Authors: D.A. Stone

Shadow Of The Mountain (44 page)

BOOK: Shadow Of The Mountain

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“I appreciate you waiting.”

“Oh, waiting wasn’t my first choice,” Hagart said angrily. “But Gemma is aboard and she wouldn’t let me leave without you, even if my ship was torn to shit in the process.”

“I’ll pay extra,” Desik assured him through the dark.

“You’ll pay double!”

Lanard slid off his saddle and helped Lesandra down, while Tenlon dropped gingerly to the sand, mindful of his throbbing ankle. Desik and the rest of the men pushed the skiff to the water’s edge, which foamed and spit at their feet.

The warrior seated Lesandra first, then Tenlon and Lanard. After throwing the saddlebags into the back of the vessel, he helped Hagart shove off before they both jumped in on either side of him. They slid into the first swell, which hammered their boat like a rolling boulder, before emerging beyond it. Twice more they burst through white froth that soaked them through, chilling Tenlon to his core. He noticed the captain’s crewmen frantically rowing them further out at the prow of the skiff.

The boat was small, but Tenlon imagined that was because Hagart had thought there would only be two of them instead of four. The captain opened the top three buttons of his jacket and reached beneath Tenlon, sliding forth two oars.

Handing one of the oars to Desik, he nudged Tenlon with an elbow. “Ready for the fun part?” the captain asked with an odd laugh.

Hagart and Desik dug their oars into the water, the urgency of their rows heightening Tenlon’s nerves. Seawater suddenly blasted them, filling his mouth and jostling him about his seat. Caught directly in the impact zone, the wave collapsed onto them with such strength that Tenlon was surprised to see everyone still aboard when his eyes opened again.

Soon they dipped down into the trough of the next wave and Tenlon’s gaze narrowed with fear as a crack of lightning exposed another rearing wall of black water before them, its crest curled white and already beginning to drop. The oars continued to plunge down, driving their craft upwards into the monstrous swell.

The skiff tilted back as it climbed the wave, forcing Tenlon to clench his seat. Ropes and other gear slid to the rear of the vessel past his feet as their angle grew. Up they climbed, higher and higher, and Tenlon knew they were doomed. The Venda had them in her grip, and now all she had to do was flip them over and pull them down into her depths. There would be no swimming to shore for any of them, not in these turbulent waters.

Despite their apparent defeat, the men still labored with the oars, pulling them along in a frenzied succession.

The prow of their skiff broke through the crest in a shimmering rupture, and they slammed down onto the backside of the swell with enough force to jar Tenlon from his seat and into the partially flooded hull.

Hagart yelled out a wild cry as they slid down the back of the wave, laughing heartily. The old sailor seemed to actually be enjoying himself. The four continued to row over the mountainous waves, but the next burst of lightning revealed that they were beyond the breaking point. The stinging rain still assaulted them from all directions, but they’d made it out to open water.

The
Lancer
loomed ahead, a black silhouette that rose and fell with the undulating sea.

Hagart pulled his oar in as they coasted toward the ship.

Desik continued to row, the motions leisurely. “Once we’re underway, I want you to head west, along the coast.”

“Oh yes?” Hagart asked with surprise. “And why is that? East will see you ahead of the Volrathi advance. West will see you dead within a month of wherever I drop you.”

“Not if you take me to the Prazi Isles.”

Hagart laughed again, buttoning his jacket up once more. “Den Prazi? You’ll have a warmer welcome at the hands of the Volrathi. If you’re suggesting I sail my men into Guardship territory, you’re--”

“It will be fine,” Desik assured him. “I have friends there and, like I said…I can pay.”

The storm spit forth another spear of lightning and within its burst Tenlon saw the
Lancer
rocking crisp and bright. A handful of Hagart’s crew lined the rail, and rope netting was dropped down, its end splashing into the water.

As they approached the ship, he could sense the hidden egg within, buried deep below deck. He was connected to it in some strange way. If he focused he could even feel its heartbeat, its warmth and strength. The egg’s life-force rippled across the air and he was aware of it, like sunlight against his soul, even through the thrashing storm.

They’d escaped Ebnan and the time for it to hatch was near, he knew.

Soon they would have a dragon, and a dragon could change world.

Epilogue

Brock and Gerta were laying linens over the bar and furniture in the Lonely Fox. The back entrance was already chained and the windows were all boarded up tight. Their bags were packed and a small wagon was waiting for them out front. Gerta had a sister who lived in eastern Varishna—a bitter hag of a woman, but anywhere was better than here. It would take them a few weeks to reach the western lands and it was high time they left Korando. Volrathi troops were making their way to the coastal cities and now that Gemma was safely aboard the
Lancer
, they’d best be on their way too.

It would be an adventure, he told himself. Just like the days of his youth.

The wind and rain outside was fierce, shaking the closed shutters and buffeting the tavern walls, causing the hanging lanterns to rattle. Someone shook the main entrance door from the outside, but the locking bar was already in place and no one could enter. Whoever wanted a drink and shelter from the storm would have to find it somewhere else.

The door was rammed from the street, splintering the top edge. Brock and Gerta exchanged worried glances. Were they too late?

“Out the back with you,” he told his wife as he ran behind the bar.

Another crash shattered the door open even wider. Dark helms and armor could be seen beyond. Black eyes looking in.

“No,” Gerta said as she stood next to him, her tone firm. “I’m not leaving you.”

Brock gathered his great sword from above the mirror. “You were always a terrible pain in my ass,” he said, lifting her up with one arm and kissing her deeply.

The next blow smashed the door to shards.

Brock placed Gerta back on her feet as armed men stormed into his tavern. Their wet breastplates looked glossy in the lantern light and they brandished a host of weapons.

He stepped out from the bar, sword gripped tight in both hands. The Volrathi soldiers didn’t look so frightening.

“Tavern’s closed,” he said. “Take yourselves elsewhere.”

A smaller Volrathi entered; this one was wolf-lean with sharp eyes and an arrogant strut. The milling warriors gave him space. Brock saw two men shuffle in after him—one blond with a welt on his forehead, the other Gil, arm in a sling. They were the boys Desik had roughed up earlier, Okin’s men.

“Is this the place?” the slim Volrathi asked.

“Yeah,” Gil answered nervously.

The Volrathi looked to Brock, letting out a defeated sigh. “A man with markings on his arm and a boy were here earlier. They’ve left on a ship with something that’s very important to me. I need the name of the ship and its destination.”

“I’d give them up in a heartbeat,” Brock said truthfully. “But they’ve got something with them that’s important to me too, and I won’t help any Volrathi cunt-scabs bring harm to them.”

The slender man laughed. “My people and I do not board ships—not anymore at least. I’ll be sending out Okin’s men to track them down. The one with the bronze ram? What’s she called? The
Rapture
?”

“No!” Gerta yelled.

The Volrathi tapped his lips with a finger before pointing from Brock to his wife. “She knows of the ship I’m looking for, doesn’t she?”

“You don’t look at her,” Brock growled, stepping forward with sword ready. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t--”

The small Volrathi’s hand shot forward and a flash of light filled the tavern, bright as the sun.

Brock’s heavy sword spun out, clattering to the floor.

When Gerta opened her eyes, she was covered in her husband’s blood. Brock was in a heap on the floor, his head and upper torso reduced to a splattered stain across the linen-covered bar and wide mirror.

Gerta screamed, falling to his side.

“Now,” the Volrathi said, bending down next to her. “We are going to have a conversation. You know things, things that I would also like to know.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Growing up in small town USA and encouraged by his parents as well as some pretty great elementary school teachers, D.A. Stone was easily drawn to a love of reading. He began at age eight with his favorite
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi
(Kipling) and moved quickly to
Watership Down
(Richard Adams). In his teens, he delved into reading just about everything he could and especially enjoyed spending the midnight hours with a copy of the latest Stephen King novel never far from reach.

When D.A. began to write, his obsession to find his vision would eventually lead him to discover the power of fantasy. In his own words, “The fantastical can exist, but only if your execution of it is solid. It is escapism, but when done properly and you strip all the layers of any fantasy story down to the bones, you see that there is usually something very simple and truthful staring back at you. For a writer, it’s freedom.”

D.A. lives in a small town outside of Philadelphia, where he plans his many world travels (another passion).
Shadow of the Mountain
is his first novel.

CREDITS

This book is a work of art produced by Luthando Coeur,
an imprint of The Zharmae Publishing Press.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

James Crewe

COVER ARTIST

Randy Garcia

COVER DESIGNER

Joel Garza

TYPESETTER

Shaughnessey Marshall

COPY EDITOR

Amanda Kreklau