The Dragonstone (29 page)

Holdar shrugged and said, “All I know is it be said that
Drakes and Krakes both come from the sea.” He held out a hand to Egil in a silent appeal, but Egil merely shrugged as well.

Aiko looked at Arin, and the Dylvana sighed. “Those who have spoken with the Children of the Sea say that—”

“Pardon, Dara,” interjected Aiko, holding up a hand. “Children of the Sea?”

“Aye,” replied Arin. “Children of the Sea: they are the Hidden Ones who live in the depths of the oceans of the world.”

“Mermaids, y’ mean?” asked Alos. “Mermaids and Mermen? People with fish tails ‘stead of legs?”

Arin shrugged. “I think not, Alos, though I have never seen one.”

“But I—” began Alos in protest, yet Aiko silenced him by holding a chewing stick out to the oldster. A look of dismay swept over the old man’s features, but he reached out and took it.

As Alos began gnawing on the tip of the stub, Aiko turned to Arin. “I interrupted, Dara.”

Arin smiled. “The Children of the Sea tell that after ages of swimming and feeding, the great serpents take themselves unto the unlit depths of a vast chasm located somewhere in the waters of the wide Sindhu Sea. There, three full leagues below the surface, in a lost abyss they settle upon dark ledges lining the chasm walls, where they exude an adherent and enwrap themselves into tight spheres. The adherent hardens and they are enshelled in a crystalline glaze to begin an extraordinary metamorphosis. After a time, when the change has occurred, the crystal shell is finally shattered, and just as some caterpillars emerge from their chrysalises as butterflies whilst others emerge as moths, well then too some serpents—the males, I would guess—come forth Dragons while others—the females—come forth Krakens….

“Or so say the Children of the Sea.”

“Well now,” said Holdar, “be this tale true or false, fact or fable, rumor, speculation, or just plain opinion, I think something of the like must be. List: none has ever seen a small young Drake: all seem full grown from the first. And I don’t think there has ever been found a clutch of
Dragon eggs aland: they seem to lay them not. And as far as I know, none has ever seen a female Dragon: they all be males.

“And as to the Krakens, well, I cannot say as to what they may be—male or female—but the sages tell that they be the Dragons’ mates, and who be I to argue?”

Again a quietness fell upon them all as they stared over water at the far headland, dim in the distance. After a long while, Holdar broke the silence: “Ah me. Dragon, Kraken, Sea Serpent, I know not the which of it, but I do know that many a ship has been lost to
something
in those waters, be it Maelstrom or monster. Of those who have sailed in there, none has ever lived to tell of it.”

Egil shook his head. “Captain, I think if a ship sailed ‘tween Dragons’ Roost and the Seabanes, ‘twould be the Maelstrom that would drag her under, drowning all aboard, for none has ever escaped the suck of that hideous swirl.”

Arin shuddered, and for some reason this talk of the Maelstrom brought to mind the whirling chaos of her vision, a maelstrom of its own, with dire events all spiraling about the jadelike green stone.
Will we all be dragged under by its hideous swirl?

*   *   *

Driven by a following wind, the
Gyllen Flyndre
cut through the icy water, the white-capped Gronfang Mountains ashore sliding up over the horizon, soon followed by the craggy Seabane Islands asea, slipping leftward in the distance to be lost at last over the rim astern.

West now she fared for days, past the long shore of the Angle of Gron, a vile, baneful land, for therein dwell Foul Folk: Rutcha, Drôkha, Ogrus, Vulgs, Guula and Hèlsteeds, and other creatures dire, thralls of a Black Mage, or so it was said.

Past this dread realm shsshed the
Gyllen Flyndre,
laden with sailors and a cargo of furs and bearing four passengers as well.

On they sailed across the waters of the Boreal Sea and the fickle weather thereupon, through sunny skies and moonlit nights, through rain and squalls and calms. At times the ship fell into irons, and rowers would debark in
dinghies and tow the ship across glassy water in an attempt to find the wind. At other times the crew would need reef the
Flyndre
’s sails, as fierce wind and torrential rain unmercifully lashed the craft. Yet at other times, no matter its state, Captain Holdar pronounced the weather “bonnie” as long as the winds were favorable.

Up across the horizon came the headland where now the Rigga Mountains plunged into the Boreal Sea, where Gron ended and Rian began. Past Rian they sailed, then past the Jillian Tors, a far-flung set of craggy highlands wherein fierce clansmen dwell, noted for their endless feuds. On westerly sailed Captain Holdar and his crew, to fare along the shores of Thol.

Here, day after day Alos stood adeck and peered at forested land as it slid by, for Thol was once his home realm, but no more, indeed, no more.

They followed the long arc of the Tholian coast, gradually curving ’round from west to south, and somewhere along this route they crossed the uncertain boundary between the Northern and Boreal Seas. Now they fared toward the wide waters of the channel lying between Gelen to the west and Jute to the east.

*   *   *

Altogether it took twenty-eight days for the carrack to fare from Mørkfjord to the point in the channel where Arin and her companions would transfer from the
Gyllen Flyndre
to the
Brise
and set sail in the sloop on their own.

And when the
Flyndre
had come as close to Jute as she would, Captain Holdar ordered the ship to heave to, and he luffed up in the wind. Haling on the tow ropes, crewmen drew the sloop alongside, and Arin and Aiko climbed down the larboard ladderway and into the small craft.

Alos stood by, watching, the old man intending on staying with the
Flyndre
and sailing on to the walled port of Chamer. Yet he seemed agitated, as if reluctant to part with those who had cared for him—Arin with her gentle ways, Egil with his friendship, even Aiko, though she was rough, making him bathe and all. However, he was sober for the first time in thirty-three years, and he did not like
that at all, what with his dreams being filled with a witchfire Mage and bloody monstrous Trolls.

Before clambering over the side, Egil turned to the oldster and appealed one last time, “My friend, I would that you choose to go with us, for I need an experienced helmsman to aid me in sailing the
Brise,
and none else here among these sailors can go but you.”

Alos turned away and stalked toward his cabin aft, and Egil, shaking his head and sighing, clambered down the ladderway to the waiting sloop below. He reached the deck and made his way aft to the tiller, then called up, “Prepare to cast off bow and stern.”

Captain Holdar repeated the order to his crew up on the carrack.

“Cast off the stern,” called Egil.

“Wait!” came a cry. Then Alos appeared above, his meager belongings bound in a bedroll. The old man peered down over the railing and declared, “I’ll sail with you on your mad quest as far as Jutland, but no more, you hear me, no more.”

*   *   *

Three days later on the evening tide the
Brise
sailed into the crowded Jutlander port of Königinstadt; ships rode at anchor throughout the bay and were tied up at dockside as well, a forest of masts jutting into the air like a barren thicket of trees. Among these ships wended the sloop, heading for the pier where flew the flag of the harbormaster, Alos at the helm, Egil and Arin handling the sheets, Aiko on the bow ready to cast a mooring rope to the hands lounging dockside.

And in the distance on a lofty hill beyond the sprawling city and above the bay, they could see a massive citadel, bright lanterns on the fortress walls, the windows of the castle within glowing yellow in the lavender twilight.

“There it is, love,” said Egil to Arin, “the lair of the Queen of Jute, where we will find the mad monarch’s rutting peacock…or so I sincerely hope.”

T
hey paid the harbormaster a small docking fee and moved the
Brise
to the designated slip, where they packed a few of their goods and battened down the ship. Debarking, they trudged along a main thoroughfare up from the docks and into the city, passing among warehouses and fish markets and shops of crafters, many closed, though here and there workers yet toiled at tasks. They finally came in among taverns and stores and other businesses, all with dwellings above, and here the streets were awash with people, revelers and hawkers, with shops alit.

As they moved among the crowds, Aiko frowned. “Why do some wear iron collars?”

“They are thralls,” replied Egil.

“Slaves?” asked Aiko.

Egil nodded. “Thralls, serfs, slaves: they go by many names. Their ancestors likely were defeated in battle and taken in bondage long past.”

Arin shook her head. “Yet the defeat echoes down through the generations, for their children and children’s children are slaves as well.”

“There are serfs in Ryodo,” said Aiko. “Yet they wear no iron about their necks.”

Egil shrugged. “Most are born to the collar and will wear it throughout their life.”

“Is there no way they can gain their liberty?”

“Once in a great while a thrall will win his freedom, through valor in battle or other high service to his master. Then, with grand ceremony, the iron is stricken and given to the man or woman as a symbol of their liberty. Yet for most, the only way to lose the collar is to lose one’s head.”

Arin sighed. “Long past, Elvenkind learned that slavery is a great evil, and one day mankind will come to know it as well.”

*   *   *

Egil made a few inquiries, and finally the four took a large room in the Silver Helm, one of Königinstadt’s numerous inns, modest by any measure, for they did not wish to call attention to themselves. Yet the mere fact that a
Dylvana
had come to the inn was enough to cause tongues to wag. Moreover, accompanying her was a
yellow
woman who seemed to be a
warrior,
no less, and wasn’t that a wonder? And with these two came a pair of men—human males, that is, and not Elves: the younger of the two was a man with a red eye patch and a fresh scar down his forehead and cheek; the second was an oldster, another one-eyed man. And when these four strangers took to the same chamber and ordered hot baths, tongues wagged all the faster, for who knows
what
might go on behind their closed door?

Bathed and refreshed, they came down to the common room for a hot meal, and each had a mug of ale—all but Alos, that is, for although the oldster could eat whatever he wished, Aiko would not allow him even the tiniest sip of brew, no matter how pitifully he whined. And so the old man had to settle for honeyed, spiced tea to wash down his biscuits and mutton stew.

As they ate, all eyes followed their every move, patrons whispering among themselves in wild speculation:

Look at her, a tiny thing. An Elf she is, but taller I thought them.

Ja, a Dylvana she is one. The Lian it is who are tall.

The yellow one now, no Elf is she, but tell me, now, what land do you name her from?

Land I know not but a fighter she is, swords at her waist.

The young one—a fighter he is as well. See down his face the scar.

He could a duel have got it in.

Ja. Maybe a noble he is, a lady Elf he travels beside.

The yellow woman do not forget. The scar he bears she could have made, her blades carving his face.

Nie, I think not. A full head taller is he.

The old man and the younger, together they travel. Uncle and nephew they could be.

If so, in the family one-eyes run, har!

My tongue would I hold if I were you, and not the old man get angry—a curse he would lay upon you.

A Wizard he is, ja?

Nie, but a man with an evil eye…white and all does it glare.

The one with the red patch and scar a wide berth I would give. That axe at his waist your head he would lop.

On went the mumble and buzz concerning the foreigners, but then, mercifully, a bard stepped to the center of a meager stage and amid a scattering of applause, the patrons left off their speculations and turned his way. He raised up a small tambour and announced, “‘Gurd and the Monster Kram.’” A cheer greeted his words, followed by devout silence as he began intoning a sing-song chant to the beat of his tiny drum—a tale of a young warrior’s hard-won victory over a terrible Drake.

Arin shook her head at the outrageous claims made by the words of the ode, and turning to Egil she asked, “Is this epic sung widely?”

Egil leaned forward and in a low voice replied, “Indeed it is, my love. Although most folks, including me, do not believe a Drake has ever been slain by the hand of a man, it does not in any way quench the wild popularity of the ode.”

“Hmm,” mused Arin, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head toward the bard. “Even though it is a saga treasured by those who hear it, I would suggest he not cant it to a Dragon.”

Egil bellowed out a guffaw, then clamped his lips to stifle his laughter, though he snorted through his nose. A nearby patron glared at Egil, but then turned his rapt attention back to the bard. Smiling, Arin looked up at Egil and waggled a finger in admonishment, but then had to stifle her own laughter. It took some moments for them to gain control of themselves as the bard astage continued the epic to the beat of his small drum.

“I used to play one of those,” said Alos, tapping his fingers in time.

“A tambour?” asked Aiko, her eyes wide, as if she never had considered Alos anything but a drunk.

“Yar, but where he uses his hands, I would use a cruik instead.”

“Cruik?”

“A curved stick with a knob on the end to strike the drumhead. At least, that’s what it’s called in the Jillian Tors, where I first learned to play.”