Beyond the Gate

Chapter 16

They sailed that week without further incident, and after a couple of days, the group began to rest easier. During the days they walked the decks of the ship, but in the evenings none of them journeyed abroad.

Orick in particular soon began to wonder. After five more days without a sign of trouble, he began to wonder if Gallen had not dreamed of the danger.

So Orick took to scrambling across the decks longer and longer during the days, watching over the railing as porpoises leapt in the waves and salmon swam in lazy circles, tantalizingly close to the surface of the water.

Each day, the sun came up clear and bright, and the wind filled the sails. Orick spoke to some of the sailors-the red-skinned men of Penasurra were boisterous and always had a joke handy, while the strong Annatkim giants seemed more wistful, always dreaming and talking of their homes in the White Isles far to the south and east.

But it was the warrior Tallea who sat night after night guarding their rooms who most captured Orick’s interest, and so one night, he went to speak to her.

He opened the door to his room, found her in her accustomed position outside, standing in the light of a small oil lamp. Orick just stood for a moment, looking at the woman, embarrassed.

She watched Orick’s face. “You want from me?” Tallea said.

“I’m curious,” Orick said freely. “You’re a Caldurian, but you devote your life to following the teachings of Roamers-so that means that when you die, you hope to be born again in a Roamer’s body?”

“If I worthy of honor, yes, my memories put into body of Roamer.”

“I knew that some folks could be reborn into young bodies made from the old,” Orick said, licking his lips, “but I never imagined that they could give you a different body. Could I be reborn-as a human?”

“Perhaps …” Tallea said doubtfully. “Body is shell. What lives inside, is important, judges say. But rebirth not granted to many. Immortals in City of Life, they judge. Sometimes strangely.”

“What do you mean? How do they judge strangely?”

“They read memories, thoughts. Sometimes, person not given rebirth, even when all other peoples think person should be. Judges make hard for person who is not human to get rebirth.”

“Maybe it’s not just the actions they base their judgment on-but also thoughts and desires,” Orick said, “so that everyone who knows the person thinks well of him, but the judges at the city don’t. That’s how I’d handle it, at least.” And that’s how God does it, Orick thought.

“Sometimes,” Tallea admitted, shaking her head as if to say he was wrong, “I think humans judge human ways, not peoples’ ways.”

“What do you mean?” Orick asked, licking his nose. He could smell something annoying in the air-lye soap.

“I abhor violence, but excel at it,” Tallea said. “Among Caldurians, those who fight best are honored. They would be reborn. But among humans, those who serve best reborn. We do not value same.”

“Then you feel cheated by the humans?”

“They gave life,” Tallea said. “How I feel cheated?”

“Because your people die young?”

“You forget, I am devotee of Roamers. They own nothing. No land, no clothing, no honor. Not even lives. This is wise, to know you cannot own life. It passes.”

He left then, but Orick could not help but wonder at the Caldurian.

After a week, Ceravanne began to worry. “We’ve been at sea too long, with such strong winds,” she said. “It’s but a five-day journey to Babel under such winds. We must be off course.”

Yet when she spoke her fears to the captain in his office, he only scratched his bald head and muttered, “Aye, we’re not making good time. We’re heavily laden, and that slows us. And we’ve faced some strong head winds two nights in a row. Give it a day. We’ll find land tomorrow.”

But it was two days before they sighted land, just after dawn, a line of blue hills barely discernible where the water met the sky. But the scouts knew those hills. The ship was still two days from port.

It rained that afternoon, and everyone was forced to remain inside for most of the day, so it wasn’t until evening that the weather cleared. Gallen seemed tense, his muscles tight, and he stared into the darkness.

Maggie knew he was thinking about Moree, wishing that the ship was already there. To ease his tension Maggie convinced Gallen to walk with her under the moonlight.

So it was that they left their room in the evening, well after dinner. The Caldurian, Tallea, stood outside their door, a solid presence. And as they went topside, Tallea touched Maggie’s hand and whispered, “Take care. Tekkar are out.”

Gallen was wearing his black-hooded robe, with his mantle concealed beneath. He had his knives and his fighting boots, though he wore no gloves. Maggie felt safe in his presence, so she merely nodded at the Caldurian.

They walked under the moonlight, talking softly, and Maggie held Gallen’s hand. As always, his touch was electric. They hadn’t made love yet that day, and under the cold stars, she welcomed his touch. They went to the bow of the ship, and stood looking off to sea. To the south she could see the lights of a city sprinkled over a distant hill.

The boat rocked gently, and for a while they stood and kissed, long and passionately. So many times during the day, while Gallen worked out with his swords in their room until the air was filled with the humid scent of him, Maggie found that her lips hungered for his. But now she hesitated to give herself to him too completely, to satisfy her cravings, for she felt the weight of other eyes upon her. Yet she trembled under his touch, and for a while, it was good.

She leaned into him, and her breasts crushed against the strong muscles of his chest. She drew back his hood so that the links of his mantle gleamed in the moonlight, and the memory crystals in it shone with the reflected light of stars. He wore the metal netting over his blond hair, and she considered taking it off so that she could run her fingers through his hair, but decided against it and only bit his ear. “I’d give you more of a honeymoon tonight,” she whispered, “right here, if no one were watching.” She whispered the words only to tease him, for she knew Gallen to be a gentleman with more self control than she sometimes wanted him to have.

But she felt him tense, look around, as if to find some handy corner where they could be alone. Suddenly he drew back from her and asked, “‘Why are the sails at quarter mast?”

Maggie looked up. The evening breeze was cool and steady, without a sign of clouds in the sky. There was no threat of storm, no reason for the sails to be lowered.

“Look at this,” Gallen said, gazing over the bow. “We’re nearly dead in the water!”

Suddenly a feeling of dread came over Maggie. They’d been aching to reach port for days, and the trip had taken them at least three days longer than expected, though the winds had seemed good the whole time. And even though the captain had complained of head winds at night, she’d never been aware of them.

Gallen looked up over the deck to the helmsman and asked, “‘Why aren’t we at full sail?”

“The captain orders them lowered after dark,” the fellow answered, a giant of a man.

“And why would that be?” Gallen asked.

The giant shrugged.

“Has he always lowered his sails at night?”

“Just this trip,” the giant answered.

“Gallen,” Maggie whispered. “Something smells. Do you think the captain has cost us time on purpose?” But she couldn’t imagine how that could be. They’d never spoken of their need to make haste in public. Could the man read minds?

“Aye, the captain,” Gallen whispered. “I think I’ll have a talk with him.”

He took Maggie’s hand and began leading her along the weather deck. Aft of the forecastle were two stairs on each side of the ship, leading down to the main deck. The moons were low on the horizon, and shadows from the sails kept the main deck as black as it could get. On a ship back home, the sailors would have rigged a lantern for light, but there was none here. Maggie dreaded having to feel her way down the steps in the darkness, but Gallen stopped, squeezed her hand.

Barely, she saw something black moving in the shadows-a cloaked form.

“Get out of our way,” Gallen said evenly.

The shadowed figure barely moved, and Maggie saw light glint from a steel blade. “Get out of our way, Lord Protector,” a mocking voice replied. It had a hissing grate to it, and Maggie was sure that nothing human spoke with a voice like that. The ship listed as it wallowed in a trough, so that for a brief moment she saw figures in the moonlight-two black-robed Tekkar, sitting on the opposite stairs.

Gallen pushed Maggie back with one hand, drew his sword and a dagger.

“Oh, a wicked man, a wicked human,” one of the Tekkar laughed.

“With a big sword!” the other mocked.

Maggie glanced behind her. There were four crewmen walking along the weather deck toward them, clubs in hand. She stiffened.

“I know-they’re coming,” Gallen whispered.

“Let, let us through!” Maggie cried.

“We’re not stopping you,” one of the Tekkar said. “We have no business with you-for now. Go and talk with the captain, if you wish.…” Gallen crept forward cautiously, and Maggie followed so close behind she could feel the warmth of his body.

Just as they reached the doorway to the cabins, Zell’a Cree opened the doors, stood for a moment backlit from a lamp in the hallway. He yawned, then seemed to realize that something was amiss.

“What’s going on?” Zell’a Cree asked, looking to the Tekkar. “I thought you two were confined to quarters?”

Maggie realized that Zell’a Cree had known something she did not. She hadn’t known that the Tekkar were confined to quarters. Maggie thought it odd that the captain hadn’t told the others this comforting bit of information.

One of the Tekkar leaned a bit closer so that light from the hallway fell upon him-a menacing figure all draped in black. Maggie could see just a bit of the man’s face, eyes gleaming like wet stones, a white spider tattooed into his forehead. “Even weasels must come out to hunt,” the Tekkar said. And then Maggie knew that these men had heard them talking through the walls. The Tekkar pointed. “This human-thinks we are a problem, so he wants the captain to tell us to go away. But we know the captain does not like to be disturbed after dark. We thought we’d stop him from squawking.”

“You like the hunt, don’t you?” Gallen said to the Tekkar. “It’s not enough to just kill. You like to bully your prey first. Like cats, batting around dazed mice. Och,” Gallen laughed low and dangerous, “I’ve known plenty like you. Well, come and get me.” Gallen thrust his sword forward, letting the tip move in slow circles. The Tekkar was ten feet away.

“Meow.” The Tekkar smiled. Then he lurched forward and spun back so fast it baffled the eyes. One second he seemed to be attacking, the next he was over behind the rigging.

“Watch out,” Gallen breathed to Zell’a Cree. “We’re coming past.”

Gallen began to inch past the heavy man, and Zell’ a Cree turned his back to the Tekkar and reached up and put his hands on Gallen’s and Maggie’s shoulders. “Here, here,” he said, “let’s all be reasonable. Surely there’s no cause to draw weapons!”

Gallen slipped past him, drew Maggie into the corridor. Zell’a Cree seemed taken aback by his quick retreat, and he leapt into the hallway with them as if afraid to be on the main deck in company with the Tekkar.

Gallen slammed the outer door, throwing home the bolt. Zell’a Cree stood beside the door dumbly, as if pondering what to do next. The guard Tallea stood at the far end of the hall, a small oil lamp at her feet casting a comforting glow.

Gallen went to the captain’s cabin and knocked at the door until it opened.

“What’s the matter?” the captain asked groggily through a cracked door.

“Have your lads hoist sails,” Gallen said. “I want no more delays from you.”

“What do you mean?” Aherly cried.

“I mean, you’ve ordered the ship to sail at quarter mast every night. I want the sails hoisted.”

“What?” Aherly cried, indignant. “I gave no such orders! Wait a moment. Let me get my clothes.”

Maggie wondered if this were all a mistake, if some crewman had sabotaged the journey by giving false orders in Aherly’s name. He closed his door and bolted it tight. For two minutes Gallen and Maggie waited, until Gallen rapped on the door again with his knife handle. There was no answer from the captain. And Maggie was left to wonder if he was merely frightened of Gallen, or if he was indeed in league with the Inhuman.

The door was made with thick planks, and it hinged on the inside. Maggie doubted that they could break it easily.

“Go,” Gallen growled to Maggie. “Warn the others. We’re getting off this ship now!”

“Careful,” Tallea said at Gallen’s back, and she drew her own sword, stepped between Maggie and Zell’a Cree. “He’s of them! I in captain’s office when he came aboard. He said you would seek passage on ship.”

“How did he know we’d choose this ship?” Gallen asked, eyeing the heavy man.

“He knew you traveling, so he bought every berth on every ship. He set trap for you!”

Zell’a Cree stood down the hall, his hands behind his back. Before Maggie knew what was happening, he opened the door to his own room and leapt inside, slammed his door shut, and held it tight as Gallen threw himself against it, trying to knock it open before Zell’a Cree could lock it.

Zell’a Cree threw the bolt home, and Gallen cursed and kicked the door.

Tallea stepped forward and watched the doors, said to Gallen, “Go to cabin and pack. I guard.”

Gallen pulled up his hood, glared at the door that Zell’a Cree had fled behind. He stood for just a moment, frustrated, then cried out as if in pain. He threw back his hood, rubbed the back of his neck.

His hand came away bloody, and he looked at Maggie, stricken. For one moment he wobbled, and cried “What’s happening?” then Gallen crumpled to his knees.

Maggie rushed to his side. He was looking around, dazed, and Maggie pulled his long hair away, studied the back of his neck. There was a sickly purplish welt under his skin, with blood dribbling from it, as if some pus-filled boil had popped. She couldn’t imagine that thing having been on his neck without him noticing it, and then suddenly the whole welt heaved, as something moved under his flesh.

Maggie’s stomach turned at the sight, and she gasped.

“Maggie?” Gallen asked. “What is it? I can feel something moving! Something’s burrowing into my head!”

There was a crackling noise of bones chipping away from his skull, just beneath the flesh.

“Ah, Christ,” Maggie muttered, and her first impulse was to take a knife and cut into his flesh, pull out whatever was burrowing into him.

Tallea rushed over to Gallen, looked at him, aghast. Then she reached into the hood at the back of Maggie’s cloak. “Careful,” she said.

She brought out a creature that could have been a mantis, with a wide body and a single spade-shaped arm. She held the back of its body gingerly between two fingers.

“The Word is inside him,” Tallea said. “The Inhuman is inside him.”

“Ah, God,” Gallen gasped, and he dropped to the floor, reached behind his neck, tried to pull the thing away.

Tallea dropped to her knees in front of him, peered into his face, curious. “You fight it!” she whispered fiercely. “You must fight!”

“Help me! Help me!” Gallen cried, and his plea terrified Maggie. “I feel it moving in my head.” She had never seen him plea for help, had never seen him despair. His eyes grew large, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Maggie fell to her knees, held him close, so that he rocked back and forth, his face buried against her breasts. “It’s all right. You’re all right,” she whispered, yet she could not keep the tone of panic, the pure desperation, from her voice.

“How do you know?” Gallen cried.

“Some resist Inhuman’s Word,” Tallea insisted. “They not die. They not injured. You must say no to Word!” She took the insect-like machine in her hand and crushed it with emphasis.

Gallen looked up at the Word crushed between her fingers, and his eyes became vacant, as if his mind were far, far away.

Then his attention snapped back, and he looked up at the women, as if embarrassed. “My mantle? The Inhuman is trying to communicate to me through its Word, but my mantle has blocked the transmissions.”

There was infinite relief in his voice, yet the precariousness of his situation was not lost on him. Maggie could see by the manic gleam in his eye that he was horrified. Maggie had never seen Gallen like this-so terrified, so utterly alone, and she clung to him as he climbed to his feet.

“It was Zell’a Cree,” he whispered fiercely. “The bastard slipped those things into our hoods when we were outside!”

Maggie knew that it must be true, but there was little they could do about it. Gallen ran and leapt, kicking Zell’a Cree’s door, but the door held. He kicked at it again and again, then looked over his back at Maggie. “Damn, they build solid doors here!

“Get packed, and get the others,” he said, and there was a fury in his voice. She dared not argue. Maggie ran into her room, threw her things together, and helped Ceravanne pack. By then Orick was in the hallway, drawn by the noise, and Maggie came and stood at the back of Tallea, vibro-sword in hand.

“Do you think we can make it out?” Gallen asked Tallea.

“Inhuman seeks converts, not corpses,” Tallea said. “They might let us go. But if choose to kill-” She shrugged, as if to say that neither Gallen nor anyone else could stop them.

Maggie pounded on the door of one last passenger-the albino girl who was too frightened to leave her room during most of the trip, but the girl would not open her door now.

Gallen rushed up to the end of the hall, peeked through the door’s small window out over the deck, then backed up slowly. “They’ve got half the crew out there.”

Tallea nodded. “We should wait. I can’t see well in dark.”

“I can lighten things up for you,” Gallen said. grabbed his pack from Maggie, pulled out his incendiary rifle, and connected the barrel to the stock.

He opened the door and fired once. Burning white plasma streamed out, bright as the sun, and sprayed over the crowd, dousing the mainmast. Gallen shouted for the others to follow, and he leapt out onto the main deck.

Silently, Tallea raced out after him, followed by Orick and Maggie. On the quarterdeck, one Tekkar was a seething inferno. For a moment his skeleton remained standing, blazing like a torch, the bones fusing together, and then the skeleton crumbled. Several of the small red-skinned sailors had taken minor hits as plasma splattered from the rifle, and they screamed and spun about, madly dancing as they tried to escape. But with plasma heating to ten thousand degrees on their arms or torsos, even a minor wound was cooking them alive.

The bottom of the mainmast incinerated in a moment, and the sail began to topple forward, held only by the rigging. Maggie shouted for Ceravanne to follow her.

Ahead of her, Gallen and Tallea were in a deadly duel, pitted against a dozen hosts of the Inhuman. Maggie saw Tallea lop the hand off one red-skinned foe, stab a giant in the eyes with her dueling fork. Gallen cut a giant down at the knees, and engaged two black sailors with bony ridges on their foreheads and long white hair.

The remaining Tekkar, a man with his hand tattooed red, rushed forward, his body a blur, and stabbed one of his own men in the back to move him out of his way as he sought to engage Gallen.

In seconds, the two were spinning madly, exchanging parries and thrusts. Maggie had imagined that with his mantle-which helped speed Gallen tenfold and which had the fighting experience of six thousand years stored in its memory crystals-no one should have been able to challenge him in single combat. But for fifty seconds the two traded punches and kicks, slashing and blocking with their swords, and it soon appeared that the match was even.

Each blow was jarring, so that when Gallen parried the deck rang with the sound, and Maggie was surprised that the swords didn’t splinter under the impact. And Maggie knew that Gallen was strong. He’d been training as a guard from his childhood, and his wrists and arms were far thicker than a normal man’s. Yet each blow by the Tekkar would knock Gallen back.

One sailor swung a pole at Gallen’s feet, trying to divert his attention, and the Tekkar dove in low, throwing his whole body forward in a deadly lunge, sword thrust outward. Gallen parried the sword away with his knife, and blood went splashing over the deck-though Maggie could not see whose-then the Tekkar’s body slammed into Gallen, knocking him back onto the deck.

For a moment they struggled together, the Tekkar on top trying to wrestle Gallen’s knife away, and it was growling.

Orick rushed to Gallen’s aid, but a sailor moved in to intercept him.

Maggie tossed the vibro-sword at the sailor, so that it flew end over end. It caught the man in the neck, slicing him open, and Orick barreled past, jumped on the Tekkar, and bit his shoulder.

In that second, Gallen wrested the knife away and brought it up into the Tekkar’s kidney with a violent jerk, so that the blade shot upward, spraying blood.

Then Gallen shoved so hard that the Tekkar flew back three yards and lay clawing the deck. Gallen surged up into the fray. He gutted the sailor who’d swung at his feet, leapt and kicked another in the head so hard that his neck snapped. Four sailors rushed away from him, and Maggie turned to see how Tallea was doing.

The woman knelt on the deck, holding her guts in with one hand, astonishment on her face. Three bloody-handed sailors advanced on her, aiming for a killing blow.

Maggie had no weapons, but without thought she shrieked and leapt forward, tossing her pack. It hit one man, driving his own sword back so that it split his nose.

Then Maggie was in front of them, shouting furiously, “Get out of my way, or I’ll cut your nuts off and send them home to your wives!” All three sailors stared at her, seeing that her hands were empty, yet somehow not trusting their own eyes.

And Maggie had a sudden thought. There were thousands of subspecies in the southlands, more than anyone person could know, and you couldn’t always tell the dangerous ones by looking at them.

“Believe me, friends,” she threatened. “You don’t wrestle a Tihrglassian, and walk away alive.”

The three servants of the Inhuman stood watching her, uncertain. Maggie raised her hands and bared her fingers threateningly, as if she had talons on them, and two of the men actually backed away.

One of them leapt forward with a roar, jabbing his sword swiftly for a killing blow. Maggie heard a gasp behind her, and suddenly the Caldurian’s own sword darted out, caught the tip of their foe’s sword and knocked it away with a flourish. With a deadly lunge Tallea let her own sword slide up the attacker’s arm, till it bit deep into the sailor’s ribs. The last two foes turned and fled, knowing themselves to be no match for Maggie and the wounded Caldurian.

The sails had become sheets of flame, and suddenly the mainmast fell forward, crushing the forecastle, sending up a shower of sparks. And then Maggie was running, pulling on Tallea’s arm. The warrior woman slumped to the deck, crying weakly, “Leave me!” And Maggie pulled her up, shouting to be heard above the flames. “Not for a fortune. I want to hire your services, if you live through this!”

“Agreed,” the Caldurian said.

Someone pushed Maggie from behind, and she looked back. Orick had her pack in his teeth, and Ceravanne was stooping to grab Gallen’s incendiary rifle. Gallen was leaping toward them all through the flames. Maggie saw with relief that the timid albino girl had come out, that she was running to the far side of the ship.

In a moment, Gallen was beside Maggie, half carrying Tallea. They rushed to the aft of the ship, found sailors lowering a lifeboat. It had just hit water, and already some of them were scurrying down the rope ladders to get in.

Gallen aimed his incendiary rifle, shouted to them, “Go on, all of you. Get away from the boat!” And the sailors stopped. One man leapt off the ladder, began swimming for shore, while another raced back up to the deck. The sailors at the ropes all rushed to the far side of the ship, hoping to get to the other lifeboat before the ship burned.

Gallen stood on the weather deck, keeping the sailors at bay, while Maggie and the others climbed the rope ladders down to the boat. Maggie held the Caldurian in her lap, for the woman had saved her life, and with her own hands she pushed the woman’s intestines back in place. The Caldurian’s brown face was a mask of pain, and she looked up toward the stars, her dark eyes fixed, unfocused.

Then everyone was in the boat, and Ceravanne was pulling at the oars, splashing them all with water in her hurry to leave. Gallen stood in the prow, balancing on a seat, incendiary rifle in hand.

Fire-lit smoke streamed across the water, and the ship was a roaring inferno. Maggie looked up. The batlike scouts were circling the burning ship, and Orick said to Gallen sadly, “You can’t let them get away, lad. It’s a man’s work you have to do.”

Gallen nodded, took his incendiary rifle, sighted for a second, and fired into the sky. Plasma streamed high, lighting the darkness, and hit one of the scouts, splashing enough so that a second also fell.

A third wheeled out over the water, and Gallen fired. But the scout was far away by then, and it dodged the incoming plasma.

Gallen fired twice into the ship for good measure, and Maggie watched several men throw themselves overboard. A dozen men rowed into view from the far side of the ship, and Gallen fired into their boat at a hundred yards. The plasma rushed toward them, a bolt of lightning, and for ten seconds after the hit, the sailors sat burning in the inferno, flesh melting from bones, so that they were skeletons that crumbled in the furnace.

And then the horror of what had just happened-of the murders Gallen had just been forced to commit-fell upon Maggie like a solid weight, like an invisible stone falling from heaven. She saw him standing with head downcast, shoulders limp, limned in the light of the fires.

“Oh, god forgive us,” Ceravanne whispered, and then it was over.

They were rocking in the lifeboat, and the sea was fairly calm. Gallen made a little whining noise, a cry of shock and disgust and fear, and he let his rifle clatter to the hull of the boat.

Men were out in the water, swimming for their lives, and the flaming ship was sailing to oblivion, making a sound like the rushing of wind, while spars and timbers cracked. And Maggie knew that some of those men were her enemies, servants of the Inhuman, and it was dangerous to show them any mercy. She knew that they should row out there and cut the men down.

But none of them had the heart for it. Gallen shook his head, muttering, “I know what I’m fighting for, but what in the hell am I fighting against?”

No one answered. Instead, Ceravanne brought out her bag of Healing Earth and began to administer to Tallea. Maggie watched out the back of the boat, to a cloud on the horizon, and at that moment, she saw that the Inhuman was but a shadow, a vapor. Every time they tried to strike against the Inhuman’s agents, they faded back and disappeared. She wondered how they would be able to strike against enemies who would not face her.

As Gallen took the oars and rowed toward the distant shore, where the city lights dusted the hillside like flour, Orick began reciting the last rites for those who had died.

Zell’a Cree dove deep beneath the burning ship, and looked up. It seemed for a second that the sky was aflame-or as if the water had turned to amber that scattered the sunlight. Then he climbed for the surface, broke through.

The burning ship roared like a waterfall, and Zell’a Cree floated a moment, floundering, then a wave lifted him and he saw a dark ball floating in the water. He swam to it. It was Captain Aherly, his bald head lolling as if it had been crushed.

Zell’a Cree clung to the floating corpse, and gritted his teeth, looked up at the scouts who were wildly flapping about the ship. All of its masts were aflame, and there was nowhere for them to land, yet the scouts seemed to be circling in the hope of helping survivors.

One of them spotted Zell’a Cree and dove toward him, just as a finger of light arced up from the sea. The scout turned into a flaming skeleton that dropped like a meteor, splashing not far away.

Poor Ssaz, Zell’a Cree thought. Some of the sailors were getting away in a boat, and another finger of light touched them, sent them screaming into torment.

And then Zell’a Cree was nearly alone in the water. Dead, nearly all his men were dead, and of those in the water, he couldn’t guess how many might make it to shore. One lone scout had escaped.

Zell’a Cree fumbled for the bag tied to his belt, feeling the contents. His last Word was there, whole and safe, more precious to him than diamonds. Zell’a Cree let his eyes adjust, until he could see Gallen’s little lifeboat tossing in the waves, and beyond it the lights along the distant shore, and then he struck out.

It would be a far swim, but Zell’a Cree was Tosken. He ripped the bag from his belt, put it between his teeth, and his mood grew foul as he followed the boat.

* * *