The Wealding Word (19 page)
Authors: A C Gogolski
Still, the river was wide, and looked frigid. “If only Willomena were still with us,” the young soldier said. “She’d cross this easily and we’d all stay dry.”
“Well, that won’t be happening today,” snapped Peter. “We’re all getting a cold bath tonight, like it or not.”
Nell spoke up, finally venting. “I think Ward is right. Let’s stop here on this side, and go on in the morning. It’s going to be night, and I’m cold already.” The ache from her sprained wrist made it easy to speak her mind. She had no wish to get soaked just before nightfall.
By now the hermit was past the point of listening. He insisted that the coast was just ahead, where they would find a quaint village of crabbers and fishermen. “Comfort waits on the other side of the river, you’ll see!” he said, rolling up his pant legs.
Rawley jumped into the chilly river first, splashing across in no time. Ward approached Nell, wearing a nervous grin. “May I see you across, my lady?” Then, as Nell stood sputtering, he lifted her up onto his shoulders and strode into the water. The current tugged at him, but he steadied himself with a long stick, whistling cheerfully. Nell wrapped her thin arms and legs around his neck. Despite the
pain in her wrist, she felt a certain thrill at his attention. The young man always put her comfort and safety before his own. “It’s quicker than it looks,” he called back to Peter. “And cold!”
Safely on the far side of the river, Ward gave Nell a soggy bow. “’Comfort waits, you’ll see!’” he said, affecting Peter’s nasally tone. Flushing, Nell laughed at his words. It was all the more ridiculous since the soldier was dripping wet and looking anything but comfortable. She settled against a tree, watching him empty water from his scabbard. Behind him, Peter began his crossing.
The old man spent long moments feeling out each step with his walking stick. At times he stopped to peer at the surface of the water, trying to ascertain what might lie below. It was growing dark, though, and the dim light made it impossible to see. Ward was just about to wade back into the river when Peter gave a pitiful yell and crashed into the stream. Safe and dry and feeling slightly better now that she was on the opposite side, Nell giggled at the sight of the flailing old man. Ward raced in immediately, splashing about to drag Peter to the bank.
When she saw the pain written on Peter’s face, Nell knew something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked.
Wincing, the hermit stretched his leg for all to see. Two beads of blood showed red against his pasty white calf. “A bite. I knew I saw something in the water.”
Ward looked at the wound. “A river snake. They’re very rare. How are you feeling?”
Peter shivered, “Cold, and my leg is all pins and needles.”
“We need to get you to a leech. Are you sure there is a village near here?” the soldier asked.
The ache in Peter’s leg knifed up through his spine when he moved, and on top of that, he was annoyed that everyone kept doubting him. “Yes!” he muttered. “Just to the north. We would have been there by now if you hadn’t fiddled around with that horse of yours!”
“The queen herself gave me that horse, sir!”
Nell interrupted the two men, angry at the turn of events. “Well, we have to go there. Now!”
As dusk turned to night, the hermit leaned on his companions, grinding his teeth against the icy ache of the snake bite. It was well after dark when they smelled the sea.
By the light of a half moon they came upon a scattering of houses nestled on a slope above the water. Long, dark bands of seaweed lined a pebbly beach in the moonlight. Stars glimmered above the nameless little town, and candles flickered in the windows of the houses. By now, the hermit’s face was a mask of shivering agony, the venom shutting his body down. “B-b-bad luck,” he quaked. Nell knew too well what he was talking about.
They knocked on the first door they came to and begged for help. A large woman with frizzed gray braids let them in. She introduced herself as Mags. The stuffy cottage reeked of fish, but it was a place to rest, and there was food to share. The fishwife kindly offered them lodging without any questions, though she made Nell tie Rawley outside. Mags showed Peter to a small bunk and laid several knitted blankets on him. After that, she turned to look at Nell’s wrist.
“Is there a leech in this village?” Ward asked her.
“No, ‘fraid not son,” said the big woman. “All the men are out at sea for the week netting crabs. Should have been back yesterday, in fact.” Carefully Mags secured a bandage about Nell’s wrist. “The leech is with them. You’d have to go back south along the coast, about three hours walk, to Surryhaven. There you’ll find a leech named Bargo if you looked.”
Clearly Peter would not make a three hour trip to the next town. He might not even last the night here in bed. Ward said to Nell, “I will need to run to Surryhaven and bring the leech back here. Most likely I won’t return until the morning. Take care of old Peter. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
She nodded grimly, and Ward raced out into the night.
Nell spent several hours lying on the floor beside the hermit’s bunk. Sleep did not come easily. She was saddle sore from riding most of the day, and her swollen wrist made it feel like she would never move her hand again. Often just as she was drifting asleep, her arm would slip and hit the floor, jarring her awake like a bolt of lightning.
She could hear that Peter was still alive, groaning softly and gasping for breath. She clamped her eyes shut to try at sleep again when Rawley gave one high yelp outside. The sound of it made her skin prickle in the darkness. “I wonder if Ward is coming back,” she whispered.
Nell opened the rickety wooden door, and then stepped onto the porch. Bright pinpoints above illuminated the surf as it crashed on the shore. The smoldering assembly of stars known as the Great Chariot was now dipping into the ocean, signaling the passage of night.
She found her dog staring at something farther down the shore. For just a moment, she thought she saw a man with a long beard walking along the beach in the rolling water. A faint nimbus followed him, eerie blue like starlight. Just then Rawley barked again, and Nell noticed a large ship lay at anchor out on the waves. Men were rowing two smaller boats to shore. “The men of the village,” she said
excitedly. The pain in her wrist vanished like the old man in the surf. “That means the leech is back. I’ll go find out which one he is, and bring him to see Mr. Domani.” The border collie whined, straining against the rope about his neck.
Nell went down to the bank as the rowers pulled their boats through clumps of seaweed. They were big men with matted beards, wearing leather armor and carrying spears and shields. One spotted Nell and grinned. Even in the dusky light, Nell could tell it was not a well-intentioned look. While the other men ran off toward the houses, this one came toward her.
Scared but desperate on behalf of the hermit, Nell stood her ground: “Hello? I’m looking for the leech? Is he with you?”
The bearded man didn’t seem to understand, or perhaps he was deaf. Without warning, he snagged her arm and scooped her up over his shoulder. “What?” she cried. Beating her small fists on his back did nothing, and in a few moments he had dumped her in one of the boats. “What are you doing? Let me go! Help! Help!”
His big, meaty fist closed over her forearm, holding her fast as she struggled. “Gurrl, sitt,” he spat.
Rawley’s howls echoed above the surf, but the homes on the shore remained still. The dog whipped his head about and lunged toward the water, trying in vain to free himself of the rope. “Help!” Nell shouted. No one came, except the same six men who crept from the boats earlier. The brutes spoke to each other in grating voices, using blunt words that she had never heard before. They sounded angry, perhaps because the men of the village had not returned with their catch of crabs yet. There was nothing here to steal. Nothing except Nell. The man gripping her arm shook her roughly and barked something to the rest of them. A few grunted with laughter as they pushed the boat from the shore. “Help!” Nell screamed again, and the man finally put his hand over her mouth to put an end to her outbursts. The waves and splash of oars soon
drowned out Rawley’s barking as well. The last she heard from him was a hoarse yowl of despair, more pitiful than when he had been stabbed by the grumlin’s blade. The coast quickly drifted away and the larger vessel loomed.
Nell soon found herself sitting in the stern of a cog-ship, watching a garnet morning sunrise pour over the horizon. The raiders’ vessel was almost as big as the king’s own boat, with twenty men to row, and great canvas sails whipping overhead. The sails had a large squiggle, like a sideways “W” sewn upon them in faded cloth. A figurehead of a two-headed woman perched before the front of the ship.
Raiders rushed around speaking in their gravelly voices, paying Nell no mind as they fled the coast for deeper water. She huddled among supplies in the back of the ship. After they sailed for some time, however, two men approached. One was huge, sporting a long beard and a dirty scowl. He, like the rest of the raiders, wore leather stained with sea salt and grime. The other was shorter, thin, and looked more like the men from her land. His beard was trimmed close and he wore no armor. Instead he had a long red cloak fastened to his shoulder, with many gold rings adorning his fingers. The bigger raider grunted something, pointing to Nell’s wrapped wrist, and the thin man nodded. Speaking to Nell in an artificially cheerful tone, he asked, “What did you do to your arm, sweet?”
“I fell from a horse,” Nell replied, her voice small and sullen.
“Is it broken?”
“No.”
The cloaked man said a quick word to the raider, then turned back to Nell. “How old are you, sweet?”
“Thirteen,” she said.
“That won’t do,” his voice fell flat. “Sorcerers don’t like you too old. From now on you’re ten. Understand?”
Nell shook her head. “No – what are you doing with me?”
“Don’t worry your face about it. Just stay out of the way. These animals will break more than your wrist if you don’t.” He grunted something else to the bigger man and soon Nell had a rough-spun blanket to wrap herself in. A dried fish – eyes, bones and all – was tossed in front of her for food.
In the rear of the boat she sat, dazed by her misfortune. Would she be a slave, a pet for some wizard’s experiments? None of the villagers on the coast saw the barbarians take her. At least, none came to help. Ward might never know what had happened to her. With her head on her knees Nell wept, thinking bitterly about Lady Zel. The sorceress forced her out of the tower, sending her on this quest without any good reason. So much for the woman’s great wisdom.
Her only comfort was the candlestone still in her pocket. The little marble was warm in her hand. Sometimes it moved on its own, like an egg about to hatch. “Swsty,” she sighed, worrying the stone with her thumb as she stared out over the sea.
The ship sailed for over a day, keeping the rocky coast always just in sight. Nell watched wave after rolling wave of the gray-green water rise and speed past. There was no way to change her situation, short of jumping off the ship, and nothing for her to do. So, when she wasn’t sleeping, she listened. Closing her eyes she could soon identify the voice of every man on the ship. The man in the crimson cloak always spoke in the language of the bearded men, and the others treated him with grudging respect. Sometimes when he strode past her on the deck, she tried to ask a question, but he paid more attention to the seabirds wheeling overhead than to Nell.
Above the creak and groan of the vessel, and the incomprehensible barbarian banter, Nell became aware of the sounds of the sea. She went from moments of terror, overcome by despair and loneliness, to times when there was only the slap of the oars and the croak of gulls to fill her mind. She reached out to the water with the Wealding Word, listening with her inner ear, but found no response. Still, she
knew there was no room for worry when it came to Wealding magic. She needed to be very quiet inside before hoping to connect with the Word. It became a game of sorts: to be as open and empty as possible. She sat wrapped in the itchy blanket, letting the sounds of the sea permeate her mind. It wasn’t easy, but it was something to occupy herself with. In any case, practicing rule number three seemed more productive than dwelling on her fate.
The raiders anchored at night. Their two smaller boats would come back with nets full of black crab shells stolen from some village just before dawn. Except for delivering dried fish and water to her, Nell did not exist for the barbarians.
The next day a fierce wind kicked up and ragged gray clouds slashed the sky. The rock-strewn coast on her right finally broke and began to climb into jagged cliffs, each one rising higher than the next. The water in this area was different too. Long, leafy streamers drifted past the boat, and Nell sensed fear in the voices of the men at the sight of them. In the distance, the whole sea rose and fell sluggishly, unlike any water that Nell had ever seen. Rather than white-capped waves, the sea was a dead blanket of kelp. Tufts of yellow and green vegetation poked up here and there, giving it a hairy look. Soon, tough fibers were scraping against the hull of the ship, and all chatter on board died. Strangleweed was a deadly thing to sail upon, Peter had said. A ship could get mired in it for days, and the crew of the cog ship knew the dangers well. Two men stood on a small platform half-way up the mast, beards whipping in the wind. They pointed and yelled where to steer. The rowers groaned to turn the ship at their direction, ripping long strands of kelp with every surge of the oars. Nell soon realized that they were trying to avoid certain areas of darker strangleweed.