The Seascape Tattoo (11 page)

“A prince?” Fandy offered.

Neoloth watched them both, silent.

“I don't know,” he repeated.

“Then perhaps you know what you really want from all of this,” Fandy said.

“A man without history has no future,” Aros tried.

Now, at last, Neoloth spoke. “A man without history is not confined by it.”

They both turned to look at the wizard. Aros felt both irritated and curious. “What are
you
running from?”

“Let's just say that I would like to stop running. And leave it at that.”

Suddenly, Aros had an inkling. “The princess is your plan?”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand,” Neoloth said, and turned over onto his side. And was snoring in suspiciously short order.

 

ELEVEN

The Troll

Neoloth awoke so quickly that he heard his own last snore. Awoke realizing that some instinct had functioned where conscious awareness had failed.

Something hunkered above them, a massive, vaguely man-shaped moon shadow. Larger than twenty men. “Who you?” the shadow said. A round-faced mountain with tree-trunk legs.

Across the ashes of the dying fire from Neoloth, Aros stirred. “Oh, blood and steel,” he muttered. “I knew this would happen.”

“I hurt,” the ogre said.

“We haven't done anything to it,” the barbarian whispered. “What is it talking about?”

“The beast is tied to the land,” Neoloth whispered back. “When I charged the talisman, I created a void. It feels that void like a gash.”

“It's some kind of a watchdog?”

Before Neoloth could answer, the ogre swung at them. The arm was as massive as a log but thankfully slow enough that even the wizard could duck. Aros dodged even faster, drawing
Macuahuitl.
He darted in and slashed with the sawtooth edge, but the creature's shins were covered with matted hair so thick Flaygod couldn't reach flesh.

Aros screamed curses to his feathered god.

Neoloth grabbed the talisman, gripping it in both hands. “Death to the destroyer!”

Light boiled around the talisman, then lanced out at the ogre, who recoiled violently.

“Yes!” Aros screamed.

Then the talisman flickered, and the light died.

The ogre's arms hung at his sides, as limp as half-filled sausage skins. The beast shrugged and danced about until his saucer-like eyes strained from his rounded boulder of a head. His limbs trembled but would not obey him. His roar of frustration was disturbingly human.

Aros's head snapped around. “What in the hell is wrong with your damned magic?”

Neoloth looked at the talisman cylinder in dismay. “I guess it takes more time to charge than I thought.”

“You didn't
know
?”

The ogre screamed and jumped up and down, flapping its arms around and around like a headless chicken. At last it seemed to grasp that its accustomed weapons had been rendered worthless and started trying to stomp his human targets. Horses and mule scattered, braying and neighing to wake the dead.

Aros avoided the huge feet at first. “The hell with this!” he screamed, and leapt to the attack.

The next minutes were a blur of jump and slash. Neoloth managed to generate flashes of light that dazzled without damaging. Dancing out of the way of the flapping arms in the bizarrely shadowed moonlight, Aros chopped away matted hair until Flaygod could slash the ogre's left ankle tendon. The creature bawled and fell to its knees. As if chopping a log, Aros hacked his sword down into the ogre's throat. Its roars died to screams. And then gurgles. And then it was silent.

Aros wiped blood from a bruised shoulder. “No wonder those desert dwellers believed the land would defend itself!”

“Oh, no…,” Neoloth said. The wizard's voice was flat. Sad.

And even without turning around, Aros knew what he would see.

The wizard stood over Fandy's crushed body, huddled next to the stone that had broken him.

“Is he?” The question felt stupid even before it left his lips.

“Yes,” Neoloth said. “Dead.”

“You're a sorcerer. Can't you?”

An odd menagerie of emotions crossed Neoloth's face. “It's what I've been trying to say. The magic is dying.”

Aros grunted and sheathed his sword. “That leaves the world for me, I think. What can I do to hurry this miracle along?”

“I could give you good manners,” Neoloth said. “That should eat the magic for miles around.”

Aros laughed. Neoloth was right, damn him. Fandy had been a bit irritating but harmless. He didn't deserve squabbling at a time like this. The sight of the tiny crushed body sobered him.

“Let's give him a proper burial,” he said. “And then…”

“What?”

“Let's charge up your damned talisman. I suspect we might need it.”

“I think,” Neoloth said, “that the ogre's death did that. I'll check…”

There was a saying Aros had heard about clouds and silver linings. Another about ill winds.

Neither felt worth a damn at the moment.

 

TWELVE

Warfroot

The coastal town of Warfroot was a warren of twisted salt-cured docks, dark alleys, and patchwork buildings that looked as if the next stout wind would sweep them into the bay. Aros and Neoloth reached it seven days after burying Fandy, and they had spoken little along the path. But now that they were actually walking the narrow, plank-paneled dockside alleys, the wizard was growing downright chatty. “All right,” he said.

They'd left horses at a nearby stable, donned fashionably cowled tunics, and begun their search. After a quarter of an hour threading through darkened streets, Aros stopped them before a tavern called Sailor's Rest. The smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies rolled out in a cloud.

Neoloth asked, “I hope you know what you're doing. This is something of a dive.”

“I think,” Aros said, “that this place would need redecoration to qualify as a ‘dive.'”

Neoloth glared at him. “You speak strangely for a barbarian.”

“I'm foreign,” Aros said, “not stupid. Come on.”

The bar inside was noisy, raucous. The air shimmered with smoke and body heat. A swivel-hipped waitress approached them. She looked Aros up and down as if massaging him with her eyes. Neoloth, she barely noticed. “Roast lamb tonight, just got in new kegs. Table on the side.” She pointed. “Be right with you.”

Aros nodded at her, and the two men sat against the wall. Neoloth scanned the room, unimpressed. “Do you really think you can do this?”

The barbarian nodded. “I'm pretty sure. I don't know who's in harbor, but I'll see someone I knew from the old days.” They drank their drinks slowly enough for him to inspect every face, but when nothing familiar presented itself, they went on their way.

They repeated the same behavior at two more taverns. Aros found no one that he knew. He changed approach and headed down to the docks. Early-morning fog enveloped them, clung to their coats and clothing. For the first time on their journey, Aros seemed a happy man, as if the ocean sounds were washing away the memory of Quillia's dungeons. Now, at last, the barbarian began to encounter a few old friends.

A pair of conversations led them to a slip at the northern end of the shipyard. “Who goes there?” a sailor called down from the deck of a triple-master.

“Ahoy, the
Pelican,
” Aros called up.

“Who's asking?”

The barbarian seemed slightly reluctant to supply that information. “Kasha is the name. Is Golden Axe still the captain?”

The unseen sailor spit into the ocean. “He ain't been cap'n since he lost the ship a moon ago.”

Aros's brow wrinkled, but Neoloth saw that his companion retained the ghost of a smile. “And how did he do that?”

“Gambling, of course.”

What Neoloth had interpreted as a smile broadened. Aros said, “That sounds like the Gold I know. Who's first mate?”

“Dorgan. He ain't here neither.”

“Where can we find Captain Gold?” Neoloth called up.

Now the shadow of a sailor's head appeared at the railing, peering down at them. “I think he's drinking himself to death in the Shark's Eye,” he said. “If he ain't there, ask for Dorgan, the first mate. He's around.”

“Thanks. I'll remember this.”

“What now?” Neoloth asked.

Aros shrugged. “Let's try the Shark's Eye.”

*   *   *

The Shark's Eye was a waterfront dive like those Neoloth and Aros had already investigated, a place it was wise to steer clear of, unless one was handy with fists and sword. As they entered, Aros looked around the bar, circling the room until he found a bear of a man sprawled sleeping across a table.

“And we have a winner,” he said.

“Not according to your sailor friend,” Neoloth sneered.

Aros pulled the sleeping man up. Rolls of fat jounced. “Ho! Goldie!”

The big man groaned. “Leave me alone. I got more money. Take it and le'me alone.” The man plopped back down on the table, thumping his head.

“This is just wonderful,” Neoloth said.

Aros snarled. “Girl! Bring water!”

When it arrived, they dunked Gold's head in the bucket. He roared, sputtering as he came up, swinging. Aros ducked and caught his friend in a rear hug, avoiding flailing elbows. “What? What the hell? I'll kill you—” The barbarian released and spun him.

Gold's eyes widened. “Aros? What in the hell are
you
doing here?”

“I'm looking for passage on the
Pelican
.”

Gold groaned and sank his head back into his arms. “You'll have to ask the new captain.”

“What happened?”

Gold snorted. “The fates were against me.”

Aros sat beside him. They made quite a picture: the sinewy barbarian and the corpulent captain.

“A month ago, I put Dorgan, my best man, against his in a wrasslin' match. I wagered everything. Including the
Pelican
.”

“You lost
?
”

Gold nodded. “I don't know what happened. I thought for sure…”

“Did you know your ship is in port?” Neoloth asked.

Gold sank his head in his hands and groaned.

“And did you further know that Dorgan is now the first mate?”

Gold shook his head. “No, that's not possible. Captain Thorne always brings on his own crews.”

Aros said nothing. Gold slowly raised his head. “Son of a sea turtle,” he said, and then cursed more imaginatively. If a wizard had cursed thus, he might have obliterated the building. “They played me.”

Neoloth nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

Gold slammed his fist on the table, and the entire room shook. Suddenly, and at a moment, Neoloth saw a younger man inside the hulking shell. A man who might have adventured with Aros, once upon a long time ago. “I knew it.
I knew it!
That ape, that betrayer, that goat-eyed, beef-witted canker blossom!”

“Impressive,” Neoloth admitted.

Aros smiled. “Would you like … revenge?”

*   *   *

The warehouse was packed from wall to battered wall with whooping brawny flesh. The smell of sweat and blood hung in the air until it drowned out the rotted smell of salt-warped boards. The audience was mostly sailors and their women, who were just as scarred and tough-looking.

“You can't use your magic in here?” Aros asked, and to Neoloth's satisfaction, the barbarian sounded just a bit nervous.

“I don't think so,” Neoloth said. He pointed to the carved stone gargoyle over the door. It glared at them balefully. “Gambler's demon. Detects magic. We don't want it flapping its wings and squawking in here—we'd get torn to pieces if they thought we were cheating.”

“Can't you beat it?”

“Given enough time, perhaps. But why are you worried? Since when are you afraid of a bone breaker?”

“Afraid might be too strong a word. Let's just say I don't mind a nice, unfair advantage.”

The crowd roared with approval as two mountainous men crashed against each other with a force that shook the room. Knuckles smashed into flesh, ripping skin and bruising bone.

Captain Thorne was a villainous-looking sea dog, perfectly cast for his role. Thin as a sword, with a hawk-sharp face. “Well. Isn't it the good Captain Gold?”

“And Captain Thorne,” Gold said.

“
Admiral
Thorne now, thanks to you,” Thorne grinned. “Come to lose another ship?” the slender man asked.

“Come to get my ship back.”

Thorne roared as if that was one of the funniest things he'd ever heard. “That would require gettin' straight with the moneylenders. Take some heavy coin to balance your scales. Your pockets look a little light these days.”

“I have money,” Gold said. “Enough to wager on my man against your ape, at odds.”

Thorne glanced at the smooth-limbed Aros. Aros without scars looked younger, more innocent. Whereas Thorne's champion looked like the ogre's shorter, knottier, uglier brother. Dorgan was almost a full head taller than Aros, and his skull looked thick enough to serve as an anvil.

Aros studiously avoided the big man's eyes. Thorne grinned. “You ready to die, Az?” An insulting term for “Azteca.”

“Why don't you meet his eyes?” Gold said, nervous as well. “Dorgan will think you are afraid.”

Aros raised an eyebrow. “And why should I care?”

Neoloth frowned. “I thought all you brawlers wanted to establish dominance. Control each other's minds.”

“And why should I care what you think?”

“It's my gold,” the wizard replied.

“It's my body,” Aros said.

Neoloth couldn't argue with that. “That's true. And we need it whole. Try not to get it mangled.”