Lon woke six hours later and found someone had started a bonfire close to his cubbyhole. The blaze smoked as it consumed leafy sapwood and he saw pieces of the broken boat in the embers. He wondered why his companion had gone back to the beach and fetched those planks.
Regardless he felt stronger now and that meant he wasn't permanently affected by the artifact. He was hungry and thirsty for sure, but he knew right then he'd made it over the health-hump. He found his blade still on his stomach but the water skin was missing.
Lon gazed out over the ocean. He saw the glow in the east and knew it was just before sunrise. He scanned the beach and his heart sank. The Annabelle lay close but visible on approach were two black Crolean triremes with yellow deck lanterns. They were a half mile out and closing fast. The slender ships skittered across the surface like water spiders. Those triremes would stow plenty of landing craft. So that's why Clyde had made the blaze; it was signal fire!
Lon clutched his saber and cast his eyes about the ridge. The berm was now almost entirely devoid of brush and even the sturdy tree upon which he'd supported himself last night had been hacked away to feed the flames. He circled the smoky pyre and spotted Clyde on the other side.
The clerk's appearance and demeanor had changed entirely during the night. It was obvious he hadn't gotten much sleep. He looked dirty and tired. His face was smeared with ash and sweat and sprinkled with sand. The feigor's fine red cloth gambeson which had appeared so trim just eight hours earlier was now sooty and torn. Lon also noticed how his companion had re-armed himself with a boat saber exactly like the one he carried. The explanation was simple: he must have found the chesty sailor's weapon in the wash. Now he used the blade to chop trees and feed the fire. But why?
"You're signaling them?" Lon pointed at hilltop beacon.
"What? No. Who?"
Lon glared and the clerk raised his saber and pointed at something ahead in the trees.
"I'm keeping us alive." Clyde said.
Lon could see his blade had traces of bright red blood and animal fur. Then he heard growls come from under the shady boughs and something gnashed its teeth. The lad raised his own weapon and peered into the glade. He saw two large eyeballs return his gaze. He gasped and now understood why the fire was necessary.
"They're back," Clyde said and pointed left.
The sea drover found himself flanked by ragged looking dogs that'd appeared in the clearing. The shaggy beasts were no bigger than terriers but all had mangy fur and sharp claws and fangs. These blood-thirsty mongrels were here in addition to what remained under the trees ahead.
"What are they?" Lon asked.
"Dread dogs," Clyde said, "The fire keeps em back. And steel." He swished his scimitar through the air in a figure-eight pattern.
Lon studied the beasts. The feral dogs looked half-starved and were likely weak opponents, all things considered. They were all teeth and bones and patchy fur. They growled savagely and crouched down as they crept forward but Lon knew it wouldn't take much to rout them. Even this ill-trained clerk wasn't scared of them, but he was preoccupied and that meant he was unaware of the ships nearby.
Grrowwwl. The lead mongrel stepped forth to try them.
"Watch my back!" Lon said as he closed on the cur. He knew the other canines would circle and he reckoned whatever lurked ahead would join the others once battle commenced.
The sea drover went into action so fast the tired scribe couldn't keep up. Fresh and healthy after eight hours sleep, he didn't give the beasts time to think. He ran directly at the mangiest mutt and surprised the malnourished dog with his speed. He also shocked Clyde with his quick style and well-timed strikes. Before the varmint could turn and run, Lon delivered a stunning blow and broke its spine. The creature shrieked as it curled over its limp hind legs. It still tried to bite and scratch but the young lad buried his blade in the creature's head. When he retrieved the knife and looked around the other mutts had fled.
"Good style." Clyde said. He looked relieved with the outcome. He took another step and pain flashed across his face. "Ouch." He limped.
"You okay?" Lon asked. "Did they bite you?"
"Not them. It's a snake bite," Clyde rubbed his calf muscle. "There's snakes galore down by the wreck. Shoreline's covered in them."
"Really?" Lon pondered the revelation. "Snakes?"
"Yes. Sea snakes. Crawling all over the altar. It's like a haystack.'"
"But? Wouldn't they burn on it? Or ..?"
"Not now. Bargain is complete." Clyde pouted. "But yet there must be something they like..."
Lon knew the clerk still mourned the death of his tonsured mentor Paulus Linton who'd paid the altar's price. Both were silent as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the trees. The white-haired lad studied his travel companion. He'd misjudged him, again. Faced with such nocturnal predators, the sleep starved attendant probably didn't even know the Annabelle was so close, or that two more galleys had appeared to reinforce Horne's island expedition. Judging from the way he looked, the clerk had spent most of the night tending the fire that'd kept them both safe.
"Can you walk?"
"Oh, certainly." Clyde said and he ambled forward a few steps to demonstrate that his legs and feet worked fine. "It wasn't poisonous. Just a sea snake." Then he held up his hand. "Listen."
In the not-so-distant background they could hear dogs howl. The ravenous mutts had regrouped and it was only a matter of time before they'd make another attempt.
"They give us fair warning," Lon observed. That was another key component of Amon's Code and Clyde smiled in recognition and nodded. Lon turned to face the distant waterfall, his target destination. "You got everything?" by that he meant have you got the animal bladder which he knew was empty of water but which would still be useful. It wasn't by his stone bed when he woke, so Lon reckoned it was tucked away somewhere on Clyde's quilted body.
"Yes."
"Then let's go."
The young swashbuckler aimed his saber at the shadiest spot in the surrounding brush and battled forward; the lad's frolicking machete frightened everything in a twelve foot radius. The pair heard a number of small creatures skitter backwards; sometimes they saw a flash of fur or feathers before the animal disappeared under darker boughs.
In his mind, Lon still considered his escape to be a solo mission. He'd hike to the distant waterfall and if the clerk wanted to come along that was fine, but they were not a team.
Together the two escapees trudged through the ticket; Lon walked ahead and did all the work. He felt well rested and his body surged with natural strength. He was a true-pattern feigor now; the relic had done more than just change the colour of his hair and smooth the skin on his wrists and ankles. There was new vitality in his muscular arms and legs, but what he liked best and what surprised him the most was how fast his brain worked. He was now wired for speed. It shocked him sometimes just how fast new ideas came into his head and how many fresh thoughts came at once. Yet the most noticeable difference was the glass plate that framed his vision and he saw how it remained there in his mind, even when he closed his eyes.
Lon's saber-turned-machete sang a somber ballad as tree branches played across its metal blade. For more than an hour he slashed through thick shrubs until the two runaways found themselves coursing up a tall ridge. The elevation made a boundary between the jungle and the interior plains. At the top of the berm, Lon looked back over his shoulder and could see the smoke trail from last night's fire two miles distant over the jungle canopy below. But to his surprise when he checked the ocean to his left he could find no sign of the Crolean ships.
The forest was different on the hill. The trees were older, taller and there was less undergrowth. The glen was carpeted with dry leaves and soft grass which grew thick in small clearings. The area basked in a gentle morning light and their hike was pleasant compared to earlier struggles. They found a fruit tree with unripe green pods. The species was unknown, immature and rather bitter but they still nibbled on its green flesh as they walked, such was their hunger.
Neither spoke as they strolled through the scenery. They trekked ahead for half an hour in silence until the trees became shorter and the soil became sandier. The central plains contained less vegetation than the coast. The trees shrank and became shrubs and then cactus grass. Lon made for the top of the next rise so he could chart the arid terrain. The mountain pillars towered in the distance, their snow-capped peaks lost in the clouds above. Shore birds screeched in the warm morning sun. The waterfall appeared closer now but was still some distance away. "Another hour and we should be there." Lon said, but they both knew that wasn't possible.
A quarter mile ahead was a wide freshwater creek and Lon fixed his eyes on that attraction because he was thirsty and that narrow stream made a loud racket as it ran a gravel riverbed. This was the run-off from that same distant waterfall he reckoned. Yet despite the fresh water being so close, the region resembled a sandy desert and seemed entirely void of life. From where they stood, he could see how the river's course bent and wormed its way through the stony land. He resolved to cross that stream here and work his way along the opposite bank in the belief that being on the other side of that brook was even better protection against the Crols. "We'll go this way," he ordered, and Clyde smiled and nodded in agreement.
The sea drover aimed for the creek in the foreground which required they cross over more loose dunes. Both escapees kept their sabers in their hands as they walked.
A shadow passed over their heads. Lon looked up he saw a single bird with a huge wingspan cross in front of the sun. He realized his white hair would make made him stand out sharply in this desert landscape; he reminded himself to be aware of overhead predators.
Clyde's eyes were down at his feet and he kicked up something from the ground. It was a good-sized animal bone bleached white with age. Ahead were rib cages, skulls and the remains of what appeared to be deer or dogs. This was a grisly reminder that something else lived here, something capable of killing these wild beasts.
Lon's shoes sunk into the fine sand as he walked across a windswept flats. Clyde struggled along in the beige powder up to his ankles with every step.
They crossed a washboard-rippled plain and the sea drover was in front of the clerk when he spotted something half buried in the sand. Directly ahead was the petrified remains of a wagon stuck in the waves. The pull cart had long ago lost its wheels and the sand drifts now obscured the hitch and even its axles had crumbled under the bed. Only the rough hewed planks of its sidewalls were still visible above the drifts yet the cart's basic shape looked familiar to the lad. This was the same sort-of-rig he'd seen so often sketched in deepcombers' broadsheets. This was an adventurers' wagon.
Lon got even more excited when he saw that the wreck had a name. He cleaned away the dirt to reveal; Wark's Wagons, Port of Ligne burned in the beam, and the Port of Ligne mark was done in the same circle brand symbol he'd so often seen stamped on the sheets.
Clyde's eye-for-detail dredged-up something else. He kicked at the dirt and then bent to excavate a wicker sheath filled with throwing spears. The bale of javelins was still tied in two places with the wicker wrap of the original weaponsmiths. The quiver held ten shafts with rusty points and the sheath bound them so tight there was no room to add any more. That meant that none of the ordinance had ever been used.
"They ran?" Clyde pointed at the full quiver before he made the hand gesture for retreat; he inverted his palm and scissored two fingers like running legs. He ran his imaginary soldiers back up the rise from which they'd come. In his mind he must have pictured the cart's owners being scared-off by something truly unbeatable. They'd abandon all their equipment and supplies. The clerk frightened himself at the notion perhaps for he looked around to make sure they weren't being watched.
"You don't know," Lon pulled a lance and examined its length. The javelin was hewed from fire-tempered oak. The missile weighed about seven pounds which made it heavier than spears from Dundae, yet he liked the weight. After more consideration however he realized that to carry these unwieldy projectiles would be impractical. Without a quiver or a waist belt for his saber, how could he carry both? They would have to leave the lances behind he decided. The saber's blade was dull from so much use but it was still a better weapon than a spear. With some regret, Lon stabbed the shaft down into the ground where became a mini flag pole awaiting a banner.
"Wark's Wagoner, Port of Ligne," Clyde read aloud the same stamp. Then he checked around for more clues concerning the fate of the original owners; he still believed the feigors were cowards who'd fled and left behind all their belongings. "Some of those bones may have been their draft animals." Clyde searched for more discoveries but came up empty. "Someday you or I may learn what happened here."
"It's no mystery," Lon said, "a crew came here looking for something. They found it. And they simply left unneeded supplies behind."
"Oh, of course," Clyde replied.
"Or maybe... Here is where their wagon broke."
"Yes. That's the explanation. Certainly."
The sea drover eyed his noble companion suspiciously. Is he mocking me? Regardless, whatever occurred here, it happened over thirty years ago. The wagon had crumbled and the iron points on the spears were covered in rust. When nothing else interesting was found, Lon turned to try and locate the nearby riverbed. He was thirsty and could hear the bubbling brook that he'd seen earlier. He reckoned it was just over the next rise.
Clyde was two paces behind as they climbed the dune. They both gasped in amazement at the sight beyond. Here were the brawny creatures that ruled this barren region.
The creek was filled with large red crabs. There were thousands of them, and many the size of sea turtles. They fed on what must have been a seasonal run of fish that migrated up the tide-swollen stream. The sight and sound of so many crustaceans in one place was chilling; their claws snapped and their excited squeals became an eerie symphony which could be heard clear across the plain.
Lon ran his eyes up the river and took it all in. He could see frenzied activity on both sides of the creek as the blood red crabs fed on little fishes. The critters carpeted the stream and added a second surface to the water that boiled over its banks and up onto the gravel on both sides of the brook. Each of the little monsters had eight walking legs, and two asymmetrical claws. Their short round bodies wore a thick red carapace and their faces had black-button eyes and whisker mustaches with mouths that chewed laterally. The young lad knew these critters were called Brachyura. At least, that was their name back in Dundae. He'd never seen this many or seen them this big.
As if that shocking sight wasn't bad enough, Lon spotted something even worse. A little further upstream were a dozen larger crabs which were as big as the dread dogs they'd battled earlier. These cannibals walked through the surge and snatched out the smallest and weakest members of their race to eat for themselves. The weaklings would scream and flail as they were torn apart and devoured by their superiors.
"Alocer's testis..." the minister's attendant blasphemed at the sight.
"Back up slow," Lon said. He envisioned being mobbed by a multitude of small biters, but that scenario seemed unlikely as the organisms were entirely focused on their feast. Crabs are omnivores, he knew from fishing the brackish tide pools back home; they'll eat anything they catch. When they're small they consume algae but as they get larger they need other creatures' flesh to grow into meaty adults worth boiling and buttering. This creek surged with red crabs of all sizes and he wondered if the largest killed and ate the weakest because they were so big now that small fishes couldn't feed them anymore.
"Look there," Clyde pointed to the closest critter and they both watched as it waved its left claw in the air and issued a shrill cry. "It's signalling." The crab ambled on eight legs in their direction and was soon reinforced by three additional attackers.
All four over-sized adversaries moved to challenge the intruders from different parts of the stream. The crabs' feet made staccato beats as they crossed the stone riverbed and fanned out to flank the area. The two trespassers had unwittingly interrupted a grand feast and these guards seemed bent on extracting a fee.
They could run, Lon knew, and Clyde made it clear that was his preference. But the sea drover wasn't scared of oversized marine life. He crossed the sand dune just so he could stand on firmer ground and he readied his saber for the assault. His noble companion wasn't so confident and remained atop the dune in the background.
Lon didn't wait to be attacked. He twirled and bashed any claw he could reach. He sawed off one brute's leg and when the animal turned away in pain he jumped to stand and crush its carapace. He stomped and smashed the shell with his sandy shoes until he heard it crack and the creature inside squealed in pain. The other critters drew back a length and Lon kicked his victim into their ranks. This produced an unexpected result.
Instead of infuriating the opponents, or scaring the beasts, the three remaining predators turned and fed on their injured sibling. The crab Lon had crippled shrieked and thrashed as it was pulled apart and devoured by its sisters.
The white-haired lad shuddered at the grim display and glanced back over his shoulder to see what Clyde would say. But his companion had spotted something else. The noble raised his quivering blade to point out a new threat coming downstream. Lon looked and his jaw dropped in open-mouthed astonishment.
There in the center of the creek was the mother-of-all red Brachyura crabs. This was the top of the food chain. This brute was the size of a healthy bull and it had huge snapping claws that were bigger than Lon's head. The giant crustacean held forth these hard black pincers like a champion prize fighter. It probably hoped the intruders would be intimidated by its claws and would turn and flee.
"We should run," Clyde said, and he prepared to make the same mistake he'd accused the wagoners of committing a few minutes earlier.
"She wants us to run," Lon replied and he juggled his saber back and forth to confuse the creature. "She's quicker than you think, and in that sand..." He watched how the creature walked, its eight legs did a tap dance along the stony shoreline. The carpet of smaller critters surged to either side to clear its path. The giant squared up on them and Lon could see how her front claws were not evenly proportioned. The matron's right snapper was twice the size as her left appendage.
Clyde continued to creep backwards and was about to turn and run when Lon scolded him. "Don't turn your back on it," he said calmly. He was surprised at how relaxed he was in the face of such a grotesque, "and hold your blade up high so it sees you're not an easy mark." The mother-of-all-crabs was agile and likely struck when other animals misjudged its speed and tried to flee. It could pursue and snap-away legs and arms with its big right claw.
Lon waved his saber back and forth to show his fighting strength and hint at his unpredictability. The crab just watched him and they measured each other.
"The spears!" Lon called over his shoulder. The clerk had already disappeared from sight around the dune but presumably he could still hear him. Lon would not run. He held up his saber and faced the beast.
The youth's keen eyes caught on the crab's face. For the first time he noticed it had a face. Two craters in its pie-crust shaped head contained plum-sized eyeballs under hairy brows that knit with anger. It had nostrils and its lateral mouth quivered in grim determination. It's hairy lips moved side-to-side and its nose-cavities flared as it smelled Lon's sweaty body. He could see the thing had ugly-looking whiskers around its mouth and from near this hairy hole stemmed two extra-long antennae, one on each side of its face. The beast blinked and that's when he saw the creature's right eye was damaged. The marine monstrosity was visually impaired. Lon could see how it always twisted to check its blind side. That gave him an idea. It's just possible he realized that if he feinted right, and circled that way, Clyde could strike from behind with spears. Either way he knew if he drifted to the right the critter would struggle to track him.
As though it read his mind, the Brachyura broke the deadlock and charged forth behind its big claw. The crustacean was as big as a cow and three times as wide. When Lon saw it squat he knew it prepared to pounce. He lowered his body too and made ready to roll to the right under a nearby ledge.
The big crab leaped forward, as expected, and Lon did indeed drop and roll just as he'd planned. He slashed blindly during the transit and managed to bruise one of the critter's legs with his dull saber. Clash, clang. The crab spun around and came at him with its snapping claws which he whacked away from the entrance of the crevice.
The deadlock continued. The creature clicked and tried snatch at him from every angle but it couldn't get its snappers under the ledge. Behind the angry beast, Lon saw Clyde return with three javelins tucked under his right arm. Three spears was either all he could carry, or all he could wrestle from the quiver. The sea drover continued to distract the animal to let his partner get set-up. He'd have a clear shot, but he'd have to come closer and go-in low if he ever hoped to kill it; there was no point flinging wooden bolts at its heavily armoured backside.
The clerk from Barobell probably didn't expect to deliver a critical hit. He likely just wanted to distract the organism so Lon could exterminate it. He cleared his arms of all but one spear and stepped forward to take aim.
The sea drover watched the clerk make his first attempt. While Clyde demonstrated some skill hurling the bolt, he had no ability aiming such ordinance. The lance struck stone some distance away.
The critter heard the impact and the loud sound triggered its threat detector; it turned around to be sure nothing deadly lurked on its blind side. That's when it spied Clyde by the sand dune. The giant pivoted again to keep its one good eye on both hazards and reserve a claw for each.
The valet didn't wait for Lon's critique before he fired his second strike. But it was even worse than his first. The rusty missile landed closer to the sea drover than the crab. It struck the rocks beside his shelf and rolled to rest under its claws.
The young lad decided to retrieve it. He crept out of his cranny to rolled close to fearlessly snatch the oaken shaft. He defied its counterattack to slither back and hide again in the same fissure. "Make some noise!" Lon barked at his companion.
"Aiiiieeeeeee," Clyde issued a primitive war cry as he threw his third and final spear.
With surprising dexterity, the creature caught the shot in his big right claw. The brute closed its pincers and snapped the pole like kindling. Dry wood splinters rained down in front of Lon's nook. The decapitated iron spear point fell on the stone with a clank. The sound the monster made as it mangled the shaft sent shivers down the young lad's spine and filled him with new respect for all marine life.
The oversized crustacean turned and advanced on Clyde. It must have sensed his martial ineptitude and marked him as easy prey. It may have realized he was out of spears.
Clyde held up his saber and waved it around in a show of strength, but the crustacean ignored the bluff and continued unabated.
Lon saw his chance. He dropped his saber and placed both hands on the oaken bolt he'd recovered. He crawled forth from under the ledge and sprang to his feet. Exposed now, he hustled forward and ran to attack the animal's unprotected rear. He used the heavy bar to lever the crab upside down. It worked. A tangle of wretched-looking red legs flailed up into the air. The crustacean curled its feet to make a fence and protect its soft underbelly. Too late. Lon breached its legs to stand on the beast's stomach and repeatedly stab its heart with the rusty spear point.
The crab squealed and sang a horrible death song. Pink and white gooey blood spurted-up from the puncture wounds and the gore coated the young lad's arms and legs. He stabbed the giant until it ceased to struggle.
A calm descended on the sand banks after the creature died. Yet Clyde continued to beat-on its big right claw with his steel cutlass. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Lon smiled at the sight because he thought his inexperienced companion was still scared, or felt slighted, or exercised some other wry emotion. Then it became clear the crafty feigor searched for something else; he sought nourishment.
Three more strikes and Clyde broke through the shell to reveal the crab's pink rubbery muscle inside. With a deft strike he severed a huge section of flesh. Curious, Lon climbed down off the crab's belly and came around to study the fresh food source. He saw the butcher slice the meat with his saber and then taste it on his tongue. "It's delicious" the clerk declared.
Famished, Lon smiled in gratitude when Clyde passed him a huge hunk, as big as his hand. Together they munched in silence.
"This would be so much better fried in a pan with butter and salt." Clyde said, between bites.
"Everything tastes better with butter and salt."
The three other organisms which Lon had tangled with earlier now advanced up the sandy slope toward their dead mother.
Lon heard the medium-sized monsters clattering closer long before the appeared. With a half pound of stringy crab meat in his hand, he hurried back to the crevice to retrieve his blade. But instead of going back to work, he chose instead to back away. The lad chewed handfuls of tasty tissue as he left the scene. They'd severed six pounds of meat and that was enough for them.
Both feigor stood some distance away and watched as the smaller crabs tore apart the matron that'd once ruled their kingdom. They saw how each critter struggling to get enough of the remains so they might grow strong enough to someday kill and eat the others.
"Yuck." Clyde said, repulsed by the sight and the repugnant screech of the cannibal crabs as they scissored apart the corpse. "That's nature's ugliness."
Lon wiped his face clean and nodded in agreement, even though he didn't quite agree. It felt good to eat the moist flesh but he needed water to slake his thirst. The lad took his iron-tipped spear, still gooey wet with the monster's blood, and stabbed it through the lump of flesh that remained. He inverted the chuck and blew sand off the top before he placed it on Clyde's shoulder. "Save it for later," he smiled again at his helpful travelling companion.
Clyde warmed at the smile. "We must find fresh water soon." But Lon had already walked away, his saber in hand. He was off to the next adventure.