Perilous Seas (12 page)

And
she was with Azak. Azak was a problem, but he was also a superb protector, and
in his strange guise of lover, he had turned out to be extremely good company.
Very rarely now did he send shivers of distaste down her spine as he had done
sometimes in Arakkaran when he raged at the princes. He was courteous and
considerate, and at times even fun. He had a quite astonishing sense of humor,
although it was unpredictable, as if it were something he had suppressed in his
childhood as unworthy and was now trying to rediscover. And to be wooed by a
giant young sultan was certainly a powerful aid to a girl’s selfesteem.

Azak
as traveling companion-fine. As defender in the wilds-also fine. But Azak in
Krasnegar? Azak as husband? Could this really be the love the God had promised
Inos? She must trust in love, They had said. She was inclined to believe now
that Azak was, incredibly, truly in love with her. He certainly displayed all
the symptoms. She must trust the God, then. She must not listen to the
insidious tremors of doubt she felt when she tried to think of Azak ruling the
prosaic merchants of Krasnegar.

She
tried not to think of Krasnegar at all, especially in the gloomy dark of night.
She slept badly, missing Elkarath’s sleep spell, and even missing the
straw pallets of caravan life. Those had seemed very uncomfortable at first,
but a single blanket on bare ground was much worse. So her nights were filled
with restless turnings and gloomy thoughts.

Krasnegar,
more than likely, had no further need of her now. The wardens would have
settled the matter somehow, and there had never been anything Inos could have
done to honor the promise she had given her father. So what now, Inosolan?

Had
the God been telling her she was destined to love a barbarian and live as
sultana of Arakkaran?

The
idea of a sultana riding out to hunt in Arakkaran was almost as difficult to
grasp as the idea of Azak contentedly spearing white bears in a polar night ...
Well, she must trust in love, as the God had directed.

And
trust Azak.

At
times the mountain road was a paved highway, snaking through the eerily
deserted valleys, its ancient blocks heaved and moved by roots and landslides.
At other times there was no visible path at all, and then progress became
unbearably slow.

But
the third day brought the explorers to the barren crest of the pass, a gravelly
desert scrolled with strange patterns of rocks and overlooked by magnificent
ice-sheathed mountains. Inos thought she would remember the wind there, more
than anything.

Late
that third day they began descending along a made road, old and battered but
still mostly passable, twisting steeply down a dark and gloomy gorge into the
unknown lands of Thume.

Where
are you roaming:

O
mistress mine! where are you roaming?

Oh
stay and hear; your true love’s coming,

That
can sing both high and low.

Trip
no further, pretty sweeting;

Journeys
end in lovers meeting,

Every
wise man’s son doth know.

Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night

Battles Long Ago

Jalon’s
ordeal on Blood Wave lasted for three days. He sang and played until he was hoarse
and his fingers bled, and every second song had to be the “Battle Song of
Durthing.” Soon Rap knew it as well as Jalon did. He detested every note
and every word, hating the callous mockery of honest sailors cruelly murdered;
he mourned their wives and children even more. Gods forgive me!

The
minstrel obviously wearied of it, also. He tried to vary it, but the crew
insisted on the original version. They did accept one minor change-at about the
fortieth rendition, Jalon performed the final verse in a perfect mimicry of
young Vurjuk’s squeaky treble. He would never have dared mock any of the
others like that, but they all found this embellishment of the climax even
funnier, and thereafter it had always to be done that way. Vurjuk glowered
dangerously, and then reluctantly accepted it and pretended to like it.
Apparently mimicry was yet another facet of Jalon’s occult genius.

Several
times Rap was ordered aft to answer more questions from Kalkor. He tried to
deflect danger away from Inos and Krasnegar as well as he could, but the thane
detected every deviation from strict truth, no matter how slight. Steadily the
toll mounted until Rap was being promised thirty-two strokes from the cat-o’-nine-tails.

He
shrugged-which was hard to do convincingly while kneeling at a man’s
feet-and he tried to put some of his contempt into his still-puffy eyes. “That’s
a death sentence, then?” Kalkor looked amused. “I never bluff, lad.”

“Then
why should I answer any more of your questions? You’re going to kill me
in about as nasty a way as you can find.” The white eyebrows rose in
disbelief. “You underrate my imagination! Besides, I never said you’d
have to take all thirtytwo strokes at the same time. We can spread them out-one
or two a day. You can make a career out of it. “ The blue-blue eyes
glinted. “A seer deserves some consideration.”

A
truly brave man ought to prefer dying on the first handy tree, rather than be
conscripted into a pack of jotunn raiders. “Thirty-two and counting,”
Kalkor said. “Next question . . . “

On
one topic only could Rap deceive the sharp-witted thane, and there he had no
choice. As soon as the questions drew near to the importance of Faerie and the
source of magic, Rap’s tongue would run away with him and he would start
lying like a vagrant horse trader. Those lies Kalkor seemingly accepted,
however fantastic they seemed to the man telling them, but of course they
sprang from sorcery, the forbiddance laid upon Rap by Oothiana. He could not
tell that secret if he tried.

Except
for those interrogations, Rap was completely ignored, and so was Gathmor. The
sailor was recovering his physical strength, but his mind seemed to have
snapped under the strain of captivity, or else from the loss of his ship and
family. Dulleyed and morose, he spent hours curled up, ignoring everything, not
even replying to questions. The prisoners were given food and water, but only
if they begged for them on their knees. Gathmor either could not or would not
do such a thing, so Rap had to beg for two, begging being better than hunger
and thirst. If he hoped to live beyond the next landfall, he must hope to
escape, and for escape he would need his strength-so he told himself as he
groveled, but the sustenance he gained thereby seemed strangely tasteless.

The
wind faltered, recovered, veered southerly, then westerly, yet it never failed
enough for Kalkor to order rowing; it never again became a full gale. And on
the third afternoon, at about the fiftieth repetition of Jalon’s battle
song, the lookout spied land.

Like
Andor’s and unlike Rap’s, Kalkor’s word of power seemed to
bring him luck. His ship was bearing down on an unknown lee shore in a spanking
wind, but his course brought him within sight of exactly what he wanted, an
isolated village.

The
land was green, hilly and wooded, if not as lush as Faerie or Kith. Within the
stretches of forest, too, lay many stretches of open grassland and even barren
rock, which Rap found puzzling. By and large, though, the country seemed
fertile-why was it not more populated?

And
when Blood Wave was close enough for sharp eyes and farsight to make out
details, there was a river mouth coming up ahead, and a cluster of small
cottages. None of the buildings could possibly be a barracks, and if there were
boats, they must be small. So this was no Imperial outpost with a naval
squadron or a garrison, and those were all that raiders need fear.

The
jotnar took out their axes for more sharpening, and demanded the most spirited
songs the minstrel knew; they began talking themselves up into bloodlust. Rap
found the process horrible and in some perverse way fascinating. The pirates
never paused to consider that a tiny fraction of the wealth their vessel
carried would buy them all the food and shelter they could usethe idea of a
peaceful visit never entered their minds. They bragged of how they would kill
and kill, rape and rape. They challenged each other to fiendish contests in
atrocity. Before long they were so aroused that they could hardly contain
themselves. Their eyes rolled in their heads, and some were drooling like
imbeciles. Many stripped naked as if even their usual scanty clothing might
somehow restrain their actions. And yet this was the crew that had lined up in
solid silent discipline along the beach at Durthing-small wonder that the
raiders of Nordland were the terror of Pandemia.

Suddenly
the minstrel was ordered to cease, although he had been barely audible over the
manic babble anyway. Kalkor was up on the half deck beside the helmsman,
roaring orders through a trumpet. Men leaped to their benches and the oars were
run out. Rap and Gathmor, who had been huddling in the bow, making themselves
inconspicuous amid the madness, were ordered aft. Amidships they passed Jalon
as he staggered forward, ashen pale under his sunburn, sucking swollen, bleeding
fingers.

The
sail was furled in the bunt; the coxswain began piping a stroke.

Now
Rap received the job offer he had been expecting all along. Kalkor stepped to
the edge of the tiny half deck and stared down at him with contempt gleaming in
too-blue eyes. “Well, faun? I was told you were pilot on that floating
brothel your friend ran?”

“Aye,
sir.”

“Then
let us see how you manage a longship. Up here with you. And if you prove
yourself useful, I may decide to postpone the flogging for a while. Some of it,
anyway. “

Seeing
no viable alternative, Rap clambered up the little ladder to join the thane and
his helmsman on the poop.

“And
you-whatever your name is-” Kalkor said to the scowling Gathmor. “Cast
an eye at that shore and tell me where we are.”

Gathmor
was pale and sullen, not the man Rap had known. No jotunn should have taken
such a tone, especially him, but he turned obediently to study the landscape
and then looked back up at Kalkor.

“I
have never seen its like. It is not Kith, nor any part of Sysannaso I have ever
visited.”

“And
not Pithmot, I think,” Kalkor said, with a smirk. “So we know where
we are, don’t we?”

Dragon
Reach? It had to be Dragon Reach! A strange warn thrill tingled Rap’s
skin as he realized the implications of Dragon Reach.

“Vurjuk!”
shouted Kalkor.

The
gangling young raider was sitting on the nearest bench, wearing nothing but a
conical steel helmet and a self-conscious expression. He was unpaired and thus
had not put out an oar. He sprang up. “Aye, sir?”

“Get
a weapon and keep an eye on this jotunn woman. If he causes any trouble, kill
him.”

“Aye,
aye, sir!” Vurjuk said in an enthusiastic squeak. He stooped to find his
battle-ax under the bench. A sword or dagger would have been more appropriate
at such close quarters, Rap thought, but the youth hefted the huge ax in one
hand and stepped closer to Gathmor. He was a head taller and dangerous in the
extreme, yet Gathmor did not even deign to look at him.

Rap,
meanwhile, had been studying the approach, both with farsight and with eyes
that were gradually recovering from Darad’s brutality. Farsight worked
better-the sun was close to the horizon, the light tricky.

Either
way, the problem was obvious. Hastened along by the rush of the tide, Blood
Wave was skirting a long spit of rock and sand, keeping step with the breaking
swell that raked it in white plumes of spray. Beyond that sinister barrier
beckoned a clear lagoon and a friendly yellow beach, and back of them were
trees and a hamlet at the base of steep cliffs-a safe haven, with fresh water
and shelter, plus unhindered opportunity to enjoy the bloody sports of raiders.

Up
ahead, the narrow hook ended, plunging below the shining water in a frothy
confusion of rocks. And beyond them was open channel through which surged the
fearsome tide. But the rocks were what sent Rap’s heart racing. Deceptive
to the eye ... Deep below the smoothly coiling surface, he saw the frenzied
streaming of the kelp. He checked Blood Wave’s draft, and it was less
than Stormdancer’s. But it was enough. Now he must see what he was really
made of.

He
was new to the ship, so Kalkor would be wary of him, but another chance might
not come again for months, and he might never find a better natural trap. Under
the low sun that tidal rip was barely visible at all to mundane vision. If he
could position Blood Wave crosswise in that, then she would whip around and
oars would never control her. For several minutes she would be completely at
the mercy of the current, and some of those rocky teeth were shallow enough.

Other
words of power brought good fortune; perhaps his was going to come through with
some at last.

Peep!
said the coxswain’s pipe. “Steady as she goes, sir. “ Peep!

“The
gap’s clear?” Kalkor demanded suspiciously.

“Aye,
sir. Plenty.” And that was true, except that the longship would never
reach the opening Rap was looking at. Would that partial lie deceive the
jotunn? Rap’s heart was racing as it never had. He kept his face turned
to the sea. Peep!

Please,
Gods! Please let me rid the world of this monster! Rap would die, too, of
course. If the waves did not smash him on the rocks, then he would swim ashore
and the other survivors would catch him there. But surely this so-perfect
ambush had been provided by the Gods themselves?

God
of Sailors, God of Mercy, God of Justice ... As I seek to aid the Good and shun
the Evil, grant me this day courage. Peep! Peep! Oars creaked against thole
pins, heaving Blood Wave closer and closer to that sinister, inconspicuous
ripple. Peep!