The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) (50 page)

That made sense. Laio rose to her feet and brushed sand from her dress. “I’ll send Sezarre down with some food,” she promised over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” I called as I steeled myself to check the pulse in Kaeska’s neck again. Her skin was clammy to the touch but the faint beat of her life still pushed against my fingers. I sighed and sat down again to wait out this grim vigil.

Kaeska took three long days and nights to die.

The coast east of the settlement,

Kel Ar’Ayen,

34th of Aft-Spring,

Year Two of the Colony

“How’s the river bed, captain?” Temar looked up from making painstaking notations in his journal as the weather-beaten seaman stood before him, wide stance secure on the deck as the ship rode the gentle swell.

“Sound enough, the anchor will hold. The old
Eagle
will nest safe enough here for a while.” The thick-set sailor patted the mast with affectionate satisfaction, a smile creasing his leathery face and softening the scowl molded from his bushy brows by a lifetime squinting in the sun and wind. “I’ve set Meig to keep an eye on the tide and the run of the river.”

“Good.” Temar got up from his seat beside the lateen rigged aft-mast and stretched his cramped shoulders, half inclined to shed his stout hide jerkin in the strengthening sunshine. He looked around the broad estuary, thickly forested hills dropping sharply to an open beach of shingle and scrub, winding away inland on the banks of a wide, brownish river that offered tempting access to the mysteries of the hidden interior. The fitful breeze brought an alluring fragrance from the burgeoning woodlands. Temar took a deep breath of the scent of spring. “They would surely have put in here to take on supplies, wouldn’t they, Master Grethist?”

The captain nodded. “They had fair copies of the Sieur’s charts, just the same as us, the ones he made when he was exploring the coastline with the Seafarer and they’re good for another six days’ sailing beyond here. This place is marked clear enough as a good anchorage with game and fresh water to be had.”

Temar moved and leaned over the rail of the stern, sighing. “So where are they? Could they have come to grief? I suppose things will have changed, sandbars and the like, those charts must be what, eighteen or nineteen years old by now.”

“I know Master Halowis.” The mariner folded his arms as he too gazed at the shoreline. “He knows to take care sailing in strange waters. In any case, if they’d come to grief, we’d have seen sign of it. We found the wreck of the
Windchime
and she was lost on the crossing last year, wasn’t she? That was still plain enough, even after a whole winter of high seas tearing it up—her cargo was scattered all along the strand.”

“I suppose a storm could have hit them,” mused Temar. “They did set out barely halfway through For-Spring, but no one was prepared to wait until the Equinox, given the weather seemed set fair.”

“It would have to be some storm for all three ships to founder without at least one making it to land and no survivors washed ashore.” Grethist shook his head stubbornly. “We’d have seen sign of weather that severe as well, uprooted trees and the like.”

Temar shrugged. “So what do you suppose befell them? Sickness, disease, falling prey to beasts when they put ashore? We’re talking about eighty-some men, Dastennin help them!”

“I’ll get the longboat launched.” The captain set his square, gray-bearded jaw. “If they made landfall here, there’ll be fire-pits and such, some sign, and we should be able to get some idea of when they landed, how many they were. That should give us something to work on. Maybe they’ve headed up this river, it looks as if it should be navigable a fair way inland. Wasn’t that something they were supposed to be doing?”

“You’re probably right.” Temar nodded, the tension in the back of his mind easing at this eminently reasonable suggestion. “Still, we don’t know what’s prowling these forests, do we? Make sure the rowers take weapons with them, swords for those that have them and the ship’s axes for those that don’t. Let’s not take any chances.”

He stood with Grethist and watched as the crew lowered the shallow ship’s boat down to the glassy surface of the estuary, oars hitting the water with a crack that echoed back from the distant hills.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Temar?”

“Demoiselle.” Temar turned and bowed to Guinalle with precisely calculated courtesy.

She ignored the faint provocation in his greeting but swept him an ironic curtsey more suited to a silken robe than the practical gray woollen dress she was wearing. “There’s something wrong,” she stated abruptly. “I can feel something peculiar, just hovering beyond my comprehension, a threat of some kind.”

“Quietly, please.” Temar looked around to see if anyone had overheard this unnerving pronouncement, relieved to see the remaining sailors absorbed in watching the longboat make its slow way inshore. “What exactly are you telling me?”

“I don’t exactly know,” admitted Guinalle, her frustration plain to see as she tucked her hands inelegantly through her braided leather girdle. “I can’t put my finger on it but something’s wrong. Avila and I have been reaching out to see if we can find anyone to contact; the expedition may have been lost, but I can’t believe no one survived.”

“But you can’t find anyone?” interrupted Temar.

“It’s not that, exactly.” Guinalle frowned. “It’s more as if I’m trying to look through a fog. Avila says it’s like trying to shout when you’re wearing a veil.”

“You were saying yourself that working Artifice from a ship was causing some odd effects,” Temar reminded her, a suspicion of satisfaction in his voice. “Perhaps things work differently on this side of the ocean. There was that business when the far-seeing to the mines went all wrong, wasn’t there?”

“That was seldom-used Artifice in barely trained hands,” insisted Guinalle. “I am arguably one of the best practitioners anywhere in the Empire and this is a skill I mastered long ago. This is different, Temar, you have to believe me. There’s a danger out there and everyone needs to be alert for a sign of it. Avila feels it too, just a little but enough to convince me it’s real.”

Temar raised a hand to silence her, frowning. “All right, I take your word for it. What do you want me to do? You say we’re in peril, but you can’t tell me how or why. Look around you, these men are tense enough; they had friends, brothers aboard the ships we’re searching for. They’re already worried enough about getting so far along the coast and still failing to find them.” He realized his words were sounding harder than he intended and tried to soften his tone. “Please understand me; it’s not that I don’t believe you, I do, honestly. It’s just that I’m simply not prepared to make a potentially bad situation worse by giving out some vague warning of danger when I can’t answer the first question that anyone puts to me about it. When you have something definite to tell me, something I can explain to the crew, I will act. Until then, please keep this quiet; we have enough problems to handle without adding unfounded fears.”

Guinalle’s lips were thin with irritation and a faint flush of anger reddened her cheeks. “Of course, Esquire, my duty to you. I’ll do what I can.” She turned on her heel and strode briskly away, neck and shoulders stiff with annoyance, soft shoes hissing across the polished decking.

Temar watched her go with a sinking feeling compounded of contrition and exasperation. When would he be able to have a conversation with Guinalle without one or other of them giving or taking offense in some way? He was doing his best to avoid her, since she’d made it clear she wanted no part of him, Saedrin curse it, but given the seriousness of this situation, Den Fellaemion had insisted on putting Guinalle and her deftest pupils aboard.

“Did the Demoiselle have some word for you?” Master Grethist’s curt enquiry pushed Temar’s personal turmoil aside.

“Not as such, nothing important.” Temar smiled in what he hoped was a convincing manner.

The sailor took a pouch from the pocket of his rough, sailcloth tunic, helping himself to chewing leaf before offering Temar some as an afterthought. “Coming all this way, finding no answers, the lads are starting to ask questions. Have you heard how the other expedition fared, the one that headed south?”

“Yes, of course.” Temar shook his head at the offer of leaf and at his own stupidity for not sharing his news. “I should have told you, I’m sorry. From what they’ve reported, it seems that coast runs pretty well due south for a hundred and sixty leagues or so, and then it curves around back to run east and north, up a long sound fed by a massive river, about eighty, ninety leagues inland overall. It’s excellent land for running cattle on by all accounts, not nearly so much timber as these northern and eastern reaches.”

The captain’s eyes brightened. “That sounds promising, somewhere to think about taking the young stock calved this year.”

“It’s looking very good,” agreed Temar. “Messire Den Rannion is already talking about founding a new settlement there before the turn of the year. As far as he can judge, it’ll be only a scant hundred leagues from the port overland, less from the mines.”

“Maybe so, but that’ll be over some vicious, steep ground, won’t it?” Grethist laughed nevertheless. “I’ll take sail to see it, until they build a decent high road.”

Temar smiled. “I’ll hitch a ride with you, Master.”

A shout from above turned the mariner’s head and Temar turned his attention back to his journal, leafing through it to find the news of the southern expedition that Guinalle had relayed to him just after they had set out on this voyage. That had come from one of Guinalle’s most recently trained adepts, hadn’t it? Artifice had kept that other flotilla firmly linked to the port, information passed back every second or third day. What had befallen this northern expedition, what had happened to the ships they were now seeking, that they had vanished so thoroughly without even a hint from the Adepts aboard? What sort of things might have affected the use of Artifice? How well skilled had the Adepts been who had joined the expedition? Temar stifled a regret at his ill-tempered decision to abandon his own studies of Artifice during the winter seasons, unable to stand being in such close contact with Guinalle on a daily basis.

“Sail ho!”

Temar’s head snapped around at the look-out’s bellow, jaw dropping in disbelief. Jostled by eager sailors, he forced his way to the rail to see a three-masted ship around the far headland, a full load of sail rigged.

“Who is it?” a voice rang out from behind, frustrated at not being able to see.

“Looks like the
Salmon
!” came the reply, supported by noises of agreement and delight all round. Temar squinted at the fast approaching vessel, looking for the rune at its bow, all but obscured by flying foam, cheers all around as the sailors waved and whistled.

“Temar! Temar!” Guinalle’s frantic shout dragged Temar back away from the side of the ship. He pushed his way up the steps to the stern where Guinalle stood wringing her hands next to the captain. The sailor was starting to frown, a hand shading his deep-set eyes as he peered at the rapidly closing ship.

“They’re not flying any flag at all, not even their pennant. I’d expect a signal too, given the situation.” Grethist murmured, doubt coloring his tone.

“I can’t reach them, Temar,” Guinalle caught at his sleeve, “something’s desperately wrong on board that ship!”

Temar looked past her toward the captain. “I can see our lads, plain enough,” Grethist went on slowly, “but they’re not working the lines, nor managing their sail.”

“Every mind on that ship is closed to me, Temar,” Guinalle insisted. “I know some of that crew, I should be able to reach them from here!”

“Run a signal, Meig!” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Can’t they see we’re at anchor?”

A flurry of disquiet ran through the waiting crew as the long looked-for ship continued to come up the estuary at a reckless pace.

“Temar!” Guinalle shook his arm, a gesture of fear and frustration in equal measure.

“They’re going to broadside us, if they—” The mariner shook his grizzled head in disbelief. “Meig, cut the anchor! All of you, get some sail aloft, we’ve got to get underway— brace yourself, my lady.”

The captain jumped down from the aftcastle as the crew scrambled to get their ship moving, the second vessel swooping down on her with predatory intent. Temar grabbed at the rail with one hand, reaching for Guinalle with the other as the ships collided with a shattering crash. Guinalle was knocked clean off her feet and Temar to his knees, and several men went plummeting from the rigging into the foaming waters, yells of shock lost in the mounting clamor in deck. Temar struggled to his feet as the boats swung apart, tossing wildly, sails flapping in confusion. As he looked for any explanation of this turn of events he saw the men of the
Salmon
dropping like clubbed beasts, other forms leaping up from the waist of the ship to cast grapnels and ropes across the gap, hauling the vessels together. A sailor clinging desperately to the rail was crushed between the tall wooden walls, his scream of agony lost as howling figures in black leather leaped across the rails, short swords and axes naked in their hands. The sailors grabbed whatever was at hand to defend themselves with, belaying pins and rope spikes, belt knives raised in desperation.

Temar vaulted over the rail of the aftcastle, drawing his long sword and catching several of the invaders unawares, their blood making the decking treacherous beneath his feet as they fell beneath his wrathful blade. The others drew back a little, cold blue eyes assessing him as Temar looked for his own opening, glaring at flaxen heads pale above studded leather armor. These were soldiers, Temar realized belatedly. Where were they from?

“Cut the ropes!” Grethist’s bellow lifted above the tumult, a roar to rise above the direst of storms. Temar darted forward to protect a handful of sailors as they sawed desperately at the taut hemp holding the clinging irons fast, jumping to avoid an attacker falling at his feet in agony, a rope spike embedded in one eye. Temar sent the metal deep into the man’s skull with a heavy stamp of his boot and kicked the corpse aside. As more assailants pressed on over the rail, Temar dodged and weaved, skills born of long practice saving him from anything worse than a stinging scratch to one arm as a blade ripped through the linen of his sleeve. That reminder of his lack of protection sobered Temar a little, though with his leather jerkin and buff breeches, he was still better off than the sailors in their sailcloth tunics and trews. Even a spent blow could rip through the fabric and every bleeding cut would weaken.