Two (The Godslayer Cycle Book 2) Page 19

Once the man had thought of the possibility of the sword bringing him back to life, he had set out to learn how it was done. His first test had been upon a half-eaten gull. When that had proved unsuccessful, he next tried it on a speared fish with the same lack of success. From then on, before he ate any of his catches, he would attempt to use the power of the sword to bring his kill back to life – and each time, the creature would continue to lie there as lifeless as when he first slew it.

  Without any success in having the sword resurrect anything, Gravin had run out of ideas on what could have brought him back to life. Not a God, not the sword, but something had. For there was no way he could have lived under the sea for ten or more hours.

  As if the time of day had not been clue enough of his time under the water, Gravin had found himself impossibly further south than he originally conceived. Even with a storm surge, he had thought himself carried no more than a few miles. Yet he had now been traveling for six days, and in that time, he had yet to find where The Gull-Griffin had been scheduled to dock.

  Gravin knew the route that the Griffin was to take. He knew of the stop in Levitz, followed by the run up the coast to the capitol, Surenport. There was plenty of time to finish the run before the winter storms set in next month, but even still he expected that the Gull would not take more than a week's time in Levitz before disembarking on its final leg of this season's trade run. There was too much profit to be had not to reach Surenport.

  And this fact was what was driving Gravin to the point of mania: If he did not reach Levitz before the Gull set sail, there was no telling when next he might catch up to mongrel that had cast him into the sea. Whether the Gods wished it or not, he intended to exact his revenge upon his former captain and take back the ship that he saw as rightfully his own.

  But the ship's course would change from year to year, depending on what contracts Aris could secure over the winter months. He could head back down to Levitz in the spring, sail right by the hole-in-the-mast little town to richer prospects in the southern hemisphere, or across the ocean entirely. Such was the way of the independent sea merchant – you went where the cargo manifests ordered you to, and the romantic notion of visiting the same ports season after season were left to the minstrels to sing about in their fanciful songs.

  Gravin had set out along the shore, originally because he thought himself no more than a day to the south. Then, once he realized it would be a longer trek, he stayed along the shore for fear of wandering inland and passing the town by entirely. He did not know the land roads, nor whether any he might find would actually lead him to Levitz. And so he stayed with what he knew – the shoreline.

  Gasping for breath, Gravin pulled himself erect to stare once again along the shore. He had seen sails of ships over the last two days, which had led him to believe he had been getting closer. But what he saw now confirmed it – ahead of him, the rocky shore finally gave way to a graveled beach and further along still he could see the masts of several ships with their sails drawn in.

  He had finally found the port of Levitz. Or if not Levitz, then at least he had found a place where he could find a ship capable of taking him to Surenport before the storms set in.

  It took the mutineer the remaining part of the day to cross the beach and at last come to the outskirts of the town. The edges of the community were little more than fisherman shanties, worn and battered by the harsh weather of seasons' past. But they were signs of civilization all the same, and could not have been more welcome if they had been elegant gold-fringed palaces.

  As Gravin approached the first shanty, a woman came out to greet him. Apparently, his approach had been watched. The woman looked as equally worn by weather as the shack in which she lived. The life of the poor fisherman was not an easy life, and Gravin had seen the wear such living had on people before. For all his time aboard ship, he had never seen a sailor reflect the hardships of weather as honestly as did those who fished the sea.

  The woman waited for Gravin to finish approaching her and halt before her in exhaustion before she raised a flask to him in greeting. She said not a word, only held the waterskin at arm's length, awaiting Gravin's decision on what to do with it.

  “M--” Gravin choked, coughed and tried again, his dry throat betraying his efforts at custom. “May the salt o' the sea enrich yer catch, fisher-wife.”

  The woman nodded. “May the bread of my hearth give you strength to continue,” she returned, offering him now the loaf of bread in her other hand.

  Gravin bowed as he accepted her gift. Water and bread were the customary welcoming gifts to any who entered a fisher's home as guest. Custom required a fisher to offer it to anyone in need, for it was assumed that any who would come to a fisher from the sea could only be in need. They were too poor to have anything that any who were not in need could possibly want.

  Now that he had both items in hand, he took a bite of the bread and washed it down with a mouthful of water. Had he tried to drink before taking the bread, or even drank before eating, the fisher would have rejected his aid. It was a ritual for a reason – only those who knew the ways of the fishers could possibly know their tradition and anyone who did not must surely be someone who had no respect for their ways.

  The fisher-wife returned his bow. “Can I be of aid?” she asked, once she raised her head again.

  Gravin nodded. “Aye. Be this Levitz?”

  The fisher-wife nodded. “It is.”

  Gravin beamed. “Then I's in need o' some guidance, I be. Kin ya send me in the right way ta the port side where sailors be meetin'?”

  There was an obvious relief in the fisher-wife's stance when Gravin had asked only for directions. Custom required that a fisher give anything needed by someone in need, but rarely could a fisher actually afford anything more than the food from their own mouths each day. It must have come as a great relief for her when the stranger wanted nothing of her sparse means.

  The fisher-wife turned and pointed to a break between buildings a short distance away. “If ya follow through there, you'll find sailors what can guide you. It's not hard to find. Levitz is not a large city.”

  Gravin grinned wolfishly. “So I's heard.” He handed back the waterskin and bread before offering one more bow in farewell. “Ya honor yerself and yer home.”

  The fisher-wife likewise bowed farewell. “You honor our ways. For that, I am grateful.” Without another word, the woman retreated back into her home, leaving Gravin to his own devices.

  The mutineer wasted no time in following the woman's directions, hastening towards the buildings and through the gap between. Deepening shadows demonstrated how little daylight was left now, which only served to remind him of how much time had already passed.

  True to the fisher-wife's directions, the gap let out onto what passed for a main road for Levitz. Gravin could clearly see where the road ended at the port, and what few businesses established to serve the visiting ships were sprawled within short distances of the shore. No man walking off a ship could be expected to walk more than a few blocks whenever he entered port for this exact reason – businesses that tailored to their services were always within easy sight of the docking ship. If they were not, they could not expect to compete with other businesses that would be. And from what he had heard, Levitz' only thriving economy was what came in through the docks.

  It took very little time to center in on the town's only tavern. Seamen could be seen flocking around the sides of the building, staggering as they either returned to their ships or returned to the outlet for their shore side inebriation. Though the entrance faced the sea, it was impossible to mistake the building for anything other than what it was.

  Gravin lacked a shirt, but he had no concern in a place such as this. There were many deckhands who chose to not wear anything other than their breaches in seaside dives like this one. In a place like Surenport, the dress code was a bit stricter, but there was no chance that a rundown establishment like this one would ever turn away a potential custom
er.

  Gravin walked under the wooden mermaid hanging over the entrance and entered the establishment. As expected, several men around the room – and even a few women – wore no shirts and not a single eye strayed his direction upon entering. Of course, he also saw no familiar faces in the crowd of people, which did not fare well for his hopes that the Gull was still in port.

  Gravin grabbed hold of the first person within arm's length, a scrawny man who had probably set sail for the first time before the mutineer's parents had ever been conceived. “Man, does ya know of a ship called The Gull-Griffin? Was s'posed ta be docked here?”

  “Nah, nah,” responded the old sailor. “Bes' ask Mort.” The man jabbed a crooked finger towards an even thinner man who was moving between the tables. “'E's the one ta ask.”

  Gravin bent his head. “My thanks, ya have.”

  In spite of his hurry, Gravin held back to study the man who he had been directed towards. From the man's actions, he clearly worked here, if not owned the tavern outright. The mutineer had hoped to be referred to whomever acted as harbormaster in this half-sail town, but then perhaps the local innkeep also served as the harbormaster? It was hard to tell in a place like this.

  Gravin raised his hand as he ambled across the room. “Mort!” he called as he approached.

  The man called Mort looked his way, set aside some empty mugs he had been carrying and moved quickly to meet Gravin halfway. “How may I be of help?” he asked. Right away, the former sailor could tell that Mort was a fisher by upbringing if not by present trade. The manner in which he offered himself was too akin to that of the fisher-wife he had just left behind. Who knew, maybe this Mort was the fisher-wife's son?

  “I be told ya would know 'bout a ship known as The Gull-Griffin what's s'posed ta be in port.”

  Mort nodded. “Aye, I know the ship. But if you were waitin' for it, you'll be waitin' a might longer. It went down in the storm last week barely a day out o' port.”

  “Storm? Tha' storm was not likely ta sink the likes o' the Gull!”

  “Sorry ta say, but that ship's just as weak ta falling rocks as any other, 'specially the kind what's on fire.”

  “What kind o' nonsense are you blubberin' about?” demanded Gravin. It took every ounce of his self-control not to grab the man by the collar, and depending on how he answered, Gravin could still see himself doing worse if he did not get a straight answer soon.

  “Where have ya been, sailor? Did ya sleep through the firestorm last week? It's why there's no ships on the seas now. No one's willin' to take the risk on it not happenin' again. I know of two ships what went down during that storm, and one of 'em was your Gull. Only a couple sailors made it to shore, but they were clear on it bein' your ship.”

  Gravin could not think of how to respond. A firestorm? What was a storm of fire? And why was this man talking about rocks falling on ships from it?

  Mort's eye suddenly caught sight of Gravin's sword and took a step back. “We don't allow weapons to be drawn in here, friend. We don't have many rules, but that's an important one.”

  The mutineer gripped the hilt tighter, letting the flow of his anger radiate through the sword. He grinned as he felt the magic within respond to his rage, surging up his arm in return. It felt like cold ice water running through his veins, and he was the one who controlled its release.

  “Rules?” Gravin growled. “You don' make rules fer me, ya swab! I makes the rules, an' my rule is tha' someone's gonna answer fer what was done ta me, an' if the Gull's truly outta reach, then I guess you lot jus' became my next choice!”

  Gravin's voice had risen to a crescendo by the time he had finished, and now every eye in the tavern was on him. Several men had drawn their own blades – some daggers, some cutlasses, and even a strange curved weapon by one of the bare-breasted women. None seemed all too keen on what the former sailor was saying.

  The mutineer reached felt his perceptions broaden, reaching beyond his sense of self outward into the room. On impulse, he swung his sword upward, and every drop of liquid in the room responded to his summons, leaping from chalices, mugs and even from a vat of water behind the counter. The liquids spun around the room, slamming into unsuspecting patrons. Gravin had felt the slap of waves sting his skin and imagined how the impossibly fast moving fluids must have felt when striking the people in the room.

  But he was not done. Swinging the sword he had named Two sideways, he changed the course of the menagerie of swill, forming it into one larger concentration and then sent it barreling through the center of the room, upending tables chairs and patrons alike. Men and women staggered for footing, but no sooner could they recover than the mass of liquid returned for another scathing assault upon them.

  Gravin brought Two to center and watched as the massive globule responded by reassembling in the middle of the room. He could feel the tenseness in the room as everyone waited for what was to come next. Yet not a one of them was prepared as he threw his arms wide, sending a hundred bullets of liquid pelting outward, thrusting those still standing outwards and crashing into the walls of the room.

  Following the final demonstration, no one made an effort to stand, though it was plain that most were still conscious by the resounding moans of pain echoing through the room.

  Gravin's eye was caught by the sight of one of the men trying to crawl towards the exit. Without a second's hesitation, Gravin turned and pinned the man's leg to the floor.

  “I says I make th' rules, an' I's not given ya leave to go,” Two's wielder mocked.

  A small part of the mutineer recognized the odd bloodlust that coursed through him, but the larger part of him simply did not care. He was entitled to vengeance. He had been brought back from death for this, and he needed to exact his wrath on someone. Whoever said that the bearer of bad tidings should have immunity? This lot certainly did not deserve clemency for denying him his rightful retribution.

  Twisting the sword for no other reason than to add to the man's agony, Gravin wrenched it free and held it level in front of him again. “In fact, I says no' a single one o' yers gonna leave 'til I's good an' satisfied.”

  Gravin brought Two up in a great swinging arch, and as he did so, the light streaming into the room from outside dimmed. Shouts of dismay could be heard on the streets as people outside witnessed whatever the swordsman had affected.

  In a moment, a man burst in through the door, pointing desperately behind him. “The sea!” he cried. “The sea has risen in a great wall all around us!”

  Gravin suddenly stabbed downward with Two, sinking the blade firmly into the floor of the tavern. From a kneeling position, the mutineer leered up at the terrorized people all around him.

  “An' now yer mine!”

  Chapter 13

  “I expected you much sooner,” said Nathaniel as he knelt to the ground. He picked up a leaf, turning it slightly as he inspected the blood splattered on its surface. It was still warm enough to not have coagulated yet, which meant his prey was much closer than the last signs he had seen. He hoped he would find it fallen soon and the hard part could begin. If it was merely hiding, he could still spook it and send it running even further.

  “I would have expected you to make yourself available sooner,” said Malik, his black leather gear creaking as he moved. Nathaniel's senses had most certainly increased, for he was sure he had not heard the God's armor make noise before.

  “Meaning?” Nathaniel crouched as he moved forward, cautious that he should not frighten his prey. Not for the first time, he shifted the unfamiliar presence of the bow upon his back. He had left the swords behind, so aside from the knife he carried at his waist, the bow was his only weapon.

  Malik sighed extravagantly, throwing his hands high and wide. “Must I say it? None of us really like your new lady friend, and we really would rather not have to meet you when she is about.”

  Nathan absently shrugged as he continued along the forest floor. “Suit yourself, but I'm a little busy at the moment.”<
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  “The doe is down, already. You made a clean shot through her heart. You are a great and powerful hunter, and your prize lies over yonder.” The sarcasm dripping from Malik's lips was nearly as solid as the arm he waved in the general direction Nathaniel had been going. “Now, can you stop skulking about and talk to me already? There is something important I need to inform you of, and I would rather not do so to the wrong side of your head.”

  Nathaniel debated only for a moment whether Malik was telling the truth. But at least that was not a failing any of the Pantheon had demonstrated to him – none of them had outright lied to him yet.

  Turning on the God, Nathaniel demanded, “So what is so damn important?”

  Malik literally took a step back in shock. “What has you so riled? It's not like you're going back to camp empty-handed. I just shortened the time you needed to creep along at such a pitiful pace.”

  Thoughts of what the Eternal had told him – of the fate of the First City – rolled though Nathaniel's mind, but he bit back the retort that would have revealed all he had learned. Instead, he redirected his outburst in a different direction.

  “You made it plain that you had more to say over a week ago, before you and your brethren vanished. But you wouldn't come to tell me what it was because Brea was there? How petty can you lot be?”

  Malik put on an air of mock supplication. “Forgive that your lady is the worst possible companion you could have chosen and that your Gods have taken a dislike in your having an enemy about to hear us.”

  “So you could not have chosen a time when I left camp to relieve myself, or woken me after she had fallen asleep? Or even come to me when I was standing watch?”

  “Would you have preferred that?”

  Not really, admitted Nathaniel to himself. Aloud, he said, “It might have spared us having to wait a ten day for you to deliver on whatever cryptic bit you were biting at to talk about last time.”

  “It's only been nine days, Nathan,” retorted the God, though he quickly changed his approach when Nathaniel appeared ready to rebuke him for it. “The number of days doesn't matter. It was not so urgent that it needed to be told sooner, but I can see that it was discourteous for me not to speak about it before now.”