Zantheus came round slowly.

Now, rather than hot, he was cold. And wet. And swaying, for some reason.

But these sensations were relegated to a much lower level of importance in his mind by the enormous, throbbing pain that coursed through his whole body, especially his head.

He heard himself moaning and realised that a large part of the right side of his face was swollen.

Opening his eyes confirmed this. Though his vision did not return at once, when pictures did begin to materialise they were partly obscured by something ugly and black in the corner of his right eye.

He was sitting on the deck of a ship—that explained the swaying at least—with his hands tied behind him. He must have lost his helmet, because his blonde hair was being blown about by the wind.

He was dimly aware that he was surrounded by a circle of people, a little way away from him, chattering and whispering.

In addition to these, three more figures stood nearer, in front of him. Definitely two were men, the other one was much smaller, so it was harder to tell.

He tried to concentrate on them but the pain and the swaying kept dragging their faces out of focus. He felt as if he might be sick.

“He’s awake, Thalassa.” A deep voice.

The background chatter died down. Zantheus moaned again.

“Here, drink this.”

A bottle was pressed to his lips and something stung the back of his throat, but he gulped it down thirstily all the same. The pain quietened for a moment. He came up for breath.

“Ahh... What is—?”

As his captor put the bottle back to his lips and the liquid filled Zantheus’s mouth again the reply came, “Rum.”

Zantheus spat out the liquid instantly. Now a face as soaking as his own formed in front of him. It belonged to a hulk of a man even bigger than himself, though not as muscular, and it looked unimpressed.

“I apologise,” said Zantheus with dignity and unapologetically. “It is forbidden by the Order.”

The face contorted into a frown.

“Come, Hudor,” said the second man, who stepped in front of the first, moving him aside. This one was shorter and stouter, not elderly but certainly not young, having a sort of weathered look about him.

When he spoke it was gruffly, through a thick tangled beard, but before he had a chance to do so again, Zantheus interrupted. “Where am I?”

“All in good time, my friend,” said the second man, smiling, but not in a very friendly way either. Everything that he said seemed to have a tinge of mockery to it. “We’ve not been properly introduced yet. May I ask your name?”

“I am Zantheus, First Paragon of the Aythian Order,” recited Zantheus with pride. He thought for a moment, then added “Champion of Awmeer.” He tried to extend his arm by way of greeting but remembered that his hands were bound by cords. In his weakened state, he could not break them.

“Oh?” said his interrogator. “And what, pray tell, is a ‘Paragon’?”

Zantheus was shocked at the man’s ignorance and at his mocking tone. “We are knights of the utmost discipline and strictest virtue.”

Tromo’s heart jumped. One of his cloud-warriors had fallen to earth.

“A knight!” the bearded man positively scoffed, and the crew laughed along with him. Zantheus’s shock turned to anger. “Well, in that case, I am Thalassa of Shul, seafarer of little discipline and no virtue, captain of this, my ship, the Raging Heart. And these are my crew.”

The captain waved his hand casually at the circle of men. Zantheus could just make out a series of faces staring at him with a mixture of apprehension and aggression.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

“How did I get here?” he said. He could not remember ever hearing about a place called ‘Shul’ before.

“We were going to ask you the same question,” said Thalassa. But Zantheus did not respond to it. He had realised something else.

“Where is my sword?”

“There is no cause for alarm,” said Thalassa, “we have stowed it, or rather what is left of it, in our hold, along with your helmet. I am sorry for the precaution. You see, it’s not every day that we entertain Paragons that fall out of the sky.”

The pain screamed in Zantheus’s mind. A memory was starting to come back to him. “Wh...what are you talking about?” he said.

“Yes, you fell out of the sky. Well, at least that’s what we think Tromo here is trying to tell us.” Thalassa gestured towards the third nearby figure, whom Zantheus had forgotten about. He turned out to be a small boy, not older than six or seven, with mousey brown hair and the widest, most terrified, curious eyes in the world. He was staring intently at Zantheus for some reason.

“What do you mean, you ‘think’?” said Zantheus.

“We only heard the splash. Hudor here” –he pointed to the humongous man who had given Zantheus the rum– “dived in and rescued you...” He waited. It became clear to Zantheus that he was expected to say something.

“Oh...my thanks to you, Hudor.”

“...and our cabin boy here was on look-out at the time. Thing is, see, he’s a mute. He doesn’t talk. But what we think he’s been trying to tell us is—well, see for yourself. Tromo, where did this man come from?”

The little boy, who had been fixated on Zantheus, looked up at Thalassa all of a sudden. His right arm shot to attention, pointing into the sky.

“And how did he get here, pray tell?” said Thalassa with more pretend courtesy.

Tromo looked cautious, as if he were about to do something foolish that would be met with disapproval. But from the way his eyes returned to Zantheus and his hand dropped slowly back to his side it was clear that he was trying to represent a falling motion.

“This is, of course, completely ridiculous,” said Thalassa. “People do not fall out of the sky. Even Paragons. The strange thing is, we’ve been sailing for too long for you to be a stowaway, and we’ve never known Tromo to lie. Though of course, we’ve never known him to tell the truth, either!” Thalassa laughed briefly at his own poor joke, then all of a sudden his voice became very grave. “So, ‘Paragon’,” he said in low, menacing tones, “the question remains: Where did you come from?”

Zantheus grimaced as another spasm of pain lanced through his head.

“I was climbing Awmeer...” he thought aloud.

“Ah yes, this ‘Awmeer’ you are a ‘Champion’ of. What is it? A tree?”

Zantheus restrained his anger. This ignorance was most shocking of all.

“Mount Awmeer,” he said to the ignorant captain, “is the tallest mountain in all Mashal. It is so tall that no man has ever been able to climb it. At its foot lies the great city of Qereth, and at its summit, it is said, is found–”

He stopped. At the mention of the word ‘Qereth’ Thalassa’s eyebrows had raised. When the captain spoke again it was more carefully, and where before he had given the impression that he was only humouring Zantheus, now he seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.

“Qereth? You know of Qereth?”

“Yes. My Order live just outside the East Wall.” Zantheus felt some sort of tension in the atmosphere. He could feel the eyes of the crew on him. The captain appeared to have forgotten his earlier question altogether.

“Tell us of it,” said Thalassa.

“Qereth, jewel of Dahma, is the oldest and greatest city in Mashal. At dawn, she is cloaked in Awmeer’s shadow; at dusk, the setting sun illuminates her magnificent Western Gate. She is home to a million citizens, and she is the only city in Dahma to be ruled by a democracy, the Government of Memshalah.” Zantheus said all of this automatically, without feeling, as though he had learned it by rote, which he had. Thalassa bent down, so that he was face to face with Zantheus, which made him feel uncomfortable.

“Yes, but what is it like?” He said this more quietly, so that those around could not hear.

Zantheus was confused. He had described the city in the way that he had been taught to do. It was a perfectly clear description, what more was there to add?

Seeing the look of puzzlement on his face, Thalassa stood up and turned his back on Zantheus. Now he spoke so that his crew could hear again.

“Alright, ‘Sky-Man’,” he nicknamed Zantheus, “I have a bargain to make with you. It just so happens that my vessel is currently bound for Dahma.” Zantheus breathed a quiet sigh of relief; at least he was heading towards the right continent, even if he had no idea how he had got here. “We are Shulite refugees looking to travel to Qereth in Dahma. But this is our first visit and we do not know the country. We do not even know how long it will take us to get there. So when we do get there, you will guide us to Qereth. In exchange, I will grant you board and passage on this ship. But you must work. No man in my crew avoids doing his share of work. We may not know how you got here, but we will put you to work all the same. Do you accept my generous offer?”

Zantheus considered telling Thalassa that his Dahman geography was extremely scanty and that he did not really know the world beyond the Aythian Sanctuary, but he did not want to ruin this chance of getting back to Qereth.

“I accept,” he said. A ripple of murmurs went throughout the crew.

“Good,” said Thalassa. “You are far too battered to be of any use to us just yet, so we will give you time to recover. Cut his cords, Hudor. You start work in a couple of days, you need time to rest.”

“Nonsense, I can begin now,” said Zantheus, standing up and rubbing his wrists. It was only when he fainted that he discovered how right Thalassa was.