“What did we do to deserve this?” I wondered aloud, stunned. “Why slaughter us all?” The dead gave me no answers.
There might have been some survivors hidden away—I dearly hoped there were—but it wasn’t my mission to conduct a search and rescue. I had to find the giants, and they had already moved on. I had to move also, even though all I wanted to do was weep for the dead.
Back to the Gravewater River. I dived in with the giant’s sword and sleeved myself upstream, keeping my head above the surface and my eyes turned to the southern shore. The Merchant Trail there was wide and would allow an army to move quickly. I found them only two leagues away, setting up a camp under moonlight and torchlight. They had raided for food at least and had a significant train behind them—everything pillaged from Festwyf, right down to the carts. I could make no accurate count but was sure there were many thousands, and they sprawled for a good distance along the riverbank. They obviously planned to move at speed down the Merchant Trail and attack the river cities in turn. They had no siege weapons and needed none, counting on surprise and their overwhelming numbers to win.
My orders were to report on Festwyf and the army’s whereabouts; technically, I had all I needed and should return now. But the pelenaut had also mentioned warning Festwyf if possible. I couldn’t do that now, but I was the only person who could warn Fornyd that there was an army bearing down on them in time to make a difference.
I didn’t know who was running Fornyd in the pelenaut’s name, but he or she would probably want some evidence of my report despite my kenning and in whose name I worked. I hoped the sword I carried would suffice.
Moving away from the riverbank toward the center where I’d be able to go a bit faster, I was just beginning to sleeve myself upriver when a giant shouted in surprise. My eyes tracked the sound to the shore, where I spied a slack-jawed brute relieving himself, adding his own stream to the river’s. His painted skull face gaped at me in disbelief. I could have simply moved on and probably should have, but instead he became a target for all my frustration and rage over what I’d seen in Festwyf. I wanted someone to pay for it, and he had been there. He had taken part in it. And he was in front of me now.
“So much blood you’ve spilled,” I growled at him through clenched teeth, though I’m sure he didn’t understand a word. “Drown in it!”
His body was largely made of water, as all creatures were, and I called to small pockets of it on either side of his chest, just a short pull, about the length of a finger joint. The blood burst from the vessels in his lungs and began filling them up with every beat of his heart. He tried to shout again but coughed wetly instead, and then he gurgled, collapsed, and died. I waited to feel better, for some sweet rush of justice or vindication, but it never came. That life, taken in anger, had not been my duty. I still regret it even though he quite probably deserved it.
I didn’t resume my full-speed pace upriver because I wanted to scout as I moved. Three times on the way to Fornyd I stopped, woke up camps of merchants sleeping in tents by the bank by shouting at them, and told them to head to Fornyd immediately or they would meet an army that would slaughter them. They didn’t question my authority; I floated in the river without being moved by its current or visibly swimming against it, and they knew that tidal mariners would not appear out of the river if it wasn’t an emergency.
At the gray croak of dawn I arrived at the riverside docks of Fornyd, looking at it the way the invaders would: a fat fish that practically jumps into your stew pot. The walls were not especially high or thick compared to those of the coastal cities. It would fall quickly if taken by surprise. Even with warning it might fall quickly. The giants would be atop those walls in no time, and there were more of them in that army than there were perhaps in the entire city; Fornyd was more of an ambitious town than a city, a trading hub for the farmers who sprawled out to the south and east and west.
The Lung’s Locks had not been used in years, perhaps not since my last visit when I was doing my river tour as a new tidal mariner. They had crusted over with sediment, and it took some work to open the outer hatch. Inside, however, the locks were unusually clean. Cleaner than Pelemyn’s, and Pelemyn’s enjoyed frequent use. The sleepy mariner stationed at the other end was mightily surprised to see me emerge, however. He jumped and made an undignified noise and only then remembered that he was supposed to be professional should a tidal mariner ever show up.
“I—uh. Sorry, mariner. Tidal Mariner. Sorry. How can I help?”
“I came at speed with urgent news. If you could provide me a robe?”
“Oh! Yes! Of course! Sorry again!” He turned to the wall behind him, where a robe waited precisely for occasions such as this. He plucked it off the hook and held it out, politely keeping his head turned toward the wall. When I had pulled myself out of the pool and wrapped the robe around me, he escorted me to the Wellspring and begged me to wait while he summoned the city’s quartermaster. It was still quite early, and she wouldn’t have risen yet.
She appeared less than a minute later, a woman in her forties with hair cropped short like mine, a blue robe hastily thrown on and still knuckling away sleep from her eyes but anxious to hear what I had to say. I liked her immediately—I had been kept waiting in the past by others.
“Yes? What’s the matter?”
“Gerstad Tallynd du Böll, sent by the pelenaut,” I said by way of introduction.
“Quartermaster Farlen du Cannym. What news?”
I held up the giant’s sword and said, “About ten thousand giants carrying these are headed this way. Festwyf is already lost, and you’re next.”
Her nostrils flared briefly and her eyes widened, and then she visibly controlled herself and clasped her hands together. “Hathrim are coming here?”
“No, these aren’t Hathrim. They top out at nine feet, I’d say, rather than twelve. They crossed the ocean. We’ve never seen them before.”
I explained the night’s events and respectfully suggested that her duty must be to warn not only the people of Fornyd but the other river cities and perhaps even Rael. Pelemyn was a safe place for people to run if they wished; I could speak for no other cities yet since the situation was still developing, but Pelenaut Röllend would keep it safe in my absence.
“Use archers, or pikemen if you must,” I offered. “Keep them at a distance because at close range they will win with their reach and these weapons every time. I’ll leave this with you so that your mariners can test it.”
“Leave? You’re leaving?” A note of panic might have crept into her voice and expression. She didn’t seem the type to boil over quickly, however. Perhaps it was only stress, which would be understandable.
“I must report back to the pelenaut and tell him about Festwyf. I’ll also tell him that I warned you and that you will hopefully warn the other river cities.”
“Of course; you can be sure of that. But … I have so few mariners here. Hardly any of the blessed, just a few rapids. We cannot possibly hope to stand against ten thousand.”
“I know, Quartermaster. But this isn’t a war you have to win by yourself. Pelenaut Röllend would never expect that. This is developing too quickly for anyone to help you—and I’m sure that’s by design. They are trying to move so quickly that each city is taken by surprise. But now you have the opportunity to save many people. Reduce the enemy’s numbers if you can. And seriously consider evacuating. If the invaders follow the pattern of Festwyf, they will leave the city intact, taking only food. They have no cavalry, and they don’t know the surrounding area like you do. They’re simply coming up the road and killing whatever’s in the way. So my advice is to get out of the way.”
She took a deep breath and nodded once on her exhalation. “I understand, Gerstad. Head for high ground when the floodwaters come.”
I knew Fornyd was in good hands then. “Exactly. What are floods but Bryn’s admonishment that we should build better? Let the flood pass over and rebuild in its wake.” I bowed.
“And if I may make a suggestion, hide all the wells you can. Make them drink from the Gravewater. Since they’re not from around here, they probably don’t know how it got its name, if they know it at all.”
Her head jerked in surprise. “Oh! Yes, we’ll do that.”
“May the currents keep you safe.”
“And you as well.”
She was calling for her mariners and longshoremen before I left the room. I returned the robe to its hook and cycled through the locks to the Gravewater. Once there, I pushed myself past the flesh, becoming one with the tide again and flowing back to Pelemyn. I was using the Lung’s Locks for the second time by midmorning. The same mariner who’d been on duty during the night was still there. She looked worried this time as she helped me out of the pool.
“What?” I said. My voice was dry and scratchy to my own ears. “How bad is it?” Once I had wicked away the water and the mariner had settled a robe about my shoulders, a coughing fit racked me and everything hurt. Stabbing pains in my abdomen like a harpoon in my guts. Needles in my fingertips and toes. A vise squeezed my spine and all the muscles in my back, and my legs didn’t want to support me. I knelt at first, and when that was too much, I slumped sideways, curled up into a ball.
“I … it’s nothing, Gerstad. Forgive me,” she said. “Welcome home. Just catch your breath.” She patted my shoulder a couple of times as if I were a child. We both felt awkward about that, but she clearly didn’t know what else to do.
“Tell me,” I gasped, lying in a fetal position on the deck. We were still behind the coral throne, and no one else yet knew I had arrived unless my coughing fit had alerted them. “I need to know before I see myself in a glass. Before the others see me, too, so I can deal with their faces. Yours is a kind one.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Please. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
Grimacing, the mariner told me, “You look to be in your midforties now, Gerstad. Well, maybe the downstream half of it. I’m sorry.”
Almost fifty, then. I had looked to be in my midthirties when I woke up. But in truth I am twenty-nine.
I wondered if my boys would even recognize me when I got home. But before I could think too much along those lines, I nodded, said thank you, and extended my arm. The mariner grasped it and hauled me to my feet. I leaned on her for a moment, and she was patient while I collected myself.
“All right,” I finally said, standing straight and clutching my fists at my sides. “To the Wellspring to report. Currents keep you.”
“And you.”
I don’t even remember giving that report. I remember the shock and pity that flowed across the faces of the pelenaut and the Lung when they saw me. I remember them saying that Gönerled had been lost as well and remembered that my sister lived there. I know there was more, but nothing stuck in my memory.
“I need you to go home and rest now,” Pelenaut Röllend said. “You’re dismissed until the morning.”
The walk home across cobblestone streets was slow and painful to my knees, and though the sun was shining, I pulled up the hood of my robe and kept my head down to avoid encounters with people I knew. The last thing I wanted was to talk about what happened and why I looked so old.
People were still going about their business like it was any other midweek morning. Buying apples in the market and haggling over the price of cooking herbs. Apprentices running errands for their masters and laughing at ribald jokes. It was still too early: they had no idea that entire cities had been wiped out last night and might not even know that Pelemyn had escaped the same fate by lucky chance. They’d all know by the end of the day. But right then the blissful normality was a living memory of what Brynlön had lost. They wouldn’t be like this tomorrow or the day after that or for many days to come. For me it was like experiencing the past: these people were already ghosts from a better time.
And seeing them so happy, knowing it was to be that way for only a little while longer, and knowing that so many more were simply gone, like my sister, I wept.
There had been no time to weep before, to feel the enormity of it, because duty had given me no choice. And there had been the anger, of course. But on that lonely walk home, the only one aware that these were the final hours of what we once were, I could feel it. The sorrow bubbled within me until I could hardly breathe. I tried not to sob aloud and draw stares. I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s last few minutes of happiness.
But when I got home and closed the door behind me, I held nothing back. I simply dropped to the floor and cried for Festwyf and Gönerled and the others. For my sister and the mariners who’d died on Pelemyn’s walls and the people down by the docks. For my shortened life and knowing that I’d have to shorten it further before this was done. For the years I wouldn’t be with my boys. I knew I would never live to see my grandchildren, and I cried for that. And I knew that if I didn’t do my duty, then I wouldn’t have grandchildren at all, nor would anyone else.
And the worst part was not knowing the answers. Who were these giants, and why had they attacked us? How was it possible to cross the ocean in such huge fleets?
Picking myself up off the floor, I shuffled wearily to the kitchen and found a note from the next-door neighbor: “Boys are happy and off to school. Sleep well! —Perla”
And underneath that was written:
“Checked on them personally. They are safe. —Föstyr”
Thank the currents for that. I wondered if school would even continue for much longer. This might be their last day of bliss as well. I hoped it would be a good one and worth remembering. And I hoped that when they got home, my boys would love their older mother as much as they loved their younger mother from yesterday.
I wiped away tears from my cheeks, hoping nobody had seen me lose control, but then realized I was not the only person weeping. Seemed like everyone was because we did remember those last few hours of happiness before the news of the invasion, how sweet and peaceful life had been. And when the bard dispelled his seeming, the roar from Survivor Field grew and grew, not so much for him but for Tallynd, for she came back to the stage to wave and blow kisses at us. She was crying, too, and I understood why the bard had had to tell that story for her. How could anyone expect her to relive that as a performance? That gray at the temples I’d seen before—I thought stupidly that it reflected her true age. Like most people I’d heard that our tidal mariner had saved us the night of the invasion, but I had no idea what that involved or that she was a twenty-nine-year-old widow with two young boys.
All blessings have their particular curses, I’m told. Hygienists never age the way tidal mariners do, for example, but they become absolutely paranoid about contaminants and infections and scrub themselves constantly since they perceive impurities in almost everything.
But sacrifices like Tallynd’s should be recognized and rewarded. And just as I was thinking I should create the most glorious gift basket of all time for her, Pelenaut Röllend appeared and joined Tallynd and Fintan on the precarious stack of crates. He had the most glorious gift basket for her in his hands, which satisfied every Brynt’s dire need to give her one right then. Fintan projected both of their voices, and that was when I learned what that insignia on her uniform meant—it was indeed a new rank, and she wasn’t a Gerstad anymore.
“Second Könstad Tallynd du Böll, almost everyone within hearing right now owes their life to you, and they know it. If I don’t give you this gift basket right now, your house will be buried with them tomorrow.” Cathartic laughter and cheering. “Please accept this from a grateful pelenaut and a grateful people.”
She sort of laugh-cried, a chuckle followed by a sniff, and took it from him. “Thank you. Thank you all. This is the best gift basket I’ve ever received, and I will cherish it. It will have a place of honor in my home.”
There was more applause for her because she deserved all we could give, but eventually she and the pelenaut waved and departed, leaving Fintan alone on the stage.
&nb
sp; “There will be more tomorrow,” he assured us as the sun was setting. “But these will be stories from the far west! Until then, may the gods of all the kennings keep your loves!”
Cheers followed the bard as he stepped down off the crates and took a long draught from the flagon of Mistmaiden Ale; the woman from the Siren’s Call had never left. He thanked her and asked her to lead the way to Master Yöndyr’s establishment, then he turned to me.
“Coming, Master Dervan?”
“Absolutely.”
Before we go forward, we should probably go back. My association with Fintan had begun the previous day, when he arrived at Pelemyn in the company of a Raelech courier and ruined what was shaping up to be a pleasant day of boring logistic details. Couriers didn’t normally cause a stir, but this one had become annoyed when she wasn’t ushered immediately into the pelenaut’s presence.
That was the explanation of the breathless mariner who burst into the Wellspring, helmet askew, to seek guidance on how to proceed. The pelenaut flicked a finger at his Lung, Föstyr, and the old man stepped forward, arched an eyebrow, and pointed out to the mariner that he had left out why the courier had been detained. Normally couriers were brought immediately to the throne.
“She’s with a bard, sir, and insists that he be allowed to accompany her.”
Silence for a few seconds, and then the pelenaut asked Föstyr, “Presumably there is some problem with the bard?”
The Lung nodded once, the wattles under his chin rippling at the sudden movement. “An old law, sir. Raelech bards aren’t to be trusted.”