ibbalat’s going to be so disappointed.
And we’re definitely all going to die.
She shook her head. Others could think selfish thoughts in the time of another’s need – she couldn’t.
“Your tower? It was in the thick of things?”
Rala laughed brittlely. “It seemed to erupt on our doorstep, as though the demons came to that place in particular, seeking revenge upon us for our magic. The automatic barriers gave us time to rescue most of the personnel, salvage nine out of ten of our grimoires, our records.”
She knows how many books perished, but not the number of people, Kanthyre noted.
“Yet – that tower had stood almost a hundred years – a hundred years of success for the Night’s Guardians, a hundred years of growing power – torn asunder in less than an hour. So much has been lost. The Guardians, incapable of guarding ourselves… What will become of us now, I wonder? A slow decline… a fall into obscurity? Perhaps I’ll take an early retirement, go into the ensorcellment trade…” Rala sighed heavily. “Speaking of ensorcellment, our companionship was not the extent of the arrangement with your spokesman. We feel it would be remiss of us not to offer you the armaments we had discussed. Is… Phanar…”
The sorceress looked around pointedly, and the cleric shoved herself away from the rail, murmuring as pleasantly as she could manage, “Give me a minute.”
Kanthyre set off down into the hold, stumbling a little; her feet were unresponsive bricks of flesh. There were no beds – aboard the Dremmedine both guests and crew alike slept in hammocks, drawn down into a deep sleep by the motions of the waves.
She quickly found Phanar and, after a moment’s hesitation, went to place her hand on the side of his face.
But she didn’t get to touch him.
He awoke so suddenly it was she who leapt back, stopped from tumbling only by the fact he’d instinctively snatched her wrist in a grip of iron.
“Kani!” he gasped softly, immediately loosening his hold but maintaining contact with her to help her find her balance. “What is it? Trouble?”
The cool eyes were smoky again, no trace of bleariness in them whatsoever.
She was so taken aback, for a moment she entirely forgot the reason she came to wake him, then –
Within thirty seconds they were both back on-deck, Phanar looking disappointed that the sorcerers weren’t coming on the quest – but nowhere near disappointed-enough that he’d refuse to look at the Night’s Guardians’ armaments. He started inspecting the items Rala had brought in her own, larger demiskin bag, discussing the terms of remuneration.
Kanthyre had turned away from them, gripping the rail again, just wanting this to all be finalised. To set sail. To get it all over and done with.
To be back on my way to meet my fate.
Phanar was holding, and discussing, a steel helmet with a white plume and pointed visor, when Kanthyre saw it, up there in the air between Mund and Salnifast.
A red shape, hurtling down from the sky, vast wings spread, angled to slow the tremendous descent.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
It only took a moment for Rala and Phanar to follow the cleric’s gaze, and the sorceress said, “Ah. So he’s decided he still wants to come after all.”
Kanthyre already didn’t like him. The sorcerer reminded her too much of a dragon.
He beat his wings, coming to hover over the Dremmedine.
“Phanar of N’Lem, I presume,” he called down, his voice that of a boy born with a platinum spoon in his mouth.
Confident, though. Self-assured in a way that had nothing to do with wealth and prestige. No, this was personal power.
An army of demons, at his beck and call?
The crimson robe was spattered with symbols that resembled barred archways, portcullises, each embroidered in a slightly different red. Upon his face was the loathsome visage of a spider. The wings were metallic, black against the virgin blue sky.
Right from the off, Kanthyre saw only an enemy.
Most of the crew managed to keep their mouths shut, but every pair of eyes on the deck was glued to the floating arch-sorcerer, and a few in the crow’s-nest and rigging cried out in alarm.
“Settle down.” Phanar rarely raised his voice, and when he did everyone heeded him, going back to their work.
“My lord,” Rala called back. “You came.”
“I said I would, did I not?”
The champion sounded enthusiastic, almost overly-so, yet there was something more to it – Kanthyre would have to get Anathta’s opinion on the matter of this interloper. The girl had the knack of reading people.
Redgate landed softly on the figurehead of the sea-serpent at the front of the ship, and walked along the protrusion, folding his wings which seemed to disappear entirely as he hopped lightly down to the deck.
Rala went on, “I had merely thought, with the events of last night – the loss of a fellow arch-sorcerer like that –”
“Let’s not bring that into this, Miss Ainsbothe,” he said curtly. “We’re here to execute a dragon. I’ve plenty of time to be there and back again before the next Incursion comes due.”
He cast about, then approached Phanar. A pale, unblemished hand emerged from the scarlet sleeve, and the warrior took it firmly.
“Redgate. I am indeed as you say Phanar, of N’Lem. Might I introduce Kanthyre Vael, Sister of the Maiden?”
The champion’s hand was soft in Kanthyre’s, his grip gentle, almost tender.
She wished all of a sudden that she could see his face, read the expression hidden there behind the eight dark lenses, the mandibles and hairs all styled into the dark iron.
Then he released her hand and turned again to Rala. “Where is Ghemenion?”
“You weren’t informed? He was wounded in the battle. He’s currently in the care of the Unwilted Bloom, and there’s much to be arranged. He’s insisting on a larger personal library when they’re completing the rebuild… I’m afraid neither he nor I will be able to come with you.”
Redgate nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of acceptance, as though he had already predicted this but asked only to make sure.
“Of course,” he said. “Quite understandable. Pass my best wishes on to the chap for a speedy recovery, and a library of magnificent proportions.”
“I will, my lord,” Rala replied.
“Well – Sister Vael?” He turned back to her and, with some effort due to the disconcerting mask, she met his unseen gaze. “An unusual name. I see Miss Ainsbothe and your leader are engaged in a haggling match.” He indicated the demiskin, the assorted items they’d placed on boxes while they debated fees. “Won’t you introduce me to the captain, and the rest of your merry band?”
She was caught – she could hardly refuse, could she?
With a swift backwards glance at Phanar, she led Redgate to the door to the cabin.
* * *
“In truth they were going to travel with us more as observers, interested only in the prominence to be gained by taking part in the slaying of an Ord.” Redgate was explaining his nonchalance at the fact the two of his fellow Mundian sorcerers weren’t coming with them, his primary audience an enraptured-looking Ibbalat. “I’m not even a little concerned. I hope Phanar is as discerning as he seems, and saves your cash; I have enough power to deal with the dragon, I’m quite certain.”
“How are you going to do that? Exactly?” The young mage was just full of questions. “I saw your thinfinaran -”
“There will be plenty of time to discuss tactics. First, strategy. Where is this lair? How is it defended?”
Kanthyre saw Ibbalat’s eyes brighten, his lips part –
“Master Ibbalat,” Ulfathu called from the doorway above them. “We’re settin’ sail. Might I ask ye t’ say a word or two t’ the wind again?”
“Of course. Would you excuse me?” Ibbalat stood.
“We’ll join you on deck, no?” Redgate replied, looking at Kanthyre.
The cleric merely shrugged. Words and thoughts came sluggishly to her now – she was so exhausted.
She went last up the ladder-stair, and Ibbalat was already engaged in chanting by the time she was topside, sprinkling insect-wings and other weird spell-components into the air. In the distance, she could hear the yells of the harbour-master or one of his delegates.
“Anchors aweigh!”
The sails billowed, and the prow cut through the water like an arrow.
For the next ten minutes, Kanthyre was at the rail again, the salt breeze in her hair, spray in her face; it was refreshing, reassuring. She looked out over the bay, the other dozen-or-more vessels working their way out onto the Mundic Sea.
Finally – she was on her way. Her way to her grave, or Ord Ylon’s. Either way, it would be the end of her trials. She could take her own very early retirement from her adventuring career, open her own temple.
Or she could rest in the arms of the goddess, content that she’d done all she could to stop the terror in whose vast belly her remains would forever reside.
She turned away from the sea, deciding to make her excuses and head off for a sleep – when she saw Redgate, sitting by Anathta on a crate, his legs spread casually in an easy posture. She paused, watching.
He was raising his hands to his face, drawing both the mask off and the cowl back in the same motion.
Handsome. Too handsome by far to be interested in a plain, uncivilised cleric like her; his interest in the lithe, supple rogue was obvious, though. His strong jawline contrasted with the boyish cheeks, the haughty gaze with the gentle smile on his lips. Lengths of straight brown hair framed his face.
Glancing at Phanar’s sister to catch the reaction, Kanthyre knew Anathta had already fallen under his spell.
Hopefully not literally.
She looked back out at the sea, and almost went to sleep there on her feet. When she came back to herself, just a few minutes later going off the ship’s position, for a moment she forgot where she was and almost fell.
She held the rail in her hand one last time, then the cleric turned, bade everyone a belated goodnight, and made her way to her hammock.
This time, just as she prayed, the dreams took her too deep for her to remember them and, for that much at least, she was glad.