Vergence (65 page)
Authors: John March
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Epic, #Myths & Legends, #Norse & Viking, #Sword & Sorcery, #Metaphysical & Visionary, #demons, #wizards and rogues, #magic casting with enchantment and sorcery, #Coming of Age, #action adventure story with no dungeons and dragons small with fire mage and assassin, #love interest, #Fantasy
Ebryn stood in the shadow of the newly arrived trade ship, waiting for Sash. Another one of Chochin design, with the same elongated eye emblem painted along the side, a small crowd milling confusedly around the bottom of the ramp as a short crewman struggled to make himself heard above the din.
He'd wanted to fetch her from Senesella himself, but Brydeline cautioned him against trying. Without something of that place to guide him there, the path would be too treacherous, she'd told him, so he'd been reduced to sending a letter with a courier heading in that direction. The hardest thing he'd ever had to write. Elouphe was gone, and he'd found the curled-up body of Leth lying on the floor of Sash's room.
He stayed away from the disembarkation point, remaining partially concealed under the belly of the vessel to avoid the getting in the way, and have a better chance spotting Sash.
The last time he'd been here, the day he arrived, he'd found the press of people overwhelming. Now the busy flow felt familiar, almost comforting.
Before the first passenger appeared, crates were already being winched to the ground in large rope cradles, where workers quickly heaved them into neatly stacked rows.
Flights of leatherwings swooped low over the upper deck of the ship, greeting the new arrival with their high chattering, squabbling loudly over scraps.
When the passengers finally disembarked they moved steadily to the ground. From the fearful looks and obvious relief on some faces, he could tell news of the battle had spread far beyond the boundaries of Vergence. A dozen mangled versions of the truth were already doing the rounds in the city, each story more elaborate than the last, so he could only imagine what people must be hearing in other places.
Like the brief ripple of a stone dropped into a fast stream, the impact of the onslaught on the city had washed away almost at once, as daily life resumed. Fewer units of city watch patrolled the streets, and most of the cheg guard seemed to be gone, yet aside from the odd bit of damage to buildings no sign of the fighting remained.
He saw Sash the moment she appeared at the top of the ship, unbound hair flying loose on a gust of wind — longer than he remembered. Her eyes searched the crowd around the base of the ramp as she descended.
Ebryn realised he'd been holding his breath, waiting for her to appear. She moved easily, without any lingering sign of injury. His greatest fear, that the poison might leave her crippled, evaporated as he watched her.
The crowd parted easily when they saw his dark grey cloak, pinned with a new adepts badge, and he met Sash as she stepped off the ramp.
Her face brightened when she saw him, breaking into the familiar dazzling smile, like sunshine pushing away clouds.
“No luggage this time?” he asked, returning the smile.
“No, just me,” Sash said. “Everything I want is already here.”
Fyrenar
R
ALUF SCOOPED A STRAY
piece of wood from the ground and tossed it onto the growing pile of split logs. He rested his axe on the stump he used for cutting, and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Looking down the road, he could still see the distant figure, now a little closer, making its way at a painfully slow pace towards him.
The Bailtree inn stood behind him, positioned at the place where the three roads met, a gloomily resigned building. A thin trail of damp wood smoke struggled from the chimney and rolled across the roof, feeding the thick haze hanging in the evening air.
Raluf scratched the back of his head. The approaching man used the least travelled of the roads — little more than a muddy track leading down from the edge of the Bosik moors, and disappearing into the furbeg infested wilds. An extended family of peat cutters lived in a hamlet where the track ended. A place too small to have a name. And beyond that not a single soul to the end of the world.
Limping in short painful steps up the long slope, the man looked nothing like any person he knew from that isolated community. Perhaps a prospector down on his luck, Raluf thought, suffering misfortune enough to be tempted by the abandoned quarries.
He picked up another log and placed it upright on the centre of the cutting block, hefting his axe. The wood came from a wyre tree, nasty knotted stuff which never seemed to dry completely, barely fit for burning, and nothing else.
Raluf split four more logs, and managed to wedge his axe in a fifth, before the man reached the top of the road. From thirty paces the stranger looked ill, with dirty clothing, and dark staining around his mouth. A few paces closer he looked hurt.
“Need help, friend?” Raluf asked.
The man said nothing, but stumbled forward the last few paces, and grasped Raluf's shoulders.
He'd heard tales about men from foreign parts, greeting each other with a kiss. Raluf tried to push the man away. “Hey now, we'll have none of that here—”
A hand grabbed at his hair, pulling his head forward, forcing their faces closer together. Dark, questing threads burst from the other man's mouth, and forced their way up Raluf's nose.
Afterword
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Notices & Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, businesses, or events are entirely coincidental.
First edition. July 1st 2015.
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