A Home in the Hills

  A Home in the Hills

  Ashes of Luukessia, Volume Three

  Robert J. Crane

  with Michael Winstone

  A Home in the Hills

  Ashes of Luukessia, Volume Three

  Robert J. Crane

  with Michael Winstone

  Copyright © 2018 Ostiagard Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  1st Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, please email cyrusdavidon@gmail.com.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Author’s Note

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Other Works by Robert J. Crane

  1

  The Lady Vizola broke.

  The isle of Baraghosa, a mound of dark, twisted volcanic rock, and its tower lay cocooned in fog, a misty smear of grey surrounded by the roiling sea. The sky was darker, painted in broad storm cloud strokes of grey and black. And in the building frenzy of lightning, in colors no man had ever witnessed, the waves were whipped high—

  They surged over the Lady Vizola, pulled out from the dock, and the ship had no choice but to bow to those great blows as it was pushed inland, toward rocks—

  Jasen gaped in open-mouthed horror as the boat slammed into crags that stuck up out of the water like onyx daggers.

  It tilted against the surge …

  And still the waters kept coming, pushing it down—under—

  “Ahn-beht!” Kuura cried—a curse word. Already he was running, as though he could stop it, Scourgey thrown off his shoulders in a heap on the sand.

  The water drew back, preparing.

  The Lady Vizola shuddered, tilting sideways, its masts flung out in front of it, like the arms of a drowning man.

  Another swell of water, pitch black and murky, overflowed the boat again.

  It crashed against rocks again, and was pushed under.

  The ship disappeared beneath the black, clawing waves, the sea claiming it as its own.

  There was quick, muttered conversation between them: Huanatha, in her blue armor sans the shattered husk of her discarded breastplate, limping and cradling a bloodied arm, the stubby remains of her sword, Tanukke, cradled at her hip; Longwell, his lance gripped like an oversized walking cane in one enormous fist; and Alixa, who’d run for Scourgey, helping the creature up even as her eyes fixed on the shattered, rising form of the Lady Vizola as she rose again from the waters.

  Jasen hardly heard it. He hardly felt the kiss of rain on his forehead. Nor did he feel the ache in his bones, from this most recent fight, and the deeper-set ache, the one that Baraghosa had sensed in him, that which had been building for—days? Weeks? Perhaps months or longer. The poison within him, eating him from the inside.

  He felt nothing but fear, beat through him in black waves by his heart thudding mercilessly in his throat. He forgot the death that Baraghosa told him awaited, for that was some far-off thing, whited out by this death, the one they all faced with the Lady Vizola crumpled, unable to save them from this no man’s land.

  And then the water reared back again—and where it drew backward, Jasen saw, almost dots from this distance, the actual arms of drowning men. They flailed, fighting desperately.

  Another enormous wave rose—

  Then slammed down over the heads of those men.

  Then Jasen was running. He sprang down after Kuura.

  “Jasen!” Alixa shouted, a high, shrill scream.

  A mirthless laugh came from Longwell. “The boy has fire.” He ran too, passing Jasen swiftly.

  Huanatha only growled, “Faster, warrior.” And she, too, overtook Jasen with powerful, leaping strides, propelled as if the wind lifted her every step.

  Down the path they’d taken up here, over the smooth black rock, dodging sharp, jagged outcroppings, Jasen sprinted after Huanatha, Kuura, and Longwell, feet threatening to slip out from under him where rain and the spray of seawater had drenched the whole forsaken island.

  A bolt of purest pink split the sky asunder. It boomed, a deafening roar. It connected sky and sea in one dazzling beam of electricity.

  Where it touched the seawater, the water rose upward, pushed upward like a blister …

  Then came the waves.

  Longwell, Kuura, and Huanatha had just reached the shoreline when the first thundered down upon the sand, pushing them back.

  The spray exploded. Now Jasen did stop. A mist of salty droplets seared his eyes. The echoing boom of thunder was overshadowed by the devastating power unleashed against the isle’s edge. A moment later it hit him, a weaker wave, rebounding chaotically from the island’s warped circumference. He fell back, fingers grasping for purchase—

  A hand on his shoulder, armored—Longwell.

  “Stay back,” he said, already moving back down to the shore. Jasen had not even seen him spring back up to catch him, he’d moved so quickly. “Do not endanger yourself any more than you already have.”

  It was not an order. And if it had been? Jasen would never have followed it. Lips tight, he pushed himself into motion again, trying to keep pace with Longwell and failing, even if his legs had to work double-time to do it.

  “I want to help!” Jasen cried.

  Longwell gave him a grim, over-the-shoulder look. “Then watch your step.”

  The noise was thunderous. Pulses of unnatural color exploded across the sky, blinding bars of illumination that kissed the surface of the ocean and churned it into new, rising blisters, slewing off tsunami-sized waves. The sea roared with all the fury of a beastly giant. The painful noise crashed down over them like a hammer forged from the foundry that had built the world. Longwell braced Jasen then, holding him firm. Jasen slammed his eyes closed so the water would not burn, and held his breath tight in his chest, trusting Longwell to hold them steady …

  Then they were running again, dragging themselves on in the respite between attacks from the sea.

  The Lady Vizola had been pushed around the isle’s edge, hull up. She’d found a field of sharp spires, risen out of the water. They braced her as the sea flowed out … but when it crashed in again, it pushed her against the rocks, and she rolled, the top deck coming out of the water again as she righted herself.

  Wood splintered, ripped apart.

  The mainmast came down. How it had held for so long, Jasen could not imagine. But now it finally cracked as the ship was hammered again. They were so close now, only a hundred feet, they could hear it plain. The break was low to the deck—and it tipped, inl
and—

  “Back!” Longwell boomed. He’d already thrust an arm around Jasen’s waist, and shoved him aside—

  The crow’s nest crashed down upon the rock, exploding in a shower of wood.

  Splinters flew. Jasen cried out, gritted his teeth. Something had winged him, he was sure of it.

  Longwell’s arm came away from his chest.

  “You’re bleeding,” the dragoon said.

  Jasen blinked. He was on his back, sprawled on rock.

  Longwell loomed over him. Behind, the Lady Vizola—or what was left of her—lay against the rocks. Gouges opened dark spaces into the hull. Water flooded in. A field of debris expanded around her.

  And people. Three—no, four?

  Jasen blinked. A white spot clouded his vision.

  Had something sunk into his actual eye?

  He groped for it, frowning momentarily. His fingers found nothing—and when he blinked again, the spot vanished. Five people out there. Fighting waves—no, not all—that one, face down, was it …?

  Another wave was building. They could not delay any longer.

  “I’m fine,” said Jasen, pushing up and ducking away from Longwell’s arm. “We have to help.” And he was past, running the last of the way on the slick, rocky shoreline.

  Huanatha was slinging her armor aside.

  Kuura had already leapt into the water.

  Jasen followed, throwing himself over in an ungainly jump—

  He hit the water’s surface hard and hit the bottom harder; it was shallow this close, where the sea had receded in preparation for its next blow. The impact jolted up and through him, rattling his bones.

  Jasen’s first time swimming in the ocean had been barely a few weeks ago. It was far different from the idle swimming in the brook than wended through Terreas, the push and movement of the waves. He’d not ventured into the water since—but now he took to it as if he had been part of it his whole life. He thrust his arms out, dragging himself out as the sea fell away under him, alongside the husk of the Lady Vizola—oh, there were so many ragged holes …

  Debris littered the water, broken boards, mostly. But there were crates too, and cages. A book floated past, perhaps one from Burund’s personal collection. Maybe even one he had gifted Jasen and Alixa, before their arrival at the Aiger Cliffs. Jasen did not look closely: he was focused only on a body, face down in front of him, maybe thirty paces away. The water was dragging it back farther … and the wall kept building beyond, climbing—

  Jasen kicked, pulling himself on with his arms.

  Crossing the rising river with Shilara lay a lifetime behind.

  How had that been so terrifying?

  Twenty paces …

  Fifteen …

  Saltwater poured into his mouth as a pearly blast, the white of natural lightning, cleaved the air apart. It exploded on the back of the swell ahead. The flash was blinding; the boom was deafening, so close that it came in almost perfect unison with the blast.

  Blinded by the flash, Jasen paddled madly.

  Then the afterglow was fading, and—

  A wave, easily twice the height of the Lady Vizola’s now-wrecked mainmast, hurtled right for him. The churning of the sea turned it into an almost black thing, an inky smear with a head of white froth riding atop it—

  Jasen acted on pure instinct. He kicked himself forward, thrust all of his energy into closing that last gap between him and the dark-skinned man lying face down in the water. He swung his arms forward, sluicing through the water—

  He closed his hand around the man’s wrist a half second before the water hit him.

  The force of it was terrifying. Buffeted, Jasen almost let the man go—almost. Instead he clung on, holding a breath in his chest, one too small, as he was swept down, pushed down against the very bedrock of the sea. He was engulfed in pitch black, the entire world swallowed.

  He was ground against rock. Things were hitting him, like a rain turned solid. Stones from the seafloor? Wreckage of the Lady Vizola? He could not know. Nor could he gasp against the blows, or the feel of the rock digging into his back, or his spine grinding against it.

  He had no choice but to endure, and to hold on.

  It seemed to go on forever.

  Only when he was sure he would die, a fire in his chest, his body on the verge of collapse, did the water recede. The darkness lifted, the pressure with it. He came away from the rock, freed. He kicked, not sure exactly which way was up.

  He found air and sucked it in, but there was

  little time to relish it. A body surfaced alongside him. Those receding waters would build again.

  Jasen had to get back to shore, with the unconscious sailor.

  First, though, he pulled the body around. He was heavy, naturally bulky, and limp in the water—Jasen did not dare give a thought to the possibility that he was dead. Maneuvering him was not easy, and it took Jasen precious seconds to turn him so that his face was pointing upward, his airway unrestricted.

  Hamisi—one of the sailors who’d wanted to throw Scourgey, and possibly by extension Jasen and Alixa, overboard that first night off the shores of Luukessia.

  Well, the who of it didn’t matter. Jasen slung one arm around him, hooking it under a shoulder and began an awkward paddle back to the isle’s shore of blurred, onyx-dark rock. The battering wave had brought them in most of the way. But its retreat, pulling the sea back out again to build it into another swell, was dragging them backward too. And as Jasen fought, one-armed, the edge of the isle only drew farther back … His energy began to wane too, now that he carried a load at least twice his weight, prone and unhelping …

  “Come on,” he grunted, kicking harder.

  Sweat beaded his brow, salty as the seawater.

  He kicked hard, then harder—

  But the sea was growing more shallow, the water rushing out beneath him, threatening to tear him from the embrace of the rocky shore. It ripped at his feet, wanting him, hungering for him. The thunderheads pelted down, great streaks of color lighting the sky, and Jasen was pulled back …

  A strobing flash of purple lit the sky from behind him, casting the world in the otherworldly hue of Baraghosa’s spell. It BOOMED, an explosive jolt of indescribable power that rattled Jasen’s bones. His eardrums threatened to burst.

  And the sea kept rising, kept pulling at him.

  He cursed. Panic rose in his chest with the building of the water.

  He was lifting too now, on the very edge of the swelling blister—

  He should just let Hamisi go. Focus on steeling himself, preparing himself for the—

  He had no time to think further. The suction stopped, and the first wave broke from the swell. Jasen was thrust forward on it, carried at a tremendous speed. And the shore, the mottled, twisted, blackened edge of the isle of Baraghosa, raced toward him.

  He yelled—

  Then he was under as it overtook him.

  He saw the Lady Vizola’s tattered side in a blur, pocked full of ragged holes, collapsing as the water and rock ripped her apart.

  Rock, jagged, flew at him—

  He thrust out with his free hand, as if it would do any good—

  And then blackness.

  *

  The next thing Jasen knew was a hammer pounding him in the chest. His ribs did not break, but the force pushed them inward, squeezed his innards.

  Saltwater burst from his lungs in a cough, stringy mucus flying.

  Wheezing, he

  opened his eyes.

  The world’s contrast was wrong. All the brights were too bright, and the darks bordered on black. And the figure bowed over him was almost a shadow.

  No, not a shadow—dark-skinned.

  The eyes of Shipmaster Burund looked down at him. “Breathe,” he said, clasping Jasen’s shoulder. His deep voice was strained, his pupils dark, hidden in the whites of his eyes, which seemed entirely too wide.

  Jasen obeyed, but each breath burned terribly. And though the spray of th
e water breaking on the rocks filled the air in a salty mist, the taste of it was stronger inside him. Each breath filling his lungs set off a cough. Something in his throat was irritated. A pool of seawater must’ve found a place to reside in him. He hacked and coughed, spitting murky gunk that could only have come from the deepest recesses of his lungs. Still, he couldn’t ease the ache.

  Someone was cursing.

  Jasen squinted around, eyebrows knitting.

  The Lady Vizola lay on her side—what was left of her, anyway. Much of it was missing, ripped away by the raking over and over of rocks. What remained appeared to be held together only by the barest framework.

  A brilliant flash of pale blue split the air, accompanied by a booming explosion. Jasen flinched. For a moment he was still in the water, about to be thrown against the rocks again.

  “Hamisi!” Jasen said suddenly.

  “He is okay,” said Burund.

  “Where?”

  Burund pointed, his finger coated in blood.

  Hamisi lay on a rock. One of his shipmates was crouched beside him, talking. Hamisi breathed, head to the sky. His tunic had torn, revealing a strong chest with no fat upon it. It rose and fell with each haggard inhalation and exhalation.

  Jasen closed his eyes, nodded. Thank the ancestors Burund had pulled them out.

  But more were still in the water. There were people out there—some struggling with crates and cases, others struggling to pull their shipmates to shore. Kuura had a man slung about his shoulder. He was grunting fiercely, teeth clenched in a crazed grimace. Longwell offered the handle of his spear, from where he stood atop a gnarled crag, for Kuura to grip onto. Then he lifted Kuura almost without effort, settling him upon the rock.

  Jasen forced himself upward.

  Burund held out an arm to still him. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping.”

  Burund’s nostrils flared. “Do not be so reckless. You almost drowned.”

  “I’m fine,” he lied and staggered away. “Let me help.”

  “JASEN!”

  It was Alixa, sprinting toward him, Scourgey limping weakly behind. She tore down to the shore, slipping and staggering until she reached him.