Chapter 28
28
G RAYLIN DROVE HIS small wagon swiftly through the woods. He followed a trail that was not even rutted, only an unmarked path twining through a forest of white-barked alders. Ahead, Symon rode atop a foul-tempered mare who kicked at Graylin’s pony if it dared get too close.
Graylin suspected the mare’s nervy disposition was in large part stoked by the pair of shadows sweeping the trail to either side. Aamon and Kalder easily paced the horses, even after hunting all day. But Symon had insisted that Graylin had one hope to barter for passage back to Hálendii, and it meant traveling throughout Eventoll to get there.
Despite Graylin’s misgivings, he allowed Symon to guide him south of the town of Savik. They headed toward a breadth of coastline where few dared to venture. It was a broken scape of deep fjords packed with towering jagged rocks. Its waters were run through with dangerous shoals and unpredictable riptides. All along, sea caves pocked its cliffs, rumored to form a subterranean maze twice the size of Savik.
This swath of broken coast was home to various clans of pirates, cutthroats, and brigands of every ilk. They preyed upon the seas of the Crown, though most often on the pleasure crafts gliding from Hálendii to the terraced homes and palacios stacked along the cliffs of Lyria, north of Savik. It was where the kingdom’s richest escaped the summer’s scorch and sailed to the cooler climes of Aglerolarpok’s coast, whiling away the hottest time of the year.
After a long stretch, with Graylin close to drowsing off, Symon finally lifted an arm ahead. He reined his mare and dropped back alongside the wagon. His horse nickered and huffed irritably at Graylin’s pony, who merely swept his tail and smacked the mare’s side.
Around them, the straight alders had been overtaken by darker pines and twisted cypresses. Graylin shifted higher. The seas salted the air now. Even past the rattle of wheels and clap of hooves, his ears picked out a distant rumble of heavy surf against broken rock.
Symon twisted in his saddle to face the wagon. “With care now,” he warned. “Stay close. They’re as liable to shove a spear in your gut as say g’morrow.”
“And these are folks you believe we can trust?”
Symon frowned. “Of course not. But that scoundrel Darant will honor a pact, insomuch as the reward outweighs the price of a betrayal.”
Graylin craned back to his wagon. It was loaded with bundles of hides and furs and enough salted, dried meat to feed a small village through winter. It was more than enough to barter for passage across the sea, but was it enough to keep his secret? He could not take any chances, so he had emptied his homestead of all its worth.
“Let’s go,” Symon said, urging his mount forward again.
As Graylin followed, he squinted at the woods. He spotted no lurkers, but he heeded Symon. He even whistled for Aamon and Kalder to draw closer. He didn’t need to start a war before they even reached the coast.
A quarter league later, he realized they weren’t approaching the coast. We’re already there. A crack to his left suddenly billowed with salty spray and a great gust of air.
A blowhole.
He surveyed the terrain around him with a sharper eye. While the forest seemed to stretch flat ahead, the ground was split with dark cracks, echoing with churning water and steaming with mists. As they continued, those crevices merged into deep-cut channels, eventually building toward the fjords facing the sea.
Symon stopped, lifted in his stirrups, and searched a moment.
“Are you lost?” Graylin huffed at him.
“No,” he answered, but he did not sound all that sure. “Better to be cautious than ride yourself straight off a cliff or down a watery hole. There’s a reason no one has ever been able to root these hard folk out of even harder rock.”
Worried by the alchymist’s words, Graylin whistled again and signaled Aamon and Kalder to join the wagon. Two shadows slipped out of the woods behind them. The vargr panted, tails swishing, tufted ears cocked high.
Symon’s mare whinnied in fear and bucked. Only a grab at the pommel kept the alchymist in his saddle. He swore and fought his mount to a nervous shifting of hooves.
Graylin’s brothers stayed put, though Kalder lowered his muzzle and eyed the horse’s dance. The pair were surely hungry.
Symon glared over at Graylin. “Warn me next time. Nearly pissed myself.”
“What?” Graylin enjoyed his companion’s irritation. “Did you not hear my whistle?”
Symon grumbled and twisted forward in his saddle. “This way.”
They set off again, winding a path that only Symon seemed to know.
Or at least, pretended to know.
A FTER AN ENDLESS course that meandered one way, then the other, a low growl rose behind the wagon. Graylin stiffened in his seat. As if summoned by that rumble, a clutch of a dozen men in dark green cloaks appeared out of the woods, blocking the way ahead.
“Stay here,” Symon ordered, and walked his mare forward to meet them.
Graylin could not hear what was said, but he noted an occasional branch crack to the right and left, indicating there were others hiding in these woods. Behind him, his brothers’ ears swiveled, tracking the noises while not moving their heads. Furry hackles rose down their spines, as if testing the air for threat.
Ahead, Symon turned high in his saddle and waved him over. Graylin tapped the reins and got the wagon trundling to join the alchymist. The cloaked group faded back into the woods, except for a pair who led the way from here.
As they continued through the broken woods, Graylin caught peeks of the blue sea, ruffled by ridges of white. But they weren’t traveling that far. The escorts took them to a wide crack, bordered by a precarious road descending along one side. Over its edge, black water gurgled and thrashed far below.
Symon showed no hesitation as he headed down. Graylin followed, easing his wagon onto that narrow path. Aamon and Kalder padded behind, drawing closer.
The road diverged from the crack and crossed into a damp tunnel lined by torches. The scent of the sea filled the passageway, stinging the nose with salt and a faint taint of tangleweed bloom. He pictured the choked seas a hundred leagues to the south. The thick mass of floating weed ran in a continuous wide swath from this coast over to the swamps of Myr, creating a natural barrier against any swift invasion from the south, not unlike the broken shoals and atolls of the Shield Islands on the far side of Hálendii. Those natural barriers had protected the kingdom for ages on end, thwarting any unwanted encroachment.
Graylin hoped one tiny trespass would go unnoticed. He could still feel the scroll of parchment and crumble of wax in his fingers. The words written there blazed in his head.
I must not fail.
He knew he could never survive this second chance if it proved fruitless.
Finally, after a long winding descent, the way ahead brightened with blinding light. In short order, the tunnel emptied out onto a wide sandy beach that framed a silvery blue pool, open to the Eventoll sky. To the right, a languid river flowed away, coursing between towering walls toward the sea. On the left, a huge waterfall thundered into the water, casting up a mist that filled the scalloped valley. All around, the cliffs were damp, coated in dripping ferns and thick matts of emerald moss.
Graylin followed Symon and his escorts out onto the beach. Men and women bustled about. Crates were piled at the pool’s edge. Along the cliff walls, overhung by a lip of rock, rose a ramshackle wooden village. It stacked haphazardly upward, traversed by ladders, wooden steps, swaying bridges, and rope pulleys. A merriment of drums, pipes, and strings carried from there, along with rough laughter, shouts, and barked orders. The place hung with smoke from scores of stone hearths and sizzling iron braziers.
He and Symon headed across the strand toward the pile of crates alongside the pool. As they passed, heads turned, barely showing any interest—then turned again, upon spotting the pair of vargr trailing the laden wagon. People froze. Children were tugged behind parents. A few of the bravest risked stepping closer; most retreated back warily.
A loud voice cut through the thunder and bustle. “Here with you!”
Graylin turned from the village to the high stack of crates and barrels. A tall figure swept through the men working there and strode forward to meet them. He wore a dark blue half-cloak that flagged behind him. It matched his tunic and breeches, which looked to be belted in eelskin, with calf-high boots of the same leather.
He wore a huge smile that Graylin did not trust.
No one is that happy.
Symon slid from his mare and gave the man a big hug and a slap on the back for good measure. “Well met, Darant.”
The two spoke for a bit, catching up, speaking about the weather and rumors of war.
Graylin used the time to size up the stranger, who, according to Symon, led one of the rough clans that made this shattered coast their home. The brigand’s hair, cut to the shoulder and loose, was so black that it appeared nearly blue, a close match to his clothing. His eyes were black diamonds, glinting from the salt-scoured hard planes of his face, which he kept clean-shaven.
Graylin tried to surmise his age. The pirate appeared to be a few years younger than him, but he could easily be a decade older. It was something about his eyes that seemed to age him. But Graylin paid particular attention to the two swords at his waist. The scabbards were too thin, tellingly so.
Whipswords.
Such Klashean blades were as thin as his finger at the hilt and stretched to a point so fine as to be nearly invisible. The steel was crafted by alchymists in some arcane method that made the swords nearly unbreakable, yet still flexible. In the hands of Klashean sword-dancers, they could transform from piercing steel to thrashing whips in a blink. Only the truest masters dared to wield two at the same time.
Graylin took this fact into account about the pirate.
Despite the ongoing banter, Graylin knew Darant was appraising him as well. His dark eyes flicked toward him, taking in much with each glance. The brigand’s face was unreadable, a mask of merriment. The only break was when Aamon and Kalder hopped onto the wagon and set about sniffing the dried slabs of salted game. As Darant eyed them, something darker broke through his bright demeanor, then just as quickly it vanished.
Finally, Symon turned and pointed at Graylin. “This is the man who needs passage to Hálendii.”
“To Havensfayre, you mean,” Darant corrected. “While I might only be a seafaring man, I know that town is farther afield than the coast.”
Graylin glanced sharply at Symon. How does this brigand know my final destination?
Symon ignored his expression. “True,” he admitted to Darant, and handed the man a folded paper. “Here is a list of all the goods we have to barter. The load should easily fetch two gold marches and a fistful of silver eyries, more than enough for passage on your swiftest ship.”
“My swiftest ship?” He cocked a brow at Symon. “She’s already underway, mark my word. But I’ll be the judge if this bill of sale suffices.”
Graylin stewed as the brigand inspected the list. Darant eyed the wagon every now and then, as if making sure what was written matched what was loaded. Graylin had no fear of any discrepancies. He would not cheat the man.
With a final harrumph, Darant lowered the sheet and reached an assessment. “I also want the pony.”
Graylin stiffened, glancing over the rump of his stout beast. He had bought the pony four winters back and could find no fault with the animal. The plan was for Symon to guide the pony and wagon over to Savik and stable the horse until Graylin could return.
If I return.
“Hold on,” Symon said. “That’s no slouch-backed nag. That’s a pure Aglerolarpok in his prime. He’s worth as much as what’s in that wagon and the wagon itself.”
Darant shrugged, crossed his arms, and waited.
Symon glanced toward Graylin, leaving the decision to him.
“Done,” Graylin said.
“Mes wondres,” Darant said in Klashean, and clapped his hands smartly and held his palms toward them, declaring the deal done.
Symon shook his head, and Graylin glanced toward the river flowing to the sea, anxious to be underway.
Darant cleared his throat. “Now to the true identity of my cargo. You’re Graylin sy Moor, I believe.”
Graylin whipped around so fast, his neck pinched with pain. He glared at Symon, but the alchymist looked equally shocked.
Darant merely smiled, his expression just as merry, but maybe a tad harder. “You are not the only one who trades in secrets, Symon. The clans also have eyes and ears across this coast. We collect secrets and keep them as preciously as jewels. It was not hard to discern who arrived under a false name. Especially with two vargr in tow and needing passage under such secrecy. Do not count me a fool.”
Symon sagged.
Graylin’s heart pounded, his face burned with fury. “What do you want for your silence?”
Darant shrugged. “Nothing you don’t have plenty of. I’m sure you can spare one.”
Graylin’s fists tightened on his reins, knowing what the bastard would say next.
“I want one of your vargr,” Darant confirmed. “I’ll let you pick which one.”
Never.
He glanced over his shoulder to his two brothers. The pair were as much a part of his heart as what beat in his chest. “Anything else but one of them,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Fair enough,” Darant said. “What else do you have to trade instead?”
Graylin shifted his palm to the sword lashed to the back of the wagon’s seat. Heartsthorn had been in his family for countless generations. But it was just steel. Apparently, Darant thought so, too.
“I have no need for another blade,” the pirate said. “And if you draw it, I will prove the two I carry are more than a match for your one.”
Graylin withdrew his hand.
Symon stared up at him with pained, apologetic eyes. Graylin remembered the alchymist’s earlier admonishment in dealing with this man: Darant will honor a pact, insomuch as the reward outweighs the price of a betrayal.
Graylin knew he needed the brigand’s loyalty, no matter the cost.
He turned to his brothers in the wagon. Amber-gold eyes stared back at him. Though it tore his heart, he answered while never breaking their gaze. “Done,” he said. “But I will choose which one, as you offered.”
“So be it.”
Graylin turned back to the pirate, binding the man to the only cause that was worth this price. “But only when I return. Until then, they remain mine.”
Darant turned one eye toward him, then another, like a curious hawk. Then he gave a nod, clapped his hands, and bared his palms. “Done.”
Graylin turned back to the river. “So where is this ship of yours?”
“It’s already here,” Darant said. “Just waiting for us all to come to a satisfactory conclusion.”
Graylin faced around in time to see the blunt nose of a large ship push through the waterfall from behind. He now understood why Symon had shared Graylin’s destination of Havensfayre, a town buried in the highlands of Cloudreach. The passage that Symon had booked for Graylin was not just to the coast of Hálendii.
Graylin gaped as the craft edged out of the cascade, parting through it, revealing the breadth of the balloon and the ship cabled below it. It was not one of the colossal wyndships that plied the skies with cargo and passengers, but a smaller attack craft—a swyftship—used by many armies of the Crown. It had special ballasts of obscure alchymies that when set aflame could drive the ship far faster, allowing it to defy the winds and maneuver deftly during battles.
Darant nudged Symon. “You said you needed a swift ship.”
“You are a man of your word.”
Graylin climbed down from the wagon, signaling Aamon and Kalder to his side. The two vargr watched the ship pass out of the falls, its balloon continuing to shed water that rained into the pool below. A spate of fire, nestled within paddles of draft-iron at the stern, burst forth, and the craft glided smoothly over to hang at the beach’s edge.
Mooring lines were quickly secured. A gangplank pushed out from the portside of the ship and dropped to the sand. Crates, barrels, and casks were loaded.
Darant returned after overseeing his crew. He kept a few steps back from the two vargr. “We’re ready to go.”
Symon turned to Graylin and clasped his forearm. “May the gods bless your path, my friend.”
“Where will you head from here?” Graylin asked.
“Ah, I have other matters that need attending. The Rose is a prickly master.” He wet a finger and stuck it in the air. “Can you not feel that shift in the wind?”
Graylin frowned. The low winds blew ever eastward, the high streams ever westward. That never changed.
Symon lowered his arm with a grin. “Something tells me your actions are but the first move in a much larger game of Knights n’ Knaves.”
Graylin sighed, tired of the enigmatic man. Maybe it’s best from here that I deal with allies who are less cryptic. He finished his good-byes and headed toward the gangplank. Aamon and Kalder trotted to either side, sticking close to his legs.
Only when he neared the beach’s edge did he realize another followed. He turned to find Darant trailing him, hiking a pack higher on one shoulder.
Graylin stopped. “Are you coming with us?”
Darant grinned. “Aye, I plan on keeping an eye on my bounty.” He waved to the two vargr. “Besides, the voyage will allow these fine brothers of yours to warm up to me.”
Both Aamon and Kalder growled, baring fangs.
Darant appeared undaunted by the challenge and passed them both, but not without giving them a wide berth. “Let’s get aboard and underway.”
Graylin stared at the brigand’s back.
So much for ridding myself of cryptic allies.