Deathsworn Vol. II

2 - Flotsam

Perhaps it was the pain of his dry lips that abruptly ended the dream, they were cracked so badly an insect might think them a fissured mountain range. Perchance it was the obnoxious cawing of the island birds circling overhead, screaming shrill complaints as they surfed the ocean breeze. Whatever it was, Bard didn't appreciate it. His recent dreams so often found him in a warm place, safe from harm ... and she was there besides. His waking consciousness knew only a troubled existence, one of pain, implacable strife and the list.

He permitted his lids to slowly part, though for the first few seconds clarity was but an enslaved suggestion trapped beyond a veil of light. He heard only the soft lapping of the Great Blue, smelt only the tang of salty air through his misshapen nose, felt only sand beneath his back. Then the lucid colour crystallized into forms he could comprehend.

The sky came to him first, a tranquil blue patterned with colonies of clouds drifting whimsically across its expanse. Bard might have thought himself still dreaming but for the chorus of birds disturbing the serenity.

How long have I lain here? he pondered. Rational consideration remained a stranger; a guest Bard could put a face to, but no name. His jerkin and breeches had dried at the front, but his back still felt close to damp.

The transition to a sitting position was stiff and awkward, muscles yawning their defiance as Bard summoned them to duty. The Great Blue ran out before him, starting but a few yards from his boots and swallowing everything in sight until it hit the far-off horizon. The water held to an uncommon shade between blue and something altogether darker. Slate grey, perhaps, just as the Burned Priests had said it would this far east. Yes ... the Priests. The Priests are the reason we're here. Though they gave us no name ...

In an instant Bard's memory opened like a wordwright's tome, recollection thundering to the fore with the brutish fervor of a hundred stampeding horses. He recalled the Burned Priests at Fara Mordova; tall and grim Brother Sorrow with his weeping sores and flaking scalp; stunted Brother Grief and his rheumy green eyes, sunken as if to escape the mangled scar tissue that disfigured his face; silent Brother Forlorn, who never spoke a word and was all the more nightmarish for it. It had been Brother Sorrow who had given them the name of their location, Brother Grief who had provided the map.

"East, you must go," they had commanded, "east until the Great Blue is sullied by the Great Black, but not yet consumed by it. East, and then your list will become two, when you return with what we expect." And so east the Gallowmen had gone. For untold weeks they had trekked, out of the Mountain Lands and across Green Country, cutting a long, onerous trail from left to right across Oblivia.

They had boarded the old cog at the port of Anchorage. She was a sorry sight, not at all relieved of her abjectness by the meager provisions they had managed to barter for. Nonetheless, she'd ferried them five strong through the heart of pirate territory without issue. They had seen no corsair ships, no black flags; no sign of pirate lords like Captain Radavar the Heart Stealer, the Reaver of Red, or the Black Butcher. Not even hide nor hair of the lesser sea vagrants: Crafty Jaak, Bloodbow and their ilk.

When they had made it to the Sage Isles, gliding past the sister islands of Chia and Salvia, Bard had permitted himself hope they might actually make it without qualm. Even the sight of the infamous Mercheneese pike men, lined atop their high cliffs like looming stone sentinels, hadn't dampened his spirits when they had passed them some days later.

Still, they should have known. Only the Elders could say how many days or weeks had elapsed in the abyss of the Great Blue before they'd finally spotted the Pangonia Isles. But the signs had been there. Now that Bard thought on it, the sharpfish had presented their own warning, clear as dawn heralds the day. The giant fish with their scaly black fins and rows of razor teeth had followed them since the Isles of Mercher, gliding just beneath the surface and ensuring threat was a companion that never left the cog. Taaj and Weasel had whittled away long hours trying to strike with oars the ones that ventured closest, in spite of Tall Toyne telling them it was pointless. Then, one day, the Pangonia Isles growing larger with every whistle of wind, the sharpfish had vanished. They dove deep, to escape what was to come.