The Annabelle was becalmed. No breeze pushed the heavy craft and its weathered sail hung limp in the cruel heat. Caught in the doldrums where there could be no wind for days, eight slaves in a tiny skiff towed the weighty hulk across the glass surface. No birds circled. No clouds obscured the bright red sun. The calm water was a vast expanse of barren desolation. Yet these voyagers were not lost. Every feigor aboard, that is to say, every living person knew they were close to their destination. Any moment now they expected the lookout on the masthead would spot the rocky shores of The Forbidden Island.
The Isle of Ligne was small and hard to find. It lay hidden in a salty void that offered no help to sailors, not even wind. The briny sea was a salt pan but not entirely vacant. There was something else here. An invisible presence lurked in the emptiness and grew in the minds of certain crew members. One captive rower on the starboard side felt it and he savored its soothing tingle as remedy for his suffering.
Lonastasius Treanole was the youngest, skinniest prisoner on board. He was a bucktoothed beanpole from the Woodwold. A stripling, just seventeen years old, most of his olive skin was covered in oily black hair. He had a big nose, weak eyes and gaping front teeth. He was slow, shy and the natural curiosity he'd once held for the world had been reduced to one dreadful question; will I survive this day?
On that morning Lon's shoulder was green with fungus that'd congealed over his slave tunic. His festering wound marked the abuse he'd suffered two days earlier and the agony went straight down his spine. Yet he rowed as hard as the others. The youth baked under his long black hair and he was half-crazed with thirst, but more, the heat masked another sensation happening deeper in his head. Something pleasant infected his thoughts and numbed his pain.
The young foreigner had no idea what it was he felt. He'd never been near the Port of Ligne before and so he'd never experienced the ethereal power that projects-up from the canyon in the center of the Forbidden Isle. Few people have ever experienced this sensation, and even fewer knew what it meant. But Lon did know the isle was the gateway to an underground prison called Oub. Those deep caves were a place of eternal banishment, a subterranean lockup. It was the wildlife preserve where a thousand years earlier their ancestors had exiled a race of intelligent rock-tunneling creatures they called the Tokgorin.
That's why the place was forbidden. It was off-limits to everyone save those with Warden's Keys and there were only twelve of those, one for each tribe. The fabled setting was the ultimate land of mystery and a backdrop for ancient myth. More recently, Ligne was the port of origin for a popular adventure series printed on coarse paper broadsheets. These sagas were written by many different authors, in many different languages, but all were known collectively as deepcomber stories. That's what everyone called the professionals who held the sacred keys and their stories were the highly collectible. These legendary warriors were just myths now, but their achievements were still known across the globe. Each broadsheet was a limited-edition print that chronicled one company's adventure beyond the Great Door, one descent into Oub.
Lonastasius didn't connect the sensation he felt in his body with the position of the ship or its proximity to this ancient prison. He believed a deity named Amon, the Creator's favourite son had left the Woodwold to help him. Why not? He'd sure prayed enough, and he'd been kind and helpful to others; he'd kept Amon's Code. The Forest God had never failed to protect his village back home.
Nobody watched the lad or knew how he suffered. The seven other convicts were wrapped in their own miserable rituals. No other sound save the splash of the oars, the creak of both vessels and the exhorter's rhythmic grunts distracted him from the ball of comfort in his body.
Come back soon and we'll show them. Those were the last words Lon's mother said the night he'd run away. He remembered her now more often these days. His real father too; every little thing he knew about him was precious. A fearless lumberjack, he'd died young. He was flawlessly good and had disappeared in the woods and his body was never found. The village magistrate was corrupt and his wicked pen had forced his mom to join the Treanole clan, and that was when his life turned tragic.
Lon gripped hard and pulled. He wouldn't miss his stepfather or his two older stepbrothers. Their conniving was the reason he was here, indirectly; their lies cast the mold for his life's misfortune. They'd stirred up all the trouble. His stepfamily had made everything terrible.
"Shallow," whispered an older rower on the other side of his bench. "You're doing too much."
Hastegus Mithusla was a True Pattern feigor which meant his body was perfectly formed. He had auburn hair, brown eyes and a strong chin; he was attractive and confident. He was a rare book dealer and occultist and was once a full citizen of Crol, but last year he'd been caught with a banned book and was thrown in chains. Now he rowed alongside the mutants. Yet he seemed enormously pleased with himself for he believed his journey to the Isle of Ligne was not a death sentence, but the beginning of his life's destiny to rule all Tokal, that is to say, all six continents in their mountainous world.
Hastegus had a white circle tattoo in the center of his forehead. The brand was as big as his thumb and done with rare silver ink. He'd said the spot was given at a famous oracle and it marked him as being extra special. Instead of being despondent like the others, he was upbeat and believed this ordeal was just the start of an incredible odyssey. He caught Lon's eyes and leaned back to show how shallow he dipped his stick. Then he grinned as if to say, look at how little I'm doing. But instead he whispered, "not much longer now."
Lon glanced up at the sun. He was right. It was almost noon. When the sun was directly overhead and his paddle cast no shadow their time at the benches would end. Their company would be switched out for another group who waited behind. Then he'd get to rest. He'd eat the barley gruel and drink the slimy water and sleep on the straw. At dawn tomorrow it'd start all over again. That's what happened yesterday, and the day before that. The transport had been stuck without wind for five days. Two dozen slaves were split into three groups to row day and night across the sea.
The young lad risked a glance around at the rowers behind to see if they were also aware of the time. He didn't expect kindness, but maybe a knowing smile or a friendly nod? Instead he felt venom in their eyes. "Face forward weasel."
The overseer dabbed his grey mustache with lavender balm and grunted to keep time. He was Crolean of course, a member of the chosen tribe. Being confined in this tiny boat beside the captives' corrupt bodies was contrary to all his noble pretensions. He followed the prophet Alocer who wrote that all feigor should strive to be perfect to enter paradise. That idea was never mentioned in the Book of Kluth. The Creator of everything never promised eternal rest but instead declared that death was renewal; Amon replants Kluth's garden after the fire.
All eight rowers had different but equally miserable stories about how they'd been pressed into service. The two at the front were both very minuchin which was the Crol's word for anyone who appeared half-beast. It was a cruel label their captors applied to anyone with animal attributes.
Tharus of Septhalon was a reptilian. His skin was green and his face appeared similar to a gecko with white eyebrows. His nose and mouth protruded in a snout and he had a forked tongue and slurred speech. His people were considered repugnant by just about every other tribe and they'd been killed on sight for centuries. Yet him being here in this boat was proof they'd survived somehow. Tharus and his tribe were feigorin too; their females gestated young and birthed infants that suckled milk, but they'd camouflaged themselves to survive. He could see better than anyone at night and he could swim like a fish. He had webbed fingers and toes and a bumpy backbone.
Jarl of Lambspetal was a rare blue-eyed lionfeigor with cat-ears atop his head and mangy hair. His entire body was covered in yellow fur. His pink nose was t-boned over a cleft upper lip that bristled with golden whiskers. He shared the front bench with the swampkin and rowed hard because he was really strong. Lambspetal lay close to Septhalon. The two cities were on the same continent now overrun by the Crols, and yet these two rowers were centuries apart in terms of their mutations. Plus the lion was a proper prisoner of war which meant he should not be at the oars. But alas he was minuchin and that made him sub-feigor and so he was sent here to die regardless of military honours.
Lon had no friends. The wood-weasel as everyone called him had barely survived these last three months because he had no protection. He'd slept hidden in trees, cold and hungry but safe from the Night Brigade. He'd survived the harsh spring in Remolin and nearly starved to death in those first labour camps. Conditions improved when he'd cut logs for the Crols. For a few weeks he'd marched behind the conquerors and carried their plunder. He'd never been near the fighting, but he'd seen the horror; he'd watched from the treeline as partisans were hung and towns were burned and thousands were made homeless.
The young lad didn't want any part of it. He just wanted to return to Dundae and see his mom. He knew his grandfather had plenty of land and she'd see that he received some. If not, he could always live alone in the forest; the Woodwold was a sprawling expanse where there were no roads and where Amon was the foremost Angel of Kluth and nobody knew anything at all about the prophet Alocer. But instead he found himself here and back with the same convicts who hated him mightily because of the blunder he'd made that'd gotten them all thrown into chains.
The slave at the bench before him was a baker's apprentice from some market town a thousand miles away. He was a coward with bad teeth and a weird misshaped head but he had words dyed in the canvas of his tunic. The letters were faded and upside down but Lon knew what they said. Bleached Opal Forty-Eight, was the cloth's name and number of threads per inch. The captives wore tunics over short slops which were trousers with wide knees and their pants had gusset ties at the side.
Lon was just smart enough to know he wasn't that bright. Ideas came slow and he was usually the last one to get a joke. Plus he was forgetful. He sometimes forgot what he was doing halfway through doing it. But by concentrating on a task and taking his time he could usually figure things out. Bleached Opal Forty Eight was medium quality cloth that could be bought for about six pennies a yard in Havista where it was made from the fibrous cot plant. He'd seen the spinner that separated the seeds from the fluff and he'd watched it spun into thread. He knew how it was bleached, waxed, and sewn two plies as a tarpaulin which was ideal for ships' sails. If only the wind would return to use them...
The tattooed rowers behind him were rapists and thieves and their skin was covered in crude tattoos which visualized their crimes.
"His wound stinks," one mumbled. "Won't survive the night," the other whispered just loud enough for him to hear and resuscitate his fears. Is today my final day?
Lon detested these two and grimaced at how his death would please them; it was all because of a mistake he'd made just a few days after he'd run from home.
And now another error. While trying not to recall the mishap that'd brought him here, and not to contemplate for the millionth time the pain he'd caused the others, Lon forgot to lower his oar. His muscle memory pulled anyway and his pole skittered to strike the boat's side with a thud. The sound startled the overseer. The officer looked up and smiled with delight when he found it was the wood weasel who'd missed the stroke. He raised his salty red rope.
Not again. Lon braced. Fear coursed through his body. This is where it ends for me. Schalp!
Pain surged through his shoulder and seized Lon's frame; he couldn't breath and blacked out.
The mustached Crol retracted the cord and raised his arm again. The rowers in front stared back and the small boat tacked left as the port-side completed their stroke. The bully grumbled and shifted the rudder to correct their course. Then he raised his crude flail and his hairy lip curled in pleasure as he prepared another strike.
A shrill whistle interrupted. A blue jacketed superior peered over Annabelle's bow and clacked orders in Crolean brogue punctuated with insults. None of captives dared smile at the executive's creativity or the exhorter's embarrassment. The officer above directed the rowboat should come alongside and he pulled on the towline himself.
Everyone was quiet as the lorry drifted back to the starboard ladder of the much larger barge. Nobody helped Lon or cared if he lived or died. The lad's shoulder throbbed and he wondered if his arm had become detached. How much blood could he lose before he passed out forever? How will I ever make it up the ladder?
The other rowers inspected their blistered hands. They'd worked since dawn and now trembled under the mustached officer's glare as their small craft eddied in the shadow. No one dared speak until the overseer turned his back to help secure the vessel. When he was occupied, Hastegus whispered to the others. "We're just a dozen miles off now," he said. "I can feel it underneath us."
"Ya," Jarl agreed. He leaned in and whispered, "the Pillars be our first glimpse an I reckon they're just yonder the brow." The big cat smoothed his whiskers and stared out at the void. Everyone contemplated the unbroken horizon as though they could already see the island's distant peaks.
"Then," Tharus hissed, "we sstrike tonight." He grinned with enthusiasm and showed his many sharp teeth under his thin green lips.