Voyage of the Fox Rider (74 page)

Durlok stepped forward and looked down at the dead Ruch. Carefully the Mage plucked the tiny shaft from the slain creature’s fingers and examined it. Then he whirled upon Farrix. “An assassin!” he cried, his eyes glaring in hatred, his black staff raised as if to strike. But then the look on his face altered, shifted, transformed into a sneer and he held up the arrow. “Ha! Do you actually think this would work against me? Pah! You are a fool! And Alamar is a fool for sending you on a fool’s errand!”

“Skalga!”
came a cry from the lookout atop the mid ship mast.
“Skalga!”

Durlok whirled and looked at the sky. High above and to the north, the aurora began to glimmer. He glared back at Farrix and hissed, “We will finish this later, Pysk.” Durlok snarled several commands, and Rucha and Loka scrambled to obey. While two Rucha hurled their dead brother over the rail, another gingerly took the arrow from Durlok and carefully slipped it into the quiver. All his goods were then put back in the boat, and the whole of it carried off. A Ruch appeared, bearing what seemed to be a bird cage, and Farrix was thrust inside and the door latched behind, a tiny hasp lock barring escape. The cage was then hung from the forward railing of the afterdeck and the Pysk was then ignored.

Farrix could see that overhead, the aurora strengthened, the glowing drapery rippling bright. And down on the decks Foul Folk scuttled, as if something imminent were to occur. And as Farrix watched, a Man was hauled up from below decks, gibbering, howling, weeping, his arm clutched in a Troll’s unbreakable grasp. He was taken forward to the prow of the craft, where Durlok awaited. At sight of the Mage the Man shrieked in terror, and wrenched and jerked, trying to escape, all to no
avail. His clothes were cut from him and cast overboard, and screaming, he was shackled to a large wooden block. And from a brazier filled with burning coals, Durlok drew forth glowing tongs, while a Lok stood at hand holding a dark metal cask and another held a rough flint knife. And Durlok took the burning tongs and reached out toward the Man and—

Farrix jerked his head aside and squeezed his eyes shut, for he could not watch such a hideous thing, and he jammed his hands against his ears, though he could still hear the Man’s harrowing shrieks. The agonized howling went on and on as abomination after abomination took place there in the bow, screams of agony piercing the winter air as the spectral lights above grew bright. And in his cage, Farrix shrilled in fear and rage and loathing, shrieking at Durlok to stop, though the hideous mutilations went on and on. And of a sudden Durlok snatched up the stone knife and plunged it deep into the Man’s abdomen and wrenched it through his flesh, eviscerating him. With a final shriek of agony, the howling stopped as life was hideously torn from the Man…and then stark silence fell, soundless but for the swash of the ocean and the quiet weeping of a Pysk.

In the stillness, Durlok opened the metal cask and withdrew a dark crystal, long and sharp. And he held it up to the sky, up to the aurora, and muttered a word of , invoking a strange name.

Farrix’s hair stood on end, his arms atingle, and of a sudden from the aurora a great plume streaked down toward the ocean, toward the ship, toward the crystal, to slam into that mystic stone, staggering Durlok backwards. Yet the Mage managed to withstand the onslaught, and he held the crystal as coruscating light roared and flared, burned, blinded the eye, the crystal blazing with absorbed light. But just as suddenly as it had appeared, the raging dazzle vanished, and now by contrast the ship seemed plunged in utter darkness and silence, though stars yet shined above and the sea rolled below.

And locked in a bird cage on the aft of the ship, in the quiet a light-blinded Pysk moaned and wept, “Oh god, oh god, oh god. I have found where the plumes are going and I wish to Adon that I did not know.”

Over the next six weeks, powered by the wind and by Trolls, Durlok’s black galley plied the seas north-northeast to the coast of Thol, and then south-southwest to Rwn. Every night that the aurora flared, he would perform his abominations and sacrifice another screaming victim and draw down a plume into the crystal.

And in those same weeks he threatened Farrix, vowing to torture him, to kill him, to use him to draw down a plume. Yet always the Mage stopped short of his promises, stating that because Farrix was an assassin spy for the Mages of Rwn, in particular for Alamar, that he, Durlok, would do nothing that might provide a seer’s link to him, and the torture or death of Farrix perhaps would do just that—in fact, Alamar probably planned it that way, planned for Durlok to slay the Pysk and provide a seer’s link to him from Alamar’s very own spawn, a daughter, he believed—and
that
he would avoid. Instead, he would keep the spying Pysk captive until he found a suitable use for him, perhaps to entrap the very ones who sent him in the first place. That way, not only would Durlok wreak his vengeance upon all of those of Magekind who had banished him, he would also avenge a terrible wrong done to him by Alamar in particular. Yes, yes, the Pysk was of more use alive than dead, of that, Durlok was certain. Hence, locked in his cage and cared for by Rucha, Farrix stopped denying Durlok’s accusations, for should he convince the Mage that he was not a spy, then Durlok would be free to perform his hideous abominations on the tiny Pysk.

Twice, Durlok sent his Foul Folk on coastal raids and each time they returned with prisoners, victims for his terrible rites, Humans all, for they were of Mithgar and most fit to his purpose.

Farrix discovered that Durlok used their agony to power his castings—that Durlok was by his own admission a Black Mage, outlawed by the bulk of Magekind. Too, he worshipped Gyphon, and somehow his rites were serving that end. But this meager knowledge that Farrix gleaned paled into insignificance when compared to the terrible knowledge of the things the Black Mage did to the Men and Women he trapped.

And so sacrifice was heaped upon sacrifice, the mutilated,
burnt, gouge-blinded, eviscerated corpses thrown overboard as plume after plume was drawn down. But then spring came and the aurora became sporadic, then faded altogether. Finally Durlok turned his galley southward, heading for his lair, a place he had stumbled upon, hidden from the Mages of Rwn.

It was during this journey that Farrix discovered the Trolls’ utter fear of the ocean, though he did not discover why. That they were on the ship at all seemed a paradox to him; yet it was because of their dread of Durlok that they served aboard the galley. Except for their fear of the ocean, they were ideal for this task, the hulking brutes easily powering the ship a hundred and fifty miles a day. Ordinarily they worked in two shifts of fourteen, seven to a bank of oars, seven to a side; however, when pressed, six more oars were mounted, three to a side, and then twenty Trolls rowed.

The lateen sails, too, propelled the ship, adding considerably to its forward motion. But with the Trolls rowing no tacking was ever needed, hence the galley could run the very shortest course to a given goal, no matter the quarter of the wind. If the wind aided, well and good; if it did not, it was of little consequence.

Some weeks later they came to the Great Swirl, and Durlok sacrificed another victim. The weed was no hindrance at all.

Hidden away in a crystal cavern in a high stone island where no one would think to look, Durlok continued his hideous practices, torturing, mutilating, sacrificing a captive now and then. “Pah! I can always capture more at need,” he sneered…then gloated and gestured outward toward the Great Swirl beyond the stone of the cavern, “There are times, of course, they even come to me, their ships snared in my great green web.” Trapped in his cage, Farrix shuddered at the thought, envisioning a monstrous spider sitting in the center of its lair.

When his captors were asleep, Farrix tested the bars and the lock of his prison, seeking escape, to no avail. And under Durlok’s vigilant eye, nothing that could be used to pick the lock was ever left at hand. But Farrix waited patiently, for one day, one day, they would make a mistake.…

And in the darkness when all was still, he sat in his cage and thought of Jinnarin. Oh, if only somehow he could get word to her and tell her of the crystal cavern in the high stone island in the center of the Great Swirl and of Durlok and his black galley of death, then perhaps she could gather together those who could stop this monster once and for all. But that was not to be, for how could anyone locked in a cage get word to someone half a world away?

Three months after the galley had come to the island, Durlok took his prisoners and his ship southward, down to the southern aurora, where he resumed his terrible practices, drawing down plumes.

Finally he returned to his understone hideaway, to his temple to Gyphon. And there he conceived a cunning plan should Alamar establish a link and come looking for his pawn. And in unholy glee he sacrificed victim after victim, gathering hideous energy to power a terrible spell, to summon a demon, to lay a trap, to cast Farrix into a coma, into an enchanted sleep.

Questions

Spring, 1E9575

[The Present]

A
nd then you came and freed me from Durlok’s enchanted sleep,” concluded Farrix, his eyes sweeping across all those in the dinghy, Dwarves, Man, Lady Pysk, and fox, “for which I will be ever grateful.”

Jinnarin leaned over and gave him a kiss but then sat back, a pensive look upon her face. Yet it was Jamie who expressed the thought that each of them were thinking. “Lor, Master Farrix, what a horrible time you’ve lived through, what with the torture and sacrifices and all. Brrr, gives me the blue willies it does, and I mean the deep blue willies, I do.”

Koban slammed a fist into palm. “Damn Durlok! Would that I could caress his neck with my axe.” A rumble of agreement muttered throughout the warriors aboard.

After a moment of silence, Relk looked at the others. “Why does Durlok invest the plumes in the crystal? What is his purpose?”

All eyes swung to Farrix, but he turned up his hands. “If I knew, then I would say. Yet it is as much a mystery to me today as when I first saw him do it.”

Throughout the day the craft fared westward across the pale green sea, the boats impelled by a wind abeam blowing from due north, rare in these latitudes no matter the season south of the Calms of the Goat. Past half
sunken hulks they sailed, derelicts covered with moss and fungus and rot, steering well clear of many, Aravan’s stone running chill in their presence.

In mid afternoon the wind began shifting about until it blew directly from the west, and into the teeth of the blow they tacked to and fro, the flat-bottom boats slipping sideways as well, now running twice as far to cover half the distance. “If we only had a keel, we could make better of it,” grumbled Jamie, clearing sea moss from his steering oar. “Of course, had we a keel, the weed’d snag us right up, ‘twould, then we wouldn’t go anywhere. Drat! Can’t win for losing.”

The rest of that day and the next as well, the wind blew in their faces. And throughout it all, Jinnarin sat in abstracted silence, speaking only when spoken to, her mind worrying over Farrix’s tale as a fox would worry a bone, the Pysk seeking some clue as to the Black Mage’s intentions, her thoughts running in circles of surmise and conjecture and speculation. Finally, late in the night she said, “Farrix. Tell your tale to Alamar. He’s a Mage. Perhaps he’ll discern what Durlok intends.”