Scholar

19

When Quaeryt woke, his lips were cracked and dry, and he could taste salt everywhere. Every muscle ached, and his clothes and jacket were still wet, but not soaked. He could hear the sea, if barely, as he rolled off the still-damp pallet and up onto the sloping deck. He had to brace himself to keep his footing as he made his way to the hatchway, now missing the hatch itself.

He peered out. A misty drizzle surrounded the hulk, and patches of fog or low clouds obscured his view, but from what he could see, it seemed to be early, possibly less than a glass after sunrise. He definitely hoped that was the case.

What remained of the ship rested on a stretch of rock that, surprisingly, appeared dark and level, and stretched in an arc toward a sandy shore. He estimated that the long curve of stone was close to a half mille in length, and was less than a yard underwater. He glanced seaward, but the natural rock causeway ended no more than fifty yards from the hulk of the Moon’s Son.

Was it natural? Or had some ancient imager created it as a pier or a seawall for a long-vanished town? He shook his head. Whatever had created it didn’t matter now. Since the causeway that had broken the back of the Moon’s Son also provided a way to shore, he needed to take it. He had no intention of staying on board the hulk. As even a passenger, he represented the sole barrier to the local ship reavers claiming salvage rights over what remained of ship and cargo, and if they found him, his survival was less than assured, particularly since, in his present condition, it was unlikely he could do much imaging, not and be in any shape to do much of anything else.

He spent less than a quint rummaging through the captain’s cabin, where he found a pouch of silvers, and the galley. The galley yielded some squares of hard cheese and even more durable hardtack, and a tin water bottle with water in it. With his canvas bag not quite bulging he made his way back on deck, then over the side, trying to ease himself down onto the rock below, where the water swirled somewhere between ankle-deep and knee-deep.

He still ended up sliding across the angled planking of the hulk, but managed to land on his boots, if with a jarring impact. His boots slid out from under him, so that his backside hit the water and stone too, hard enough that he’d be bruised and sore there as well. He staggered to his feet and began wading through the calf-deep water over the stone toward the shore, his eyes scanning the narrow sandy beach beyond and beside the end of the causeway, which, near the water’s edge, straightened and continued due west. The patchy fog and mist limited his sight, but he did see detritus and debris scattered along the sand-but no reavers. Not yet.

He placed each boot carefully, well aware that the seemingly shallow water likely concealed deeper potholes. Yet for all the likelihood of holes or gaps in the stone, he found none on the long walk to where the stone ended, some forty yards shoreward from the water’s edge. Except, he realized, the causeway did not end, but extended under a sand dune covered with coarse grass. How much farther it continued, he had no idea, although he wondered if more of a harbor, even with the ruins of buildings, lay under the dunes that bordered the narrow beach.

Glancing around, he looked for a trail or path that might point the way to a place of habitation, or a town or hamlet, finally catching sight of what appeared to be a track through the waist-high grass. The track had not been used since the storm had lifted. That was clear from the lack of clear prints in the damp sand. That did not mean that someone might not be coming the other way before long. Quaeryt forced himself to hurry up through the sand until he neared the top of the dune, where he slowed and listened.

He moved more deliberately until he was at the top and could look down. What he saw were more sandy dunes or hills, stretching a good mille, or so it seemed. Beyond them looked to be rolling rises of grassland, with some scattered trees. He took a deep breath and continued.

When he reached the last line of dunes, or the first line of hills with thick grass and soil as well as sand, he paused at the crest and studied the land beyond, noticing immediately downhill and to his right a small cot was tucked away on the south side of the hill, with earthen berms to the east and west, and a lower one to the south, all positioned to protect the gardens there.

He started down toward the cot, but a white-haired head popped up before Quaeryt could even consider a raising concealment, and the woman, wearing a faded gray shirt and trousers, studied the scholar as he approached.

“How did the garden fare with the storm?” he asked, stopping short of the weathered wooden gate that afforded the sole break in the earthen walls.

“A fair bit better than you, from the looks of you. A sight you are.” The white-haired woman’s voice was younger than her looks, but the eyes were a hard flint gray.

“It happens when your ship gets broken on the rocks and you get washed ashore.” Quaeryt didn’t trust the woman in the slightest, but wanted to appear pleasant.

“You’d be the first to make land alive. Vaolyn said they’d found two corpses on the sands well south of the Namer’s Causeway. The menfolk’ll find the ship afore long, I’d judge. You’re more than welcome to stay here and rest.”

“I’m far too late in getting where I’m supposed to be.” Besides, while Quaeryt had no doubt that what Vaolyn, whoever that was, had said was now likely true, he had great doubts whether the two had been dead when Vaolyn had found them. Nor was he especially eager to find out … or encounter Vaolyn. “If the Namer’s Causeway is that stretch of stone that heads into the ocean and then curves, that’s where part of the ship broke and broached.”

The woman frowned. “Never heard of a ship breaking there. They usually fetch up on the shallows north or south. There’s little enough left of the old channel.”

“Why do they call it the Namer’s Causeway?” Quaeryt couldn’t help but ask.

“Some say because it looks promising and leads nowhere. Others say it’s because the old ones built a harbor there on the promises of the Namer. It’s been called that from well before my time.”

“How far south are we from Tilbora?”

“Be a ride of three-four days, if you had a mount, and you don’t, by all looks.”

“Is there a village or a hamlet nearby where I could catch a wagon or the like headed in that direction?”

“Nearby? Aye, but the closest place on a road that leads to Tilbora is Fairby, and that is more than ten milles north. You might be best served by waiting here till the weather clears.”

“I’ll have to take my chances. Point me in the right direction, good lady, if you would.” Quaeryt paused. “And if you could spare some water, it would be good to drink some without the taste of salt.”

“Water I can spare, young fellow.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that he wasn’t all that young, not when he must have seemed that way to her. Besides, he wanted to get away from the possibility of ship reavers as quickly as possible.

Although he was ready to raise concealment at any time, he waited by the gate while she walked back into the cottage. Shortly, she returned with a small bucket and a dipper.

He took the dipper and drank a small sip, tasting the water, then took more. When he finished, he returned the dipper. “Thank you. That was much appreciated.”

“The least one should do for a thirsty traveler. We don’t see many these days.”

“I imagine not. Which way to the road leading to Fairby?”

“The local road is at the end of the lane at the end of the path there.” She pointed south. “You go left, and it will lead you to Khasyl. To the right is the long walk to Fairby.”

“Thank you.”

“You might want to sit on that bench there and rest your legs,” she offered, pointing to a plank resting between two hillocks of earth just inside the gate.

While he was tired, Quaeryt replied, “I thank you for your kindness, but I must be on my way.” He inclined his head politely, picked up his canvas bag, and then stepped back before walking toward the path she had indicated. He could sense her eyes on his back.

While he had his doubts about her directions, or her intentions, since north was where he needed to go, he stayed on the path, and then the lane until it joined the road. Just before he reached the road, he passed one other cot that looked to have been long abandoned.

At the crossroads, if it could be called that, he glanced southward, but the foggy mist shrouded everything more than a half mille away, and he turned in the direction that felt generally northward, and doubtless had to be, since it was roughly parallel to the coast. The road was little more than a dirt track, rutted and uneven, and he ended up walking on the shoulder.

Less than a mille later, although he couldn’t be certain, for there were no millestones or other distance markers, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He looked back, but the misty fog was thick enough that he could only see a few hundred yards.

Then he heard the bay of a dog.

Frigging horse dung! They would have a hound. Concealment shields didn’t hide scent, and they didn’t erase tracks in or along a wet and muddy road.

He began to look for a tree large enough for him to climb. Needless to say, he didn’t see one immediately close. So he forced himself to pick up his pace, tired as he was, as he searched for a tree or some other place with height.

He covered another fifty yards or so through the patchy fog, with the baying of the dog coming ever closer, without catching sight of a tree or anything that might serve his purposes. Then he caught sight of a tree ahead on the right, but it turned out to be a scrawny juniper. He forced himself into a faster walk.

After another hundred yards, he saw several trees through the mist, up a gentle slope to his left. One might be large enough for him to climb up out of easy reach. He turned and hurried up the slope of grass and low bushes, on one of which his trousers caught, enough that he had to stop and pull them free.

The baying of the hound was markedly louder, but he did not head for the taller tree, but the shortest, which he circled, and then the next taller, before he began to climb the tallest one. The storm had shredded some of the leaves, but there were enough remaining to offer some cover. The problem was that the tree wasn’t a sturdy oak or the like, but a softwood of some sort, and by the time his feet were less than three yards off the ground the branches were swaying under his weight. Carrying the canvas bag didn’t make matters any easier, either. He decided against climbing higher and braced himself against the unsteady main trunk. Then he waited for the pursuers to come to him, hoping that there were not too many of them.

As they drew nearer, between the baying of the hound, he could hear some of what was said, but the thick accent he did not recognize made it harder.

“He’s left the road … has to have heard the hound…”

“Maergyt said he was headed north…”

“… don’t see what the trouble is … just wants to put the wreck behind him…”

“Vaolyn says better to have no witnesses…”

“… lot of the cargo spoiled…”

“Not the oils … worth a fair piece.”

“… still don’t know why she wants him tracked down and taken out…”

Vaolyn was a woman? Quaeryt shrugged. Reaver queens weren’t unknown, just rare, but they tended to be more ruthless than their male counterparts, probably out of necessity.

“Hound’s on to something! Must be getting close.”

Quaeryt peered through the leaves, trying to get a good look at his pursuers as they moved up the slope, slowing as they nearer the clump of trees. There were three men-all young, lean, and hard. The one with the dog on a rope lead carried a club. The other two held blades. One looked to be a cutlass, another a sabre of some sort.

“… think he’s in the trees?”

“Where else?”

“Give the dog more rope.…”

Quaeryt concentrated on the man at the back of the group, then imaged an oblong of wood into the man’s chest, right where his heart should be. The reaver offered a strangled cry and pitched forward. When the second man turned, Quaeryt managed a second imaging. His head was pounding as the second attacker clutched at his chest.

The man with the hound stopped, looking around.

The third imaging left Quaeryt’s guts turning inside out, and his vision dimmed. He just hung on to the tree.

The hound stopped baying and looked toward the fallen man, around whose wrist the lead rope was wrapped. Then the dog lurched toward the base of the tree in which Quaeryt perched and resumed baying, if with a more desperate edge to the sound. The rope did not allow the hound quite to reach the trunk of the tree, but the dog kept baying … and baying.

Finally Quaeryt imaged a chunk of wood into its heart as well. That bothered him … far more than dealing with the reavers, but he dared not have the baying call more attention to where he was.

His eyes were burning, his guts were churning, and it was all he could do not to puke and to hold his position in the tree, hoping that no one else would happen along soon, and that the fog and mist would cloak him for a while until his guts settled and he could eat some of the hardtack and cheese and regain some strength.