[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXIII

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXIII

Rush to the Beginning

         A week after Berkon’s death they saw it to the north.
         Night began to fall, ever so early so 
near now they were to the Winter’s Solstice, but 
in the moment before the sun let its grip upon 
the sky fail, a blue star pierced the twilight in 
the north.  The Magyars watched it and all but 
one of them trembled in fear as that blue light 
regarded them for a full minute before fading 
like a dying ember into the night sky.
         Only Nemgas had no fear of it.  It had 
been the source of his very life, that which 
freed him from the prison of the Yeshuel Kashin 
and gave him flesh to breath and bleed.  And now 
it was the only thing he could think that had the 
power to save his friend Chamag.
         “How dost he fare?” With the light of 
Cenziga gone, the others found themselves able to 
move again.  Nemgas looked at Amile who stood at 
the wagon door, her hands tightly wrapped across 
the back of the coachman’s bench. “Amile?”
         She blinked and turned to Nemgas.  Her 
face was sallow after so many weeks tending their 
now dead friends.  First Berkon, then Kaspel, and 
now Chamag.  Berkon and Kaspel had succumbed to 
the dark poison, but Chamag had only been touched 
a week ago.  For him they still had hope.
         Amile sighed and shook her head. “I hath 
drained his wound again a few moments gone.  The 
poison wilt not leave him.  More comes each time, not less.”
         Nemgas frowned and ran his fingers 
through his beard stubble.  Gamran, Pelgan and 
Gelel busied themselves with clearing out a small 
space in the snow to build a fire and did their 
best to pretend not to listen. “What of his 
teeth?  Dost they grow as did Berkon and Kaspel’s?”
         Amile shook her head, this time with 
more vigour. “Nay, they hath not grown.  The 
poison hast not yet made a monster of him.  He 
dost complain that thou dost not let him help.”
         “He wilt remain abed until we reach the 
mountain,” Nemgas replied. “Ja.  Help Pelgan and 
the others.  I wilt see Chamag.”
         Amile climbed down the carriage steps 
and passed Nemgas so close their chests nearly 
touched.  Nemgas sighed, his breath steaming in 
the cold air.  With a hop he pulled himself onto 
the carriage and climbed inside.
         As always, the inside was warm and 
welcoming.  The scent of decay and death that had 
lingered around Kaspel was beginning to return, a 
sign that troubled him.  Nemgas shut the door 
behind him and Chamag stirred in the bed at the 
far end.  The burly Magyar leaned over the side 
and grimaced.  A bandage wrapped tight around his 
neck and shoulder. “Ah, Nemgas.  Wilt thou let me up this eve?”
         “Nae, Chamag,” Nemgas replied. “After 
Kaspel tried to escape and join what hadst become 
of Berkon I wilt not let thee up.”
         “I art no monster,” Chamag replied in irritation.
         “But if that poison remains in thee, 
thou wilt become one,” Nemgas replied without 
much joy. “E’en now it may be poisoning thy mind.”
         “It isn’t!” Chamag growled. “I hath lost 
none of my faculties, Nemgas.  I art strong and 
ready to fight.  It hath not taken me yet.”
         Nemgas sighed and shook his head.  He 
walked back to where Chamag lay half in bed and 
leaned against the far wall.  Chamag’s eyes 
followed him, and the Magyar had to admit that 
they were the same eyes he’d always seen in his 
wagon-mate.  The axe-man looked no different 
apart from the bandages.  Perhaps because he’d 
only been infected the one time it would take 
longer?  Or perhaps Chamag’s body was stronger 
and more resistant?  Regardless, he couldn’t give in.
         “And I wilt do what I can to make sure 
it never takes thee,” Nemgas said in a soft 
voice.  His fingers idly rubbed the stump of his 
right arm as he spoke. “We didst see the ash 
mountain’s star this twilight.  ‘Twill not be long now ere we reach it.”
         “I detest that place,” Chamag said in a 
low voice.  He leaned back in the bed, his free 
arm fingering the bandage.  It was stained with a 
mix of red and black blood in the middle, though 
the red was still the dominant colour. “Why dost thou take us there?”
         “Because the sword smote Berkon and the 
sword wast touched by Cenziga.”
         Chamag flinched at the name but gave no 
other outward sign of discomfort.  He pressed his 
lips tightly together and thought for a 
moment.  The burly Magyar’s eyes gazed past 
Nemgas as if seeing through him and then they 
lifted to meet his gaze. “But wilt it not smite 
me?  Dost thy cure kill the poison or the person?”
         Nemgas frowned and then shrugged. “I 
hath no answer for thee my friend.  ‘Tis the only 
hope I know and ‘tis what I wilt seek for 
thee.  Know this, I wilt not let the poison make a monster of thee.”
         Lips still drawn together, Chamag 
lowered his eyes and muttered softly, “Wouldst it 
be so terrible a fate?  More terrible than death?”
         Nemgas stiffened and studied his friend 
more closely.  His body seemed slack and 
listless, but so too had Kaspel’s the night he’d 
attacked.  He glanced at his lips, wondering if 
they hid something. “Aye, to hunt thy friends 
like rabbits?  ‘Twould be worse than death.  The 
gods tend thee in death.  Death rejected what had 
taken Berkon, and wouldst hath done the same with Kaspel.”
         Chamag snorted and rubbed his face with 
his hands as if working some strain loose. 
“Cenziga wilt bring death beyond the gods.”
         “It brought me life,” Nemgas replied, 
glancing furtively from side to side.  He was 
alone in the carriage with Chamag.  The others 
were still out trying to make a fire.  He could 
almost hear their voices and the snorting of the 
horses.  If he gave a cry they would be here in 
seconds.  He took a deep breath and pretended to 
turn aside. “Take thy rest, Chamag.  I will check on thee later.”
         Out of the corner of his eye he noticed 
Chamag relaxing.  Nemgas took one step towards 
the door, and then jumped back onto the man’s 
chest.  Chamag gasped and tried to grapple 
Nemgas, but Nemgas had them pinned with his 
side.  Nemgas pressed his fingers into either 
side of the burly Magyar’s cheeks and forced his 
mouth open.  Chamag screamed, eyes flashing with 
anger and briefly, something more vile.
         Nemgas’s heart beat even faster when he 
saw the teeth behind the lips.  The canines were 
not like what they’d seen in Kaspel or Berkon, 
but they had begun to grow.  They stretched a 
pinky’s breadth past the rest of his teeth, 
swollen and raw.  Chamag hissed and pushed up to 
bite him, but Nemgas pressed his stump into 
Chamag’s neck and forced him back down.
         Pelgan and Gamran jumped in opposite 
sides of the carriage.  Pelgan came in the back 
entrance, and immediately grabbed Chamag by the 
sides of his head and held him down.  Gamran 
grabbed his legs, couldn’t keep them still, and 
then sat on them. Chamag spat, struggled, and 
then all of the fight drained out of him.
         “Chamag!” Nemgas said, letting go off 
his cheeks and leaning up ever so slightly. “Art thee well?”
         Chamag blinked several times, groaned, 
and then looked up at him. “Help me, 
Nemgas!  ‘Tis there inside.  Dost not let it make me a monster.”
         “It shalt not take thee,” Nemgas assured 
him, though as when he assured the same to Kaspel 
and Berkon, he found there was little confidence 
in his voice.  He reminded himself of Cenziga’s 
star, and tried again. “Thou wilt not be a monster, Chamag.  I promise thee.”
         Tears streamed down his face which 
Pelgan wiped up with his sleeve. “Tie me down,” 
Chamag said. “It wants me to escape.”
         Nemgas nodded.  Gamran fetched the rope 
while the two larger Magyar’s looked into each 
other’s eyes.  The one full of fear, the other 
full of determined hope.  This friend he would 
save, Nemgas swore to himself.  This friend he would save.

----------

         Grastalko spent a day recovering in his 
wagon.  The smouldering remains of his left hand 
had flared to life at the mention of the Ash 
Mountain that the Magyars were now bound for; the 
flesh had blackened past his wrist and the 
ever-present agony stabbed at him every time even 
so much as a leaf should touch his 
wound.  Soaking it in cool water helped, and once 
out of the wagon he would take every opportunity 
to dip his left arm in the stream they followed 
through the forest.  For a few moments he could enjoy a world without pain.
         Only a few days later they left the 
forest behind.  The plains of the Flatlands came 
suddenly.  One moment they trudged through an 
endless sea of trees beneath a broad blue sky, 
and then the next the Assingh crunched snow 
beneath their hooves and the sky became a barren 
gray.  Yet even so wintry a landscape could not 
still the joy that every Magyar felt at seeing 
their homeland once again after so long an 
absence.  That night they cleared a great deal of 
snow, built a bonfire with what wood they’d 
collected prior to entering the Åelfwood, 
feasted, danced, sang, and revelled until the 
waning moon had passed its zenith.
         Grastalko had participated as much as he 
could.  Every time his hand began to cripple him 
he ran into the snow banks and buried it.  The 
snow sizzled a few seconds before he felt relief 
sweep over him.  Thrice he sought surcease that night.
         On the nights that followed he got 
little sleep as he needed the relief again and 
again, more often each time.  On the third day 
through the Steppe, he found a bucket, filled it 
with snow and ice, and kept it by him as he rode 
the wagons through the white land.  Not even the 
chill air was enough to bring him any 
comfort.  All he felt was the mind numbing pain 
whenever he took his hand from the bucket of 
snow, a bucket he needed to refill more and more frequently.
         On the fourth day, Hanaman refused to 
let him come eat in his wagon until he had done 
the one thing he knew he should do but hadn’t 
been able to bring himself to do. “Thou must 
speak to Dazheen,” Hanaman declared with the firm 
insistence of a father. “Thy hand pains thee too 
greatly to e’en aid Kisaiya with the Assingh 
now.  I hath seen thee flinch from thy duties, 
Grastalko.  Thy hand pains thee.  See Dazheen and 
she wilt give thee some balm.”
         He argued to no avail, and he was pretty 
sure Hanaman knew the real reason for his 
reticence.  If he went to see Dazheen he’d have to face Bryone again.
         But go he did.  Holding his left arm 
close to his belly, he climbed the wagon steps 
and rapped the back of his knuckles on the 
door.  The solemn face of Bryone greeted 
him.  Her eyes were soft, brown, and searched 
him, quickly noting the way he held his wounded 
hand.  Her lips drew back in a frown, dimples 
faintly forming in her cheeks.  She gingerly held 
out one hand but didn’t touch him. “Does it hurt thee, Grastalko?”
         He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Aye.  I seek Dazheen.”
         “Dost thee need help?”
         “Nay!  I canst do it,” he replied, 
trying to bury the anger in his voice behind the pain.
         Bryone lowered her eyes like he’d seen 
her do many times for the other Magyars and 
stepped back from the door.  Grastalko stepped 
through, edging against the door so he wouldn’t 
brush her, more for his arm’s sake than his 
heart’s.  She held back the curtain for him and 
he passed beneath into the warmth of Dazheen’s wagon.
         The seer was seated at her table as he’d 
always seen her.  Her white hair was twisted and 
frazzled.  Her skin hung in folds on her 
face.  These he’d always seen, but what startled 
him was to see the bandage removed from her 
face.  Her eyes were closed, but the lids 
flickered like a dog eager to pounce a 
squirrel.  Her hands, gnarled like bird’s feet, 
scraped over her cards arrayed before her in a 
pile.  All of them were face down.
         Grastalko nervously watched those cards 
as he neared.  Her face turned towards him as he 
stepped closer and a faint smile drew taut the 
many folds in her cheeks. “Good evening to thee, 
Grastalko.  It has been many weeks since last thou didst grace my wagon.”
         “Art they safe?”
         “The cards?  Aye.  They art quiet 
tonight.  He watches elsewhere now.  I dost not 
know where.” She pushed the cards to the side 
with one hand; her nails dragged along the table 
with a sullen rasp. “Sit.  What hast brought thee to me?”
         Grastalko took a few steps closer but 
didn’t sit. “My hand.  It hurts worse each day.”
         “Show me.”
         He took another step closer and lifted 
his left hand towards her own.  The blackened 
flesh seemed to simmer as she moved her fingers 
through the air nearby.  Her smile faded with 
each pass.  Strangely, for the first time in 
days, the pain seemed to ebb.  No longer did his 
arm throb, but it lingered in a quiescent torpor.
         And then Dazheen opened her 
eyes.  Grastalko felt his entire arm go icy 
cold.  He made a fist with his good hand and 
shivered as he stared at the horizontal red slits 
amidst the black ruin of her eyes.  They lifted 
up and down a moment before she closed them again.  And the iciness passed.
         She lowered her hands to the table and 
coughed wearily.  He heard Bryone stir, but the 
fit passed as soon as it had begun. “I art 
well.  Worry not for me.  It is thee for whom I worry.”
         “Me?” Grastalko asked. “Why?  Art there 
nothing thou canst do for my arm?”
         “The magic in thy arm art the same magic 
that I hath seen upon Nemgas.  ‘Tis an act of the 
mountain to which we now journey.” Just thinking 
of this ill-omened mountain made the pain flare 
anew in his arm.  He winced and fell back into 
the seat. “It hath a hold on thee, Grastalko.  Dost the pain grow worse?”
         “Every day.  But when thou wert 
examining me I didst not feel the pain.  Why?”
         She shook her head. “That I dost not 
know.  But I fear that thou wilt feel e’en 
greater pain in the days ahead.  The course I 
hath set shalt not be changed, for I must go 
there.  As, I believe, thou must also.”
         “But I dost not wish to!” Grastalko 
cried.  The thought of heading towards the source 
of his agony horrified him.  Would he be able to 
manage the pain at all?  How much worse would it get?
         “Of this thou hast no choice, 
Grastalko.” Dazheen sighed and lowered her 
face.  She seemed immeasurably more ancient, like 
a crumbling stone wall built generations ago and 
left untended. “I canst give thee something to 
aid thy sleep.  It will take thee from the pain 
for a time, but sleep art all that thou wilt do 
when thou hast taken the draught.”
         “Anything that wilt help.  Please!”
         Dazheen nodded slowly. “Bryone wilt 
bring it to Hanaman’s wagon soon.  Go enjoy thy dinner with him.”
         Grastalko stood, and put his arm back 
against his chest to protect it when he realized 
what the seer had said. “How didst thee know I 
wouldst be eating with Hanaman tonight?”
         Dazheen lifted her face and smiled. 
“There art things I canst still see without my 
cards, young Grastalko.” He blushed in 
embarrassment at doubting her.  But she didn’t 
seem to mind. “Go and know that thou wilt sleep well this night.”
         “Thank thee, Dazheen,” he said.  He 
glanced briefly at Bryone, then hurried out 
before she could say anything.  With each step 
through the snow toward Hanaman’s wagon the pain 
blossomed in his arm again.  Grastalko gritted 
his teeth tight and stared balefully to the 
southwest.  The source of his agony was out there 
somewhere.  How could he possibly face it?

----------

         Water clouded with sand and froth foamed 
violently around him, tumbling across the smooth 
sandy bottom of the secluded beach with all the 
wrath of an irritated sea god but he suffered the 
defeat stoically.  For one born and raised with 
the sea at his doorstep the assault of a breaking 
wave was mere play yet it brought frustration 
nonetheless.  The waves defeated him each time 
and with every ignominious dunking and thrashing 
across the sandy bottom that frustration 
grew.  The wave board prevented him from simply 
plunging through the breaking waves in an easy 
dive; it was simply too buoyant.  Yet each time 
he tried to cut up and across the waves they 
would surmount and roll the board, and him with 
it, into a chaos of sand and froth.
         He was perhaps seven, clad on in a 
simple loincloth and water shoes, tackling the 
waves breaking upon a broad wash of dark 
sand.   He was a pauper, clad in the common 
garments of a seafront peasant, and his name was 
Phil.  But he was not the Phil whom he knew 
himself to be, he was only a child embracing a 
challenge, not a white-furred animal drowning in 
the surf.  Staggering back to his feet after 
another bruising surf roll he cast about for the 
wave board that had been ripped from his 
hands.  His eyes stung with the salt and 
frustrated tears, blurring his vision.  The other 
children sharing the waves with him could ride 
the rolling waves on their simple boards, 
reed-framed constructs wrapped in a thin layer of 
tanned whale-leather, with all the grace of gulls 
on the wing.  Retrieving his strayed board Phil 
once more stretched out upon it and paddled toward the next approaching wave.
         As it neared he swing the board to one 
side to tack up the face of the wave and paddled 
hard with his hands.  Swiftly the face of the 
wave bore him up, tilting the board ever more 
steeply no matter how much he paddled.  He was 
almost at the crest of the wave, now hanging onto 
the board as it listed fully, but the curling lip 
caught the high side of the board and sent him 
tumbling down the face of yet one more wave.
         Like any child of Whales he could swim 
as skillfully as a fish so the churning innards 
of the wave did not alarm him.  The sandy bottom 
punished his lack of wave-riding skill with fresh 
bruises and scrapes but that, as well, was 
neither new nor alarming.  After being released 
from its rough handling he stood and shook the 
water from his eyes.  A few of the other children 
laughed at his lack of skill while others merely 
looked on.  A strong hand came to rest upon his 
shoulder causing him to turn toward the form 
standing in the shallows at his side, the taller 
man casting Phil in his shadow.
         “Head on, lad, head on.” The man advised 
with a tone of gentle humor, his chin nodding 
toward another wave as it built up and crashed 
down around the dozen other children riding its 
curve.  Phil blinked salt induced tears from his 
eyes and cocked his head to look up at the 
stranger whose physique was quite unlike that of 
the local Whalish people.  He had the pallor and 
broad-shouldered frame of a mainlander and 
sported a slender bit of hair beneath his lower 
lip in a point the likes of which Phil had only 
glanced sported by duelists, courtiers, or 
brigands.  The look in the dark brown eyes was 
not dangerous, however, and was clad more like a 
courtier than brigand, in silks and fine cotton 
linen opposed to the well worn leathers of 
sailors or commoners.  Tucked under his other arm was a gleaming silver flute.
         “What?” Phil groused feigning difficulty 
hearing over the roar of the next incoming wave.
         “You’re trying to cut across the wave to 
traverse the crest, lad.” The gaily clad courtier 
seemed to pay no heed to the ruin that seawater 
was making of his expensive raiment.  “Putting 
your broad side to the wave just gets you tossed 
like an unmoored boat.  You’ve got to approach it head-on.”
         “Of course I knew that!” Phil railed, 
looking for his lost wave board.  “Any sailor 
knows you don’t climb a wave broadside.”  He 
could not see his board.  Nor, for that matter, 
could he see the beach, the cliff-climbing city 
of Whales, or any land at all.  He found himself 
staring down at the pale, smooth wood of a ship’s deck.
         There was a curious pattern of scratches 
in the age-worn planks near the base of a 
pedestal mounted spyglass.  The sun was only a 
short distance above the eastern horizon and the 
post upon which the spyglass was mounted created 
a shadow across those gouges like the line of a 
sundial’s blade.  But it was a sundial only he 
could decipher, the gouges made by his own 
toeclaws etching a pattern that said nothing to 
anyone but Phil.  Sunlight shone down the barrel 
of the spyglass and created a pinpoint of 
brilliant light at the apex of several scratches.
         “Do they now?”
         Phil looked up from the confusing 
display to find himself upon the deck of the 
Burning Spear alone but for the same mainlander 
who now leaned upon the long spar of the 
steersman’s tiller.  Beyond him, aft of the 
Spear, arrayed an armada of ships vast beyond 
counting, the sky and water teaming with a host 
of foes.  Fear seized Phil’s heart for the Spear 
was a ship adrift and unmanned.  All around her 
other Whalish ships sat upon a glassy sea with 
empty decks and motionless oars.  Phil’s ears 
backed in heart-clutching fear as the hopeless 
situation seized him.  “What matters a wave?” he 
challenged the stranger with a wave of one short, 
white-furred arm at the armada around them, “When 
enemies lie at anchor in the harbor?”
         The stranger shrugged, “What matters a 
wave, lad, when you know to take it head on and 
they do not?”  Turning his head the man glanced 
eastward and Phil followed his gaze.
         As he watched the horizon rippled an 
rose behind and to one side of the enemy host, a 
wave bulking upward as it surged toward them.  As 
Phil watched it raised up the dark shapes of the 
enemy ships and sent them tumbling down the face 
of that watery mountain.  Even as he watched the 
foe being dashed into the sea he felt the Spear beginning to list.
         The wave was not directly astern, it 
came upon their aft port beam and the Burning 
Spear began to rise up and roll.  The stranger 
with the intense brown eyes made no motion to 
correct their course with the tiller upon which 
he still leaned as if unmoved by the steadily 
steepening list of the deck.  “Head on, lad, head 
on.” The man intoned completely unconcerned by 
the wall of foaming water towering above 
them.  Already the Spear was listing so far that 
it was difficult for Phil to stand even after 
digging in his claws.  The spyglass squeaked 
forlornly as it spun atop its post.
         “Turn us, damn you! Turn us!” Phil fell 
forward and scrambled at the deck but horizontal 
had become vertical and sunlight was eclipsed in 
an azure shadow.  He felt himself falling away 
from the deck as the Spear tumbled, a white 
hammer of sea foam plunging down toward him.

         Prince Phil, heir to the thrown and 
power of Whales, thrashed about upon his berth 
like the frightened rabbit that he was.  Falling, 
he felt, to land heavily upon the deck in a 
tangle of linens and lines.  It took him a moment 
to realize that he had not been plunged 
helplessly into the sea and that the wood he had 
landed upon was safely horizontal.  He forced 
himself to still in a fit of pique; too many 
times awakening to fear would lead him to 
slipping into his uselessly feral state and stuck impotently in a cage.
         He could ill afford to loose his control 
now, before his sailors, upon the eve of a war.
         Nay, not a war, but a single 
engagement.  Should the engagement fail it would 
become a war; a war that Whales would be hard 
pressed to prosecute with their current naval 
strength.  He could not lead his sailors, his 
people, or his serve his kin and King from within 
a cage impotently nibbling on carrots.
         “Your highness?” a young voice inquired 
cautiously from the shadows.  “Are you well, Prince?”
         Phil chuffed irritably and forced 
himself to still though his heart continued to 
race so strongly the roar of it filled his 
head.  “Aye, I am myself.”  Again, still in 
control of his faculties by sheer force of will alone.
         “You’ve become tangled, may I assist 
you?”  Brad, Captain Ptomamas’ nephew and cabin 
boy, asked.  Of the crew he seemed the least 
distressed by the fact that his liege was an 
oversized rabbit prone to fits of feral 
witlessness.  But then the boy was a mere nine years of age.
         “Aye, if you would.  What is the 
time?”  With the boy’s efficient help, even at 
nine he was a competent member of the Spear’s crew, Phil was quickly untangled.
         “Just after dawn, Highness, we have 
already spoken the Dawn Prayer.”  Brad’s shadow 
explained while deftly sorting the snarl of 
linens and replacing them on Phil’s spartan 
berth.  Phill donned his tabard and belt in the 
dim shadows of the cabin while he listened to the 
boy and the song of the ship; the chanting of the 
oarsmen, the drummer’s master tempo, mingled with 
the creaking wooden voice of the ship itself.
         “Have you been on the deck?”
         “Nay, highness, my father forbade it because the foe has drawn close.”
         Phil rested his blunt-fingered paw upon 
the lad’s shoulder as he stepped past him toward 
the gangway, “My thanks, Brad.  May the fates 
favour us this day, but your father is 
wise.  Keep yourself safe and ready.”  Beyond the 
narrow portal leading from the Captain’s cabin 
the glow of sunlight on age-paled wood lent 
enough light to the dim shadows of the lower deck 
enough for Phil to pick his way toward the nearest ladder.

         The mood was tense and expectant as he 
made his way past a few crewmembers resting 
belowdecks, their weapons readied near at hand or 
in the process of readiness that bespoke of 
distracted activity more than any need to make 
them any sharper.  Dark slashes splashed across 
the wood still remained after the ambush of fire 
that they had survived only two nights 
before.  In the sharp angle of the early morning 
light they looked like shadowy holes through the 
pale wood of the bulkheads.  Phil ascended the 
ladder to the main gangway and made his way to 
the aft castle where a small knot of silhouettes 
cast long shadows across the main deck.  The 
officer of the deck and master drummer gave him 
slow nods as he passed to make his way up the 
short, steep stair to the aft castle.
         He found Rupert there, as well as a few 
officers from both the First and Second Crews, 
but none of the ship’s higher command.  “Where is 
Captain Ptamomas?” He asked of Whiett, the 
commander of the First Crew.  The reed-slender 
officer gave him a brief glance and swift jerk of 
hand to head as a distracted half-salute.
         “Getting a few moments of rest, your 
Highness, down among the Third Crew.” Whiett 
offered curtly but without any disrespect.  “Step 
on up here and see what there is to see, but keep 
yourself somewhat low.  We’ve got lads in white 
on every deck in the fleet but a good spyglass in 
the day will tell our tainted brothers what ship you’re commanding.”
         Keeping low was not difficult, the 
gunwales of the Spear came almost to Phil’s 
shoulders when he rested back on his powerful 
haunches.  A waterboy wearing a white smock 
ducked down toward the stair as Phil mounted to 
the aft deck, giving the prince a wan smile 
before sidling down the stair.  Phil gave his 
shoulder a touch as he had with Ptamomas’ nephew 
and stepped onto the deck to look eastward over the aft rail.
         The nearness of the enemy fleet 
surprised him initially, but as he scanned the 
horizon the sheer size of the enemy armada gave 
his heart a distinct pause.  “Numbers?” he asked 
with a quick chuff, his backed ears rising 
briefly before he realized it and forced them 
back down.  The waterboy had not been wearing 
anything to give him the appearance of ears so 
Phil thought it best not to give the enemy something distinct to see.
         “Three score and some, my Prince.” 
Whiett grumbled from his place near the plotting 
table.  “Another group joined them in the night 
but from where they came I have no idea.”
         “They passed south of us in the night.” 
One of the mages supplied from behind Phil as he 
mounted the ladder.  “Aramaes will be up shortly, 
he is conversing with Pythoreaus’ circle.”  The 
man gave Phil a deep nodding half-bow in 
greetings, “And I think you need not worry 
overmuch of our enemy’s eyes, sire.  If they’ve 
anyone with a decent spyglass they will have 
noted your bodyguard already.” He waved a hand 
bedecked with ornate rings toward Rupert where he 
stood silently at the aft rail.  “We overtook 
those others likely making to rendezvous from the 
north, Pythoreaus reports that they were not among the group harassing him.”
         “How far is Pythoreaus from us now?  We 
could sore use his aid very soon, the enemy has 
closed more swiftly than I would have expected.” 
Whiett asked while he looked at the plotting 
table and the First Crew navigator read a few 
shadowmarks off of his navigation angle.  He gave 
one shoulder a shrug, “Well, our Whalish brothers 
I would have expected such speed from, but not 
out of those canvas driven cogs.”
         “Less than a league to our bow.” The 
mage reported, looking eastward at the armada 
spread across the horizon behind them.  “They’re 
under masking magic until they can join our 
group.”  The man reached down to touch Phil’s 
shoulder lightly with his fingertips, “Speaking 
of magic, highness, look to the western horizon.”
         Phil, and the others on the aft deck, 
did as bade and scanned the western horizon.  A 
thin line of shadows seemed to hover just above 
the gentle curve of the distant sea but with the 
early hour it was difficult to read what they 
were seeing as more than fading night.  “What is 
it we are expected to see, Phernias?” Phil asked.
         “Storm clouds, your grace.  The mages of 
Whales have raised a wind to push our Wind 
Runners to us, and slow the enemy 
windships.”  Phil scoured the western horizon but 
the shadow did not reveal itself to be anything 
recognizable as a weather phenomenon.
         “How far are we from Whales?”
         “Five or six leagues by our reckoning, 
my prince.” Whiett offered grimly.  “Those clouds 
block the peaks from view.”  He shifted his 
attention toward Phernias with a thin, grim 
smile.  “We’ve made excellent time with the mages 
aiding us, but our men are beginning to show the strain.”
         “As are the mages, we cannot sustain our 
efforts to much longer.” Phernias reported with 
equal grimness.  “The fatigue of the men has been 
taken on heavily by our number, Highness.  If we 
continue to push ourselves some of us will perish from sheer exhaustion.”
         “They shant, Phernias.  I fear that the 
enemy will overtake us before we see highsun if 
they keep closing at their current speed.”  With 
a long breath Whiett glanced back at the enemy 
armada.  “And there is more, my prince, none of it good.”
         “More?”
         “The spotters have identified whale sign among the enemy ships.”
         Phil’s brows furrowed and he tilted his 
head slightly, “Whale sign?”  That was nothing 
unusual to see anywhere on the ocean.
         “Among the enemy ships, as I said.  The 
Merai have joined our foes, the beasts they 
command move with the enemy.  I do not know when, 
but if they’d been allied more than a day I would 
imagine that they would have moved against us already.”
         Phil felt his heart drop at that news 
though it was not wholly unexpected after 
Aramaes’ report the previous evening.  That alone 
made him fear that the entire idea of facing and 
vanquishing their tainted brethren, a difficult 
and painful task that it would have been on its 
own, completely untenable.  Already they were 
outnumbered three ships to one by the inclusion 
of ships, pirates and fishermen allied to no 
nations, that had lived among the islands of the 
straights.  And then there were the Sathmoran and 
Pyralian ships caught up in the mix.  Sinking 
them, should word of it return to those nations, 
could cause diplomatic repercussions that would 
last years if they did not bring about their own wars.
         Without Merai supplementing the Whalish 
ships, relying only on dragons and the surprise 
windships already fast running from Whales under 
the push of mage-spawned storms, Phil did not 
feel confident.  He could not show the faltering 
of his heart, however, in the face of these loyal sons of Whales.
         “As Ptomamus said yesterday, the Merai 
are not too great a threat if they try to assault 
us out of the water.  With Pythoreaus’ fleet 
hiding near at hand, and Stohshal making all due 
speed before a strong wind we will be at the 
advantage against that host.” Phil tried to sound 
confident as he stepped up to the plotting table 
and grasped the intricately worked edge with his blunt-fingered hand paws.
         Whiett raised one eyebrow dubiously, 
“Advantage upon them, my prince?  They’ll have us 
three to one even with the Windships among us.”
         Phil nodded slowly, “Aye, but they are 
pirates and cargo haulers for the most part, just 
as hard pressed to maintain distance on us as our 
oarsmen to keep that distance however it 
slips.”  He waved one white furred hand toward 
the aft, “With only a score of Dromon, seven 
Dromonai among those, and the Iron King they do 
not have our number.  If they restrain from 
engaging until their cogs can catch up the choice 
of water will be ours and the fleets tight 
pressed limiting how well they can deploy their fire.”
         With a begrudging grunt of 
acknowledgment Whiett looked over the aft rail, 
“If we can continue our course until Stohshal is 
within support range we’ll wear them down just 
that little bit more.”  He directed his gaze 
westward and his lips drew into a narrow line, 
“And you say we will have dragons.  That will 
upset their strategies, no doubt about that.”
         “Have indeed, commander.”  Aramaes 
hauled himself up from the lower deck and leaned 
upon the forward railing looking overwhelmed but 
pleased.  “You shant have mages enough to support 
the fight, Highness, we are simply too weighed 
upon, but Stohshal reports seeing them ahead of 
the storms pushing his canvas.”  He afforded Phil 
a roguish half-smile from one corner of his 
mouth, the fine etching of blue tattoos 
contorting across his cheek.  “He counts 
fourteen, most of them the smaller and younger 
storm riders, but a handful of fire 
breathers.  That’s an entire battlegroup of Dromonai.”
         Phil laughed with a nod, “That can fly.” 
He said with grim satisfaction.  “Your news is 
well received Aramaes.  Our foe is but a league 
aft and will close within the day under our 
current oar.  Your circle will only need hold out 
until the engagement is upon us and after that
”
         “We just try to survive, Highness, 
yes.  We will do all that is within our power, 
and leave the rest up to good strong men with 
honed steel.”  Aramaes dismissed his subordinate 
mage with a slight wave of one hand.
         Phil looked back to the east and the 
array of ships bearing down upon them with slow 
implacability.  “For now we merely need wait.”
         Aramaes joined the First Crew on the aft 
castle while Whiett ordered those without any 
immediate duties to get water and 
rest.  Throughout the morning the men at the oars 
rotated regularly, far more frequently than Phil 
had ever witnessed and without the precise 
scheduling typical of ship duties.  When a 
oarsman began to feel fatigue he waved over 
someone waiting to take a bench and rotated out for a bit of rest.
         Phil stood at the rail and watched the 
enemy host, now spread out across a broad front 
with the Iron King at the core just behind a line 
of steadily moving oar ships.  Behind that line 
the wind driven ships tacked carefully to keep 
their sails belled with whatever wind their own 
mages could sustain.  Every so often Phil spied 
the white spume of a whale’s blow among the ships 
but other than the cursory hints he saw no other sign of the Merai among them.

----------

         The morning dawned crisp and cold in 
Masyor.  Frost covered the tents, the grasses, 
and even those soldiers unfortunate to sleep 
under the stars.  The tracks of mud had hardened 
over the night’s course which made it even easier 
for the horses and wagons to move about as the 
lords of the Southern Midlands all gathered at 
Duke Titian Verdane’s meeting tent.
         Sir Malcom Royce had woken Verdane from 
his oddly peaceful slumber once the pale winter 
sun peeked above the eastern treetops.  The 
knight reported that all remained calm and that 
the soldiers were more worried about huddling 
around the morning cook fires than they were 
about attacking each other.  Verdane was not 
surprised to discover that nobody had reported 
seeing a stranger in their midst last night.
         He took only a bit of bread and cheese 
to break his fast, washed it down with warm 
juice, and then readied himself to face his 
vassals.  The words of the Felikaush reverberated 
through his mind.  He did not even need to look 
at the letter to know them. Tyliå-nou’s 
unutterably strange presence lingered in his 
chambers, but no sign of him was there apart from 
the letter.  This he concealed from Sir 
Royce.  He did not want any to know that his 
decision this day was motivated by ancient 
creatures living in enchanted forests where no 
man dare trod.  If this feud had eroded his 
ability to command his vassals, that knowledge would destroy it altogether.
         “Is all prepared?” Verdane asked as a 
page fretted over the evenness of his tunic.
         Sir Royce nodded.  Apollinar fidgeted 
with his spectacles and said, “Your soldiers at 
the meeting tent have been relieved and fresh 
soldiers sent.  Lord Guilford and his allies are 
there already.  Lord Grenholt, Lord Thrane, and 
Lord Stoffels wait outside for you.”
         Verdane nodded and slapped the page’s 
prying hands from his collar. “It is fine.  I am 
ready now.  What of Lord Dupré?”
         Sir Royce grunted. “I have him being 
brought by carriage.  Few know that he is being 
held prisoner.  I thought it prudent to keep that secret for now.”
         “Good.  And Anya?”
         “She’s already there,” Apollinar replied.
         Verdane gazed briefly at his mailed 
doublet, noting the wolf’s head silhouette across 
the breast.  The letter told him that the wolf 
would not conquer horse or falcon within his 
lifetime.  He’d long harboured that dream and 
after the curses struck Metamor had felt it was 
finally within his grasp.  Now it was gone.  The 
ravenous wolf would hunger for a time more.
         Finally, he took his eyes from the 
mirror and nodded to his Castellan and Steward. 
“Then let us keep them waiting no more.”  Verdane 
led them from the tent where he found another 
page standing ready with his horse saddled and 
barded.  Verdane’s breath misted in the cold 
air.  Beyond sat the three nobles who had aided 
him these last few months.  They bowed their heads  at his approach.
         Verdane took the reins from the page and 
mounted.  His horse, a black destrier he’d 
trained himself, snorted and stamped his hooves 
as he turned about to join the others.  Behind 
him, Sir Royce and Apollinar mounted and 
followed.  A carriage trailed behind them covered in Kelewair soldiers.
         None of his vassals dared engage him in 
conversation as they rode through the ranks of 
soldiers toward the meeting tent.  Their eyes, 
which passed between each other, back to the 
carriage, and then toward the meeting tent and 
assembled armies said all that needed 
saying.  For the first time in a long time, 
Verdane saw that they feared him again.
         Both horses and soldiers lined the 
grasses outside the meeting tent.  A small pile 
of weapons lay outside the entrance, each of them 
carefully placed so as not to touch any other 
weapon.  Verdane and the rest dismounted and at 
his direction, his vassals each lowered their 
swords and knives to the ground.  Verdane alone 
entered the tent with his sword at his side.
         Like the day before, Lord Guilford and 
his allies sat on one side of the table.  Dupré’s 
allies sat on the other, and these already looked 
uncertain as their master wasn’t with them.  All 
of them rose when Duke Verdane entered.  He 
ambled stiffly past and quickly took his seat in 
the makeshift throne at the head of the 
table.  Grenholt, Thrane and Stoffels sat nearby, 
but Anya was given pride of place at her father’s 
right hand.  Her eyes were a mask; though they 
saw everything around, not even her father could 
read them.  Whatever she was feeling she would 
not show it.  It both irritated and pleased Verdane.
         “Thank you all for coming at my call,” 
he said in a sarcastic drawl.  Some of them, 
especially those that allied with Guilford or 
Dupré, flinched back in their seats. “This 
foolishness has gone on long enough.  I will be 
brief.  The war in my lands is now over.  To 
those of you aiding either Lord Guilford or Lord 
Dupré, your traitorous acts will be forgiven 
under two conditions.  First, all your troops 
must have left Masyor by the set of the sun, and 
you must return to your homelands 
straightaway.  Second, after you have returned to 
your lands, you will each send a levy of your 
food stores to feed the people of Kelewair who 
have had to forgo much to feed my army.  If you 
fail in this, and I will personally check that 
each of you has complied, then your lands will be 
taken from you and given to others more worthy of your titles.”
         He could hear a few grumbles, and 
several shifted uneasily.  Verdane paid especial 
note of those who did not.  Those who grumbled 
now were sure to do as he wished.   Most of the 
rest would too, but they would need watching.
         “Lord Anson Guilford.  Eight months ago 
I assigned to you the task of rebuilding the 
bridges across the eastern Southbourne.  You have 
failed to accomplish this.  Your armies are to be 
converted to this task.  By the first of the new 
year I want the foundations laid on at least one 
of the bridges.  Those of your men who are not 
occupied with the bridges are to be set to 
rebuilding the towns in your fief that were destroyed in this squabble.”
         Lord Guilford’s eyes lifted in surprise 
at this.  It was clear he expected something 
harsher.  A smile teased the corner’s of his 
lips.  Verdane glowered at the man. “However, 
should you seek any reprisal against Dupré’s men 
or his lands, you will meet the same fate as William.”
         Guilford’s smile faded instantly. “Am I 
to have no satisfaction for my son’s death?”
         “William’s fate will suffice to you or 
you will share it.  I will not tolerate any more 
of your feud.” He turned to Sir Royce. “Bring in 
Lord William Dupré that I may pronounce his fate.”
         Sir Royce nodded and waved to soldiers 
standing at the entrance to the tent.  Two of 
them disappeared outside.  While Verdane’s 
vassals shifted nervously, and Lord Guilford kept 
a baleful stare upon the Duke, Verdane fingered 
the hilt of his sword.  How he so wanted to draw 
it and cleave William’s head from his body.  His 
heart beat faster at the thought of William’s 
blood splattering across his cheeks.  His fingers 
tensed, frustrated, and then withdrew from the hilt.
         Lord William Dupré was still chained and 
gagged when Sir Royce marched him into the 
tent.  Dupré’s eyes were at times defiant and at 
others full of misery.  Whatever du Tournemire 
had done to him had clearly unhinged his 
mind.  He was very glad that he’d never accepted 
du Tournemire’s suggestion of a game of cards.
         Royce brought Dupré to within a stone’s 
throw from Verdane’s throne and then pushed him 
to his knees.  Dupré’s lips curled around the 
gag.  His eyes never left the Duke.
         Verdane stood and drew his 
sword.  Almost everyone held their breath and 
quite a few gasped.  Verdane held the blade 
before him, threatening but not too close lest 
Dupré attempt to skewer himself. “Lord William 
Dupré, your actions in precipitating this war and 
in your alliance with a foreign power, you have 
given me the right to execute you before your 
peers.” And how much he wished to do so.  Verdane 
tried to think of his son Jaime, held captive in 
the courts of Salinon.  The letter had offered 
him a slim hope, but it was still hope.
         “I choose not to kill you this day, but 
it is not because I am merciful.  The land of 
Mallow Horn passes to my daughter Anya.  In time 
your son Jory may inherit the land, but he will 
be my child and not yours.  You will never see 
him again.  I pronounce a sentence of exile upon 
you, William Dupré.  In these lands you have no 
title, no rank, no position, no servants, no 
land, and no family to speak for you.  If you 
should ever return to these lands you will be 
killed.  You have until the beginning of the new 
year to cross the Marchbourne River.  Troops will 
escort you there to make sure you practice no 
devilry on your way.  No accommodations of honour 
will be granted you on your way.  The only mercy 
you have from me in this regard is that you shall 
be an anonymous prisoner on this journey.
         “Once across the Marchbourne, the 
soldiers will bring you to the lands of Metamor 
where you shall suffer the touch of their 
curse.  What becomes of you will be reported to 
me and to all in my kingdom.  After, I care not 
what you do, only that you never return, never 
write any letters, or ever again have any contact 
with your family.  This is your fate, William.” 
William Dupré stared wild eyed at him and he 
screamed through the gag.  Royce smacked him in 
the back of the head and he tumbled to the ground.
         Verdane turned his gaze on the now pale 
Lord Guilford who stared back in horror. “That is 
the fate you will share, Anson, if you do not do as I command.”
         Lord Guilford slowly nodded.  He 
muttered, “I understand, your grace.  I will 
build bridges and homes.  Nothing more.”
         “Good.  I am Duke Titian Verdane IV of 
Kelewair.  You are all my vassals.  You will each 
renew your vows to me this very hour or go with 
William to become a beast, a babe, or a whore.  The choice is now yours.”
         And with that he sat down in his 
throne.  As Sir Royce dragged the blubbering 
William Dupré away, the others fell over 
themselves to be the first to renew their vows of 
obedience and service.  After so long a time, and 
at such a high price, Duke Verdane knew that the 
Southern Midlands were once again his.
         He hoped that in time Jaime would understand.

----------

         Elvmere needn’t have worried.  Master 
Elsevier was as good as his word once again and 
procured for them a humble but private carriage 
complete with a team of four horses and a fresh 
supply of bread, cheese and wine to succour them 
on their trip from Menth to Metamor.  And to 
further show his dedication to the priestess, 
Elsevier volunteered to drive the carriage 
himself with only a trio of his sailors to provide defence against banditry.
         The raccoon and priestess rode in 
relative comfort across the northern 
countryside.  The trip took no more than two days 
in good weather, but with the roads cloaked by 
snow it was another day before the mighty castle of Metamor was in sight.
         Until then, Elvmere and Nylene talked 
quietly, prayed, or watched the vistas pass them 
by.  From Menth the road north led past the well 
tended forests south of the valley’s mouth to the 
more wild stretches once the mountains closed in 
on either side.  They passed many small homes 
along the first day, farmers or shepherds it made 
little difference.  From each a thin column of 
smoke rose testifying to the warmth and life within.
         On the second they entered the valley 
proper and what few people braved the cold air 
they saw were either merchants like Elsevier or 
Metamorians patrolling the woods, river, and 
road.  Elvmere felt a flush of anxiety when he 
saw his first animal morphed Keeper again.  He’d 
left Malger and Sheyiin’s company at the wharves 
of Breckaris months ago now it seemed.  Apart 
from them and Murikeer, they’d been the only 
Keepers he’d seen since March.  Nine months he 
reckoned it.  Time enough for a woman to carry a 
child to term.  The thought both intrigued and 
irked him.  Intrigued because he was a different 
man than the one who’d left Metamor by 
paw.  Irked because it was far too prideful a thought to allow to please him.
         Of these feelings he confided a few to 
Nylene who nodded sagely.  Her eyes were taken by 
every Metamorian they spotted along the 
road.  For a time they travelled alongside a 
rather wooly badger-man carting onions from the 
south, and he and Nylene discussed the valley and 
its affairs.  Elvmere didn’t recognize him and 
was grateful that the badger, a master Derygan, didn’t recognize him either.
         But what wondrous news he had!  Duke 
Thomas was to be wed, and to none other than Dame 
Alberta Artelanoth!  It took Elvmere a few 
questions more to learn that this was the new 
name of she who’d once been the knight Sir Albert 
Bryonoth of Patriarch Akabaieth’s 
retinue.  Though generally delighted by the news, 
Derygan did complain that he hadn’t found anybody 
else as reliable to cart his onions for him.
         Elvmere couldn’t help but marvel at the 
drastic changes Metamor had made in the 
knight.  He knew that Artelanoth had come from 
the Flatlands and recalled Sir Egland fretting 
over her after the curse took her.  She hadn’t 
been adjusting to being female very well so how 
could she now be marrying the Duke?  But Derygan 
the badger wasn’t much help there either.
         Still, he brought news that the valley 
had not suffered from any more incursions by 
Lutins or by any other foul creatures.  There was 
a fantastic tale about an assassin caught in the 
bell tower during the Solstice festival, but 
Derygan knew even less of that than he did of the Duke’s bride.
         But the badger turned down the road 
towards the Iron Mines and so they continued 
towards Metamor alone.  Of the others sharing the 
road with them they saw more scouts and soldiers 
than anything else.  These proved far less 
conversational than the onion merchant.  And they smelled worse too.
         Shortly before noon on the third day of 
travel, while immersed in a conversation about a 
point of theology, Elsevier knocked on the door 
of the wagon and said, “You’ll want to see this, priestess!”
         Nylene stooped by the door and stared 
north out the window of the carriage.  She gasped 
and Elvmere had to catch her round the middle to 
keep her on her feet. “It’s beautiful!  More 
beautiful that even Malger could say!” Her 
awestruck voice pricked a tingle of delight in 
the raccoon’s chest.  He slid his head out, one 
ear brushing across the top of the carriage door as there was so little room.
         What he beheld made him tremble and 
forget his discomfort.  A surge of joy blossomed 
in his heart, and his whole body tingled with 
excitement.  His paws wrapped tighter around 
Nylene’s waist, and his tail flashed back and 
forth with an almost canine merriment.  His green 
eyes brimmed, but the tears he held back only 
because they would impede his view.  He felt like 
a child who’d been lost in the woods but had 
finally seen his mother standing at the edge looking for him.
         Above the tops of the trees, with the 
edge of the mountains clustering close on both 
sides, rose the towers of Metamor Keep.  Their 
alabaster sheen brightened the leaden sky and 
seemed a pearl amidst ash.  In the way the 
cupolas were arranged from their vantage point, 
he fancied he saw the entire castle smiling at him.
         Elvmere rested his snout on Nylene’s 
head and she patted his shoulder with one hand. 
“Is it good to be home?” she asked, her voice still awed from the sight.
         The raccoon’s tears finally burst, and 
his chest heaved in delight. “Aye, it is good.  Good to be home at last.”

----------

         “Have you ever watched stray dogs on the street, Prince Phil?”
         Phil looked up at the unexpected 
question to find Aramaes at his side, the lanky 
man’s hands clasped loosely at the small of his 
back while he looked across the water.  “Stray dogs?”
         Aramaes nodded sagely without looking 
away from the enemy flotilla now slightly more 
than a half league behind them. “Aye, highness, 
dogs.  Normally they move in their own little 
packs, their territories overlapping, and will 
work as a larger pack when there is some prey 
that needs more than just a few to bring down, or 
when there is enough food for all so that competition is gone.”
         “Yes, I have seen them, but I do not understand the point?”
         “They work together, but they don’t work 
as a single pack.  That is my point.  They are 
two packs, with two leaders, with two commanders, 
and a lot of warriors answering to their pack 
leader, not to the other.”  Aramaes unlaced his 
fingers and waved one of his slender, expressive 
hands in the direction of the enemy fleet, “Our 
corrupted brothers, the free seamen from the 
Marzac isles, the pirates, Sathmorans, Pyralians, 
and what other ships that have been drawn in by 
the dark touch, are all individual ships.  Or 
small flota of a few ships such as those Dromon, 
but they are not a whole.”  His hand lowered 
toward the water, “The Merai, likewise, may not 
be of one city or even kingdom if such exist 
below the waves.  They do not communicate with 
the captains of the ships under which they now 
swim, and the surface dwellers like us do not treat with them.”
         “Their entire battle doctrine is going 
to be in complete chaos, in other words.”
         Aramaes bobbed his head slowly, “We can 
hope, but I put little expectation of complete 
disarray among them.  See, now, as they are 
arrayed.  The faster ships have not surged 
forward, they hang back awaiting their cogs.  The 
Merai, as well, remain with the fleet to act as a 
large mob of disparate packs rather than small groups.”
         “They mean to overwhelm us by sheer 
numbers, then.”  Phil’s ears quirked uneasily as 
he shook his head.  Out of the corner of his eye 
he glanced westward at the towering pillar of 
black clouds above the broad wash of low, slate 
gray clouds spreading across the distant 
horizon.  Under the core of that mounting storm 
the peaks of Whales were lost but visible when 
the lightening flickered in just the right 
array.  Tendrils of cloud like the reaching 
fingers of a starving amoeba stretched across the 
sky overhead slashing the blue with ever 
darkening gray, but the dragons had not yet put 
in an appearance.  In the far distance Phil could 
spy, if he chose to use the spyglass, the angular 
sails of the Windriders just peeking over the horizon.
         Aramaes smiled, a rictus snarl that 
crossed his face giving him the mien of a 
sinister cadaver for a moment under the fine blue 
lines, “They mean to try, your highness, but remember the dogs.”
         But just at that moment stray dogs were 
far from Phil’s mind, for a curious pattern of 
etches in the deck had caught his 
attention.  Arrayed outward from the pedestal 
holding the spyglass he had been using they 
looked almost like the haphazard lines of a 
sundial etched by the unskilled hand of a 
child.  The post of the spyglass cut across those 
lines, slowly swaying one way and then the other 
as the Burning Spear rode up the crest of a wave 
and slid into the trough that followed it.  The 
spyglass, viewing glass pointed toward the sky 
and eyepiece pointed toward the deck, created a 
brilliant circle of sunlight that danced across 
the etched markings and bisected the shadow created by the post.
         Phil’s heart clenched in his chest with 
a sudden unreasoning fear and he grasped at the 
ship’s railing, looking east and northward intently.
         “Highness?”  Aramaes noticed the abrupt 
change in his prince immediately but could see no 
cause of the rabbit prince’s sudden attack of panic.
         “Yahshua’s tears, you were right!” 
someone exclaimed in surprise close at Phil’s 
left but no one stood there.  No one, that is, 
save Rupert who also looked to his prince with 
the same expression of simian concern shown by 
Aramaes.  The voice that spoke, however, was not 
Aramaes and certainly not Rupert.  “Look to my 
voice, Prince of Whales, and listen!  I have only 
a breath to speak!” the voice continued, now much 
more intense with less of the startled 
surprise.  Phil’s ears stood upright and he 
leaned toward the ship’s rail, fingerclaws 
digging into the wooden balustrade, while his 
ears pinned forward to focus on the words.
         Those words that followed almost sent 
Phil into a spiraling maelstrom of fear but he 
understood their import before he felt the 
panic.  “Head on, lad, head on!”  The last 
syllable trailed away and was silenced as 
abruptly as a taper dunked in water.  Fear 
clutched at Phil’s heart but he shoved it aside and spun toward Whiett.
         “Come about!” he yelled, or tried to 
yell, the sound coming out more as a squealing 
yelp.  “Come about, that direction, swiftly!” he 
thrust his arm toward the northeast.
         “My prince?” Whiett looked confused and 
glanced toward Aramaes who only shrugged.
         “We must come about, now!”  Phil hopped 
back to the rail and gazed northeastward.  “To 
that direction, Aramaes tell the others to follow our course!”
         Aramaes nodded and touched the fingers 
of one hand to his temple.  Whiett, while still 
looking flummoxed by his new orders, crossed to 
the forward railing.  “Come about, all 
oars!  Steersman new heading, to the north and 
east by north, three hundred fifteen 
degrees!  Oars to starboard hard in!”  Whiett 
looked to his prince and beyond but saw no threat 
in the direction Phil’s attention was riveted.
         “Oars to starboard steep in, port double 
stroke!” bellowed the Officer of the deck 
below.  The drummer’s tempo increased rapidly 
while the oars along the right side of the ship 
were pushed deep into the water to break the 
Spear’s forward momentum.  On all sides the rest 
of their small flotilla also began to break hard 
and turn, the orders of their respective deck 
officers echoing across the water.  Phil clutched 
the railing and dug in his claws and Aramaes 
grasped the wood with one hand and continued to 
gaze northeast.  Rupert spread his muscular legs 
and leaned forward to drop one massive hand to 
the deck as all about them the command crew 
braced themselves.  The Burning Spear tried to 
turn in such a short radius that it listed 
alarmingly, the locks of the starboard oar ranks 
almost dipping into the water crashing against the turning hull.
         “The host is turning!” one of the lower 
ranked officers exclaimed.  Whiett leaned 
expertly without bracing against anything and 
watched everything from the steersman leaning 
upon his tiller to the oarsmen working below, 
relying on the eyes of his subordinates to keep 
him informed of activities beyond his ship.
         “What is it, Phil?” Aramaes asked in a 
hiss with an uncharacteristic lapse of protocol.
         Phil could only shake his head, “I don’t 
know, yet.” He moaned, pounding the rail with one 
hand, “A wave, a wave, that is what I fear.”
         The mage blinked and stared off in the 
direction of Phil’s gaze and then Rupert gave the 
railing a slap with one meaty hand.  He did not 
point but the direction of his deep-set eyes and 
the intensity of their dark gaze told everyone 
that he had seen something.  He only refrained 
from pointing lest he alert the enemy host of a 
new direction to point their attention.  Phil 
never looked away and after a few more seconds 
Aramaes let out a startled, surprised grunt.  He 
spun toward Whiett, “Wave!” He barked, “Demon wave, northeast by north!”
         “Distance?!!” Whiett snapped without 
looking toward the horizon that captivated the 
attention of the mage, rabbit, and ape.  Ptomamus 
vaulted up the stairs from the lower deck in a 
lunge and scanned the aft deck to see if there 
was some manner of attack occurring.
         “Whiett, report!” the captain barked.
         “One league!” Aramaes cried out at the same moment.
         “Oars steady on, northeast by north, 
prepare to take on water!”  Whiett yelled down to 
the officer of the deck.  Ptomamus allowed his 
subcommander to hold the deck for the moment 
until the crisis was past, moving to join Phil at 
the railing.  The wave, a line of darker blue 
against the water far below the horizon, 
stretched across the sea from southeast to 
northwest but hardly looked threatening, little 
more than a bulge in the water beyond the turning 
enemy armada.  As Phil watched flecks of white 
rippled along the crest where it crossed lesser 
waves rippling the surface of the sea.
         “The enemy is turning to intercept our 
course!” called one of the other officers, the 
same one who had given the same report only 
seconds before.  The Spear slowly settled once 
again into its new heading.  “Fliers off the 
decks!  The enemy windships have put out flying 
beasts!”  The main waved an arm wildly toward the 
distant line of sailing ships beyond the leading Dromon.
         “They’re turning across the wave.” 
Aramaes said flatly in an undertone lost in the 
chaos of exclamations filling the air.  He 
grinned that same cadaverous rictus sneer and 
chuckled deep in his throat.  As the wave neared 
the flank of the enemy formation a few of the 
more alert captains noted the threat and began to 
respond.  Chaos erupted within the loose enemy 
formations as some ships abruptly began to turn 
so that they could take the wave along their 
beams rather than broadside.  The turning ships 
cut across the courses of ships less alert to the 
wave, forcing those ships to hastily adjust their 
headings lest they collide.  Shapes small only 
due to distance began to rise from the distant sailing ships upon broad wings.
         The wave surged through the enemy 
formation, raising the distant sailing ships and 
causing the distant forest of towering masts to 
ripple and sway.  A few listed over far enough 
for their oarports to take on water and they 
foundered with their masts pointing across the 
water at sharp angles.  And then the cresting 
wave surged across the smaller, less seaworthy 
oar-powered ships and began to break.  Those 
ships that had seen the oncoming danger thrust 
almost vertically into the air as they cut over 
the rolling crest but those that had not seen the 
wave could do nothing.  They rose up the face of 
the wave broadside, desperately throwing out 
their oars to stay their roll or attempting to 
turn but too late and far too ineffectively; the 
top of the wave caught their broadside hulls and 
broke over them swamping their decks if it did not roll them utterly.
         The Whalish Dromon among the enemy fleet 
had seen the onrushing wave but not soon enough 
to turn fully into the surge.  Caught in profile 
half about the massive warships listed up the 
face of the wave, their crews hastily surging 
toward the higher bulkheads, and then fell over 
the crest to crash upright into the trough beyond 
the wave.  None of them foundered though it was 
clear that many had taken on considerable 
quantities of water, but the wave was too small 
to impact their heavy hulls as it had the 
smaller, slender skirmishers.  The white foam 
crashed into them, rolling the broad hulls 
dangerously and flooding their decks but none of 
them foundered.  The massive Pyralian flagship 
only bobbled unconcernedly and the wave rushed around it.
         Phil watched the wave crash through the 
enemy host and felt a moment of triumph as he 
watched enemy ships founder and capsize.  The 
spent wave crashed toward Phil’s small fleet and 
broke against their bows in a shower of foam, 
lifting the Spear’s bow up several degrees before 
the entire Dromonai rocked forward and crashed 
into the trough with a second massive 
splash.  The crew let out a ragged cheer more for 
having survived the rogue wave than because they 
witnessed the chaos that had broken out among the enemy ships.
         “Look to the sky!” Whiett bellowed and 
pointed up.  The enemy armada had managed to 
release some manner of beast before the wave 
struck and those creatures had taken wing to rise 
up in a circling column above the milling 
remnants of the Marzac host.  Some three dozen in 
count the huge beasts looked like jungle birds 
festooned with a wild array of colors, long tails 
and broad wings lent to low-altitude flight from 
tree to tree.  They were not gliders suited for 
thermals and would not long be able to sustain 
their circling rise, Phil knew even if he could not put a name to the beasts.
         “Archers make ready!” Ptomamus 
ordered.  Whiett leaped down the stair to the 
lower deck to take command of the men at the oars 
directly and left the command of the Spear to its 
captain.  Ptomamus grasped Phil’s shoulder and 
laughed maniacally, “I leave for a few minutes of 
sleep and you awaken the sea gods, young Prince!” 
he said with a grin.  “We may sustain this 
yet.  Now, if you would, please take shelter belowdeck.”
         Phil blinked and backed his ears before 
shaking his head emphatically.  “This is our 
fight, captain, if I fled for cover below deck it 
would demoralize the entire fleet much less our own crew.”
         “So would you getting feathered, young 
prince.  You cannot hold sword or bow or even a 
shield, highness, you are only a target here on the deck.”
         “I am a standard for the men of Whales, 
captain.”  He grasped Ptomamus’ upper arm with 
his handpaw and returned the captain’s 
adrenalized grin with a smile of his own, 
whiskers forward and ears up.  “Let the enemy see 
me, let them see I am not afraid.”
         Ptomamus let out a barking guffaw and 
shook his head, “If you come out the other side 
of this on deck and not in that oversized cage, 
Highness, the story of our rabbit war prince will 
be sung about for centuries.”  The captain gave 
Phil’s shoulder a hearty slap and crossed over to 
the plotting table.  “Come about to our previous 
heading!” he called down to the officer of the deck.
         Phil watched the slow spiral of the 
enemy’s flying beasts rise above the fleet that 
had closed alarmingly despite their losses.  The 
ships crippled by the wave were left behind with 
their crews as if they held no importance to the 
fleet.  As the Spear and its attendant fleet came 
about, under considerably less stress than their 
initial turn, the pillar of strange avians 
spiralled down to the remaining ships and 
disappeared from the air.  As he had thought, 
they were not made for protracted gliding.  Until 
the two fleets came together they would stay grounded.
         “Archers, stand down.” Whiett ordered 
from the center castle where he stood with the 
infantry officers under his command.  The Second 
and Third crews had been roused, those that were 
not awakened by the wild turning minutes before, 
and stood ready along the main gangway from one 
end of the ship to the other.  Most had bows 
while others held sword and shield and all eyes were cast toward the skies.
         “Aramaes, how distant are our support 
groups?” Ptomamus asked while he shifted his 
attention from the waters to the arches and up to 
the flying monstrosities winging down toward the ships maintaining the chase.
         “Pythoreaus is closing to support us 
now, he is out before us about as far as our 
enemy is to our aft.  The windrunners are,” 
Aramaes paused to scan the western horizon, “hmm, 
they’ve doffed sails to hide in the dawn 
reflections on the sea between them and the 
Marzac armada, and to take what’s left of that 
wave.  Stohshal means to come around and down on 
them from the north once we’ve engaged, with the wind in their favor.”
         Ptomamus scowled and cocked an eyebrow, “Pytho is how far away?”
         “Less than half a league, captain, under illusion.”
         “And the dragons?”
         Aramaes shrugged and shook his head, “I 
have no idea, but I hope they’re up in those clouds somewhere.”
         Ptomamus’ lips narrowed as he 
contemplated the information he was given and 
regarded the enemy fleet that had regained its 
battle formation sans perhaps a score of ships 
left foundering in the water behind them.  “And 
for the love of Eli where did that wave come 
from?”  His chief mage could only snort and shake 
his head helplessly.  “Ara, tell them to tighten 
up the fleet so the archers can support one 
another.  Whatever those beasts are I don’t want 
them coming down on us untouched.”
         “They look like Rhukh, captain, though I 
have only seen those in books.”
         “Rhukh?  From the southern 
continent?”  Ptomamus shielded his eyes and 
looked up at the shadows beginning to circle 
above them.  “Marzac taints beasts to do its bidding, too?”
         “I’d wager they’re trained beasts like 
war hounds, captain.  And we don’t know what 
resides in those jungles.” Aramaes shrugged and 
watched the last of the beasts disappear from sight.
         “Ara, let’s talk war.”

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias