Voyage of the Fox Rider (73 page)

Rwn itself was roughly circular, spanning nearly a hundred and fifty miles in any direction—give or take an arm of the ocean or peninsula thrust out into the sea. Some fifty miles inland all way ‘round, the island rose up into a central region rough with craggy tors and steep hills and stony mounts. In the north lay coastal plains, scrubbed raw by northern winds, the grassy expanse sparsely dotted here and there with wind-twisted trees and small coppices of pine, and only a handful of people dwelled upon the plains. To the east and south and west, the margins of the isle were more hospitable, though just as sparsely populated—with the exception of Darda Glain in the south, where dwelt the Hidden Ones, and the Kairn peninsula to the west, where lay the City of Bells on the far western edge of rolling farmlands running to the east, running all the way to the old defensive rampart of the Kairn Wall some twenty-five miles from the town.

And it was on this isle in the woods of Darda Glain on the southern marge of Rwn that a Pysk rode a fox, heading north and east, drawn onward by a falling sky.

Over the next two days they fared, heading ever northeastward, but at last they emerged from Darda Glain along the shores of Lac Rwn. Ice extended out from the shoreline, though the center was clear. Clear as well was the river flowing out from the southern end of the lake and down toward the sea. Disappointed that they couldn’t cross the wide race, Farrix turned northerly, intending to ‘round the top of the lake where they could then head east. And so for the next two days they skirted along the western shores of Lac Rwn, the body of water some fifteen miles long, though much longer by the route Rhu scurried. As they came to the tributaries running down from the tors of Rwn, they went upstream to find crossings, sometimes skittering over ice, at other times faring upon logs fallen across the tumbling waters, and once or twice swimming in the frigid rush—Farrix
building a fire to warm and dry them when they reached the opposite side.

On the fifth day in the middle of a snowstorm they finally turned eastward, having come to the northern extent of Lac Rwn, and they wove through foothills, angling somewhat south whenever they could, for Farrix was aiming for a headland that lay one hundred miles or so due east of Darda Glain. And five days later, nine days after setting out, at last they came to that distant peninsula overlooking the Weston Ocean along the southeastern margin of the isle.

Rhu found a small cave where they denned, and Farrix set him free to hunt. And that very same night the aurora flared and a plume plunged down to fall into the sea…just beyond the horizon!
Damn!

Frustrated at having come all this way and still not knowing a whit more than he had known when he had begun, Farrix began skinning the small animals that Rhu caught to eat—mice, hares, stoats, and the like—the fox looking on with approval, for he didn’t relish hair. And Farrix found a willow tree and cut branches to fashion a coracle frame, though more pointed than round, lashing it together with thongs. He covered the structure with stitched-together hides, including a flexible one to cover the top, with a hole in the center through which he could slip his legs and tie tightly about his waist, making the interior of the craft waterproof. He treated all seams with a pitchy tar he made from pine cones covered with earth and baked. This took sixteen days to accomplish…yet two days before it was finished, another plume plunged beyond the horizon and down to the sea.

“Pox and plague! But I am not ready!” Farrix cried, shaking his fist at the distant flare.

Two days later, Farrix dropped two carven double-ended paddles down beside the hide boat and looked at the sky and declared, “Now! Now I am ready!”

Farrix studied his journal, notes he had been keeping ever since he had first seen the plumes, muttering to himself and Rhu: “Sometimes the skies are cast over. Other times the aurora does not glow. But every two weeks when the skies
are
clear and the aurora
does
flare, then a plume falls to the east, as if it is on a schedule.
Ah, Rhu m’lad, come twelve days, er, nights from now, if it is clear, if the sea permits, I’m off in my wee boat.”

The days passed slowly, though Rhu and Farrix found things to occupy their time—the fox hunting or sleeping or watching Farrix with some concern as the Pysk tested his craft in the waters of the ocean, learning how to paddle it, learning as well how to tip it over and turn it upright again, each time emerging spluttering and laughing while Rhu barked and ran back and forth along the beach and seemed on the verge of leaping in to rescue his foolish master.

The dawn came crisp and clear fourteen days after the last plume had fallen. Farrix drew out his journal and pen and ink and wrote a short note to Jinnarin.

When he finished the note, he packed the hide boat with his bow and arrows, and with a bit of food and two skins of water.

At mid of day he placed the note in the special pocket in Rhu’s collar and instructed the fox to wait two Suns as trained and then to go home. Farrix knew that he could always countermand the order if he got back to Rhu before then.

Farrix then launched his coracle, climbing in and lacing the cover tight about his waist. He tied one oar by slipknotted thong to his wrist, the second oar was stowed inside in case he lost the first. And with one last look at the clear skies and a call of good-bye to Rhu, he began paddling out across the rolling sea.

Some twelve hours later beneath a spangle of stars as night drew near the nadir and still no aurora writhed in the crystal skies above, Farrix stopped paddling well out to sea. He had no idea how far he had rowed, but he could no longer see any part of the headland, had not been able to see it for more than an hour. And so he knew that he was well beyond the horizon, and might in fact be near the place where the plumes mysteriously fell. He did know one thing, though—he was weary beyond measure. He had not anticipated how difficult it would be for someone of his stature to row across the horizon, and every time he had looked back, the headland was yet in view, diminished somewhat, but still visible. And so he had rowed onward, hour after hour, the Sun had set and still he rowed, the night growing deeper. And still by the light of the stars, the headland could yet be seen, and so on he pressed…until at last after long toilsome hours, the headland finally disappeared.

A thin crescent Moon rode low in the west, and the crisp night air remained clear. And still no spectral lights blossomed above. Spent, Farrix laid his head upon the taut boat cover, his eyes fixed on the northern skies.
I will rest but a moment, gather my strength, for who knows when and where the plume will fall should the borealis appear, eh? I might have to row some more. Ha! I
know
I will have to row to get back to shore, once this is over
.

And so the weary Pysk lay against the yielding cover, his head cradled in his arms, as Mother Sea softly swashed and murmured in his ear, all the while gently rocking the Pysk upon her bosom.

“Yarrah!”
something bellowed, jolting Farrix awake at the very same moment a monstrous grasp seized the boat and smashed him against the hide cover, pinning his arms, trapping him. Reflexively he clutched shadow about him, and Pysk and boat became a dark blot ensnared in a mashing grip. He was hoisted upward out of the water and alongside a looming black wall, and he desperately struggled, trying to get free, trying to reach the thongs about his waist to loose them and snatch up his bow and arrows from inside the craft—but he could not. A netting of some sort enwrapped him, and he
could not move—it was all he could do to breathe, clutched as tightly as he was. And as he was swung through the air, he could hear voices yammering words of a sort, though what they cried out, he could not say. Of a sudden he was slammed down, and a voice snarled—
“Balaka!”
—but it was in a tongue he knew not. Silence fell. Unable to turn his head, he could not see anyone, though he could hear footsteps nearing.

Adon, I am captured by Humans!

But then, in the direction he faced, a hulking form moved into view, monstrous, towering, leering—
Oh, Adon! Not Humans but a Troll instead! I’ve been captured by a Troll!
Farrix’s heart hammered wildly in his chest, and he could not seem to get enough to breathe.

Above him and behind, the footsteps stopped. Moments passed, and in the silence, just into the edge of his vision stepped a Lok and then a Ruch.
Foul Folk! Captured by Foul Folk!
His mind screamed for him to flee, but he could not even move, much less escape his bonds.

Behind him, a voice hissed,
“Opsi emoì dós!”

Then came cold laughter, followed by a whisper,
“Eórphne analótheti!”
and suddenly the shadow Farrix clutched to himself was gone.

“Aragh!” grunted the Troll in surprise, his bat-wing ears twitching outward. The bandy-legged Ruch’s serpentine eyes bulged wide and he started to step forward, only to be slapped back by the Man-sized Lok.

A stream of guttural words snarled out, and Farrix was clutched in rough hands and extracted from the net and jerked free of the boat, the Lok doing so not bothering to untie the waist thong.

As he was swung up and about, Farrix could see that he was on the afterdeck of a boat of some sort, a ship large and black, lateen sails amidships and fore. Down each side were banks of oars powered by enormous Trolls. Rucha scuttled here and there, Loka among them. He had no time to see more, for the Lok tightly grasping him drew a kris and cut loose the paddle yet tied to his wrist, then held him out toward a Man. —Nay! Not a Man, but a Mage instead!

His long, angular features were pasty white, his nose long and narrow and hooked; his thin bloodless lips
sneered in triumph and his piercing black eyes danced in gloat; he had not a hair on his head, not even eyelashes or brows. Dark robes cloaked him, and he was tall, and his fingers were long and grasping, with sharp nails painted black. He held a tall, straight, dark staff in one hand.

“Well, well,” he whispered, “what have we here? Do my eyes deceive me, or is it truly a Pysk we have captured?”

“Let me go, Mage!” spat Farrix.

“
Akahl!
So you know that I am a Mage.”

“Of course I know,” shot back Farrix. “I have friends who are of Magekind.”

“Pah! Name one.”

“Alamar! He is my friend.”

Farrix was shocked by the reaction to his words, for the Mage’s eyes bulged with hatred and his mouth twisted into a snarl, and he stepped forward, his free right hand raised and clawlike, black nails gleaming wickedly, ready to slash, to pierce. The Lok holding Farrix cried out in terror and flinched back, thrusting the Pysk forward, as if he were a tiny shield, and Farrix braced himself for death. Yet in the last instant, the Mage stayed his hand. “Alamar.” he hissed through clenched teeth, his nails poised a hairsbreadth from Farrix. “What does he know?”

Farrix’s eyes widened. “Wha—?”

“What does he know?” shrieked the Mage, striking the butt of his staff to the deck.

“How should I know?” replied Farrix.

“Because I am the one you seek, spy. I am Alamar’s nemesis. I am Durlok!”

“Spy? I am no spy. And I never heard of anyone named Durlok.”

“You lie!” snarled Durlok.

The Mage turned to a nearby Ruch and gestured toward Farrix’s boat, guttural words snapping commands.

The Ruch turned up the tiny boat, shaking the contents out: a two-ended paddle; a ration of food; two diminutive water skins; a wee bow and a tiny quiver filled with minuscule arrows. As the Ruch peered inside the boat to see if that was all, a second Ruch pulled one of the arrows from the quiver and examined it, sneering in
laughter at the tiny barb and touching the tip with a finger in spite of Farrix’s warning cry. “Ooo,” leered the Ruch, his mouth gaping in a mocking grin, japing, acting as if he were afraid. “Ooo.” And once more he pricked at his finger, but this time he flinched back as the sharp point penetrated. Then his eyes flew wide in alarm and his mouth rounded in a silent
O
of horror. He just had time to look up at Farrix before he fell dead.