Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (36 page)

Their wonderment, however, was never expressed in words. At first this mystified me almost as much as the change itself. I later realized, however, that they saw it as merely another facet of the mystique of Lord Amalric Antero. A mystique that in their view had already led me to make great, previously unthought of discoveries. If anything, the change only made them trust my leadership more.

But instead of glorying in my regained youth I was now stricken by odd guilts after Janela had reminded me of my appearance. Age had taken my friends, as well as my dear Omyere. Why should I be spared? If spared I was — for I was not certain the gods were cursing me instead of bestowing a blessing. Sometime I felt a stranger, an intruder in disguise among my companions: their talk was the talk of youth, full of yet-to-be-realized dreams and untainted by harsh disappointment.

“What is happening to me, Janela?” I asked.

She placed a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m not certain,” she said. “But I wouldn’t worry that the change is an evil thing.”

I looked at her, wondering how she could have guessed my bleaker thoughts.

“I’ve made castings,” she went on, “and searched my memory for similar occurrences of men and women who might have had similar experiences. I’ve heard of people becoming old before their time; witches, even, who became hags overnight and nothing but a hank of hair and pile of dust by the next day. But I’ve never read of age being reversed, although it is certainly a long-sought goal of many a sorcerer. All I can say is, the closer we come to our goal the younger you seem to become. Although your progress has seemed to slow of late. I very much doubt you’ll continue until you become a mewling babe trying to use his sword for a teething ring.’

I laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “Now you’ve given me something new to worry about.”

“Well don’t,” she said. “Think of it as that figurine my great grandfather carried and how it became newer and more whole the closer you came to realizing your dreams.”

I saw the development in a more cheery light. I thought how happy I would be if Omyere were with me now and we could grow younger together and pleasure each other every night until the break of dawn.

My reverie was broken. Up ahead was one of the Old Ones’ demon\woman markers jutting at the channel’s edge. The beauteous side was turned toward me, peering down coldly, regally, as if mocking my foolish dreams. I didn’t need to see its demon side to be reminded life’s sweetest promises can be its greatest lies.

The first lie was the lake, which proved to be nothing but a skim of water over mud so deep that our longest poles could not reach the bottom. The demon\woman markers showed us the channel the Old Ones’ ships must have taken long ago. Only a few, however, remained whole after so much time. The majority were broken off near the base, but even though those stone stumps were as snaggly as a crone’s teeth, they rose higher than our rails and from the crusted shellfish on their rough surfaces it was apparent in other times the water was high enough for easy sailing. Now however, the water was so low even our shallow-bottomed ships would find the way difficult, if not impossible.

I sent out scouts in small boats to investigate and they returned to say it was much the same no matter how far they probed, although there were clear, deep patches along the way where we could make good progress.

I called everyone together — including Quatervals, Beran from the
Firefly,
and
Towra from the
Glowworm,
to decide what we should do next.

“Maybe it’s time we got off the water,” Quatervals said. “Lady Greycloak’s map shows we’ll be needin’ to strike out overland by and by. What’s stoppin’ us from doin’ it now?”

Kele snorted. “Just like a lubber,” she said. “All muscle-swole from walkin’ ’n no brains from lack of use. Sees a spot a trouble an’ it’s back to trompin’ on the hides a poor animals again.”

Quatervals bristled. “Don’t take much wit to see we’re in a fix,” he said. “Ship can’t sail on mud. Even you’ve got to admit that, Cap’n. I say we leave the damned things and circle the lake afoot.”

I turned to Janela, who was poring over her map rubbing. “What’s the terrain around the lake like?” I asked.

“There is no way to tell,” she said. “The map this was made from was more for ceremony than anything else. All it really showed was the traditional route, the easiest way for the Old Ones to travel with their goods.”

Quatervals broke in. “But there must’ve been some kind of road around it,” he insisted. “With cities and villages and such.” He glared at Kele. “Folks can’t live on the water, leastwise not permanent like.”

Before the defenders of sea travel versus land could fling more missiles, I stepped in.

“Why don’t we send a party to see?” I asked. “We could use some fresh meat so we could make it a hunting party. To make doubly sure no time is wasted, we could press ahead with the ships as best we can. Looking at the swamp ahead of us, the ships won’t be able to go far enough to lose the land party, and it appears from the Old Ones’ markers that the channel lies not far offshore, so Quatervals can track us down and signal or shout for a boat.”

Eyebrows were raised and dark looks exchanged at my mention of wasted time but no one commented. No more of a reminder was necessary that among our other difficulties we had an enemy on our heels whose demon prayers would be answered if they came upon us stranded on mud flats.

I tried to lighten the mood, grinning at Kele and saying, “Besides my friend, how many shares in this venture would you trade for a fresh haunch of venison crackling over a fire?”

Kele chortled and slapped Quatervals on the back. “Bring us some wild mint with it, lad, ’n I might even forgive yer lubber ways.”

It was agreed to take the middle course, pressing ahead as best we could with the fleet while Quatervals set out with a party to hunt but more importantly to seek a route by land. He was gone five days — days that for us were burdened with labor so filthy, so horrid that in the end even Kele admitted two legs were not necessarily the worst means of locomotion.

To move the ships we had to drag them one by one, while our oarsmen heaved on the sweeps as if a demon strode among them, cracking his black whip. To aid the sweeps we first lightened each ship — piling all its goods into the one that waited behind. Then we hitched lines to the ships’ boats, and each of us took turns rowing those boats — straining with every muscle to tow the ship a few feet at a time, as we had back in the delta. Even the slow progress we made progress wouldn’t have been possible if we hadn’t also used the stone channel markers to help pull us along.

A line would be made fast to the pillar many-sheaved blocks be tied to it, and lines would be woven back and forth through the blocks to the ship, men puling hard to winch us toward our goal. The air was filled with groans and curses and cracking bone and sinew as we all pulled, or rowed. And then when the ship reached the marker we had to do it all over again — shifting cargo and goods and then muscling the next craft onward along the muddy channel.

When the blessed time came to be spelled, we’d collapse on the deck — to tired, even, to remove the leeches that made the mud a home and seemed to have waited all eternity for the leech gods to bless them with a tasty feast such as ourselves. Our mates had to rub them off with handfuls of salt or torture them with a burning splinter so they’d withdraw and not leave their heads in our flesh to poison us.

Once in a rare while we’d come to a deep place and then we’d croak cheers as the fleet got properly underway again, sweeps carrying us easily for perhaps a mile or more. Then the mud-clotted lead would be hauled and the depth announced in a harsh cry that would have us cursing our mothers for bearing such unlucky children and it was back into the boats again or joining the men at the capstans, to drag the wooden mountains over the mud.

* * * *

The fifth day broke gray and dismal, with a cold rain to add to our misery. We worked all morning, the light growing dimmer, the rain sleeting harder but then our spirits lifted about midday when the channel suddenly deepened enough to bear up the ships and we could make slow, but less laborious progress.

Mud flats stretched on either side of us and soon we saw first a few, then scores of mud cones rising up twelve feet, or more. I didn’t know what to make of them except to observe that they looked a bit like the large mounds I’d seen on a wild plain, once. But they were homes of a kind of wood-eating insect and I couldn’t imagine such creatures ever favoring mud flats for nests. Then instead scores I saw hundreds of the things stippling the flats their surfaces bubbling with moisture, popping, then pustuling to a head again in a steady rhythm — almost as if they breathed.

The channel carried the
Ibis
close to one of the cones and as I leaned to get a closer view a large, flat, diamond-shaped head shot up, hissing like an angry lizard. The head was albino white with a single black bead for an eye. Four sharp mandibles framed a mouth of mottled pink and they clacked ferociously. I drew back in surprise and no little fear.

My reaction proved to be just in time because the creature reared back and spit a stream of putrid yellow liquid which spattered on the rails and deck. The surface of the wood blistered and smoked and I heard a cry of pain as the creature spat again and a hapless sailor was hit.

He clutched his bare breast which had turned a fiery red as if seared by fire and he fell to the deck, writhing in agony.

An arrow fired by a guard buried its head into the creature. It gurgled and shot back into its mud lair.

Just ahead the channel widened into a deep pool. I shouted for Kele to make haste and ordered the signaler to flag the others to do the same. But then the lookout cried a warning and his warning was echoed all down the line as others spotted the same threat.

Thousands of the creatures swarmed out of their nests and churned toward us from all sides. They were perhaps the length of a child but you would never mistake them for such an innocent thing. Their bodies — a glistening gray-brown behind the white heads — were half again as thick and tubular so they resembled a huge garden slug; but they had stubby legs with paddle-like feet — ten to a side so they could move with alarming speed across the flats.

A score or more reached the channel and plunged into the water toward our ships, so incredible agile they could leap higher than our rails — bursting from the channel like blunt-tipped spears and raining their deadly spittle as their legs scrabbled at the rails for purchase. Two of them plopped down on the deck on either side of me and I cut one in half with my sword but before I could turn to dispatch the other, my whole side lit up in agony as it spewed thick yellow glop on me.

As I reeled in pain, Otavi chopped the creature in two with his ax before it could sink its mandibles in me, then he too was shrieking as one of the creatures reared up from the deck and caught him full in the face. Chons speared it, pinning it to the deck where it wriggled mightily to get at him, but then Janela stepped in to lop off its head. Mithraik, who’d proved to be an uncommonly good fighter, laid about him with his sword, hacking at any of the gross creatures who came near him.

All over the ship I could hear men shouting and cursing or crying in pain as they battled to keep the creatures from boarding. I recovered enough to slash the front legs off one of our attackers and it fell off the rail and into the water where five or more of its companions raced to devour it, the water boiling with their frenzied fight to consume the most.

Every one we killed and kicked over the side seemed to divert the attention of its none too fussy friends, who’d eat their own as easily as us. It was probably the only thing that saved us. The deck was slippery with rain and stinging mucous and it was difficult for even the best of us to keep our feet, much less our wits.

The
Ibis
broke from the narrow channel and into the pool. Behind us our comrades were still fighting their way out. I saw one man go over the side, a slug-thing fixed to his throat. The others struggled to reach him but were driven back by a shower of venom.

The man’s cries were terrible and just before they stopped I thought I heard him scream my name.

Then all three ships were in the clear but the danger wasn’t over. The creatures seemed only to pause for a moment at the channel’s edge, then plunged after us, fanning out in a long half-circle many slug-bodies deep. They swam like the big flightless birds that favor the frozen southern seas, diving downward a body length then bursting up to break the surface and curling over for another dive.

Janela called to me and I saw her muscling an empty oil keg to the side. She slashed her arm with a knife, letting blood spill into the keg. I steadied myself as she reached for me with that knife, but she veered at the last instant, cutting off a bit of my hair.

Quickly she stuffed the red hank into a small bag with a long sling. And she whirled the bag about her head, chanting:

Demon Dreamer,

Who sleeps in the deep;

Awake onto me!

Demon Dreamer,

Hear my plea:

Awake!

Awake!

The bag burst into flame and Janela flung it into the barrel. The oil residue caught and an unholy flame sheeted up.

Janela shouted to me for help and reached for the burning barrel.