“How did he come to have ogre weapons?” wondered Tildey.
“And an ogre ship?” added the big woman, who looked more puzzled than fierce.
“I don’t think it’s an ogre ship, and I don’t think he’s an ogre.” The intensity of Moreen’s gaze made Kerrick squirm. “No, I think he’s something new entirely.”
“The ogres came in a different kind of ship, I admit,” Bruni mused. “His has that big post sticking out of it. The ogre ship had all those paddles on the side.”
Kerrick wondered what kind of savages these were, never to have seen a sailboat before. He was not reassured by their ignorance. He wondered if they had even heard of Silvanesti or elves. For the time being he would be content to let them think he was a “boy, not even shaving.”
Later, when they were sleeping and he could slip on the ring, they would learn of their mistake.
13
Kerrick was dreaming, and in his dream he was deeply ashamed. His friend was dead and it was his fault. He knew he was to blame, even though no one would say it out loud.
He was a child in a tiny boat, and he had erected a broomstick with a blanket for a sail. Wind gusted with surprising force, and he went skidding across the waters of the Than-Thalas River. Silvanost, dominated by the graceful spire that was the Tower of the Stars, sparkled in the summer sun, and the waves splashed against the little hull, cooling him with moisture.
His father’s galley, Silvanos Oak, stood at anchor nearby and he steered under the shadow of the mighty ship. Crewmen, many of them Kerrick’s friends, gathered at the rail, cheering. Then the little boat shot past the hull of the great ship, into the windier water of the open river.
A gust of wind slammed Kerrick’s small boat onto its side. He heard the sound of the sail striking the water, a hard slap, as he tumbled sideways. Quickly the boat filled up, leaving the youth trapped by rising water. He tried to call for help but only choked and sputtered. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t breathe. He needed air, desperately craved air.
He he found himself lying on the ground, feverish and chilled, in a forest grotto at night. He drew in great, ragged gulps of air, groaning aloud at the aching in his back and limbs. The stones on the ground felt as if some nocturnal fiend had filed their edges into daggers. Slowly his fear was replaced by a deep sadness.
“I’m sorry, Delthas,” he mouthed silently, blinking back the tears that inevitably came with the name and the memory.
Delthas Windrider. Kerrick hadn’t spoken that name in many years, but the memory of the young elf was never far from his thoughts, especially when he was sailing. He had learned the story in bits and pieces as he grew older. When Kerrick’s little boat had sunk, several young sailors, elves and humans both, had flung themselves into the water to rescue him. Two of them had seized Kerrick’s hands as he was descending into the indigo depths. Kicking hard, they pulled him to the surface, where he would be hauled onto the galley deck of his father’s ship.
His rescuers climbed aboard on rope ladders, then noticed Delthas Windrider was missing. He had jumped with the other sailors, but apparently his head had struck the side of the hull. He had vanished in the depths.
No one ever told Kerrick he was responsible for the young sailor’s death, but he had seen the tears in his father’s eyes when Dimorian had been informed of the missing elf, and he sensed a new reserve in the looks he got from the other men.
As it always did, the dream left him exhausted and filled with despair. He tried to collect himself, to forget the dream and to consider his course of action.
The night was utterly still, windless and dark. The fire had faded to a mound of gray ash, brightened only in a few places by the lingering crimson of glowing coals. Gradually turning his head, the elf studied the three bedrolls. His captors remained still, apparently sound asleep. Now he was almost grateful for the rocks that made his own position so uncomfortable. Undoubtedly they had helped to wake him, prodding him to escape.
Kerrick had already worked at the knot that held his hands together, concluding that he wouldn’t be able to loosen the tough, leathery bond. He hoped that would be only a minor impediment to escape, however. Taking care to keep as quiet as possible, he squirmed around and slipped the fingertips of his right hand into his belt pouch. With a wriggle he put on his ring.
Immediately the magical strength began to flow through him, energizing his muscles, driving the cramps and stiffness from his limbs. He snapped his bindings with a simple flex. Even his hearing seemed acute, as he listened to the regular breathing of his three captors. He rose and very carefully took a step away from the tree to which he had been tethered.
The camp was enclosed in the steep-walled grotto. Kerrick moved gingerly around the fire. His keen night vision compensated for the scant light emanating from the fire
Another few steps and he would be loose in the forest. He moved past a pile of loose, brittle firewood. Next to Tildey lay his bow and quiver of arrows. He wanted very much to take his weapons with him. He reached to grab the bundle and very gently started to lift.
There was a clatter of stones and a sharp outcry from one of his captors. Too late he saw that the bow was tied down and had been rigged with a trap of loose gravel. Abandoning stealth, cursing the loss of a fine weapon, he leaped over the pile of firewood. He came down awkwardly on a twisted root and fell. The magic of the ring hummed through him, and he bounced to his feet. Before he could take another step, however, a heavy body slammed into him, and he and Bruni tumbled together onto the forest floor.
Kerrick twisted and nearly broke free. Magical energy surged through his sinews as he grasped the woman’s big hands and pulled them apart. He whipped his head back, cracking into her chin, while his feet clawed and kicked at the rough ground. Even with her weight on his back he managed to rise to his knees, then his feet. One more twist, one frantic leap, and he would be gone.
Except that Bruni’s grip still wasn’t broken. It felt as though a bracket of iron had been clamped around Kerrick’s waist. Panicking, he kicked wildly, again feeling that pulse of magical strength. She grunted, but held him as tight as a manacle.
Moreen and Tildey stumbled toward the fracas. Finally the elf broke Bruni’s grip. The big woman fell back as he scrambled forward, only to be simultaneously tackled by the other two. Before he could react Bruni was back, bashing him on the head with a heavy piece of firewood. He fell, stunned, his skull throbbing as they dragged him back to the tree.
“Be still, now,” warned the big woman, shaking the log as though it was a mere twig. “I only hit you ’cuz you made me.” She rubbed her chin. “You know,” she admitted to her companions. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Are you sure you can keep him here?” Moreen asked Bruni. She spoke to the big woman quietly, as they stood under a cluster of cedars two dozen paces last night’s campfire. Dawn’s gray light filtered through the trees, creating a dim murk on the forest floor. Still, it was enough light that they could see their prisoner lying as though dead. They had bound his hands with extra loops, noting with surprise that he had apparently broken the original ropes. Tildey remained near the fire, keeping a closer watch.
“Oh, sure,” Bruni agreed, rubbing her bruised chin. “He’s a tough one, all right, but now that we have his arms tied real good I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere. We used plenty of rope, too. He’s probably sorer than I am and needs a long rest.”
“I hope so!” the chiefwoman snapped.