Out of the Waters (52 page)

“—of heaven be opened to me!”
Varus said, completing the phrase in a cracked, ancient voice which caused his father to jump back in alarm.

“My son?” Saxa said. “I don't understand.”

Varus rubbed his forehead, then bent and picked up the book he had dropped: a copy of the
Aetna
, the Stoic response to Lucretius'
On the Nature of Things
. He had always been in sympathy with Lucretius' Epicurean disbelief in the gods, but recent events had made him think the Stoics might be right after all.

“I don't understand either, Father,” Varus said. “And I'm afraid I don't know what has happened to Mother. But I know what I must do.”

Unfortunately, I don't have the faintest notion of how to do it
.

*   *   *

C
ORYLUS AWAKENED
when he felt the ship begin to tremble. The sky had brightened, and the sails were quivering.

Corylus ached pretty much everyhere. He had slept on the ground beside the tilted keel, using a biscuit—or whatever they were—to cushion his head. They did better for that than they did as food, though he supposed they would sustain life.

He'd had a few bites of one to supplement the raw fish. He would probably eat more today, because he didn't trust the remaining fish to be safe without smoking or at least a drying rack. Though being doubled up with the runs didn't seem quite as terrible as it would have been if the alternative were something other than the chalky blandness of the ship's stores.

Coryla was watching him. “Good morning, cousin,” he said politely. She pouted.

The Ancient had stopped shrieking some time in the middle of the night, but he still sat in the ruins. Under other circumstances, Corylus might have built the scattered stones into a shelter; the ship lay almost crossways to the prevailing wind, which was as bitter as that of the Hercynian Forest in November. It was better to feel chilled to the bone than to cannibalize the Ancient's shrine, however.

The same concern, perhaps even more strongly, had convinced Corylus not to use the sprite's warmth to shelter him. He needed the Ancient as an ally if they were ever to get off this needle of rock. Even without that, he was sure that the result of provoking the golden-furred wizard into a rage would be unsurvivable, and he'd seen more than one man knifed or battered to death because of a disagreement over a woman. The sprite's pique was a cheap price to pay for avoiding that risk.

Water slapped loudly, then rebounded from the base of the rock. The eel hadn't slept during the night either. Judging from the sound, none of his leaps had equalled his first attempt. Corylus hadn't looked over the edge again, however, for fear of spurring the creature to a sufficiently greater effort.

The Ancient squatted with his wrists resting on his knees. His fingertips dangled almost to the ground. He watched as Corylus approached.

Corylus bowed. “Master Magician?” he said. He doubted whether the Ancient could understand his words, but he thought it was better to speak directly rather than to use the sprite as an intermediary. “I would like to leave as soon as you determine that there is light enough to lift the ship.”

He gestured toward the brightening east without turning his head. He bowed slightly. The Ancient simply stared.

I depend on his goodwill,
Corylus thought. He turned his back and began walking toward the ship. When both parties know that one cannot force the other to his will, then only a fool attempts to threaten.

There was a scrape on the dirt behind him. Corylus started to look over his shoulder. The Ancient shot past him in a flat leap that carried him to the stern of the ship. He slammed into the deck and straightened, his claws biting the wood. He grinned at Corylus.

Corylus grinned too, then broke into laughter.

“Men!” the sprite said. Her voice held a mixture of amazement and disgust.

“Time to board, cousin,” Corylus said as he lifted himself over the railing. “And very glad of it I am, too.”

He continued to smile. The sprite was quite correct. He and the Ancient
were
both men—not just males—in all the important senses. That had risks if you weren't properly courteous in the other fellow's terms, but Corylus understood that: he'd grown up with the Batavian Scouts.

If you were in a hard place, you wanted your companions to be men also. Corylus was in a very hard place now.

The hull rocked upright. When the first bright edge of the sun showed above the horizon, the sails gave a mighty stroke and the ship lifted. Below and behind, the sea slapped to the desperate fury of the monster eel.

The moon, just short of full, hung in the western sky as though it were the beacon toward which the Ancient was steering. For an instant, Corylus thought he saw an angry woman standing astride the orb; then she was gone, but two specks lifted from the silver surface.

Corylus watched the specks, his eyes narrowing. He couldn't be sure, but they seemed to be swelling … which meant they were headed toward the ship.

“Cousin?” he said. “Do you see those dots? Are they coming toward us?”

The sprite joined him in the bow; she seemed to be over her irritation. She had a basically sunny personality, which made up for an obvious lack of intellect.

“The Minoi have guards on the Moon,” she said. “Are the Minoi your enemies?”

Corylus had taken off the armor to sleep and hadn't bothered to don it in the morning. Now he removed the sword belt so that he could latch the breastplate in place properly.

“I didn't know anything about the Minoi before I was thrown onto the cliff with the Cyclops and the ships on the beach below,” he said. “Maybe they think I've stolen their ship.”

The sprite shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said without interest. “Anyway, they'll certainly kill you if they can, now that they see you're wearing their armor. They're a haughty lot; worse than olive trees, even, for thinking that they're better than everyone else.”

Corylus hung the cross belt over his shoulder again and latched the buckle of the waist belt; then he reached for the helmet. He would like to have a spear, or better still a sheaf of javelins. He had been pretty good at throwing a javelin, even by the standards of the Scouts.

The orichalc armor of the Minoi glinted identifiably even while they were too distant to have shapes. Corylus noticed that the ship was descending. He looked back at the Ancient.

The Ancient wrinkled his lips. Corylus hoped that was a grin and returned to watching the Minoi.

The golden-furred wizard knew what he was doing. At any rate, he knew better than Corylus knew to direct him. The giant eel should be far behind them by now; and if not, it still wasn't the most serious danger.

The Minoi were riding huge, three-headed vultures. They turned after they closed and for a time flew parallel to the ship, a furlong to either side. After a moment they drew ahead, demonstrating that their mounts were far swifter than the ship's throbbing sails.

“Cousin?” said Corylus, though he was a little afraid to put his hope into words. “Have they decided to ignore us now that they see who we are?”

Before the sprite could answer, the Minoi drew their swords. The vultures banked, turning inward. Their powerful wings beat as, side by side, they drove toward the ship.

Corylus drew his sword also, but he didn't expect it to be of any use. He wasn't a sailor, but he could see the danger easily: the Minoi didn't have to attack
him
. All they had to do was slash the sails and cause the ship to drop into the sea. The eel would finish their work, and even if it didn't, Corylus would eventually starve.

The Ancient gave a savage, rasping howl, the same sound he had made in response to the men/wolves of the first island they had approached. Corylus didn't look around. His concern was for his enemies; his allies—he hoped the Ancient was his ally—could take care of themselves for the time being.

The sea ahead lifted. For a moment, Corylus thought the eel or another like it had reached them after all; but this was water alone, rising in a spray of droplets.

It shuddered into an image of the Ancient, formed of the green sea and surrounded by a rainbow halo. It poised, hunching toward the Minoi. The vultures sheared off, but the simulacrum lunged forward, striding on the waves, and snatched one out of the air.

The image of water used its arms the way a praying mantis does, drawing its victim back to its pointed jaws. A huge black wing dropped away, its flight feathers quivering. The helmet flew in one direction and the rider's legs and torso in the other.

The simulacrum flung the vulture's body into the sea. The remaining bird was flying toward the rising sun. The thing of water pursued it for as far as Corylus could see.

The ship began to rise to its usual height. The sails had slowed their stroke, but they were picking up the rhythm again.

Corylus sheathed his sword. He turned and bowed as deeply as the breastplate allowed him to do.

“Thank you, master,” he said to the Ancient. “I am honored to be in the company of such a warrior as yourself.”

The ancient wizard's tongue lolled. He laughed. This time the sound was as terrible as his shrieks of a moment before.

*   *   *

A
LPHENA SNEEZED AND AWAKENED.
I must have slept like the dead
.

Uktena had lighted his pipe. Holding it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he started up the ladder. Alphena saw brilliant white sparkles wherever his skin touched the wood.

“Uktena?” she called. She began to lace on her sandals; she had taken them off to sleep. “Wait a moment.”

The shaman did not pause, but he was moving with great deliberation. By the time he had flung the entrance mat aside and disappeared onto the surface, she was ready to follow.

Her hands and calves tingled when they touched the ladder. She swallowed, but it didn't matter.
It can't matter
.
He's my friend
.

Black clouds filled the sky, seething like water at a rolling boil. Alphena expected thunder, but she heard none. The air on the ground was still. Dead still.

Uktena stalked toward Cascotan. The villagers were not in sight, but the three sages waited in front of the huts as they had on the previous day.

Alphena trotted to catch up. The copper axe head sparkled as her arms pumped, and the hair on her right arm stood up as though lightning had struck nearby.

“Master,” Wontosa said, standing slightly before the fellows to either side of him. “We have discussed the dangers, my colleagues and I. It is not safe that you approach the Atlantean from the land as you did yesterday. Use your powers to circle him from the sea and—”

Uktena put the pipe to his lips, drew on it, and lowered it again. He expelled an expanding jet of smoke toward the sages.

Wontosa shouted, “Hai!” and leaped back. His rolled hair burst into smoky red flames. Screaming, he tried to beat out the fire with his bare hands. His companions were running toward the forest.

Uktena gestured with his right hand. Wontosa sailed toward the marshes on the north side of the island. Moments later, Alphena heard a faint splash from that direction.

Uktena had not paused. Alphena reached his left side and fell into step. She tried not to look at the shaman, but what she saw in the corners of her eyes shifted in disquieting ways.

He is my friend. I am
his
friend
.

They reached the shore. Procron's tower was a glittering spike against the textured black of the sky. A thunderbolt crashed, striking the sea and turning it momentarily as clear as smoky quartz.

Uktena dropped the pipe again. White fire wreathed him. He stepped forward, onto the surface of the water. Sparks popped and hummed about his feet. Alphena would have waded in also as she had done the previous day, but the sea threw her back with a loud crackle.

She fell onto the coarse sand. Her right leg was numb. She reached across to massage the calf with the opposite hand, but even seated she continued to hold the axe ready in her right.

Uktena, but no longer Uktena, advanced in a haze of sizzling light, changing and growing. The peak of the crystal fortress opened slowly. Procron drifted out with the stately majesty of an emperor being drawn in a triumphal chariot.

What Uktena had become gathered speed as it advanced. Its swelling mass concealed Procron from where Alphena stood.

Purple fire blazed, reflecting from the clouds and sea. The crack of thunder jolted the shore beneath Alphena and sent waves leaping across the sea in both directions.

Uktena staggered. His wrapping of light dimmed; Alphena saw clearly the tentacled, many-legged monster he had become. Hundreds of bestial heads lifted from the mass and bellowed in agony.

It—
he
—surged forward. Procron rose higher. A second purple bolt spat from his diamond skull. Uktena staggered, but the thunderclap jolted the Atlantean backward as well.

The white fire surrounding Uktena congealed, brightened, and swelled again. Like the sun settling off the island's shore, the shaman halted momentarily, then rushed forward. Great arms spread to right and left, threatening to envelop both the spike and the Atlantean himself.

Uktena's arms closed. Purple light flashed, through the white and from the clouds. The sea exploded from beneath the magicians, throwing out a wave as though a mountain had been dropped into the water.

Alphena had risen to her feet. She had a brief glimpse of the shelving bottom before the wave knocked her down and tumbled her up the slope. She did not let go of the axe.

The water that had washed over her was hot. It recoiled from the shore, carrying with it hundreds of fish—bellies up and parboiled white.

There was silence for a moment. Alphena's ears rang, but she had felt the previous thunder through her sandals. Now there was nothing.