But nothing he had seen had prepared him for this first sight of the real thing. The savage, spined head rose higher and higher. The snakelike body — as thick as the trunk of one of the giant trees of the Fell Zone — writhed in great, glittering loops. The monster could have wrapped itself twice around Rye’s little house in Weld.
The sea serpent opened its jaws, showing long, glinting fangs. A weird, high, hooting sound filled the air.
It must have been some sort of challenge, because another serpent surfaced almost instantly. This one was a darker color — blue, perhaps, or green. There was another hooting sound. Two sets of jaws gaped wide as the monsters rose even higher in the water and joined in battle, their bodies tangling and twisting horribly against the sky, their tails thrashing the water into froth.
“The smell of blood stirs them up,” Rye heard his neighbor say knowledgeably.
Then, suddenly, the waves close to shore erupted in an explosion of spray and snarling jaws. Three smaller serpents had sped unnoticed to the beach while everyone was watching the fight.
Green, sickly yellow, and glittering blue-black, the beasts lunged at the rock, tearing and gulping at the ragged chunks of flesh that drifted in the bloody shallows. As the drenched crowd screamed in a frenzy of excitement and fear, the Gifters leaped for safety, sprawling onto the walkway and taking to their heels.
Hissing, the serpents arched over the rock, snapping at one another, searching for the live prey that had escaped them by a hair. They snatched at the abandoned barrels, cracked them like nuts, wallowed in the spilled blood, and tossed the remains aside. They struck at the cart, reducing it in moments to a jumble of splintered wood.
Then they turned to defend their prizes as more serpents writhed through the bloody foam, spines upraised to claim their share in the feast.
“That’s nothing to what you’ll get tomorrow night, my friends!” roared Rye’s neighbor. “Eh, Dorrie? Nothing to what they’ll get on Midsummer Eve!”
The hefty woman did not answer. Her eyes, fixed on the rock and the fearful, hissing beasts, were suddenly uncertain. Slowly she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Rye turned away from the fence and pushed his way through the crowd, his stomach heaving, his mind filled with confused, shadowed memories.
Glittering coils. Gaping jaws. Blood. Screams of helpless terror …
He had dreamed of all these things. Without knowing it, he had been dreaming of the serpents, of the captives, of the rock. And he had dreamed of Dirk, desperate, crawling through stone tunnels, peering into a deep pit.
Make haste! It is almost Midsummer Eve.
He raised his eyes to the fortress, dark against the scarlet sky.
The prisoners marked for sacrifice were in there. He could feel it. And just as strongly he could feel that Dirk was in there, too. Dirk and his band of rebels were hiding somewhere within that dark stronghold. Their plan had been to release the prisoners before the day of sacrifice.
But in all this time, they had only managed to rescue two of the seven. And those two had been replaced.
By Faene and Sonia.
The Gifting ceremony would continue. Sonia, Faene, and five unknown others would die, horribly, chained to the rock. And Olt would live, to kill again, and again, and again.
I must find Dirk, Rye thought frantically. I must tell him….
But what good would it do to tell Dirk that the Fleet woman he loved was to be one of the seven sacrifices to Olt’s greed for life? What could Rye offer Dirk but pain?
Nine powers to aid you in your quest …
Rye raised his hand to the little bag hanging around his neck. And with a thrill of horror, he felt a hot, hairy hand beneath his own.
He yelled aloud, grasped the hand, and threw it aside. He looked down at the sly, long-armed creature beside him. It chattered and gibbered angrily, then snatched the cap from his head and plunged away into the crowd.
Gasping, fumbling for the bell tree stick in his belt, Rye turned to give chase.
“Don’t bother,” a woman laughed beside him. “You’ll never catch a polypan. Just be grateful it didn’t get your purse. That’s a good idea — wearing it around your neck.”
It was the first friendly voice Rye had heard since arriving in Oltan. He glanced at the speaker. She was carrying a basket that smelled strongly of fish but now contained only a few vegetables. Her straw-colored hair was bundled into an untidy knot on the top of her head. Her hazel eyes were lively. He guessed she was still quite young, though her skin was weathered and creased by the wind and sun.
As the woman looked at him more closely, she frowned and glanced quickly left and right, furtively crossing her fingers and wrists.
“I don’t know why you’re still here, son,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “But you’re mad to be wandering around in plain view. What if the rebels get another prisoner out tonight? Then the Gifters will be looking for a replacement close to home, won’t they? Get right out of sight and stay there till tomorrow night’s over!”
Out of sight, Rye thought dazedly. Yes. That is what I need. Somewhere safe, so I can rest. So I can think.
He looked straight into the woman’s worried eyes. “Where can I go?” he asked.
She hesitated, looking at him doubtfully and gnawing her bottom lip in a way that reminded him painfully of Sonia. Then she shrugged, as if she had suddenly decided to trust him.
“There,” she whispered, jerking her head to a low building hunched by the shore and surrounded by boats turned upside down in the sand. “Creep in, find a quiet corner, and stay there. Try not to be seen, but if you are seen, say Nell sent you. And get that hair of yours covered up again, as quick as you can!”
She hitched her basket higher on her arm and hurried away without looking back.
Keeping his head down and his hand closed protectively over the little bag, Rye edged through the crowd, toward the low building.
As he moved closer, he began to smell something very unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose. The odor of fell-dragon slime had been bad enough, but this was worse — a sour stench that almost made him gag.
The building was plainly some sort of tavern. The faint sound of music drifted from its lighted windows, but the sandy ground around it was deserted. No doubt the odor kept most people away. A sign swung, creaking, over the door.
Suddenly the door opened, releasing a gust of warm, vile-smelling air. Rye darted into the shadows at the side of the building and cautiously peered back around the corner.
Two roughly bearded men appeared on the step. For a moment, they lingered in the open doorway, frowning at the sight of the crowd still gaping at the serpents thrashing around the rock.
“Look at them!” one man growled. “Gawping fools!”
The other man grunted agreement.
“Well, by this time tomorrow night, it’ll all be over, thank the stars,” the first man went on, hitching at his belt. “Two weeks stuck on shore without being able to cast a net! How’s a man expected to live?”
“The catches will be bad for a while after this, too,” the other man grumbled. “Remember how it was last time? Serpents scare off the fish.”
“Ah well, we’ve all given our boats another couple of coatings of repellent while they’ve been beached,” the first man said. “We’ll soon drive the beasts off again. Why else has Olt banned us from the water these past weeks? Not for our safety, that’s certain. Well, I’m for home, Wilf.”