“Aye, Cap’n,” replied Long Tom. He turned to the bosun and said, “You heard th’ cap’n, James; pipe ’em f’r close haul larboard. Nikolai, step to th’ fore winch ’n’ ready t’ up anchor. Fat Jim, spin th’ wheel t’steer her f’r th’ Avagon. That’d be nigh due sou’, I ween.”
As James piped the orders and men clambered up the ratlines to bend on all silk but the studding sails, Nikolai leaped down the ladder and ran forward to the men at the winch. Slowly the spanker brought the ship about, and with a rattle and a clatter of chain up came the anchor. Fat Jim spun the wheel, and slowly, majestically the ship got under way, gathering speed as she went, her silken cloud of azure sails harvesting every last breath of air, and soon her hull cut a trough in the water, white wake spinning behind.
Aylis took a moment to peer aft, looking for the entrance to the hidden grotto. But it was as Aravan had said: the vine-laden bluff looked all of a piece, and no entry or channel could she see. She frowned and invoked her ‹sight›, and then and only then could she see where it lay; otherwise it appeared impossible to find. How Aravan had ever come to know where it was, she would have to ask him one day.
Then Aylis turned once more and faced forward. She looked down at Lissa and said, “Come, Liss, let us go to the bow; there might be dolphins racing, or even Children of the Sea.”
And together they made their way forward, dodging this way and that to avoid interfering with members of the crew as they hauled on halyards at the behest of the bosun to trim up the sails to catch the full of the quartering headwind.
And still the Eroean gained speed as faster and farther she went. .
. . While far behind and standing ashore, two fairly young Dwarves watched as the craft drew away, each wishing that he could have been one of the warriors chosen for Brekk’s warband. And the Elvenship diminished as onward she ran, her hull seeming to sink into the sea with distance, and finally the hull could no longer be seen, though the masts and sails-azure all-yet jutted above the horizon, blending into the sky and just visible. . if one knew where to look. One of the young Dwarves turned to the other and said in Chakur, [“Ready?”] The other sighed and nodded but said nought in return. And they mounted up and wheeled about and slowly rode toward the remaining seventy-four ponies and the lone horse to begin the long trek back to Kraggen-cor.
18
DARK DESIGNS
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
Ragged in flight, Nunde had struggled across some six hundred leagues-eighteen hundred miles-to reach his dark tower clutched among the crags of the Grimwall, just east of Jallor Pass, there where the western reaches of Aven cross over to the long steppes of Jord. From the nexus, southerly down into Khal he had fled, emerging from the mountains to come perilously close to the dreaded Skog and the Wolfwood, there where vile Dalavar-the Wolfmage-dwelled. West and away from that dire danger Nunde had veered, to cross Khal and Garia and Aven, to come at last into his domain. And in rage he had slaughtered nearly one hundred Chun, and had nearly slain his apprentice, Malik. For his plans had been shattered, and all because of Aravan and his ilk. Yet even this bloodletting had not assuaged in the slightest Nunde’s terrible rage.
Including the long time of his flight to safety, Nunde had spent nigh nine months in all, seeking a plan to destroy the bane of his existence. He had no doubt at all that the schemes of that vile Elf had led to the downfall of the Black Fortress and the ruin of Nunde’s dark designs, a disaster from which the Necromancer had barely escaped with his life.
And at the coming of this day’s dawn, down the stone steps of the shadowy stairwell Nunde descended to his torchlit quarters below, and there he fell into a restless sleep, his mind still churning with thoughts of revenge, as it now had done for months on end.
It was as the sun rode across the zenith-though no glimmer of its light reached his chamber-that Nunde bolted upright.
“Radok, to me!” he shouted without thinking, but then he remembered Radok was dead, slain on a raid into Arden Vale a number of years ago.
But from an adjoining chamber, “Yes, Master Nunde,” called Malik and, bearing a lit candle casting wavering shadows, he hurried to the Necromancer’s side. A not-well-hidden look of anxiety played across the pale white face of the corpulent apprentice-for he never knew where the master’s wrath would be directed.
“I have it,” declared Nunde, his dark eyes gloating as he ran his long, bony fingers through his waist-length hair, tossing it back and over a shoulder to hang nearly to his hips.
“Have what, Master?”
“The plan, you fool,” hissed Nunde, irritation flashing across his narrow face with its hooklike aquiline nose, “the plan for that Dohl Aravan. The way to reave from him all he holds dear. And when I am done with his immediate companions, then will I do him in. After which I will recover his corpse and raise him”-the Necromancer clenched a black-nailed fist-“and ever will he regret that which he did. For then I’ll send his rotting remains forth to extract even more of my revenge by having him slay others of those he loves, and he will be able to do nought to gainsay me, even though he will be horrified by that which I will have him do.”
With his apprentice bustling at his side, Nunde strode out from the chamber and down a torchlit dark-granite hallway to a corpse-littered laboratory, the flayed bodies on the many tables in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. But Nunde did not pause to admire his handiwork; instead he stepped to and ’round a large desk made of an esoteric gray wood and sat. Hovering nearby, Malik wondered at what his master intended, but as Nunde pulled a sheet of parchment out from a drawer and began to write-the razor-sharp quill scratching across the vellum, leaving a trail of bloodred liquid behind-the apprentice frowned in puzzlement. The Necromancer brewed no potion, compounded no powder, cast no spell, raised no corpse, and this did not seem to be any arcane scroll the apprentice recognized, so how this could possibly gain Nunde his revenge, Malik did not know.
But at last Nunde passed the parchment across to Malik and hissed, “Bring me these ingredients.”
Malik looked at the list, recognition dawning in his eyes, for these things the apprentice did know. Yet how this might further his master’s scheme, Malik had not the slightest answer.
The next night, locked and barred in his quarters, Nunde drank the fresh-brewed concoction, and after long moments he slipped into unconsciousness, and sent his aethyrial self winging far eastward.
19
BOSKYDELLS
LATE AUTUMN, 6E1
“Well, buccoes, you’ve trained extra hard this past year, and, Pip, you’re fifteen summers old-”
“I’m three moons older,” said Binkton, even as Pipper said, “Bink’s three moons older.”
Arley laughed. “I was just about to say that, my lads.”
“Oh,” said Binkton, as Pipper joined his uncle in mirth.
But then Pipper’s face took on a puzzled look. “So, I’m fifteen?”
“Of course you’re fifteen, Pipper,” snapped Binkton. “Have you gone ’round the bend?”
“No, Bink, what I mean is: so I’m fifteen and Bink’s three moons older; what has that to do with ought?”