Authors: Nicholas Anderson
Dane started up
the beach. Tomka, leader of the Tirans, came down to meet him at the head
of a column of armed men. The two men embraced. This did not mean
they had any special affection for one another. It was simply the
greeting custom on Tira. “The troop rotation is not till the end of this
moon cycle, or I am mistaken,” Tomka said. He referred to the rotation of
Tiran soldiers to bolster Dane’s father’s armies on the mainland. Every two
months, a ship arrived from the mainland and bore away a contingent of
soldiers. Two months later, the ship returned, bearing the Tiran troops
back to their families and departing with the next group.
“That is my
father’s business,” Dane said. “Not mine.”
“Then what brings
you here?” Tomka asked.
“I came seeking
answers.”
“This is a
strange thing. What could we know that you would wish to learn?”
Dane knelt on
the beach and, with his finger, scratched the hated symbol in the sand.
He was not familiar enough with it to draw it in reverse, so he drew it as he
had seen it, so that it was upside-down from Tomka’s point of view. Tomka
circled around the lines, his eyes never leaving them, until he stood beside
Dane. He made a hasty movement with his foot, erasing the drawing.
A low murmur ran through his men.
Dane rose.
“So you’re familiar with it?”
“Never before
has that mark been made on this island, young lord. I will ask you never
to make it here again.”
“Fair enough,”
Dane said. “But I will ask you to tell me what it means.”
“There are some
things no man should speak in the darkness. If you would have our counsel
on it, you must wait until dawn.”
“I can’t wait,”
Dane said. “The lives of my people depend on it.”
“And I will not
risk bringing the curse of this thing on my island – not even if your father
were here to threaten me with all his armies,” Tomka said. “You will
wait, or you must go.”
***
That afternoon,
Rawl crossed from the kitchen to the infirmary with a heavy pot and several
bowls. He helped serve up portions of the afternoon meal to Leech, Elias,
and Josie, who had not left the infirmary since returning from Joseph’s
funeral. Mara was still sleeping but Bailus was awake and sitting up and
took some soup with the others. Leech made him take second and then third
helpings of broth.
When they had
finished eating, Rawl told Josie he wanted to show her something outside.
He led her across the courtyard to where the targets Paul and he had used
yesterday still hung. He handed her his crossbow. “Want to give it
a go?”
He showed her
how to fit the bolts into the magazine and how to pump-load the bow. She
was pretty awkward with it at first, having to tilt the bow at a funny angle to
be able to pump it, and more than once the bolts came clattering out of the
magazine and fell to the ground. But she was determined. By sunset
she could hold the bow steady as she loaded it and she was hitting the targets
regularly from 15 paces. Bailus came out after a few hours and sat in a
chair with a blanket over his shoulders and watched them. “Interesting
technique, Master Johnson,” he said. “I’d no idea instruction in the use
of the crossbow required so much touching.
Or
giggling.”
Rawl’s face
turned red but he turned to Bailus with a grin. “Perhaps that’s what
you’ve been doing wrong all these years, sir.”
Bailus
grunted. “Well, it’s probably too late to change now.”
***
That night, as
Tomka feasted them, Dane worked his way over to Bax, who was sitting by one of
the fires. He would have left Bax in command of the settlement if need
be, but he had his own reasons for bringing him with him. He sat across
the fire from him in silence for an hour until the others had gone to
bed. Either for stubbornness or because he sensed Dane wanted to talk to
him, Bax stayed at the fire. The noises of the village died down around
them. Finally Dane spoke. “I’m sorry about your child, Bax.”
Bax was silent
for a moment, then shifted and rose to his feet. “Don’t worry your pretty
little head about it, your highness,” he said. “This world’s already got
its share of bastards.” He turned to head off into the darkness.
“Sell her to me,
Bax.”
Bax stiffened
and stopped walking but did not turn around. “We’ve been over this
before.”
“You’re not
pleased with her.”
Bax turned towards
him. He seemed to be in thought. “She has been more trouble than
she’s worth.
Tried running away more times than I can
count.
But then, where would I get another one?”
“Sell her to
me,” Dane said, “And there’s no need for you to get back on that ship tomorrow
morning. You can return to the mainland next week with the troop ship.”
“And what would
your father do when I return without you?”
“You know full
well what he’ll do,” Dane said. “He’ll make you his heir in my place.”
Bax sat back
down at the fire. “For all you know, she’s already dead.”
Dane lost his
voice at these words. He could only nod.
“Alright, your
highness,” Bax said. “I’ll think about it.”
***
Just before
midnight, Fletcher Dibsy stole across the courtyard towards the cellar. He
carried a candle in one hand and cupped the flame with the other, more to hide
its light than to keep it from going out as he walked. Dane had banned
drinking except for the mealtime allotments – which were anything but festive
portions. But Dane was miles away, and even if he were here, Fletcher
liked to think he would have chanced it. Dane’s bark was worse than his
bite. Fletcher saw the way Bax talked to him, and Dane never did a thing
about it. At any rate, he figured coming here was worth the risk.
Still, he liked at least pretending to be furtive about this midnight
run.
Fletcher opened
the door of the cellar and slipped inside. He looked over his shoulder
once before closing the door behind him. He did not think anyone had
noticed him. The sentries were all facing the woods anyway, he
imagined. He leaned against the door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the
darkness. Outside he’d had a nearly full moon to light his path; in here
he had to make do with the feeble flame of the candle. He sniffed.
There was a slight burnt smell in the air. He sniffed the stream of smoke
from the candle. It smelled only of hot wax. There was a noise of
movement from farther back in the room.
“Hello?” he
called.
No answer.
He
frowned.
Probably just a rat.
He had
invited Rawl twice to join him and twice Rawl had made excuses. But
Fletcher guessed these were merely Rawl’s way of misleading him so he could
surprise him. Fletcher plunked down the steps to the dug-out floor.
He had to duck under the hams that hung from the beams above his head.
The light of his candle reached the back wall. He smiled.
Casks lined
nearly the entire length of the wall except for one space in the far
corner. He hoped the others would be along shortly, but if not, it was
their loss. He need not wait. He was a man, and he could drink
alone. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders. There was a draft
in the room and a strange chill in the air.
He stood for a
while just looking at the casks with a feeling of satisfaction and
accomplishment as though he had personally made and filled each one. He
ran his hands over several of them before selecting a gallon sized one.
He set it on its end and used his knife to pry the cork out. Reaching
under his cloak, he untied from his belt a large ceramic mug he had swiped from
the kitchen.
His birthday present to himself.
Just as he was
tipping the barrel towards the mouth of his mug, something moved in the rafters
over his head. He straightened up quickly, almost upsetting the
barrel. Then he smiled and relaxed.
Wasn’t it just like Rawl to
say he wasn’t coming and then hide out in the attic and try to scare him?
He filled his mug to the brim.
As he
lifted the mug to his lips the sound came again.
The
sound of someone shifting their weight on the beams overhead.
“You
can come out now, Rawl,” he said. “It was a good try, but I know you too
well.”
There was no
answer.
Fletcher thought
about heading up the steps and out the door but instead forced himself to sip
his drink. “You’re wasting your time, Rawl.” His voice
wavered
a little as he said it. He looked over the
flame of his candle to the door. He could dimly make out its shape.
“Rawl?”
The question squeezed out of his throat
an octave or two above his normal voice.
This time there
came an answer, if an answer it could be called. A single dry croak
sounded from the darkness above his head. It reminded him (ridiculously)
of a vulture. Fletcher held his breath. Very slowly and steadily he
set the mug on the barrel and picked up his candle. As he did, a sudden
chill swept over him like a breath of cold air. His candle flickered and
went out. He heard the thing move above his head once more and he knew it
was much too big to be a vulture. The soft croaking cry came once
more.
Curious.
Eager.
Hungry.
And Fletcher
Dibsy knew two things at the same time:
The thing in the
darkness above him was not Rawl.
And coming here
had not been worth the risk.
By first light the next morning,
Dane was pacing before the door of the assembly hut of Tomka and his
people. His men sat on the ground beside him. The Tirans had
treated them well, feeding them and hosting them in their homes. But any time
Dane tried to bring up the mark they would change the subject, or shake their
heads, or simply walk away. The sky in the east changed from gray-blue to
gold and he knew the sun must finally be rising. Turning, he saw Tomka
and his entourage coming towards him.
Tomka was
accompanied by his wife, Valis, and the high-priestess, Ahthala, and several
other men and women. Behind them marched a dozen armed men. Valis
ushered Dane and his men into the assembly hut. The sat in a circle,
facing one another, with Tomka’s people forming one half of it and Dane’s the
other. “Before you ask your questions,” Tomka said, “I must ask
you: How did you come to know of this mark?”
“There is an
island,” Dane said, “A day’s voyage northwest of here.”
At his words,
Tomka’s people began talking amongst themselves. They talked mostly in
their own tongue, which Dane did not know, and talked too lowly for him to hear
their words anyway. When the murmuring died down, Dane said, “I see you
know of this also.”
“We know it,”
Tomka said. “It is something we would be happy to forget.”
“We named it
Haven,” Dane said.
“We have another
name for it,” Tomka said. “But we do not speak it.” He gestured for
Dane to continue.
“My father’s men
discovered the island two years ago. On exploring the island, they found
it full of caves, (this drew another burst of murmuring and agitated movements
but Dane talked over it) these caves were rich with iron ore. My father
sent settlers to colonize the island.”
At this, even
Tomka and Valis began to murmur to one another and to those beside them.
Only Ahthala, the priestess, kept her eyes on Dane and kept her silence.
Finally, Tomka held up his hands for silence. He turned to
Dane. “And what became of them?”
“Of whom?”
“These people
your father sent to the island.”
Dane felt a
chill creep up his spine. He had not said anything happened to
them. Tomka had taken it for granted. “For months, ships went back
and forth, delivering ore from the island. Then a final ship arrived –
bearing only a single passenger.
An old man from the
colony.
The mark I showed you was burned in his forehead.”
More murmuring.
The Tirans were so agitated and noisy
Dane was again compelled to wait for them to settle down. But this time
he did not waste the interruption. He focused his attention on the two
Tirans who sat closest to him. One was a young man with a fur robe,
perhaps a son of Tomka’s. The other was a grizzled old man with a patch
over his left eye and a left ear that looked like it had been mostly chewed off.
The old soldier was speaking to the young noble in hushed tones. Both
were looking at the floor. Dane focused all his concentration on
them. He knew they were using their native tongue, but he strained his
ears nonetheless. Before Tomka raised his hands once more for silence,
Dane caught one word, a word which the veteran spoke in a different way than
all the others. He faltered before saying it as though he had decided
against it, but the youth beckoned him on with a tilt of his head. The
old man dropped his voice in pitch and volume. It was a dark word.
But Dane heard it clearly enough. He repeated it to himself over and over
in his head so he would remember it.
Tomka was
motioning to him. “Go on.”
“The old man
died that same day. The next day, I set sail with these men and twice as
many others. We have been on the island (he paused, counting in his head)
five days now.”
Five?
Had it
been only five?
“We have found no trace of those who were there
before us.”
“And I doubt you
ever will,” Tomka said.
“Then tell me
about the mark,” Dane said. “Tell me about the island.”
“I will tell you
this about the island,” Tomka said. “That you should sail straight back
to your father and do your best to forget you ever heard of the island, much
less set foot on it.”
“I can’t do
that,” Dane said. “Half my men are still there.”
“There is
nothing you can do for them now,” Tomka said.
“That smacks of
cowardice,” Dane said.
To his surprise,
the older man did not stiffen with offense. “Call it what you will, but
to return there is nothing but foolishness and suicide. Go back to your
father and tell him to renounce his claim on the island before more evil comes
of it. No man can lay claim to that island.”
“Why?” Dane
asked. “Who claims it?”
Tomka only shook
his head.
“I need you to
tell me.”
“A terror dwells
there, King-son” Ahthala said, opening her mouth for the first time since
entering the hut. “Something we do not know or understand.
Something from before our time or the time of our forefathers.”
“We have spoken
of this too much already,” Tomka said. “We will say no more.”
“I need to know
more,” Dane said.
Tomka only shook
his head.
“Your secrecy
will not protect you,” Dane said. “It breeds suspicion. My father is
looking for someone to blame for this. Your island lies the closest to
Haven.” He would have said more but someone put a hand on his arm.
He turned. It was Bax.
The sheer shock of Bax
trying to calm him down caused Dane to reign in his temper.
Tomka
spoke. He sounded weary but not offended. “I see. You think
we razed the colony. You think we sailed to the island and killed in
secret.”
“I don’t really
think that,” Dane said softly.
“You know if we
wished violence, we would not strike in secret. But I will tell you this,
if it means anything to you: There is nothing you could say, no threat or
promise you could make, no blessing or curse you could invoke, that would
induce me to set foot upon that island.”
***
That same hour,
Rawl was jogging around the inner perimeter of the wall with Tipper and his
dog, Dioji. Tipper and Dioji did this every morning and evening and Rawl,
who had been walking the wall but not on watch, had simply fallen in with
them. They ran two circuits around the wall-walk and then bounded down
the steps and continued circling the hardpan at the base of the wall at a brisk
walk. Tipper was something of an idol to Rawl. He was a rarity in
the company on Haven. He was too young to be considered part of the old
breed, that band of born soldiers that started with Bailus and ended with Bax
and Dane – men who had been fighting for as long as Rawl could remember.
But nor was he like Rawl and Paul and Fletch and the other young men who the
old-timers referred to as fresh meat. He was the youngest man to get to
go out on patrol with Dane and Bailus. He could spend all day tracking in
the woods beside Bailus and never say a word. But when he opened his
mouth, everyone listened. He had all the privileges and prestige of the
older soldiers, but he was just as laid back and easy going as any of the
younger ones. He was a man apart, but not standoffish. He fit in
confidently with either group. And to top it all off, he had the love and
loyalty of the best dog Rawl had ever seen.
“How did you
name him?” Rawl asked as they trotted along.
“What,
D.O.G.? I guess it just sort of came to me.”
“Wait, his name
is D.O.G.?” Rawl asked, annunciating each letter.
“Well, I say it
‘Dioji’,” Tipper said, slurring the sounds together.
“So, in a sense,
you named your dog ‘Dog’?”
Tipper
shrugged. “It seemed to fit.”
Dioji, several
paces ahead, pulled up hard and began sniffing around the base of one of the
doors set in the wall. The dog stopped shuffling back and forth and put
his ears back and growled from down deep in his throat. His hair bristled
and his eyes blazed.
“Come on, boy,”
Tipper said, trying to pull his dog away.
Dioji wouldn’t
budge. Tipper trotted several paces forward and called to his dog, but
Dioji did not acknowledge him.
“Maybe we should
see what’s in there,” Rawl said.
Several people
were starting to gather from across the courtyard. Tipper came back and
stood before the door.
“What do you
think he smells?” Rawl asked, but if Tipper answered he never heard it, because
at that moment he realized that the door Dioji was bristling at was the door of
the storage cellar. Fletcher’s face, youthful and careless, came before
him, and he remembered the invitation to drinks. Rawl’s throat was suddenly
dry and his legs felt like all the strength had melted out of them.
Tipper was saying something to him. He turned towards him. Tipper
made a gesture with his hand and Rawl, after watching it several times,
realized Tipper wanted him to ready his bow.
Rawl pumped his
bow and brought it to his shoulder, aiming it at the door. Dioji had
calmed down a little with the attention the door was now receiving.
Tipper stood to one side. He flicked the latch over with his hand and
tapped the door open with his foot. Rawl bit back a scream at the sight
which greeted his eyes. Then he realized he was only seeing what he’d
seen a dozen times before, what he’d seen every time he’d entered the pantry
for this item or that while on kitchen duty: the hams hanging from the attic
beams.
Dioji sprang
down the steps. Rawl followed, leading with the point of his bow.
Tipper came behind him. Rawl could hear Dioji barking and snarling and
scratching at something at the back wall but he could make out little else in
the dim interior. He made towards the sound of Dioji’s barking as his
eyes adjusted to the light. When he could see more clearly, at first he
thought Dioji had disappeared altogether. Then he realized the dog was at
the end of the row of casks that lined the rear wall; he was between the casks
and the wall so that Rawl could not see him. Rawl stepped towards the far
rear corner. Something crunched beneath his feet. He reached down
and picked up several things that were cold and hard with smooth and jagged
surfaces. He had to hold them close to his face to inspect them
properly. They were pieces of pottery, smooth and curving. The
jagged surfaces were broken edges. He guessed the shards had been a
pitcher or mug.
He reached the
far corner where Tipper stood behind Dioji. The dog was barking and
scratching at the planks that formed the back wall. Tipper brushed him
aside with his leg. “There’s nothing here, boy.”
Tipper gave the
wall a kick. His boot striking the planks made a hollow knocking
sound. Tipper glanced at Rawl. Then he took hold of the planks and
pulled on them. They swung out like a rickety gate. Dioji disappeared
into the dark hole behind them. Tipper shouted and reached for his dog
but the animal was gone. Tipper swore and slapped his leg. He
turned to Rawl. “Get some lights.”
Rawl returned
with two torches. By this time, a fair crowd had gathered so that he had
to push his way through them to reach Tipper. The two young men crouched
before the mouth of the tunnel. They could hear Dioji barking but he
sounded a long ways off. From its mouth, the tunnel curved downwards for
a short distance and then angled up, but the men could see no further than this
bend and could only wonder at what lay beyond it. Two stout blocks of
wood supported an arched piece of stone just inside the mouth of the
tunnel. Glancing up, Rawl realized this support sat directly below the
trunks that formed the wall. The logs of the palisade were anchored four
feet in the ground. But the floor of the cellar was at least three feet
lower than these, allowing the tunnel-diggers to create a crawlspace that went
under the wall and out through the wall of the cellar. Rawl wondered
where the other end of the tunnel came out.
If it came
out at all.
“Well,” Tipper said.
“Who’s going to be first?”
Rawl was no fan
of tight spaces. He shuddered to think what he might find in there, what
might be waiting.
What was Dioji barking at?
But he knew his
duty. “He said he was going to marry my sister,” Rawl said. “And he
only wanted me to drink with him.”
“What?” Tipper
asked.
Rawl realized he
had already made up his mind about how it all had gone. He’d been playing
it over and over in his head since finding the mug. “I should go first,”
he said.
He lay down on his
side and started into the tunnel. Crawling on his side, holding the torch
out with his free hand and pushing his crossbow in front of him with the other,
Rawl inched forward. The tunnel wall was damp and cool. He made it
down the slope and squeezed through the bend and started working his way
up. The slope was gradual and going up proved easier than going
down. His legs had more leverage. The torch light, close enough to
his face to feel the heat of it, illuminated a few feet in front of him and blinded
him to all else. Dioji’s barking grew louder.
Rawl squeezed
through several more support braces. Looking up, he saw the roof of the
tunnel was lined with boards. He wondered how close to the surface he was
now. He paused and looked back. He could see Tipper’s torch and
hear his breathing and the scuffing of his feet and body in the dirt.
Rawl kept on.
Suddenly,
Dioji’s barking turned to a whimper and then ended all together. Rawl
paused. His heart beat furiously in his chest and he could feel it
slamming against the earth. He willed himself to keep going, keeping the
hand of his crawling arm on his crossbow. He thought there was a change
in the tunnel up ahead but it was impossible to tell with the torch light in
his face. He wondered how long he’d been down there and how far he’d
traveled. It was difficult to gauge time or distance in this
darkness.