I’m also to blame.
Still, fear burned through his twinge of guilt. He stared over to the bronze figure of Shiya, gone cold and still. He wondered if they’d be able to stir her enough to board the wyndship. And that’s if they even reached the docks above in time. The fifth bell of Eventoll had rung out as soon as the carriage had reached the ridge, competing with the distant alarms from the port. He expected the last bell to sound at any time.
Pratik stiffened by the opposite window. “Come look,” he gasped out.
Rhaif shifted across his bench to join the Chaaen. “What is it?”
Pratik pointed toward the low sooty clouds that hugged the top of Eyr Rigg. A large shape pushed through the pall, like a massive white orcso gliding through dark seas.
Rhaif tensed.
A wyndship was already departing.
Fearing the worst, he craned up. Its lower hull and keel sliced through the clouds, like the sky-god Pywll’s mighty sword. Only this blade was sculpted of wood and batten and held together with glue and studded bands of draft-iron forged to an airy strength with alchymies known only to a special caste of shipwrights. The craft’s shape was not unlike that of any wide-bellied barge, but instead of masts, draft-iron cables vanished into the clouds above, which hid the sleek gaseous balloon from which the ship was suspended.
Rhaif searched for flags at the winged stern, trying to identify the craft, but before he could do so, the ship rose higher and vanished into the gloom.
He turned and met Pratik’s face, both of them sharing the same worry.
Was that our ship leaving early?
Rhaif clambered to the other side and stuck his head out the open window. He quickly ducked back, coming close to losing his skull as an ox-driven cart trampled past, heading down the steep road, returning after offloading its cargo above.
Taking heed, Rhaif peered out more cautiously.
A long line of supply wagons and carts slowly worked their way up the Jagg’d Road toward the summit. Even more rushed downward, having discharged their duty. Their driver did his best to occasionally—and terrifyingly—pass those ahead of him. The extra gold march that Rhaif had promised the man clearly fueled such daring.
He sank back to his seat, recognizing there was nothing else he could do. It was up to the gods from here—not that any of them had smiled on Rhaif of late.
After another four switchbacks, the carriage finally righted itself and pulled out onto the flat summit of Eyr Rigg. The air here was as bad as the Boils, heavy with soot, barely breathable. All around people bustled with cloths over noses and mouths.
Rhaif ignored them as the carriage wheeled around and lined up with the other wagons and carts. He searched the breadth of the place. Most days three or four ships left Anvil at Eventoll. The murk made it hard to discern which ship had already departed. Even this close, the ships remained misty titans in their wooden berths, their gassy heights lost in the gloom above.
He read the marks painted on the hulls of the closest two: the crown and sun of Hálendii and the curled horns of Aglerolarpok.
No, no, no …
Then Pratik called to him. “Over here!”
Rhaif hurried to his side. The Chaaen pointed to a flag stirring in the firestorm-blown winds. He recognized the two curved swords crossed against a black background.
“The Klashean Arms,” Pratik said, his eyes moist with tears. “We got here in time.”
Rhaif intended for that not to change. “Out then. Quick about it.” He pressed a gold march into the Chaaen’s palm. “Pay the good man outside. He’s earned every pinch of it.”
As Pratik stumbled out of the carriage, Rhaif turned to their last passenger. He took the bronze woman’s hand in his own. None of her fingers moved in response to his touch.
“Shiya,” he urged, “we must go.”
She ignored his pleading and continued to sit like a statue come to rest. He took his other palm and rubbed her hand between his own, trying to warm her back to life. When that failed, he stripped off their respective gloves and buffed her bronze skin even harder.
“Please,” he whispered.
He finally abandoned her hand and lifted her veil. Her eyes were open, but they were cold glass. He rested his warmed palms on her cheeks.
“Shiya, I know some fear fuels you. Draw upon that now. We must go.”
He waited a breath.
Still nothing.
He considered abandoning her and escaping with Pratik.
No …
He pressed his palms more firmly. “I won’t lose faith in you. So, you don’t lose faith in me.”
At long last, a soft glow returned to her eyes. A hand rose to cup his hand to her cheek. Her lips moved, but no sound escaped. Still, he imagined what she said, wanting to believe it.
Never …
In short order, they were all out of the livery and moving toward the row of berthed ships. The behemoths towered into the skies, cables groaning. Laborers and dockworkers scurried all about in final preparations.
Pratik stopped and swung around.
“What’s wrong?” Rhaif asked.
The Chaaen showed his empty palms, then pointed from his boots to their collars. “I left the binding chains in the carriage.”
Rhaif frowned and glanced back in time to see the livery vanish over the edge of the ridge. Clearly the driver was taking no chances that Rhaif might reconsider his reward of a gold coin.
With a grumble, he turned back around. Ahead, docking lanyards were already being loosened from stanchions. He pushed Pratik forward, knowing the truth.
“At this point, it won’t matter,” he said with a sigh. “We must push on.”
* * *
ATOP A STRONG steed, Wryth galloped alongside Archsheriff Laach. Ahead of them, a clutch of a dozen riders in leather armor led the charge up Jagg’d Road. The swordsmen forced aside any impediment to their group’s swift passage. Another dozen men, mostly archers, trailed behind on horseback. The clanging din of the last bell of Eventoll drove them onward.
Wryth’s hood flagged behind him, so did one of his braids that had loosened from its tie around his neck. Such a disheveled state was unseemly for a Shrive, but he did not slow. He stabbed his steed’s flanks with his burred heels. The cavalcade pounded around the last switchback and up onto the summit of Eyr Rigg.
The hooves of their two dozen horses stirred a cloud of dust and sand as the group spread wide and skidded to a stop. Several legionnaires dropped swiftly from their saddles and shoved startled dockworkers out of the way. The others stayed on horseback, dancing their sweating steeds, ready to act.
Standing in his stirrups, Wryth waved an arm to clear the worst of the dust. Laach did the same, coughing to clear his lungs. It took a breath or two for Wryth to discern the conditions atop the soot-clouded summit.
High overhead, a wyndship rose into the darkness, its outline misty and faint. To the left, another balloon rose with a groan of strained cables. It, too, followed the first toward the gloom.
“There!” Laach said, his younger eyes far sharper than Wryth’s. He pointed to the right where a third ship was already off its cradle-berth, rising quickly skyward. “It bears the Klashean Arms!”
No …
Wryth could not let the bronze treasure—a weapon of inimicable power and mystery—fall into the hands of his enemy. Beyond his own desires for lost knowledge, he knew that the Kingdom of Hálendii had to be protected against the iron fist of the Klashe, where freedoms would be strangled, where knowledge would be forbidden. Wryth had spent decades gaining his lofty position here, committing himself fully to these lands, knowing in his heart he could guide the kingdom to an even greater glory. With the king’s ear at his lips and the Shrivenkeep nearly under his control, he was in position to wrest the secrets out of the past and raise the sigil of Lord ?reyk on high.