Lon's white hair and freshly muscled form was well-framed in the circle and the sight made quite an impression on his fellow captives. The wretches cheered his departure and shouted aloud their best wishes.
Minister Horne fumed; he had no way to foist himself on the flock. He cracked his whip but the flaccid cord no longer echoed with the power it'd once possessed.
The stone altar was fastened to the skiff with iron chain in three points. The mustached Crol helped a burly sailor use the same length to lash the ring upright against the slender mast pole. The bottom of the circle was similarly bound to what was once the fourth rowing bench. When the item was secure, the sail was unfurled, and it curtained down in front of the Lon's eyes.
Once the flapping fabric was firmly tied it rapidly filled with wind. The sheet ballooned-out to pull the boat forward at considerable speed. The action was so smooth it felt like Kluth himself pushed the craft. Propped up before the mast, Lon caught glimpses of mist covered mountain peaks and a sandy beach on a tropical island ahead.
The ketch sliced the waves and the sea drover came to find that only his forehead was still tied. Rather than rejoice, he was disappointed as now he felt less connected to the milky sphere below the living world. Without strong bonds on his ankles and wrists, he felt like he was being weaned-off the wispy stuff.
Lon studied the mustached Crol he hated so much. He watched him boast about himself to the minister's attendant while constantly combing his bushy upper lip. He removed his blade from his hip and demonstrated what he'd do upon landfall. The chesty sailor behind Lon clacked and they all laughed and his witty quip.
Clyde of Barobell gazed at the sea drover's face like an explorer in search intelligent life. Finding none, he turned to reconnoiter the island ahead. They all did. It was beautiful. The golden shore grew longer and the mountains inched taller. A majestic waterfall gleamed like a jewel in the mist. Seabirds fished the coastline and called out to them.
The sturdy vessel was heavily loaded and behaved like a larger craft on a calmer sea. Was this just a dream? Lon felt the wind push the boat so much faster than his own time at the oar. The small craft's speed seemed to increase as they approached the nearby shore.
All the passengers braced for the imminent careening... Smash! Instead of finding a sandy foam berth, the boat struck unyielding stone breakers. The entire front section exploded in a shower of splintered planks. Curved bits of timbers and tack tumbled through ocean spray. The minister's assistant was thrown overboard.
The mustached Crol was flung back in the impact and his steel saber was dashed from his hand. His blue-jacketed body submerged between the broken benches. The waves still pushed the craft from behind and the water swelled and lifted the stern. The stone circle lashed to the mast burst into flames which set the canvas sail ablaze.
The artifact's flare-up was its final salute. The sun had set. The wind stopped and some semblance of calm descended on the waterfront.
The maelstrom in Lon's brain also subsided and he could feel the rope-ties on his wrists and ankles crumble as he moved his arms and legs. It was over.
The sea drover sacrifice lifted the leather strap and effortlessly stepped free. His charred bonds fell away as fibrous dust in four places on his body. It was that easy. He glanced down at the hairless skin on his wrists and ankles to confirm there was no damage. His skin shone smooth. His long hair was white! And his body was now very impressively muscled. How was this possible? It was a miracle like those recorded in the Book of Kluth.
The sail burned overhead. Steam rose everywhere the sea water touched the red-hot stone and the mist around the wreck added to the drama of his rebirth. A thousand thoughts flooded his mind and his new mental acuity overwhelmed him. He wasn't used to thinking this quick. Was this how other peoples' brains worked? Had he really been so slow before? I am finally alive.
Lon had done it. He'd survived. Still dressed in dirty sailcloth pants, he took a step forward and smelled the jungle air and rejoiced because he felt so vastly improved. His feet in the sand on solid land; he dropped to his knees to study his reflection. In the dim light of the burning sail he saw how his wild teeth had been tamed and although his jaw was still felt sore and his gums were maimed, he liked his new smile. His head felt different and so did his arms and legs. He walked on solid ground and that also felt strange. A glass plate framed everything his eyes could see. Was this real? He touched his face to try and find the injury where the sheet was inserted but he could find no wound. There was only his long white hair in his hands.
The lad looked around and saw that by some miracle he was the only passenger not ruined by the landfall. Hah! Praise Amon this was providence. Because he was tied to a heavy object he'd survived the shipwreck in style.
The red hot stone made torrents of steam which glowed as the sail blazed overhead. The circle-under-the-line sign appeared in his mind. The sigil fed him still and encased him in strong armor; he felt like nothing in the world could hurt him.
The chesty sailor who'd sat behind the ring and steered the ship was the first opponent to rise. He'd witnessed the freshly transformed sacrifice step free, but found himself on the wrong end of a broken boat and unable to apprehend the slave. He tried to get forward to face the fugitive but the red-hot altar, still lashed to the mast pole blocked his way. The back of the vessel rose in the swell which made it difficult to walk but the mariner was nimble and crouched to keep low. At the center of the splintered craft he grabbed the mast pole and tried to step through the ring. Barrooonng. He was pushed back, violently. His living body was hurled from the boat as though he'd stepped onto a springboard. Kerrrsplash.
At the front of the wreck, the mustached officer bobbed in saltwater sprinkled with broken wood. He'd heard the ring's alarm and saw his friend get flung. He tried to climb the splintered planks but the stern was continuously hammered from behind by lapping waves.
Lon spotted the Crol he despised and heard him gasp in terror at his approach. No wonder he was scared. Here I come.
This was sweet revenge for the seventeen-year-old who'd suffered so much cruelty at this tyrant's hand. He enjoyed the look of fear in his abuser's eyes and it fueled his anger for their kind. This Crol, like all members of their tribe, was a coward and he was the very evil doer that had caused him so much pain. But how shall I destroy him?
As if providing the implement, the altar hissed and wobbled and a length of heavy chain fell from the spar overhead. The young lad wouldn't let that hot iron go to waste. He reached down and picked up the steaming links at his feet.
The metal line burned his hands, but he didn't care. Aware of the significance, he chose to stand on the bench where he'd sat and rowed all week. He stood tall where this bully had whipped his back and had inflicted so much harm and strife. Now his tormentor clacked Crolean words and begged for his life.
Lon stared down at the helpless foe. The sea drover wasn't moved by his desperate pleas or any false apologies. He watched the coward's face and saw his eyes worm about the wreckage for his lost sword or anything that could help him avoid the reckoning he knew he deserved.
When the Crol realized these were his last breathes, he clasped his hands together in prayer and spoke a verse of contrition. The sailor must have believed the Ghost of Alocer had loosed the True Pattern feigor to punish him. Of course, that's what I'd look like to them, divine retribution. It wasn't true; Lon despised the prophet Alocer. He wasn't doing anyone's bidding but his own. He used both his strong arms to heft and twirl the metal links over his head. It probably weighed forty pounds which was much too heavy for a flail but he liked the feel of the iron flying through the air and not cuffed to his ankles.
Just when the mustached officer made to rise the lad brought the hammer down. The first blow broke the Crol's shoulder and knocked the wind from his frame. The mustached officer fell back in the water and gasped to catch his breath. He made a lame attempt to snatch the iron lash, but the muscular lad was much too fast, and merciless. Lon still clung to memories of this bully's sickening abuse. It was a medical condition that could only be cured with vengeance.
The scoundrel tried to crawl away, but Lon stopped him with another blow across his back. The Crol cried out in pain and Lon retracted the chain to strike again. And again. The next blow struck his head and stove-in his skull. The blow bulged his eye and still he blubbered and lived at the water's edge. Perfect. Let him exist that in agony for as long as Kluth wills and let him understand. 'You are nothing!' Lon yelled. He tried to yell. He thought it loud and tried to shout it, but he had no voice. He stared down in silence at the half dead wretch in the wash. 'You are nothing,' he mouthed and tried to say again. He wanted to repeat what they'd told him so often, but no words came.
Twenty feet away, the burly sailor's head popped-up in the water; the chesty brute that'd steered the craft had surfaced from his expulsion. Buoyed-up by the waves the navigator gulped in terror at the sight of the white-haired sacrifice standing over his friend. He swam for more distant rocks.
The burning sail blazed overhead and his shadow danced on the stones as he pulled himself up on the treacherous shore. He crawled to the top of the breakers and gasped for air.
Lon heard the chesty sailor's inhale and he spotted the survivor. His anger boiled-up again. He fetched a lump of wood and sprinted toward the castaway. He ran around and leapt fearlessly with his bare feet onto the rocks below the Crol.
The hefty sailor raised his saber in a lame attempt to defend himself. Bad move. Lon walloped him with a broken plank. He hit the Crol in much the same way a furrier might club a walrus. Thump! The big galoot probably didn't expect the captive slave to be there so soon, or to be so dexterous on the slippery stone. Thump! Lon hit him a third time with the lumber and his shiny blade clanked into the surf. A fourth strike and he collapsed entirely. His unconscious form rolled and splashed in the sea.
The sea drover waded into the water waist deep and dragged the Crol toward shore. The sailor struggled briefly and tried to get free but all his attempts failed in the face of Lon's faculties. The lad pinned him underwater and stepped on his head until he drowned and was dead. He had the idea to strip the body of clothes; he liked the sailor's shirt and shoes.
From the dead guard's pocket there slipped a wooden tile which had portraits of a mother and child. What have I become? This wasn't Amon's Code. To murder another feigor like this was wrong, and the shocking realization of what he'd just done quenched his temper. The sight of the drowned sailor made him feel sick.
He'd killed both brutes like a veteran, yet these were the first two lives he'd ever taken. What worried him was that he didn't experience the slightest remorse. Not even now that he'd thought it. He hadn't enjoyed the deeds. It was done to ensure his own safety and secure these provisions he needed. It was calculated. It was intelligent, he told himself. It was because these feigor were evil and had murdered so many of his friends. They'd laughed at corpses and made cruel jokes because they believed their bodies were better than his. Not anymore. He'd killed em both on shore in his first five minutes of freedom.
Clyde of Barobell watched Lonastasius approach.
The handsome valet stood calm by the water's edge and studied Lon without fear. He still held the weapon Horne had issued at his side.
Lon was impressed. He imagined it'd be difficult to be brave in the face of an unrepentant killer who'd just vanquished two worthy opponents, but the noblekin appeared unconcerned.
"So you're to be my travelling companion?" the valet asked calmly. "I know your name is Lonastasius... Lonny Treanol," he said in Common. "You're from Dundae? I'm from Barobell. I'm Clyde of Sire Tolden of Barobell."
So what? Lon dismissed the personalized plea; everyone was from somewhere. He stopped four feet away from the clerk to scrutinize his fine clothes and stiff leather boots. But after the appraisal he decided the red silk gambeson was not a coat in which he'd ever feel comfortable. Besides he'd already donned deck shoes and a puffy linen shirt from the sailor he'd just drowned.
The attendant trembled slightly now; he now seemed less sure of himself and Lon could see just how young he was; he was only a few years older than himself. The lad recalled that Barobell was behind the Plineys which were inhospitable hills relatively close to Dundae. He'd never crossed those heights but he knew the feigor's language and accent was about right. This noble wasn't born in Crol; he was from Barobell. He was somehow connected to the Prince of Havista's reliquary. This gentle fellow had never harmed him directly, but it was him who'd prepped the relic for the ritual. Regardless of his origins, he was a high ranking member of the Alocer cult.
Creak. A big wave lifted the back of the broken boat and the altar tipped forward. The weight shifted the wreck and the heavy artifact swayed against the mast pole. When the surge withdrew it leaned the ring backwards again like a crouched tiger that waited to pounce.
"You hate the priest? His mind control?" the clerk asked. "Try living in close quarters with him."
Lon thought about that. He couldn't help think about it. That would be horrible. But then he recalled the horrors he'd just endured and his anger brimmed.
The fiery stone circle buoyed-up again in the surf. The next big roller tipped the boat's stern and catapulted the curio forward. The stone wheel broke free of the wreckage and rolled onto the beach. The item sizzled on the sand and then flopped down to land with a whomp beside the two survivors.
"I hate him too." Clyde continued as if the alter's disembarkation was an everyday occurrence. He wasn't impressed by the spectacle, but he did reference the piece. He pointed at the ancient object with his saber and a huge smile spread across his face, "We've certainly inconvenienced him. The ring is worth a dozen ships and here it is." The clerk turned to stare down at the circle in the sand. "It will take him three days to fetch it." he went on to explain how, "the Prince's cog had just one boat big enough. And it's finished. He'll have to sail around to Port to get outfitted. And then back. Ohah." The clerk laughed nervously at his own joke. He tried to make Lon smile.
The sea drover wanted to speak but couldn't make words. He had to remember how to talk again. "Why?" Lon finally grunted, "What. Is. It?"
"You tell me. Right now, I'd say you're the master on that subject..." the clerk had sharp features and would be considered attractive among the other nobles. He had a short square nose and handsome face entirely free of mutation. He had green blue eyes and shoulder length brown hair, a strong chin and a nice smile. "What was it like to die and be reborn?" he asked.
"Don't recall dying..."
"And to make the wind? Did you see Kluth? Did you meet Alocer?" the scribe stared into his eyes, "How much do you remember?"
"All of it," Lon scowled. He knew what the clerk attempted. They were not friends. He broke eye contact and let his gaze wander down to the metal saber in his enemy's hand. "Alocer. You will meet him now."
The minister's assistant must have realized the knife made him a combatant. He tossed the shiny cutlass to the ground.
Lon studied the scimitar in the sand and the scribe who'd tossed it. Was this a trick? Or was this wealthy noblekin really that cowardly?
"Did you see how... How did Paulus? My old friend... What killed him?" the minister's assistant asked as though they were old friends. "Did you see? Do you remember?"
Without taking his eyes off the enemy, Lon knelt and picked up the abandon boat sword. He raised the heavy blade and considered its shape and composition. It had a nice cork wood handle, a brass hilt bar and a curved steel blade. The weapon had a nice weight and felt good in his hands. It felt thirsty. "You can ask him yourself when you see him." Lon pointed the blade at Clyde. "Or maybe the Prophet's ghost will reward you..."
"I don't serve Alocer," the scribe raised his hands to make it clear that he'd surrendered. "I'm an agent of Prince Kalibre. We're just using the Crols to solve the mystery."
That stopped Lon. The Prince was neutral. The word mystery caused him to ponder the subject. Everyone liked a mystery. But sadly everything was rather mysterious to him at present and so in that moment he just wanted to know what it was the Prince found so puzzling and how anyone could just be using a Crolean high minister for their own needs.
"What mystery?" Lon asked. He took a step back to allow more civility.
"We seek the Samardina? Are you familiar?" Clyde asked with some hesitation. "The lost book of Kluth?"
"A book?"
"Yes." Clyde affirmed hopefully, "so you know?"
"You've come to the isle in search of a book?" Lon clarified.
"One book to unlock a hundred puzzles." The noble pointed down at the alter as if to make his point. "See how it makes ice on this side, and fire on the other?"
The young lad gazed over at the stone circle and realized it was true. The ring wasn't all red hot. Frost had formed on the far side. "Why?' Lon asked.
"Fire and ice. Day and night. What is above, so is below," Clyde answered, as though that was explanation enough. When he saw Lon's confusion he continued; "that's from the Samadina, a poem from..." he truncated his thoughts, ".. the Lost Book is reputed to contain the secret of the prima materia and its transmutation."
"You talk a lot but don't say much," Lon decided.
"The Samadina says what is above, so is below. We are below the wind you understand, but the ocean is below us, and the mantle of Tokal below that." Clyde pointed up and then down at the ground. "We can make wind up there by harnessing a ring down here. Don't think our trick didn't go unnoticed in the other realms; what is above, so is below."
"Oh," Lon thought about it. "If the book is lost then how do you know what it says?"
"References from other texts," the scribe explained. "Now all we have are table scraps. That's what Paulus compiled," Clyde summarized, "my old friend studied Varget, the lost language."
"Varget?" Lon recognized that word from the deepcombers' broadsheets. That was how the mental martial artists did amazing things and indeed fire and ice were core to the arsenal of weapons they used to defeat the stonekin.
"...which the Samardina calls the Joy of Kluth."
"The Joy of Kulth?"
"It's a metaphor."
"For what?'
"Feigorin weren't the first to live on Tokal." Clyde said. "We strut around here in the sunlight from Daoda's gift overhead and we eat plants and animals but it's my belief," he caught himself and corrected himself, "a belief shared by others but seldom voiced..." He whispered as though it was a terrible secret, "we feigor are not the most divine animals as Alocer says..."
The two stood and watched the altar and listened to the myriad miniature voices chirping and beeping ever so faintly around its stone perimeter.
"You sell the Crols the Cloudstone?" Lon asked. "That's what makes the bastard so strong. Then he's more divine than us."
"The way he uses it." The clerk held up his empty hands, "But we don't sell it That's another part of the mystery. One of a hundred puzzles.""
"Hurumph"
"How did Paulus die?" The noble youth tried again to find the answer.
Lon shrugged again to signal that he didn't know, and he didn't care. In truth he wasn't aware the Crols had lost anyone until now. "Why is this island forbidden?" he asked in return.
"It's a prison. A blemish on paradise is what Alocer wrote." Clyde stepped back and for a moment both feigor took in their surroundings. They were on a lonely piece of beach that stretched for miles all around a mountain coast. It was easy to see why the place could be considered a prison as the peaks looked near impassible. Ahead in the distance there was however a spectacular waterfall.
"Some say Oub is the paradise, and we are in the prison above." Lon advanced the counter-idea.
"Where did you hear that? "
"In the sheets, the deepcombers' stories."
"No Lon. That's the Samardina." Clyde smiled, "...with good governments' gain who knows where the prison remains?" Do you think it's a coincidence you should say that? Or that the ring would roll up here beside us? So much of what we've both been taught are lies." The clerk pointed inland. "Help me find the truth."
This caused Lon to think about the day-for-night scene on the deck of the Annabelle, and he lowered the saber blade as he contemplated the many and varied circumstances that led him to be standing here on this beach. He thought about Hastegus, and he wondered if he'd somehow taken over the braggart's life journey. This exact series of events was what the occultist had predicted would happen to him. He'd said his ordeal would begin with him dying and being reborn on the Forbidden Isle...
Lon knew, deep down, that this minister's assistant who stood before him was innocent; he had no direct role in making the misery that he'd endured on the expedition. But he recalled just how dutifully this assistant had rigged the relic and how he'd so casually asked for the requisite feigor sacrifice. How many times had he done that before? Was he just pretending to hate the Crols now so he could strike later?
"Bah. How do I know you won't knife me the moment my back is turned?'
The clerk looked appalled at the idea, "I keep Amon's Code."
"You know Amon's Code?"
"The forest laws. I'm from Barobell." Clyde stated forcefully to stamp it into Lon's memory.
"They worship Amon there?" the white-haired lad asked with skepticism.
"The Woodwold did not grow with ease where the North-wind makes strong trees." Clyde smiled and brought a poem to memory which he performed like a schoolboy with his hands clasped in front of his belly, "The further sky, the greater length, the more storm, the more strength. By sun and cold, by rain and snow, the Woodwold is where strong timber grows."
Lon recoiled in shock and admiration. It warmed his heart to hear the old words again.
Seeing the positive effect his timely rhyme had on the sea drover, the clerk continued, "The shabby tree on the open plain which always got its share of rain could never win Amon's crown for its heavy limbs are upside down."
The white-haired lad was amazed. The whole time he was in captivity he'd never met another person that could recite Amon's Code or any of the poems from his village.
"I can also make us a handy torch," Clyde found a suitable wooden splinter and then carefully ripped the short bottom cuff from his red quilted coat. This fringe seemed to be attached for the sole purpose of making bandages, or torches.
They stood together on a half-mile wide sandbar at the base of an imposing mountain range. These peaks were called The Pillars Lon remembered, and they'd gotten their name because there were no foothills, just these thin sandbars and then monolithic peaks. The mountains were near impassable, but there were ways through them. The boat still smoldered, and it made a lot of black smoke that cast dark shadows across the beach.
The moon was already high in sky and very bright that night. The ocean was calm now that the artifact was finally on shore. Lon could see the Annabelle, its lanterns lit on deck, still far out at sea. The boat had a new sail and looked entirely at peace, yet he reckoned the captain and that wicked priest had their eyes fixed on him right now. They'd use their looking tubes as they were called. They'd have seen the rowboat inferno and likely wondered about the fate of the sailors attached to the mission. They'll come here straightaway he thought, tonight or first thing in the morning; they had other small boats, but nothing big enough to get their altar. They'd still come look for survivors. He didn't have long.
The white-haired fugitive faced the towering mountains and his eyes were drawn to the one possible escape route: the waterfall. If he could make it there, and up that embankment to whatever lay above, then perhaps he could follow the streams and tributaries and find a way over the barrier. It might take days or even weeks but it was not a hopeless proposition. That made it the best escape plan he'd had in months. Once across the mountains he'd find the Port of Ligne and from that legendary destination he'd surely be able to book passage back to Dundae. Once back home he'd recover his land and claim a proper inheritance.
When Lon brought his eyes back to the beach again he saw the altar still glowed in the sand.
Clyde of Barobell stood before the ring with a fabric strip tied around a wooden stick. He'd made a cloth ball pinned with splinters and bound with cords. As Lon watched, the noblekin bravely lowered his freshly crafted torch down onto the altar's hot side. Phoom! The wad burst into flame and he held it up proudly. "Shall we have a look around?"