Sons of the Oak (26 page)

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Authors: David Farland

BOOK: Sons of the Oak
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ON THE BEACH
To rob a man of his money is a foul thing, but to rob a child of his childhood is far more grievous.
 
—Jaz Laren Sylvarresta
 
 
 
Fallion lay beneath the boat with Rhianna, sweat pouring from him, and struggled to keep the flames at bay.
There was a fire in him indeed, he discovered. It glowed, and it was strong enough to light other fires.
He was feeling helpless and outraged at the fates that had tossed him here on the beach.
Why can't the world just leave me alone? he wanted to shout.
But the fates would not leave him alone. Fate seemed to hunt him, shadowing him like wolves, and now he lay upon the beach with Rhianna beside him while Borenson bravely held off the strengi-saats.
Jaz had not hunted for firewood for more than three minutes before he raced back, his teeth chattering from fear, and proclaimed softly, “There are shadows out there.”
The strengi-saats had found them.
“Stay close to the boat,” Borenson whispered. “Watch my back, and when I tell you, dive under the boat with the other children.”
Jaz was silent for a long, long moment, and then whispered, “What good would that do?”
What good indeed? Fallion wondered. The strengi-saats were huge. If Borenson lost against them—and he surely would lose, Fallion believed, for he was but a common man now—then the strengi-saats would take them all, play with them, batting the children around, nipping at them with massive teeth, the way that a cat takes pleasure in tormenting a mouse.
And so the fear grew in Fallion, fear and a bone-crushing sense of helplessness. He peered at his little flame, one that had sprung to life not from any match or any piece of flint, but from his own heart, and he struggled to keep it from growing, to keep it from raging across the island.
For he was filled with wrath.
Rage is born from desperation, he thought. It came like a memory, and Fallion wasn't sure if he was just repeating something that Waggit had once said, or if he had just heard it from fire.
But then he seemed to remember. “Whenever we grow angry,” his father had once said, “it is in response to a sense of helplessness. We all yearn to control our lives, our destinies. Sometimes we wish to control those around us, even need to control them. So whenever you grow angry, look at yourself, and figure out what it is that you want to control.”
Fallion remembered now. It was back when he was a child of four. His father had come home from his wanderings, from the far corners of Indhopal. He had brought Fallion a present of bright parrot feathers—yellow, red, green, and blue—to wear in his hats.
His father's voice came clear now, almost as if he were still speaking. “Once you know what it is that you want to control, focus your efforts upon that thing.”
His father had always seemed so reasonable. He always took specific instances and tried to draw larger lessons from them. He was like Smoker that way, always trying to see beyond the illusion, to learn the lessons that he insisted “life” was trying to teach.
What had it been that Fallion was angry about? A puppy. A little hunting hound that he had brought up to his room to play with. The puppy had peed on the floor, and Fallion had grown angry, for even as he told the pup to stop, it stared at him with sad eyes and finished its business.
Fallion smiled at the memory, and his anger diminished somewhat. His rage shrank, along with his desire to make a furnace of this island, burn it and everything on it.
“Sir,” Jaz whispered to Borenson. “There's three of them on the beach behind us, I think. Maybe four.”
Fallion heard the rustle of clothing as Borenson craned his neck to see. Fallion wished that he'd heard the clink of chain mail, but Borenson had
been on ship too long, where mail was bound to get rusty or bear a man down into a watery grave. He wore no mail tonight.
“Just two,” Borenson said. “Those others are driftwood. Tell me if they come closer.”
So Jaz was imagining things.
Fallion's heart was pounding. Rhianna squirmed a bit, and Fallion clung to her. He could feel her heart, too, pounding in her chest, like a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage.
The moon continued to rise; a silver light spilled out over the white sands. A ghost crab came scuttling under the boat as if seeking to hide under a rock, and Fallion watched it dully, then flicked it back out with his fingers.
At long last, Borenson breathed softly in resignation. “Fallion, light the fires.”
Fallion did not have to think about it. Light poured from him. He did not see it, but he could feel it. It raged from his chest, slammed into the pile of grass and driftwood, and suddenly there was a beacon of fire, blazing with light, sending oily smoke into the sky.
The light was far brighter than any normal fire, brighter even than a forge. Fallion wanted it what way. He wanted to flood the sands with light.
There was a snarl of surprise from a strengi-saat, and faintly Fallion could feel a pounding through the sand as one of the monsters leapt away.
“All right,” Borenson said with a chuckle. “You can stop now. They're gone. For the moment.”
What Fallion didn't know was that Borenson breathed a huge sigh of relief. He'd seen a shadow growing before them, knew that a strengi-saat was sneaking in. But he'd never imagined how close it had come. The monster had almost been breathing on him.
Fallion crept out from under the boat, and Rhianna followed. Both of them held naked blades, and it felt good to see the firelight reflect from them.
The little bonfire was still blazing, pulsing like a star. Fallion felt inside himself. His rage was gone. He felt spent, empty, like a fire in a hearth that is remembered only as ashes.
Rhianna took his free hand in hers, looked up at him with admiration and a hint of fear. “Your hands are very warm. You're an incendiary now.”
Borenson grunted, peered down at Fallion with sadness in his eyes, as if
Fallion had lost something dear. He hadn't wanted to leave the boy here on the beach, trade him for a flameweaver. But that is what he had done.
And Fallion knew that next time that he needed fire, it would be easier. His master would heed his call.
Even now, he knew what he had to do. “Help me get more wood for the fire,” Fallion said. “We have to keep it burning.”
It wasn't to keep the strengi-saats at bay, Fallion knew. It was more than that. He needed to show his gratitude, his reverence. He needed to feed the flames.
It was while Fallion was dragging driftwood to the fire that the soldiers came.
There were seven of them, seven men in dark chain mail that jangled as they rode.
Rhianna was the one who spotted them first, lances glinting in the moonlight.
At first, Fallion thought that he imagined them. They moved at a strange gait, leaping high and then floating back to earth.
They're riding rangits, he realized. A rangit was like a hare or a jumping mouse in shape, but much, much larger. They lived upon the plains of Landesfallen among the sand dunes at the edge of the desert.
Like all mammals from Landesfallen, they were strange beasts. They laid eggs in late winter, as soon as the sun began to warm the sand, and guarded their nests through the spring until their young hatched. Then they nursed their young, though the mothers had no nipples. Instead, the rangits squirted milk from glands in their mouths, feeding their young like mother birds.
And so the men rode rangits, creatures broad of feet, that hopped like hares over the sand, racing along the beach much faster than any horse could have managed.
As they neared, Fallion saw that these were no common troops. They were handsome men and women, unduly so, as if they had stepped out of a dream.
“Force soldiers?” Fallion wondered aloud. But he'd never heard of anyone nowadays that granted endowments of glamour to force warriors. There was a time when forcibles were plentiful, in ages past, when vain lords would endow their honor guards with glamour. But blood metal was now too rare, and forcibles were put to better use.
Borenson seemed to accept that these men were force soldiers, but
Rhianna disagreed. “Bright Ones,” she said with a tone of certainty. “From the netherworld.”
At that, Borenson just opened his mouth in surprise, unsure what to say. The fighting skills of the Bright Ones were the stuff of legend.
They were like men in form, but more perfect in every way—stronger, faster, wiser, kinder.
“We're saved!” Jaz said, jumping up and down in glee.
By the time that the soldiers approached the bonfire, their helms and mail gleaming dull in its light, Borenson and the children were ready to fall at their knees in gratitude. Indeed, Borenson planted his scimitar in the sand and knelt, as if to royalty.
The Bright Ones merely smiled. Fallion noticed a twinge along his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, something that he had associated once with the smell of evil, and he knew by that, more than by the lack of humanity in the men's eyes or the bemused expressions on their cruel faces, that these were not the Bright Ones of legend.
Loci, Fallion thought. In all of them.
The men rode up, ranged around the campfire. The rangits leaned forward, their lungs pumping like bellows, snorting from the effort of carrying their inhuman charges.
“Are you folks well?” one of the Bright Ones asked, playing the part of the rescuer.
Fallion felt inside himself, tried to summon flames that would consume this man whole, but he felt empty, tired. The fire behind him suddenly blazed brighter, as if fed by a strong wind, but nothing more.
“We're well,” Borenson said, “thanks to you.”
In all of the legends the Bright Ones were full of virtue. “May the Glories guide you and Bright Ones guard your back,” was a common prayer.
But where would these evil ones have come from?
The same place the strengi-saats did, Fallion realized: the netherworld.
“Come,” their leader said, eyeing Fallion. “We'll take you to safety.” He urged his rangit forward a small hop, and Fallion smelled its breath—heavy and sweet, like some exotic grass, with undertones of hair and urine, much like a very large goat.
Borenson suddenly backed up a step, placing himself between Fallion and the stranger. He smelled the trap.
“Who sent you?” Borenson demanded. “What are you after?”
“We came to save the princes,” their leader said. “That is all.”
Borenson reached for his sword. His skills were legendary, but these men were Bright Ones, and quicker than Fallion could see, one of them lunged forward, his long red lance plunging into Borenson's gut.
Borenson dropped his sword, stood there holding the lance.
It was not a deep wound. Fallion suspected that only the tip of the lance, the first six inches, had penetrated Borenson's girth. But it was a serious wound, one that could well be fatal.
The Bright One shoved the lance a little, and Borenson clung on for dear life, letting himself fall back rather than have the lance driven deeper into him.
Two rangits bounded forward, one of them heading straight for Fallion. He turned to run, and a lance drove through the shoulder of his heavy woolen cloak.
Suddenly he was lifted into the air, kicking and squirming, his feet well above the sand.
The knight lifted his lance point, and Fallion found himself sliding inexorably down the shaft, into his captor's arms. He peered to his right, heard Jaz screaming and kicking as one of the Bright Ones seized him.
Suddenly the rangits turned, and they were bounding away, racing along the dark beach the way that the soldiers had come while the surf pounded in their ears, the smell of salt water heavy in the wind.
Fallion was devastated.
He peered back, over the Bright One's shoulder, and saw Rhianna there by the fire, frantic, torn between her desire to follow, her desire to help the wounded Borenson, and her terror of the strengi-saats.
Fallion reached for his own blade, trying to wrench it from the sheath. His captor shook him so hard that the blade slipped from Fallion's hand and fell to the sand.
“What about Rhianna?” Fallion pleaded with his captor. “What about Borenson?”
The man chuckled mirthlessly. “We must leave the strengi-saats
something
to eat.”
LEFT IN THE DARK
A man's fears are like grains of sand on a beach. Ofttimes the tide strips them away, but then sends them sweeping back.
 
—Asgaroth
 
 
 
Rhianna stared at the retreating backs of the soldiers as the rangits hopped gracefully away, like hares on the run.
Not knowing what else to do, she went to Borenson and studied his wound. He was looking faint, sweating badly, and just holding his guts in.
Fortunately, there were supplies in the boat: a little food and water, some spare clothing, Fallion's forcibles.
Taking a rag, Rhianna washed off his wound first with water, then disinfected it with wine. She found one of Talon's dresses, altered to be big enough for Rhianna, ripped off the lower part of the skirt, and gave it to Borenson for a bandage.
The whole time, he just stared at her forlornly, panting.
“Crawl under the boat,” she told him. “I'll keep watch.”
But he shook his head. “I'll stay here with you.”
Not that you can do anything, she thought.
She picked up his saber and sat atop the boat, keeping watch.
I'll last through the night, she told herself. And if I live till morning, I'll walk south, to town, and find help.
She didn't know how far town might be. Three miles or thirty.
I'll run, she told herself. As soon as the sun comes up.
Rhianna heard growls and snarls in the jungle. A stray gust of wind brought the acrid scent of a strengi-saat. Borenson just lay in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness, getting ready to die.
After an hour, the fire began to burn low. Rhianna rushed away from the boat, out into the shadows, and got some firewood. A shadow followed her.
She turned to face it, sword gleaming in her hand, and then walked backward to the fire.
Thus she scavenged the area, forced on each trip to walk just a little farther than she had gone before. And each time that she left the fire, the strengi-saats became more daring and drew closer.
As the night waxed and the temperature dropped, she huddled near the fire for warmth as much as safety, saving her wood, nursing each tender coal. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and permeated her skin.
The most dangerous time came at moonset, when the great silver orb dipped below the mountains. Blackness seemed to stretch across her then, the shadows of the night, and strengi-saats hidden from sight snarled in anticipation.
She dared not go hunting for more wood.
Dawn was still an hour or more away. The stars had not yet begun to fade in the sky.
Rhianna heard growling and looked to Sir Borenson, who lay stretched on the ground, unconscious, his left knee in the air, his back twisted as if he were lying on a rock, seeking to get comfortable. His breath came shallow.
He'll probably die in that position, Rhianna thought.
One of the monsters hissed, and Rhianna spotted a shadow on her left. She whirled to face it. There was no more wood. She dared venture no farther.
But she was ready for them. She took a log from the fire and set it under the gunwale of the boat, then threw her spare clothing atop it.
Soon the boat was ablaze, creating a bonfire.
Now we can't use it to get off the island, a small voice seemed to whisper to her in despair.
It doesn't matter, she told herself. If I don't live through the night, nothing matters.
So she planted her saber in the sand and squatted beside it, her back to the fire, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.
Her eyes grew heavy as she fought sleep.
Finally, she decided to rest her eyes for a moment, relieving them from the stinging smoke.
Only a moment, she told herself.
She closed them.
When they flew open, the sun was a pink ball out on the horizon, and the boat lay like the smoking corpse of some beast, its blackened ribs all turned to cinders.
Rhianna heard a cough, peered down at Sir Borenson. It was his coughing that had wakened her.
He was still breathing shallowly, but he peered at her through slitted eyes. “You made it,” he whispered. “Now get out of here. Bring help if you can.”
“I will,” she promised.
She dropped the saber at his side, in case he needed it. She didn't want to lug the thing down the beach. So she took only her dirk, jogged to the beach where the sand was wet and firm, threw off her shoes, and ran.
Three miles or thirty? she wondered.
She ran, feet pounding the sand, heart hammering, ignoring the stitch in her side and the burning that came to her legs. She gripped her dirk firmly, just in case.
Run, she told herself. Nothing else matters.
 
 
 
Hours later, in the heat of the day, Myrrima, Captain Stalker, Smoker, and a dozen other crewmen marched up the beach. It was hours past noon when they found Rhianna's blade lying in the surf, half buried in sand.
Myrrima picked it up, wiped it dry, and called out nervously, “Rhianna? Borenson? Is anyone here?”
There was no reply, only the soughing of the wind over the sands.
Smoker inhaled deeply from his long-handled pipe and peered toward the shore. “I cannot feel their heart fires,” he whispered. “They are either dead or far away from here.”
Stalker and the others searched for tracks, but found none. What the tide had not washed away, the morning wind had.
“Rhianna would not have left her weapon like this,” Myrrima said. She grieved, fearing the worst.
So they marched on for an hour, calling for Rhianna and Borenson, the despair gnawing at Myrrima's gut, until at last they saw the black ribs of the boat lying in the sand, and found Borenson beside it.
He was pale and sweating, looking as if he would die. But he wept when he saw Rhianna's blade and heard the news.
“Rhianna left just after dawn,” he told them. “She waited for daylight, so the strengi-saats wouldn't attack, and then ran for help.”
With a heavy heart, Captain Stalker whispered, “My guess is that she did not wait long enough.”

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