Death's Sword Book 1: Finding and Seeking

Chapter 4: Day 6

The junk clawed its way into harbour in the grey light of nightsend. Westizal jumped into the water as soon as the bows grounded on the gravel beach, waves breaking around his waist, and waded ashore. Staren waited a moment longer, then leapt an improbably long distance from the bows of the little vessel to land above the tide-line. The kynstar gave a small bow as his friend gave him a tired smile. The two companions then walked to where a small catamaran was beached above the high water-line. Working together, they hauled it into the water, the lizard-man scrambling aboard as soon as he could, the mage giving the final shove into deeper water then pulling himself into the other hull. Staren already had the sail running up and catching the wind. It was the work of a few seconds more to have the little craft skimming across the water, heading towards the dark smudge that was the mainland.

Within an hour, they were across the sand-bar at the mouth of a large river and gliding into the calmer waters of the estuary. Staren had them tacking almost from one bank to the other, making the most of the wind whilst it was in their favour. Westizal lay back and seemed to doze, only occasionally rousing to study something on the shore. Once he was sure that there was no threat, he resumed his snoozing. This pattern continued until late afternoon, when Staren reached across to poke his friend with a short boat-hook. "Wake up, lazy bones," said the kynstar, speaking softly, "We need your help to keep our speed up." The dark-skinned mage sat up and gave his friend a darker glance.

"Slave driver," he muttered, then trailed one hand in the water and muttered a few words. A gust of wind caused the sail to swing around, nearly catching Staren on the side of his skull. "Very funny," said the lizard-man, sarcastically, casting a critical eye on their course. The wind blew from directly astern, sending the catamaran surging up the river. His eyes lost focus for a few moments, then he turned back to the white-clad mage, "They'll be ready and waiting. We're making good time." Westizal merely nodded in response.

The weather was mild and the road were nearly dry after the early Kotyuki monsoons. Peasants slaved hard in the yellow-green fields of kjava that bounded the road on both sides, labouring to bring in the first kjava-crop of the year. Fully two-thirds of the year's harvest was gathered at the end of Kotyuki, the season between Spring and Summer. The workers bent to their tasks, occasionally shouting out obscene jokes and insults to each other. They seemed almost happy with their work. Kleymin studied them as he walked. Had it not been for the summons to join the Clan of the Night, he would have been working in paddy fields identical to these. He thought he was grateful to have been removed from that fate. 

 Idling along, the boy fell back amongst the party until he was level with Merchant Lotsu. "These goods will pay off my debts in Nakudo," joked the plump merchant, "provided that my wives have not run up any more whilst I have been away!" Laughing loudly at his own humour, he smacked his donkey's back. The placid beast plodded on, ignoring its owner's joviality. Kleymin liked Lotsu. True, his jokes were poor, and often coarse, but jokes were very rare in the mountain village. The boy grinned at the merchant, who winked broadly back. "Tak! Tak! Wait for me! I have a thorn in my foot!" shouted Da-keimin, hopping to the side of the road on one foot. Obediently, Takata turned and walked back towards the other assassin, glancing at Kleymin as he did so. Understanding the look, the boy also walked back. The rest of the party continued along the road into a small gully lined with dark-leaved Yari trees. A small breeze rustled the blade-sharp foliage together, making a dry, unpleasant, rattling sound. 

 Quietly, Da-keimin said, "There are robbers amongst those trees." Kleymin whirled around, ready to run to the party to warn them, lungs already filling to shout. "Wait!" snapped the older man, "It is not our fight."