The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (44 page)

Hayle and his men flung Fernel Pintte over the smack’s side, tied up in ropes like a goose trussed for the oven. As soon as Dorana’s mayor thudded onto the skiff’s boards, not stirring at his indignity, Rafel shoved him out of the way, then looked again to the captain.

“You next, Hayle.”

“Me last,” said Hayle. “Got to see these fine folk settled first.” Thanks to Da he knew a bit about the stubbornness of fishermen. “All right.”

Turning to Arlin, Hayle thrust a tied-off rope into his hands. “Go on, young lord. Hold tight, scoot quick, and if you happen to strip a bit of skin off y’palms, remember—it could be a bloody sight worse.”

Arlin hesitated.

“Come
on,
Arlin!” Rafel shouted up at him. “We ain’t got all day.” Behind him, Da groaned. “Rafel—”

“Arlin! Stop pissing about!” he shouted, then turned to his father.
“Da!”

His father’s face was ashen beneath its smeared coating of blood. “I be losin’ it, Rafe. Get
’
em down here—we got to go—”

“The whirlpool!” cried Sarle Baden. “Hurry!”

Foaming… splashing… a whisper of power. The harbour sinkhole began to spin more swiftly.

Da was close to sobbing with the strain of fighting the whirlpool.
“Rafe.”

“I
know,
Da,” he said, desperate. “Just a bit more. Not long now. Just a bit.”

And then he found himself fighting his own frantic battle as the water beneath the skiff surged, responding to the waking whirlpool, testing his control. As he struggled to keep the skiff steady, to keep it from sucking towards the whirlpool, as another waterspout roared into life, the fishing smack lurched violently—and the five Doranen mages desperately slithered over its canting side.

A second waterspout spewed into the air, close enough to soak them with whipping spray—and he lost control of the water, and the skiff, and was knocked off his feet completely and fell on top of Dorana’s still-senseless mayor.

The clambering Doranen tumbled into the harbour like rotten apples from a lightning-struck tree.

Rafel scrambled off Fernel Pintte, not caring if he broke bones, and threw himself precariously across the skiff’s side. Reached for the nearest bobbing blond head, grabbed it by the hair, and hauled.

It was Arlin.

He dragged the poxy little shit coughing and spluttering into the skiff. Arlin shouted with pain then heaved up gouts of salty water. “My father—my father—Ain—”

Rafe shoved him aside. “Stay down and shut your trap!”

Two more waterspouts howled up from the harbour. There was no time to collapse them even if he’d been strong enough—and he wasn’t. Not any more. And Da was sprawled across the rower’s seat, barely moving. Barely breathing. But he wasn’t dead, not yet, so he had to stay where he was untended. Rafel reached down to the water for the next closest Doranen mage, locked his fingers around the man’s wrist and pulled. Pulled again. Felt his shoulder trying to pull free of its socket, the pain as hot and bright as magic, and kept on pulling. Hauled the coughing, kicking Doranen over the skiff’s side.

It weren’t Rodyn Garrick.

The other three Doranen mages were too far away to reach. Long yellow hair plastered across their faces, they splashed feebly towards the wildly tossing skiff. Arlin was hanging over its side, shrieking, waving his arms around and getting in the way.

“Father!
Father!
”

“Bloody
stay down,
I said!” Rafel bellowed at him, and knocked Arlin on his skinny arse.

Hurling abuse, Arlin flailed to his feet. Ignoring him, hating him, Rafel reached his hand out again. But as his fingers closed on the closest mage’s sodden shirt, the whirlpool ripped free of Da’s magic with a rumble like thunder; an enormous waterspout, erupting, flipped the fishing smack onto the reef. Flung the skiff sideways. The stricken Doranen’s shirt was torn from his desperate grasp.

No time to think. No time to feel. No time to stare in horror at the blue and yellow fishing smack, broken-backed and splintered, its captain and its crew smashed and dying before his eyes. No time to try and save the last three mages in the harbour.

They were beyond saving, any road. The whirlpool had taken them. They swirled round and round, screaming—and swirled out of sight.

F
ather!
” howled Arlin. Then he leapt. “Rafel, you murdering
bastard!
”

Rafel punched Arlin hard in the gut, twice. Dropped him retching to the bottom of the skiff, clenched his fists double-handed and struck him across the face. He felt the flesh over his raw knuckles split, saw Arlin’s cheek split over the bone. But he couldn’t care about that. It was knock the fool as senseless as Pintte or let them all die.

With the last of his strength he reached within himself, to that place where so much power had hidden. The power Da had kept from him.
Don’t think on that. It doesn’t matter. Not now
. The cauldron was scraped almost bare. A few sparkings remained, nowt more.

A few sparkings would have to do.

Shuddering, he summoned them. Shuddering, he imposed his will on the water. The water resisted—resisted—and he strained to break it, strained to breaking, felt the hot blood pour from his eyes and his nose. Spat blood and saliva on the boards at his feet.

Meanly, grudgingly, the water finally obeyed. The skiff lurched as the wave he’d created retreated them from death. Half-blinded, exhausted, he clung to the mast. Turned to see if his father could help… but Da was still sprawled across the rower’s seat, with only the uneven rise and fall of his chest to show he wasn’t dead. Hurting so much, his head pounding, his body pounded, Rafel throttled his fear.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

Woken and weeping, Arlin huddled face-down at his feet. The other rescued Doranen reached for him. Who was it? Sarle Baden? With a foul curse Arlin knocked the older man’s hand away. The mage recoiled then looked round—yes, it was Baden—and dragged the straggling wet hair from his face. Sat up, groaning, and stared across the turbulent harbour towards the reef.

“Barl save us,” he croaked, his voice scratchy with salt.
“Look.”

The unrestrained whirlpool roared savagely wider, white foam spewing into the air. Beyond the reef dozens of waterspouts whipped and howled. And the fishing smack, ruined, fell at last to pieces and was sucked spar by sail by rigging by net, down into the harbour’s depths.

Still clinging to the skiff’s mast, Rafel dragged his gaze from the dreadful sight and looked back to Westwailing’s pier. So far away, too bloody far… and he was so sinkin’ tired… he had nothing left to give…

In the space of three heartbeats five more waterspouts burst into life around them. Then another. And another. The sluggishly moving skiff slewed hard port, then harder starboard. Rafel dropped to his knees in the struggle to control it.

“Barl save us,” Baden said again, and this time he sounded helpless. “Grieve not for your father, Arlin. We’re about to join him.”

Trussed-up and discarded Fernel Pintte stirred, muttering. Rafel looked at him, his vision blurred with pain and effort. Looked at grief-struck Arlin. At Sarle Baden. At Da. Four lives counting on him… but only one that counted. A dreadful thought. Shameful. Wicked. And true.

Hold on, Da. Hold on.

Nauseous with terror, with feeling so much foul magic, Dathne watched the skiff desperately jink and swerve across the turbulent harbour, trying to reach Westwailing’s pier. Beside her, halfway down the stone finger’s length, the township’s mayor was almost in tears.

“
Please,
Meistress Dathne, we can’t stay here any longer! It be too dangerous. We’ve got to
retreat!
” Threeve’s imploring fingers hovered a hairsbreadth from taking hold of her arm. “Can’t you see we could be washed away any moment?”

The craven fool was exaggerating… but not by much. Whipped-up water slapped viciously on both sides of them, dangerously tossing the tethered fishing fleet. She’d lost count of how many waterspouts now ripped across the harbour… and by her uncertain reckoning three more whirlpools had formed. But what did that matter? So long as Asher and Rafel were still out there—not drowned—

“I don’t care, Threeve,” she said, so afraid she sounded calm. “Run if you want to. I’m not shifting an inch.”

“But I can’t leave you out here!” said Threeve, anguished. “
We
can’t leave you. Please, Dathne,
please
—”

“Look!”
shouted one of Westwailing’s fishermen, standing with the others a respectful distance behind them.
“Here she comes!”

Heedless of the danger, of Threeve’s shouted protests and the scouring salt spray, Dathne bolted towards the end of the pier. The skiff was coming in fast but erratic, threatened at every turn by huge waves and whirling waterspouts. It was close enough now for her to see Rafel and one Doranen standing with the mast between them. But where was Asher? Where
was
he? She felt rage and grief burst from her in a single, moaning cry.

Then dimly she heard a dull thudding in her wake as Westwailing’s fishermen chased her down the pier. They were risking their lives and she didn’t care. It was Asher they were running to. Asher, and her son.

Skidding to a halt, arms windmilling to keep her balance, she watched the skiff wallow, losing speed, losing purpose. No, no. Not this close. She couldn’t lose them this close. Not so close she could see her son’s drained face, streaked with water and blood, empty of hope.

A pair of hands seized her, thrust her roughly aside. One of the fishermen. She didn’t know his name. “You stay put,” he ordered. He sounded like Asher. “This be our harbour.”

Numb, Dathne watched the six men pound down a treacherous stretch of stone steps leading down to the water. To another skiff tethered to an iron ring sunk into the pier. One untied the skiff, one stood by the tiller, and the other four leapt for the oars. Two men on each, they dug the wooden blades into the surging water, heading for Rafel’s skiff before it was too late. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trembling. Skittered her terrified gaze around the fretful harbour, expecting at any moment a fresh waterspout to rise up and smash both boats.

Rafel’s skiff swung about, taking on water. Straining, she could see another blond head in the small boat, seated and slumping. Was there no-one else? Only Rafel and two Doranen? The skiff slewed again and
then
she saw him. Saw Asher, folded over the skiff’s rowing seat.

Barl save me. He looks dead.

Choking back tears, she watched the fishermen reach her husband and son. Rafel and the Doranen mage with him caught the ropes the men threw and tied the two wallowing skiffs together. As the harbour heaved and the dancing waterspouts danced closer, the rescuers fell to their oars again. Rafel eased his father off the rowing seat, gestured at the Doranen who stood with him, and they unshipped their skiff’s oars. Started rowing with desperate strength.

When Threeve touched her shoulder, Dathne nearly fell off the pier with fright.

“It’s nearly over,” the mayor said. Like her, he was soaked to the skin, bedraggled and shivering. “You should stand back, Dathne. Don’t be in the way.”

He was right, sink him. As the tethered skiffs reached the pier she retreated, though every screaming instinct told her to run down those wet stone steps and throw herself on Asher and Rafel.

One by one, the fishermen brought up the men from the rescued skiff. Rafel first, staggering. The two Doranen came next—Sarle Baden and Arlin Garrick, both looking half-drowned. Arlin’s face was bruised raw and bleeding. Then came Fernel Pintte, wits wandering, festooned with rope, his hair and face clotted with blood from a head wound. She hadn’t seen him in the skiff. And last of all Asher, not sensible at all. Asher they carried, and laid down on the pier.

“Mama,” said Rafel. She’d never seen him so tired. So distressed. “Mama, I—”

But before she could reach him, before she could reach Asher, Arlin Garrick turned on Mayor Threeve. “Arrest this Rafel of Dorana!
Now!
He murdered my father and Ain Freidin and another Doranen besides!”

Stunned, Threeve looked to Sarle Baden. “My lord, is that true?”