A Respite From Storms Page 7

  “Come on, Scourgey,” Alixa gently coaxed.

  She wouldn’t move—nor at Alixa’s soft tugging against her shoulder.

  “Storm’s spooked her,” said Kuura. “Does with some beasts.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I’ve got ‘er.” And before Alixa could protest, offer up a more careful approach, he stooped down, scoped Scourgey up around the middle, and clambered down to the main deck with her.

  She screeched like her life was ending.

  “Be careful with her!” Alixa cried, leaping down after him, ladder be damned.

  Scourgey bucked against Kuura’s shoulder. He tightened his hold—“Whoa, now!”—and then a claw tore through the fabric of his tunic, across the shoulder. He hissed, dropped Scourgey—she landed with an ungraceful plop—and clasped it.

  The scourge pelted for Alixa, wrapped herself around the girl’s legs.

  Alixa bowed to wrap her arms around Scourgey’s neck. “Oh, Scourgey …”

  Kuura grunted. “That bloody—” Lifting the flap of fabric Scourgey had torn, he revealed three red lines, carved from his shoulder toward his neck.

  “You scared her!” Alixa cried at Kuura’s dark look.

  Kuura bit off something in his native tongue. Then he stalked away, waving to Burund.

  Burund was corralling men with the mainsail. Between them they tackled a set of ropes, pulling it into position. The fabric fluttered softly in the light breeze. That and the sky suggested there had been no storm at all—though Jasen’s soaked-through clothes attested otherwise.

  Mainsail back in place, Burund tied off his rope to a metal hoop built into the deck, brass-colored but worn with a mottled layer of rust. He gave some instructions to the remaining two men, and then approached Jasen and Alixa. Close by, he nodded.

  Scourgey made a sad sound in the back of her throat, and pressed lower.

  Alixa patted her gently. “It’s okay.”

  “You are in one piece,” said Burund.

  Jasen nodded. “I think so.”

  That drew a very small smile from Burund, one corner of his mouth lifting just fractionally.

  “My crew is no longer suspicious of your pet,” he said to Alixa.

  She stuck her bottom lip out. “No?”

  “No death has befallen us. The storm was intense, but we are all accounted for and in good health.”

  “And they know she’s not responsible for last night then, do they?” Alixa challenged.

  Burund nodded. “Yes,” he said simply.

  She huffed, like that wasn’t good enough. Still, her shoulders seemed to relax, to loosen.

  “What was that?” Jasen asked. “Last night.”

  “I do not know.”

  Jasen hesitated, waiting for more. None came, so he said, “Is it normal?”

  The shipmaster shook his head. “In all my years on the sea,” he said, “I have never seen anything like it. Many storms, yes, for the sea is alive with them. Monstrous ones have come too, threatening to capsize us as last night’s did. But those colors … never have I witnessed something like that.”

  Burund stared away, lost. His held-together expression lifted, just for a moment. He appeared in equal parts awestruck and spooked, his gaze lost into the distance, mind surely going over those vibrant flashes as the night was split and the waters churned.

  “It was a terrific display,” Burund muttered, coming back to himself. “But not one like any I have seen before, no.”

  “Yesterday,” said Jasen, “it looked like the clouds spread out, to—to seek us out.”

  “It looked like that,” Burund agreed. “But that is not what happened. They simply spread.”

  “But the storm built on the horizon, alongside us … and you seemed to know we would be riding into it.”

  “I read the weather. Perhaps, if you sail as long as I have, you will learn to do the same.”

  Jasen nodded, a little disappointed at Burund’s answer. He wished to believe the storm was something more, and that Burund had the answers to it, answers Jasen could unlock if he tried. But the shipmaster’s responses seemed genuine; he was an experienced sailor who could read the sea and skies, but who had been dumbstruck by the crazed, frenzied show of brilliant lights throughout the night.

  “In any case,” said Burund, “we are past it now. We have endured the storm.”

  Jasen’s stomach sunk a half-inch farther. That was it? Such a frightening, mystifying experience—and except for a brief reflection on it, Burund was to move past it because the storm had passed him by? Where were his questions? Where was the man’s sense of wonder, or fear?

  Jasen would have opened his mouth to voice these questions himself—but Burund had already gone on.

  “Our damage has been patched up. You may find some wetness remains inside, but do not worry: we are not leaking any more.”

  “What about the hold?” Alixa asked, a little sniffily. “It was almost to my thighs before the storm had barely started.” She added pointedly, “Scourgey would have died if I hadn’t gone down there.”

  Would’ve died anyway, if Kuura hadn’t been there to help, Jasen thought. He didn’t think this was the time to insert that little detail, though.

  “The hold is being emptied at present,” said Burund.

  “Of?” Alixa asked. “Water? Or corpses?”

  “Water,” Burund answered simply.

  “And the dead animals?”

  “They have been disposed of.”

  “Excellent,” Alixa huffed angrily.

  Jasen figured this was the point to step in, before Alixa’s newfound propensity to forget holding her tongue led to a blowout between the only Luukessians aboard a vessel of seafaring men who would cast them out at a moment’s notice.

  “Where are we going now?” Jasen asked. “To Aiger Cliffs?”

  “Yes,” Burund confirmed with a nod. “Our course was little changed last night. We have lost some time, but will still arrive within a few days.”

  Jasen scanned the horizon. No sign of anything—just the sea, smooth as glass, as if no storm had come at all.

  “Which way is it?”

  Burund pointed. “You will not see it for some time yet, though.”

  Jasen racked his brains for information about Aiger Cliffs. Kuura had told him some, he knew, but in the overload that was the past few days, he was having trouble getting it nailed down straight. He remembered the names Arkaria and Firoba …

  “Where,” he began slowly, “are we?” He wasn’t certain how to ask the question, and Burund did not appear to understand, for he did not answer immediately. So Jasen tried: “These aren’t Luukessian waters any more, are they?”

  “No. We are crossing the sea between Luukessia and Chaarland.”

  Chaarland. That was it.

  He repeated it to himself silently. It was strangely enjoyable, the feel of his tongue forming the name of a new place, one wholly disconnected from Terreas, from Luukessia.

  “Have you heard of Chaarland?” Burund asked.

  Jasen shook his head.

  Burund considered this for a long few seconds.

  “Your lands were overrun by the beasts you call ‘friend,’” he said carefully.

  “Scourgey is our friend,” said Alixa hotly. “She saved us.” She gripped the scourge’s neck hard, as if afraid Burund might swoop in and drag her away.

  “She fought other scourge,” Jasen told Burund. “She’s … not like the others. For some reason.” He peered at her, frowning.

  “Peculiar,” said Burund quietly.

  He tapped his chin, thoughtfully watching Scourgey. She simply stood behind Alixa, mouth open and tongue lolling. Her black eyes could have been pointing anywhere.

  “You’re all wrong about her,” said Alixa.

  “Indeed,” said Burund. “But still … we heard stories of these creatures.”

  “What kind of stories?” Jasen asked.

  “They filled your lands like a plag
ue,” Burund answered, “We heard tales that they would set upon anyone who dared to approach the land. They’d be ripped apart.”

  Jasen nodded. “It’s true, at least as far as my father said.”

  Alixa blustered—

  “It is,” he said, looking at her quickly and apologetically. “Scourgey is different, but the rest of them … they were everywhere. If we crossed the boundary at the edge of our village—they’d come.” Shaking his head at the grim memories—of being chased, of the things crawling across their path as they rode to Wayforth, of them gnawing at trees and devastating anything living they could find—he added, “They laid Luukessia to waste. Our village was the last …the last…”

  Jasen stopped, the thought leaving him cold: And now it was gone.

  “Yours is an interesting specimen,” said Burund to Alixa.

  “She’s not a ‘specimen.’”

  Burund smiled faintly. “I hope you can understand why my men were fearful of her when you arrived.”

  Alixa just replied with a humph, averting her gaze to watch Scourgey.

  Jasen looked back to Burund. He mouthed “sorry,” lifting his shoulders in a low shrug.

  A small, crooked smile back.

  Then—

  Shouts from the rear of the ship.

  If Jasen had been shipmaster, he would have gone running. Even now, he was tempted, for the voices to the front of the ship sounded excited about something. But Burund only strode to them with his usual measured, calm paces.

  He asked something that Jasen took to mean, “What is it?” as he went.

  The sailors, leaning over the railing, answered, craning back to address their shipmaster before leaning out again.

  Jasen exchanged a look with Alixa, then followed. Begrudgingly, she came too, coaxing Scourgey along.

  There, laid out between the Lady Vizola and the infinity that was the horizon, was the wreckage of a boat. Rendered into little more than matchsticks, its fragments were spread across the sea, still some distance away.

  Burund exchanged words with his men. Then they rushed off, back to the sails, where they began to tug at ropes.

  “What’s happening?” Jasen asked.

  “We are altering course to investigate,” said Burund.

  “Do you think it was destroyed in the storm?”

  “That is possible, yes.”

  The sails were pulled around. Wind pushing them at a sharper angle now, the Lady Vizola gently twisted in her path, so that she was moving toward the wreckage head on. Without the storm’s gales pushing, they relied on the normal flow of wind to push them. Standing by Burund’s side, Jasen watched as the wreckage slowly came closer.

  Nearer, it was clear just how extensive the devastation was. Though the rough shape of half a ship had been clear to Jasen when it was farther out, as the Lady Vizola drew into its vicinity, Jasen saw that barely more than a vague frame was left. It bobbed, lopsided, much of the ship gone, leaving a wide open view of its interior—or at least what was left of it. The decks and some outlines of cabins were recognizable thanks to wooden beams that hadn’t completely splintered off, but the rest of the ship was in pieces. Flotsam littered the water, spread out like algae on a pond. Barrels and crates bobbed in the water, but most of the debris was just splintered scraps of wood. Burund ignored the broken wood, pointing instead of barrels and apparently giving the order for them to be brought aboard. Sailors obliged, hurling nets down to ensnare those floating nearby.

  “You’re looting?” Alixa asked. She turned her nose up.

  “Yes.”

  “What about looking for survivors? What about rescue?”

  “There are no survivors.”

  “How do you know? You’ve hardly looked. That boat could’ve held any number of men on it, and—”

  Jasen tuned out the beginnings of an argument. Instead, he stared. Something had struck him, something that was not like the rest of the wreckage floating around the Lady Vizola, something deep blue and lumpy in a way that everything else floating was not.

  “There’s a man,” he said suddenly, realizing.”What?” Burund’s voice was sharp.

  “A man,” said Jasen. He pointed—and as Burund and Alixa stepped forward to look, his heart raced. Because it was, he was certain of it. A man was out there, dressed in full armor, floating face down on a hunk of wood that lay half submerged, ready to give out on him.

  Someone from this boat remained … alive?

  No telling, from here.

  The possibility of a survivor was enough for Burund. He shouted an uncharacteristically urgent command to his men—whoever was out there might have their face in the water, or close to it.

  Every second was valuable.

  The Lady Vizola began a new path. It carved through the debris, barrels, and detritus that knocked against the hull, ready for picking through later.

  The ship’s pace slowed as the armored man drew closer.

  Jasen squinted down at him.

  “Is he alive?” Alixa murmured.

  “I don’t know.”

  Burund shouted new commands. Sailors rushed to the edge of the deck, with ropes—

  A ladder, like the one Jasen and Alixa had climbed.

  They slung it down. Its wooden rungs bounced against the side of the ship, like an over-long, flexible, tuneless xylophone.

  “Ach-tan sa!” Burund called to the man below.

  He did not answer. Did not move, in fact.

  The same call. The same response.

  Alixa pressed a hand to her lips. “Oh no.”

  Another instruction. Two men descended the rope ladder.

  They’re bringing him up, Jasen realized.

  They jumped out onto the panel of wood the armored man floated on. It sunk momentarily under their weight, wobbling them on their feet, then rose, settling into an easy up-and-down bob.

  They bowed, taking the armored man by the underside of each arm. Lifted—

  But he was far too heavy, and they couldn’t pull him far at all.

  “Tre-sangkt,” one called to Burund. “Ec pul-ve sa.”

  Burund ordered two more down the ladder.

  Jasen watched tensely as they descended it, then landed on the wood, keeping the armored man afloat. It could take all their weight easily enough still, but it was becoming very crowded now, especially with the man in armor sprawled out and occupying so much of it.

  Between them, they managed to move him over, onto his back—

  Jasen’s eyes widened. This was a white man, with a swarthy skin and a lantern jaw. A small mane of hair flowed out and around his helm, which was pointed and sharp. He wore a white surcoat that bore a black lion, soaked and matted to his blued armor. His eyes were closed. A lance, taller than he was, was strapped across his back.

  One of Burund’s sailors leaned over, face sideways to the armored man’s.

  “What’s he doing?” Jasen asked.

  “Checking that he breathes,” Burund answered.

  Apparently he did, because the cry from the sailor was excited.

  Burund must have instructed them to bring him aboard, for as one the four sailors pulled the armored man up. Even with so many, they struggled with his weight. The fact they weren’t on the most stable of ground was not helpful either. But they managed it, somehow, returning to the rope. Then, between themselves they managed to array themselves upon the rope, propping the armored man up two from above and two below. The lance rattled against the armor as they lifted.

  “Hay!”

  Men on the deck pulled the rope ladder.

  It rose.

  Jasen waited, heart thrumming.

  The men spilled over the edge, pulling the armored man with them and hauling him onto the deck. He woke with a jerk, as if he’d been rudely awoken from a deep slumber.

  Jasen’s heart thrummed.

  The man looked up. His eyes were unfocused. Like a drunk’s, they shifted wildly, taking in everything and nothing at once.


  Then he collapsed—

  But before he did, he wheezed one word in a lilting accent, different from the accent of the men on this ship. It was a word that sent Jasen’s heart into a frenzy, made his breath catch in his throat.

  “Baraghosa.”

  7

  The armored man was, according to Medleigh (and translated by Kuura) suffering from low-grade hypothermia. His face was pale, his fingers cold. His teeth chattered violently during his brief moments of wakefulness, and his mind seemed confused. He said no more for the first twenty-four hours, at least as far as Jasen was aware.

  And he was aware of everything the armored man did. Evidently there was only one spare cabin in the whole of the Lady Vizola, so Jasen and Alixa, plus now Scourgey, were joined by a fourth in the little space. The man took up the whole bed. Might’ve broken the frame, if Medleigh and Kuura hadn’t stripped his armor to soak him in a bath of warm water.

  It did not cure him, but did seem to ease a little of his sporadic tossing and turning. When he did open his eyes and look groggily about or mumble incoherently, his teeth no longer chattered.

  Good enough for now, apparently; after an hour of soaking, he was removed, dried, placed into a poorly fitting set of spare clothes scavenged from somewhere, and dumped on Jasen and Alixa’s bed.

  “Where do we sleep now?” Alixa had asked.

  “Floor,” grunted Kuura. Ever since Scourgey had scratched him, he had been decidedly short with them.

  Alixa huffed when she and Jasen were alone again with Scourgey and the armored man. “He should sleep on the floor. Not like he’d know about it.”

  Jasen had watched him for long hours. That one word rung out and echoed like a bell in his mind: Baraghosa. He had so many questions, all fighting to top the heap. First, how did this man know Baraghosa? Had he wrought the same destruction upon him and his people? And from where did they hail? Was Luukessia possessed of more survivors than just Terreas? Had there been other boundaries out there, other places spared?

  The moment the man drew into semi-consciousness, it was all Jasen could do not to burst out with his muddled, desperate queries.