The tender scraped against the sand as they were washed onto the shore. It had been a battle getting there – of will as much as strength – but they were victorious nonetheless. The Scribe would recount the tale in words one day, once the quest was complete.
"Where are we, do you think?" asked The Scribe.
"You didn't write this part already?" queried Tailfin with a smirk.
"I've been a little preoccupied, paddling for my life."
"I remember," said Tailfin, stretching his arms as he gazed along the forested coastline. "Well, we are on the edge of Rordynne Forest. Judging by where the sun is setting, we are on the south coast. And, if my eyes don't deceive me, there is a rather large rocky peninsula over there that looks remarkably like The Hook."
The Scribe strained his eyes and nodded in agreement.
"About a day's walk, do you think?"
Tailfin glanced at the tender pulled up on the shore, then stretched his arms again as he turned back to the sun with a calculating look on his face.
"A day's walk, yes. We can leave the tender here. There is a shipwright near the peninsula that can see us home – for a hefty price, of course. But I could do with some rest if you are happy to wait until tomorrow to start moving?"
The Scribe glanced around nervously, searching deep into the forest for any unfamiliar threats lurking in the darkness.
"Do you know how to start a fire?"
"Do you think that I came to be the most powerful crime lord on Renryre Island without starting a few fires here and there?"
The Scribe shrugged with a chuckle, and watched as Tailfin began collecting tinder and preparing it on the beach above the waterline. With little effort, he struck two stones together and forged a wild spark that dived into the leaves, and a flame burst out of the twigs. He dropped a few larger pieces of driftwood on the fire, and then sat casually beside it, admiring his work.
"You keep that talent well away from my stack of parchment," said The Scribe, as he sat beside the fire.
Silence fell upon them as the sun set and the fire flooded the beach in crimson light. The forest remained impenetrably dark, shadows on the border leaping in time with the spitting flames. The Scribe watched the erratic dance with growing unease, imagining that at any moment, one of the shadows would take a life of its own, bursting from the darkness into their camp.
"Where is the coin?" asked Tailfin.
At Tailfin's interruption, The Scribe broke his gaze, happy for the distraction.
"It's in the Godstone."
"In the Godstone? Inside it?"
"That's right."
"Well, that's great," said Tailfin, shaking his head. "How are we supposed it get it out? Have you seen the Godstone?"
"Not with my own eyes."
"Not with... what does that mean? Who's eyes have you seen it with?"
"My father's," he said. "The stone lies facing not the west nor the east, not the north nor the south. It watches not the sun nor the moons. In stands, a monolith, outside of our reality yet within our sight. It exists beyond our understanding; larger and more perfectly formed than nature should allow; weightless, yet still it burdens the land beneath it. Only by the blood of the true-hearted devotee may it be unforged; its strength is not borne of rock, but of the gods themselves. It is the Godstone."
Tailfin was quiet for a long moment.
"Yes, it is pretty big," he agreed. "Any idea how we are going to get the coin out of it?"
The Scribe lay down on his back, gazing up at the stars as they travelled restlessly through the night skies. He wondered if they were looking back at him, watching them as they travelled to the Godstone. He wondered what they would say, if only he could hear them.
"Good night, Tailfin. The tale will unfold itself tomorrow."
* * *
A long day's walk had The Scribe and Tailfin following the trail that led across the rocky peninsula. The Hook was an impressive feat of nature, and The Scribe drank in every detail. If ever there was geological evidence of the gods, the Hook was it.
They came to the rope bridge that separated Renryre Island from Littleren, the island of the gods, and little brother to Renryre. The rocks below were subjected to an unrelenting attack from the sea, the Whalebreaker current forcing its way through the tumult.
As they crossed onto Littleren, The Scribe could see the Godstone up ahead, jutting out of the land, so imposing as to threaten those who dared to approach it. He could also see an old man wearing tattered clothes wandering around, shouting into the wind.
"Ryleine!" called the man. "Ryleine!"
"Excuse me, sir," said The Scribe as they came near to the him. "Are you okay?"
"What do you want?" he queried sharply.
Tailfin glanced at The Scribe with a wry grin.
"Are you lost?" asked Tailfin.
"I'm not lost, I know exactly where I am."
"Right. Where are you?"
The old man glanced around nervously, fumbling in his pocket as he did so.
"Rordynne Forest," he insisted.
"The forest is back that way," said The Scribe.
The old man glanced suspiciously back down the peninsula, then searched around himself, apparently becoming aware of the distinct lack of trees.
"Well, I might have become a little turned around," he said, and promptly began walking away towards Renryre Island.
"Wait," called Tailfin. "Who are you looking for? You were calling for a Ryleine?"
"What? Yes, that's right. My granddaughter. She should be around here somewhere."
"Out here?"
"Well, yes. She went to Helen's Bay. She and that odd young man. I have something for them."
"Helen's Bay? You are going the wrong way, old man."
"Why don't you come with us?" suggested The Scribe. "We will be taking a ship there soon."
"What?" said Tailfin. "With us?"
"I know a girl that works for Arynlock named Ryleine. Dresses like a... like she grew up in the forest."
The old man's eyes lit up as he described her.
"That would make you Gerylde? I couldn't have written it better myself," acknowledged The Scribe.
That was when he realised: he couldn't have. Gerylde had one of the coins, and he just happened to be there. He pushed the thought away as he gestured for them to continue.
"We just need to collect something from the Godstone first," he added.
The old man reluctantly followed as they continued towards the Godstone, walking in silence as they neared it, surrounding it as they reached it.
"What did you say about it?" asked Tailfin. "Too big for the world to hold it?"
"Something a little less blunt, but that was the gist of it."
Tailfin walked around the Godstone a few times as he studied it in the failing light. He ran his hands over the face, searching for flaws. He kicked it, grimacing as he stumbled away.
"May I suggest we wait till morning?" asked The Scribe. "I'm sure a solution will present itself then."
As Tailfin began searching in vain for firewood, The Scribe sat down before the Godstone. He withdrew his parchment, inked his pen, and began searching for all the elements of the story. They were there to be found, but it would take some time to discover the solution.
* * *
Morning broke, and The Scribe still clutched at his papers, his eyes dark from exhaustion. Tailfin looked at him uneasily as he awoke, the sun shining brightly on his ragged expression.
"What is it?" asked Tailfin.
"I am not the one writing this tale," he admitted reluctantly, before nodding toward an odd rock buried in the dirt. "Underneath."
Tailfin evidently didn't bother questioning things any more. He began working at the rock, trying to pull it from the ground. He struggled for a long time as The Scribe looked on, more worried about the results than Tailfin.
"Have you lost something?" asked Gerylde as he arose from his slumber.
Tailfin glared at him momentarily.
"Have you checked your pockets?" he added helpfully.
"I don't know even what I'm looking for, Gerylde."
"Hah!" laughed the hermit. "All the more reason to check your pockets!"
Tailfin ignored him as he worked the rock free of the ground. He studied the hole momentarily before withdrawing a crude tool, a blacksmith's hammer, the face worn from age and use.
He walked towards the Godstone, eyeing it sceptically as he held the hefty hammer in his hand. With a shrug, he tentatively tapped the hammer's head on the Godstone. He was thrown back instantly and a wave of energy rushed from the Godstone, while a bellow of pain echoed from within.
Tailfin climbed up onto his feet and stared in disbelief, his eyes darting between the Godstone and the hammer.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded, but no one ventured an answer, short of The Scribe's nod of encouragement towards the monolith.
Tailfin braced himself as he wound up to strike the Godstone with more strength. A small crack broke the surface as the hammer collided with it, and another wave of energy pushed back. He swung again, harder, and was rewarded with more fractures crossing the surface, punctuated by the howling agony of the voice within as streaks of crimson liquid began oozing down the face of the Godstone.
The ground began to vibrate, making it difficult to stand. The deep rumbling covered Littleren as the Godstone tried to defend itself. The Scribe clung onto a steady rock as he watched Tailfin falter.
"Again," cried The Scribe.
Another swing of the blacksmith's hammer crashed into the rock, and cries of pain nearly crushed even the usually unsentimental Tailfin's resolve as he visibly struggled to deliver the next blow. Shaking from the pain and effort, he took one last swing, raising the hammer high, and bringing it down with all his strength.
The Godstone shattered, shards of rock exploding and flying several yards away in all directions, some crashing down the cliffs into the sea below. A pool of blood welled at the base of what was once the Godstone, seeping into the dirt.
Tailfin dropped the hammer as he gazed wearily at the destruction, eyes unfixed on any point, panting as he tried to catch his breath.
"What was that you said about the blood of the devotee?" asked Tailfin.
The Scribe said nothing. He had misunderstood the story, arranged the threads in the wrong order. It was the characters that he had muddled. The one that the gods had protected so many times from the vicious tailsharks, the one they had kept alive as he was dangled beneath the waves for a week. Only by the blood of a true-hearted devotee may it be unforged. There he stood: the wielder, not the sacrifice, while the cries of the true-hearted devotee faded with the death of the Godstone.
Tailfin leaned down and collected something from the bloodstained ground. He wiped it on his trousers, and lifted it to the light. It sparkled as the golden coin caught the sunlight.
"Well, this is what we came for," said Tailfin. "Can we go? I can still hear the Godstone wailing in pain."
The Scribe stood up gingerly, followed by Gerylde, who looked equally distraught, his eyes fixed on the gold coin.
"Yes," said The Scribe morosely, "we have what we came for."
And we will leave with something quite unexpected, he thought to himself.
"Hold onto the hammer, Tailfin," he added. "You may yet need it."