The Deepcombers

Chapter Eight

"Purify. The word is purify." Clyde closed his eyes, "An abundance of priests in copper snare purify templestone with pious prayer." 

"Chase Kluth with your riddles," Lon said. "Is Horne is the toughest of them?'

"Oh by far the strongest. He's the deadliest feigor in all Tokal and still so young."

"Can anyone stand up to him?"

"Only the other council members who have templestones, and... No."

"Let's go." Lon said. "We'll just walk slow." He wanted to stroll and discuss other subjects.

"Not yet." The red-quilted feigor refused to move. He lay flat on the ground and didn't open his eyes. "It's hot. I'm thirsty. We have no water. Just sit and listen to the wind." Clyde waited and then asked, "Do you hear the bees? There must be a hive nearby."

Lon relaxed his back against the tree and opened his ears. He wanted to hear bees but could not. Instead he heard ocean waves crash on shore and he realized their detour around crab-creek had brought them back to the coast. The waves pacified him though; he liked that sound. Off in the distance he heard seabirds screech. He listened for more but heard an alarming sound, much closer. It came from the coast. He heard a metal clank, and then another. Clank! 

Both travelers sat up quick. That sound wasn't natural. Lon cupped his ear for better audio. A moment later he heard feigor shouts alongside heavy thumps. It came from the shore. A third loud clank was followed by more cries of defiance.

The sea drover snatched-up his saber and jumped to his feet. Without a word or glance back he sprinted away into the tall grass. He didn't wait to see if Clyde trailed behind as he raced toward the sound of the engagement.

The clerk had no choice but to follow. He picked up his own saber and shouldered the heavy spear with its crab meat as quick as he could least he lose sight of Lon in the tall grass.

The white-haired lad ran at top speed through the greenery until he saw the ocean ahead and felt its coolness on his chest and arms. A moment later the entire rugged coastline came into view.  The Annabelle was three hundred feet from shore and flanked by the two warships he'd seen this morning.

Clyde took a minute to catch up and another to recover his breath. Both young lads stood atop a tall bluff from whence they could see a desperate struggle on shoreline below. Three Crolean landing-craft were caught in the surf about a quarter mile away.

The first craft was beached on the sand and carried a gilded wooden sedan chair turned sideways. The four soldiers who accompanied the boat must have rowed themselves as there were no captives at the oars. The craft had landed and was secured by soldiers who were now concerned with the second boat which had gotten into trouble.

The four captives who'd rowed the middle vessel had rebelled. Despite being restrained inside the boat, something that never happened when they were at sea, these four rebels had managed to get free. The metal clanks emanated from an insurgent who swung his shackles like a chain flail. They'd pushed their guards overboard and jettisoned cargo. They struggled at the oars but couldn't break free. Their skiff was stuck.

Behind them was a third landing craft filled with soldiers. It flew a massive blue and red Crolean banner that seemed as big as their boat. The flag flapped in the wind. 

The sailors in the third boat rowed hard toward the mutineers. The captives didn't have long.

Lon acted on instinct and jumped down the embankment. He felt a natural inclination to help his fellows. But he was far away and had a lot of ground to cover before he even get close.  He chose speed over stealth and kept his eyes on the scene as he sprinted toward the combat.