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Authors: David Farland

BOOK: Sons of the Oak
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ROUGH WATERS
Hope is the father of all virtues. Crush a man's hope, and you will sever him from the source of all decency.
 
—Shadoath
 
 
 
At eight weeks, the coasts could not be spotted and Fallion was informed by the far-seer in the crow's nest that they were in the realm “Beyond Inkarra.”
Inkarra had always been the edge of the world to Fallion. It was a loose conglomeration of kingdoms all inhabited by folks with white skin, who worked and hunted by night. It was a forbidden realm, and no one who ventured beyond its borders came back alive.
Fallion and Jaz were ecstatic. They were sailing into the realms of legend, through the Atolls, following a string of volcanic islands to the Mariners, and then on to the far side of the world.
Stalker bent over his charts one morning, considering his course, when Fallion saw the worry in his face and asked, “What's wrong?”
“This is our course,” Stalker said, “right here through the Mariners. We're supposed to stop at Talamok. I've got goods to unload.”
“Is there some danger?”
Stalker was slow to answer. He'd been trying to reach a decision. He looked at Fallion evenly. “Pirates,” Stalker said. “I think I'll sail around it, strike for open sea. We've got enough food and water to get us 'ere, I think, if the wind 'olds.” He pointed at a small island on the charts, a place called Byteen. “It's an unin'abited island. The crew can scurry out and gather fruit, maybe even 'unt pigs. How would you like that, eh? 'Unt some wild pigs?”
Ever since his childhood incident with the boar, Fallion had been terrified of pigs. But these island pigs wouldn't be near as large as the ones in Heredon.
Stalker muttered, “Course, we might 'ave to fight some sea apes for the food.”
Sea apes often lived among the Mariners, swimming from island to island to gather fish and fruit. Sometimes, whole rafts of them would swim together, hundreds of them with locked arms, forming floating islands.
“Why not go to one of the other islands?” Fallion asked. There were dozens to choose from, maybe even hundreds, including at least one called Syndyllian that was two hundred miles across and showed three ports.
“Shadoath controls them islands.”
Fallion stood for a moment, unnerved. He'd heard that name before. “Shadoath is a pirate?” Fallion probed.
“You 'eard of 'er?” Stalker asked.
“I heard her name, once or twice,” Fallion admitted. “Who is she?”
Stalker wondered. The boy didn't even seem to know that she had put a price on his head, much less that Stalker had just been worrying about whether he should accept her price. To do anything else was foolish.
“She's a pirate lord,” Stalker said. “A bad one, a powerful Runelord. A man that's taken endowments out 'ere is rarer than a two-'eaded goat. Blood metal is 'ard to come by, and we got this saying: ‘'Im what's got a handful of endowments can rule the sea.' She's got more than a 'andful, she 'as.
“She came out of nowhere just a few years back, 'bout the time you were born, and built a fortress down 'ere in Derrabee.” He pointed to a large island. “It wasn't long a'fore she got a few ships, took control of the Mariners.” He waved, indicating the entire chain of islands.
“Can't anyone stop her?” Fallion asked.
“The only folks that care is them that lives in Landesfallen, and there aren't many of us. Maybe a dozen traders ply the waters these days. Landesfallen 'asn't got a real navy.”
There was a look of such hurt on Stalker's face that Fallion dared not ask about the battles he'd fought. Fallion could see that Shadoath had beaten him.
“I pay protection money to 'er now. She lets the
Leviathan
pass. But
sometimes she boards us. That black ship that's been followin' us? That's one of 'ers.”
For the first time in weeks Fallion felt truly unnerved. Shadoath was Asgaroth's master. They hunted together. Like wolves, his mother had said. Like wolves.
Shadoath is ahead of us, Fallion realized. And Asgaroth came out of the west, chasing me toward the edge of the world—into Shadoath's path.
Stalker was right to mistrust the course ahead. His plan sounded good—sail around the islands, keep as much distance as he could.
For his part, Stalker looked at Fallion and realized that he could not turn the boy over, no matter what the reward. Stalker had grown too close to Fallion in the past few weeks. He was a good lad—smart, capable. He had become like one of the sons that he should have had.
I'll die before I let her have him, Stalker told himself. Besides, the crew sees him as one of us, now. They'd probably mutiny if I sold him off.
Fallion peered at the map, eyeing it distrustfully. Stalker's plan gave him some comfort. Yet Fallion felt a strange certainty in his gut. It was his destiny to meet Shadoath.
The ends of the Earth are not far enough.
Fallion went to his cabin and spent the morning honing his blade.
 
 
 
The winds didn't hold. Stalker sailed north, trying to bypass the Mariners, but for the next two weeks the sails were slack, and it would take a good storm to drive the ship past the islands.
It was late in the hurricane season, and Stalker had dared hope that he'd not see one this year.
But the sails went slack altogether one morning, and the sea ape Unkannunk began to roar and slam his huge club against the deck, pounding and pounding in a fit of madness. Stalker came out of his cabin and found himself staring at a sunrise that struck fear into his belly.
The sky on the horizon was the blue-green of a bruise, and the air was as heavy as a wet blanket. You could feel the lightning in the air, little pinpricks crawling over the back of your neck.
“Drop the sails,” Stalker ordered. “Batten the 'atches, and strap yourselves down.”
There was no port to make for. They were fifty miles north of the nearest island, at the very least. Navigating on the open water like this was always part guesswork, and Stalker only had a general idea of where he was.
Myrrima felt it, too. She woke in the morning in solemn terror and didn't take time to eat or clothe her children. She spent the morning on a rope ladder, drawing runes of protection on the ship, runes of strength to hold it together, runes of way-finding to guide the steersman's course.
Then it came. The clouds gathered over the heavens, sealing off the sunlight, and the thunder could be heard in the distance. Then the explosive bursts of light came, high in the clouds.
The seas began to pitch and the storm rolled in lightly, the wind singing through the rigging. When the first patters of rain started, Myrrima brought the children down into the hold, into the dark, where only a single lantern swaying on a hook gave any light.
Captain Stalker stayed above decks and watched the hurricane come in, three men lashed to the wheel, trying to guide the ship.
There are no words that can describe the terror of a storm at sea, winds of ninety miles an hour shrieking through the masts, waves crashing down over the bow so that the boat shudders under your feet as if it will tear apart, that moment when the boat climbs and climbs and climbs up an eighty-foot wave, only to reach the top, and then come crashing down into the wallow with a bone-crushing jar.
Down in the hold, the children wept and moaned. Seasoned crewmen who never got seasick grew ill and lay in their own vomit, wishing for death, wishing with each moment that on the next wave, the ship would tear asunder and yet also fearing to the core of their being that on the next wave the ship would founder.
Lightning took the mainmast. A bolt of it struck the masthead and sent a line of fire running down the beam, almost to the deck.
Stalker didn't worry about the fire. The rain was driving so hard that you couldn't open your mouth without getting a drink, and mountains of water crashed over the railing.
The fire would sputter for a few minutes, then die.
Amid the high winds, the weakened mast gave a tattletale cracking sound, and the ropes in the rigging began to snap.
Before Stalker could shout a warning, it toppled, falling backward into the mizzenmast, snapping spars, so that both masts fell in a tangle of rope.
The ship twisted beneath their feet, listing to starboard.
The heavy masts tangled in the rigging. As the masts fell, the ship lost balance and canted precariously.
If the men didn't cut the masts free, a wave would take them broadside and capsize the ship.
Suddenly a dozen sailors rushed up from below decks, swords and axes in hands, chopping at the tie lines and rigging, trying to cut the fallen masts free. Stalker and the steersmen grabbed the wheel, tried to aim the ship's prow into the waves, but it felt as if the rudder were gripped by a giant hand, and three men together could not budge it. The fallen mast gave too much drag.
Stalker abandoned the wheel and rushed to help cut the damned masts free.
The waves caught the ship broadside, and he lost his footing, went down beneath a wall of water that came cascading over the railing.
Three crewmen went flying overboard, into the white surf, their mouths working uselessly, their cries for help stolen in the roar of the wind, the pounding of the sea.
And then there was a crack, and a line snapped, the rope slapping Stalker's face like a bullwhip, and the mainmast went sliding into the sea.
He himself followed, gravity pulling him downward. He tried to catch himself with his feet, bracing them to take all of his weight as he slid down the slick decks toward the railing.
It didn't work. He hit the rail and his legs gave way beneath him. He found himself toppling overboard. Only years at sea kept his mind steady enough so that he twisted in the air and grabbed onto the railing with both hands, clinging for dear life.
The ship rolled over a smaller wave, and now suddenly the boat lifted and turned. Stalker clung to the railing as the ship seemed to rise beneath him like a mountain. He was suddenly plastered against the outside of the hull, his weight sustained by it, and peering down across the deck to the trough of the next wave.
Inwardly, he prayed that the ship would hold together.
SYNDYLLIAN
Children always imagine that evil resides somewhere far away, perhaps in a mysterious land far beyond their borders. But every man knows where it can be found. It is as near as your own heart.
 
—Gaborn Val Orden
 
 
 
When the storm finally cleared, Captain Stalker found that he'd lost seven members of the crew, including Endo.
The last that he had seen of the man, Endo was treading water in incredibly rough seas, trying to keep his head above the whitecaps. His faithful sea ape, Unkannunk, howled in dismay and leapt into the wash to save him, but a huge breaker crashed over the two, and by the time the water cleared, both of them were lost to view.
The only thing that saved Stalker himself was dumb luck.
The ship was a wreck. The mainmast and mizzenmast were gone completely, and much of the upper deck was broken and in a shambles.
The storm had blown them far off course to the east and north—that much Stalker could tell just by the water: it was deeper green than it should have been, from too much algae, and its surfaces were all hard angles. That only came from cold water funneling down from the arctic currents.
In their current condition, it would take a couple of weeks just to limp to some island among the Mariners. And they wouldn't be able to just dodge onto some uninhabited island. They'd need a proper port, one where they could get the masts replaced, buy enough tarp for some new sails.
Sailing on to Byteen was out of the question. There was only one place to go: Syndyllian.
 
 
“We're goin' to get boarded,” Stalker told Borenson and Myrrima that night. “There's rumors that Shadoath is searchin' for your boys. I mean to see that she doesn't find 'em.”
“Are you sure that we have to go to Syndyllian?” Myrrima asked.
“It's the only island in the chain that's got proper trees on it,” Stalker argued. “We might take on food and water elsewhere, even buy some new sails, but we can't repair the masts … and without them, we're almost dead in the water. We outran that little black schooner twice, but we won't do it again.”
“So what do you propose?” Borenson asked.
Stalker had it all figured. But he needed Borenson and Myrrima to agree to his plan.
“I figure it will take a few days to get the masts fitted,” Stalker said. “I've 'ad business dealin's with Shadoath in the past. I pay for free passage through the Mariners. So me and the ship shouldn't be in any trouble. I'm thinkin' we can sail into port at night, under cover of darkness. But before we make port, we'll lower a boat, and you, Mr. Borenson, can row the boys ashore. You'll need to stay 'id. You should be fine for a week. Then just keep watch for the ship at night. When we sail out to sea, we'll drop anchor near the beach, and you can row out to meet us.”
Borenson considered the plan. It sounded simple enough. Syndyllian was a big island, from all that Borenson had heard, and had been well settled for hundreds of years. There was plenty of fresh water, plenty of farms and peasant huts.
He looked to Myrrima for approval. She was the wizardess, after all. And she was the one who would have to stay with their children, perhaps even endure the scrutiny of Shadoath. “I can take the boys,” he said. “But I'm not sure that I want to leave you and the children. We could all go. We could all hide out together.”
Myrrima bent her head, deep in thought. Her heart was full of misgivings. She didn't know what kind of shelter they might find in the wild, what foods they would be forced to eat. Myrrima could handle it, but it would be
harder on the little ones. Worse, Myrrima was still nursing Erin, and at three, Sage would never be able to remember that they were in hiding.
“I'll stay with the children, and keep Rhianna,” Myrrima finally decided. “You take the boys into hiding.”
Her misgivings were fierce, though, and she rocked back and forth on her stool, wondering.
 
 
 
In her fortress on Syndyllian that night, Shadoath walked upon the veranda of her palace, under the stars.
Outside in the valley below, the barracks of her armies stretched for miles, dark tents covering the land. And as the stars twinkled in the heavens above, the campfires and forge fires glittered below her.
Shadoath had taken hundreds of endowments of stamina, brawn, grace, and will. She no longer needed to sleep.
But she rested, walking alone under the starlight, her eyes unfocused, in a waking dream.
That's when the Sending came.
Asgaroth appeared to her not in any human form, but with a hideous face, as if to reveal the monster that he was. He spoke only two words: “We come.”
The vision faded, and Shadoath smiled. For nine years she had been on this miserable little world, preparing.
Now, the torch-bearer was on his way.
 
 
 
Nine days later, the
Leviathan
reached Syndyllian. Captain Stalker had apprised the crew of his plan and sworn the men to secrecy.
It was only at the last instant, as the boat lay under the stars on the north shore of the island, that Rhianna informed them all that she would be going with the boys.
Myrrima was prepared for it. The girl was growing more and more dependent upon Fallion. At night, evil dreams kept her awake, and it wasn't until she was lying by Fallion's side that she could sleep.
Reluctantly, Myrrima gave her consent. Borenson and the children climbed down the ladder to the ship's boat. Borenson rowed away, the big
boat riding lightly on the sea as it made for the gentle white sands of Syndyllian.
The captain marked the spot with the navigator, choosing a pair of mountains in the distance as a point of reference for their return.
An hour later, the
Leviathan
sailed into the port city of Mannesfree under a gentle breeze as the moon rose so huge out above the sea that the last of the roosters down in the hold thought the sun was rising and began to crow.
They eased into port and found the waters still and glassy, with four other ships already lying in harbor. It was not a huge port. A steep hill rose to the south, and they were at the mouth of a deep river. A few inns and shacks crouched along the pier. Myrrima could see the fishermen's nets hanging by the docks, where they were dried and mended.
To the north, a small city sprawled across a fertile plain.
It felt cozy and idyllic.
There was singing coming from a little shanty by the waterside, and the sounds of woodwinds and drums. So late in the night, few other folks in the city seemed to be awake. A single lantern gleamed over the water.
The city seemed almost abandoned.
No smoke rose from the chimneys. No lights shined from the windows.
Stalker studied the scene with evident concern. “'Aven't been in port 'ere for five years. Used to be a jumpin' place. Busier than this.”
Myrrima stood on deck, peering anxiously. One of the ships lying in port had black masts.
Sitting upon a barrel behind her, Smoker inhaled deeply on his pipe, a red glow forming in his hands around the bowl, and peered out over the water, his face wrinkling in concern. He said to Myrrima, “Something wrong.”
Myrrima could not fathom why everything was so dead.

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