The Deepcombers

Chapter Two

Lon's mind reeled at the idea of being just beyond the brow of the Isle of Ligne, the fabled setting for the deepcombers' stories. Hastegus had said he'd felt it underneath them and by that he meant Oub. He considered what would happen once they made landfall. They had a plan to escape.

But Lon's heart sank when he recalled the details. He wouldn't be included. Not like this. He'd just be a liability now for he could hardly breathe let alone fight. He still had to climb the ladder and that test got harder each day. He dreaded that climb. How could he ever escape with them? He didn't think he could do anything now except die well.

The Annabelle was the Prince of Havista's royal cog. The vessel was broad in beam, keeled and clinker-built which meant the outer boards overlapped each other. Yet it was a sea cow despite having three sails. The ship was owned by the Prince of Havista, a neutral city-state, but it was the flag of Crol, a circle inside a diamond inside a square that hung lifeless over the stern castle.

Once the two painted prisoners clambered up the side it was Lon's turn.  Everyone seemed to dread the ordeal on his behalf. Tharus and Jarl looked away, not wishing to behold his failure. Only Hastegus seemed to care. He gave the scared lad an encouraging wink and rallying smile.

Lon put his hands and feet on the rungs. He tried to climb but it was too much strain. His left arm wouldn't go any higher than his head and that caused excruciating pain. The mustached Crol used a boat oar to wickedly push him higher, but it still wasn't enough. Just as he got set again, he looked up and was stunned. He almost let go in shock. Staring down at him was the most powerful person in the world.

Grand High Minister Surilus Horne gazed at him without emotion. Lonastasius stared at the expedition's commander. The two locked eyes and nobody spoke. The young lad half-expected the famous priest to push him off the rungs and laugh aloud as he fell into the sea. But instead the mighty conqueror reached down with both hands and grabbed his greasy tunic. He held him by the collar and raised him to the rail.  Lon fought the pain and remained still as the expedition's commander pulled him aboard ship.

The look of shock in his two attendants' faces was instantly concealed when the great administrator turned, yet the same look of surprise stayed alive in all the captives' eyes. They stared slack-jawed in amazement at the unexpected kindness. This was the first time the conquering priest had shown himself on deck, and now he did this? Lon was also overcome with the rare display of mercy.

Minister Horne was surprisingly young and healthy, but he was unattractive. His jagged face seemed too young to grow a proper beard and he had bad skin. His beady eyes were too close together and his weak chin made his face appear top-heavy.  The minister wore a yellow silk jacket with a funnel-neck collar, open at the front. Underneath were black trousers with yellow snakeskin boots. He was a member of the Council of Nine and as such he had no superiors. He had eight other equals. The Crols had buried kings on three continents and every conquest made them a little stronger. Out here, a thousand miles from any official oversight, he was omnipotent.

Lon studied the conqueror's freshly shaven face and pink skin. He wasn't much older than himself, but a world of difference separated them. How did he become so rich and powerful?  Despite being ugly, he was True Pattern, and unlike Lon he wasn't half starved or mad with thirst.  He'd probably never missed a meal in his life and neither had his servants.

Minister Horne spoke Crolean and everyone listened with rapt attention. A fashionable valet stood beside the legendary priest and when his master's clucking speech concluded he produced a crisp white towel for his hands.

The handsome attendant had brown eyes and wavy hair and seemed supremely confident. He wore stylish boots under blue pantaloons and his burgundy shirt had gold-threaded seams. His body gleamed with jewelry. Without bothering to look up, the noble courtier effortlessly translated his master's words into Common; "rest now friend, for on our journey together we will need all your strength."