The first rays were glittering on the water when Rakt woke to Deyilan’s prodding.
“Quiet on shore, but there is a sail out there, on a course to round the reefs and come up to us.” Rakt shaded his eyes against the light, then nodded.
“Let’s get under way.” There was a purposeful scramble, Cardnial to the anchor rope, Rakt to the halyards, Deyilan to the tiller. As the wet rope came over the bow, Deyilan considered. To take the channels they had used coming in would be to meet the strange ship head to head, with a bank of nasty oysters under their lee. Here in the shelter of the cliffs, the light wind was stirring in puffs and eddies. He recalled the view of the bay from above, then called to Rakt.
“We’ll go out westerly, toward the swamps.” The bow came round, the sheets came in and they gathered way, slipping across the bay towards the dismal trees. As they loomed up, Deyilan put the tiller over and they ghosted through a tide-carved channel a few lengths from the last roots. Another turn, and they were around the point, skirting along the grey-green muddy shore. He risked a quick look behind. The other craft was beyond the outer reefs, committed to the channel, and would have to feel its way to open water before it could pursue. It would draw too much water to take the channel they had used.
Chrys, Aitonala and Bajur had sensibly kept out of the way. Now Chrys uttered a spell and shaded her eyes.
“Two people in feather cloaks, one with a head-dress of scarlet plumes. Three more Dravish with weapons and body-paint armour, green and black face-paint. Two Saka, wearing red badges. And sailors.”
“Igwé,” Skaia said soberly.
“Red Branch,” added Bajur.
“’Ware spell” cried Chrys. Deyilan fell sideways, choking. Skaia grabbed the tiller before they could fall away on the wind. Chrys ducked down, felt for the ether, cast the spell Dispersure. Deyilan took a deep shuddering breath, and she pushed him down below the low rail. Skaia edged the boat closer in, shutting off sight of their pursuers for the moment, calling out to Cardnial to watch for shallows.
“What now?” asked Rakt. “They will be free of the reefs before too long, and then to windward of us. We cannot out-run them, and that spell was meant to kill.”
“If we stay in-shore they cannot come up to us,” replied Skaia. “There is a deeper channel between this island and the mainland, but it has wide mud-banks on either side and winds about. They will not try it with the wind in the north, but we can row.”
“Local knowledge – always a god-send,” Rakt said.
“In this case, maybe literally,” remarked Aitonala.
“What then?” went on Rakt. “They can go north about the island and meet us there.”
“The Gracious God will guide us,” was Bajur’s contribution.
“This coast is fringed with shallows, mangroves and swamps all the way to the mouths of the Shianshi. That land favours the Imo Miri more than the Igwé, so it may be easier to evade them there,” Skaia informed them.
“Not while we have the chest,” chimed in Chrys. “Even wrapped in the skins, it calls out. Muffled but there to anyone with the training to hear.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“We’ll see what comes up, as the lady said at the orgy,” Deyilan said. They tossed ideas about as the mud and moss-hung trees slid past, until the land turned to show a wide stretch of brown-grey water, here and there mud-banks showing above the tide like basking crocodiles. Deyilan and Rakt brought the sails down, fitted oars and took up a steady stroke out into the channel. Chrys caught a glimpse of movement ashore and once again sharpened her vision. Hunched figures laboured under the trees, working with logs and vines. At a call from above they vanished into the foliage.
“I think the apes are building a raft,” she said.
* * * *
The channel wound on. Twice they touched on the mud, once firmly enough that they had to wait for the rising tide to lift them off. Cardnial and Bajur took their turn at the oars, then Chrys and Aitonala. Skaia pointed out side channels that led off into the mangroves on the Dravish side. They could, she said, pull into one of those and lie hid for a time. They kept the idea in mind and pulled on.
The sun was near its height when the island shore fell away. There, some distance out, lay the Igwé vessel. Skaia had kept as close as she could to the shore and now steered for a gap in the trees. Chrys cast the red veil to foil the few spells that would reach this far. They passed into the moss-hung shade, soon poling rather than rowing. Skaia warned of hanging snakes, spiders, dart-birds, poisonous vines and trees that exuded narcotic gases. Chrys wondered if it were safer to take their chances with the Igwé. They tied up in a dark pool and rested for a time, then poled on, guided by Skaia. By sunset she reckoned they were some distance north, hidden in a maze of winding water. It was an uneasy night, surrounded by the noises of the denizens of the swamp. Roars, coughs, screams, rustles and splashes came from the surrounding dark. Skaia smiled, curled up on a locker and fell asleep.
Chrys sat awake for a time. She hated the thought they – she, had been manipulated into attempting the Castle of Unreturn. Yet it was not by happy accident that Bajur came to that last unbreachable door with the only key. If they had been led down this path, then by whom? And to what end? Bajur remained confident in his god, but Chrys did not share his faith. Whatever was in the chest reeked of power. An undead magic ape-king? Skaia’s story told of a malevolent spirit, a being hardly likely to reward them. Their only gain so far was two smelly hides, not the fortune she had hoped. Truth to tell, she was tired of adventure. She just wanted to be rich, learn magic and go to the rat-circus with friends.
The next day was more of the same, a slow progress in damp heat, twisting past arched roots and hastening across the small stretches of open water. Skaia mostly led them true, reading the currents, the waters and the vegetation. Twice creeks dwindled until they were impassable and another time a fallen log barred their way. They poled back, grumbling, and went on under the rustling canopy. Amulets could protect against the swarming insects, but did nothing for the smells of ripe mud, old water, fungi and vegetation both green and decaying that enveloped them. Only Skaia’s knowledge and constant vigilance kept them from injury or worse by the many noxious creatures. These ranged from poisonous spores through spines, vicious waterlife and reptiles to the predators that roamed the overhanging canopy. It truly was, as Skaia said, a Watery Wild.
A few times they met other travellers paddling their canoes along the winding water, to receive curious glances. When they tied up that night Skaia reckoned they were near the southernmost outlet of the Shianshi, a wide stream and deep enough that ships of all sizes could make their way upriver.
“What then?” Chrys returned to the argument. “They will not come after us in here, but on the open water we are at their mercy. And also on the open land. Nor can we stay in here forever, even if Skaia can find all sorts of things to eat.”
The one experiment they dared try was to ask Hassani about the chest. She was too frightened to be evasive or surly, but could give no description other than an impression of great, sentient, non-human power, not necessarily malevolent but so overwhelming that she felt it unsafe that it be aware of her. They turned things over, to no better result than before, then made a meal as best they could and got what sleep they could.
In the morning they took up the poles once more and went on. By mid-day the creeks were wider, the smell of salt stronger, tide-marks more visible on root and bank. They took up the oars, rowing with caution lest they be swept out onto the open river. At last Skaia pointed to the brighter sky ahead and said that one or two more bends would bring them to the main stream. Rakt, Skaia and Chrys climbed into the dinghy and went ahead. They skirted a bank where a sleeping log briefly opened a slitted eye, found their way past a tangled mass of vegetation and bumped to a stop against an arched root where the last mangroves gave way to flowing water. Chrys had a clear view out into the river. There, to her dismay, lay the Igwé ship.