But what had become of the four great Artifacts of Power?”
The Sword was hidden, awaiting the One for whom it had been forged, and the Harp had been sent beyond time. The Staff of Earth was lost, and it was believed that the Caldron had perished in the Cataclysm. People little thought that a fragment had somehow survived, once again to cast Chance into the teeth of Balance in ages to come.
Aurian surfaced from Ithalasa’s tale, dazed by what she had seen and heard. The history of her people had been spread out before her like an open book. But for all that, her goals seemed less attainable than ever. Miathan held one Weapon, and two of the others were seemingly unreachable. Even the Staff of Earth had been lost for ages uncounted. Only the presence of the Leviathan stopped the Mage from a furious outburst of swearing. Instead, she contented herself with a disconsolate sigh. “Well, you needn’t have worried about what I’d do with the Weapons! I can’t see any hope at all of gaining them. I’ll just have to go against the Archmage without them—but goodness knows how.”
“Do not despair, Little One,” Ithalasa comforted her. “You nou’ know more than your enemy about the nature of our world, and the pou’ers and peoples within it. Maybe you will find unexpected allies. And now that you know the fate of the Weapons, it may be that they will come to you in the end.”
Some chance, Aurian thought sourly, but was careful to hide it from Ithalasa. He had done his best, and she was grateful. His next words made her more grateful still. “I can do one thing more to aid you, Daughter, though neither I nor my people can fight for you. Such a thing is beyond our natures. But I will give you a spell—the ancient spell to summon the Orca from their rest. Though 1 beg you, out of pity for their suffering, do not use it unless you are in the direst need. But I know you would not.” His thoughts washed over her, full of love and approval, and mingled with them, the spell came into her mind—the long-unused call to wake the warriors of the race of Leviathan from sleep.
“Ithalasa, how can I ever thank you?” Aurian said. Truly, she was overwhelmed with gratitude for all he had done.
“Prevent another Cataclysm, Daughter. Restore peace to the world, if you can,” Ithalasa replied.
Night was falling, and Aurian was hungry once more, and very tired. The Leviathan insisted that she eat and sleep before returning to her companions. The following morning they set out northward once more, the Mage riding on her friend’s broad back and trying to curb her anxiety and impatience. But when they reached the forest-fringed beach where they had left Anvar and Sara, there was no one there.
20
The Slave Master
From the familiar way in which the floor rocked and heaved beneath him, Anvar realized that he was on board a ship once more. He was tightly bound with coarse rope, and his aching head was throbbing in time to a hollow, muffled booming that assailed his hearing with ceaseless monotony. He lay still for a moment, not daring to open his eyes, his cheek resting on damp, splintery boards. It was suffocatingly hot. He could smell tar and reeking bodies, vomit and excrement. As well as the booming thuds that echoed painfully through his skull, he could hear the clink of chains and the occasional crack of a whip, punctuated by screams of pain.
Anvar opened his eyes. He lay in a long, narrow, torchlit space that took up, he guessed, most of the belowdecks area of the ship. Chained slaves, in rows of four, sat at benches on either side of a narrow aisle; each row of men wielded a heavy oar between them. The hulking figure of an overseer prowled up and down, flourishing a vicious whip, while at the far end a bald giant with skin like dark-tanned leather pounded on a heavy drum, setting the pace for the rowers. Anvar had been thrown into the cramped space in the narrow bow, where there was no room for oarsmen. A quick glance round showed no sign of Sara, and his stomach tightened with fear.
Someone was coming down the ladder that was attached to the wooden bulkhead behind the behemoth with the drum. From the sudden smartening of the overseer’s attitude, the quickening of the drumbeat, and the richness of the man’s loose robes, Anvar decided that this must be the captain. He was a tall, emaciated-looking man with a hook nose and a thin, straggling beard. His head was shaved completely bald, except for a braided pigtail at the back, and his skin glowed like polished wood in the dim red torchlight. His voice was deep and guttural as he addressed the overseers. “Pick up the beat, you! Get these sluggards moving, or you’ll find yourself joining them!”
Anvar was stunned. The man was speaking a language that was completely strange to him—he could hear that quite plainly—yet he could understand every word! The ability to understand and speak any language was a talent common to all the Mageborn . . . Anvar felt a warning pain lance through his skull, and had to clench his teeth to keep from groaning aloud. To turn his mind from such dangerous thoughts, he concentrated on the captain’s words.
“... and swill this pigsty out! How can you endure the stench? I will not have us coming into port smelling like a cattle boat! We are Royal Corsairs, and we have a reputation to uphold!”
A groan of protest came from the overseer. “It’s bad enough having to live with these animals. Why should we have to clean up after them?”
The crack of the captain’s fist hitting his face echoed in the confined space. He staggered and fell, dropping his whip and hitting his head on the edge of one of the benches. A murmur of appreciation ran through the shackled slaves.
“Because, you stupid son of a donkey, if you leave them to wallow in their own filth, they will sicken and die,” the captain said testily. “They wear out too quickly as it is—and if I have to squander our profits replacing any more galley slaves, I intend to take it out of your bonus.”
“But that isn’t fair,” the overseer whined.
“Think of it as a favor. If the crew lose out through your carelessness, they’ll slit your throat for you.” The captain grinned evilly. “Get busy, Harag. And you, Abuz, pick up that cursed beat. I want to be in time to catch the Khisu’s procurer tonight. He should be very interested in buying the pale-haired wench for His Majesty’s collection, and the man will fetch a good price in the market. With the Khisu building his summer palace, the price of slaves is as high as the stars just now. The Slavemaster will find a place even for an illegal Northerner, and his gold will line our pockets. So think of that while you work.
It might help to speed things along.” He left, whistling.
Having been doused with several pailfuls of seawater during Harag’s rough swilling-out of the slave area, Anvar could no longer pretend to be unconscious. As he choked and spluttered, Harag seized a handful of his hair and pulled his head backward, giving a low whistle of astonishment. “Souls, Abuz, you want to see this one! It’s true—Northerners do have eyes the color of the sky!” With a shudder he dropped Anvar’s head
“Ugh! Unnatural, I call it. I’m glad the captain is selling him —with eyes like that, he’s bound to be unlucky.”
Abuz nodded, never losing the rapid beat of his drum. “I know what you mean. I saw one when I was young—a captive spy about to be executed. When his head was struck off, those pale eyes stared right through me. Gave me nightmares for ages. Northerners are bad luck, I think. Good thing we’re nearly home.”
“Should we feed him?” Harag wondered. “The captain will have our hides if he arrives in poor condition.”
“Nah. He’ll only be sick, and you’ve just cleaned up. They can feed him in the slave pens—at their expense!”
Anvar closed his eyes in utter wretchedness. A slave! Oh Gods, no! And what of poor Sara? Cursing inwardly, he struggled against his bonds until a vicious kick in the stomach from Harag stopped him. Anvar doubled up, vomiting bile onto the boards.