The two escapees traveled in wary silence and Lon chose a fresh path through open fields of sandy stone where he hoped they'd have more time to see the next foul thing that attacked. He marveled at how such an insignificant little sandbar could shelter so many carnivores and he worried the worst was yet to come.
The sun climbed higher and the rocks grew hotter. Both travelers were thirsty. They traipsed along and the terrain changed to tenacious weeds and then fields of heather which grew ever-taller until the wild grass completely hid their surroundings. After some time in this suffocating pampas they happened upon a large shade tree.
"Can we... " Clyde huffed, "not just enjoy this damp coolness for a moment?"
Lon could see his companion was exhausted. He remembered how the fellow didn't get much sleep last night, and so he agreed. He circled around the leafy tree that he knew was a linden. It was softwood, the species had fat leaves and made pungent lumber. It was the only shade tree for some distance and one look at the matted ground told him some big animals frequently sheltered here.
Clyde rubbed his sore ankle which cued Lon to search for snakes. The old tree was still healthy however and after some inspection he decided it sheltered no threats. On the far side he spotted brambles with small berries which he recognized as redcaps, but the season had passed and all that remained were seedy tufts suitable only for birds.
"This tree will never wear Amon's Crown," Lon said as he surveyed the ball of leaves overhead.
"No its heavy limbs are upside down." Clyde agreed. He lay in the grass and closed his eyes.
The lad smiled at that. He was growing accustomed to his scholarly companion; he trusted him now, although he still had some nagging questions.
"So what's the deal with your hands?" Lon asked. "You keep saying they're big and heavy? They look normal to me."
"I've got Hot Hands. The latent hands of a healer."
"You can heal with touches?"
"No. I've just got the hands for it. So they say."
"Who says?"
"The Prince's people. Already I can warm your body and prevent frostbite."
"Oh. That's invaluable."
"Well not now. But maybe in the mountains. In a few days time." Clyde chuckled, and they both shared a smile. The minister's assistant raised his hands and studied them. They were a little bigger than usual Lon decided.
"Are you married?"
"No. The service requires some vows," Clyde said. "Prince's relics are best handled by individuals free of corruption."
Lon smiled again but stayed quiet. He didn't believe the noble deliberately chose celibacy, but his own record was pretty slender so he left it alone and sat down with his back against the tree. For a long time they both said nothing and Clyde fell asleep.
A half-hour later the noble coughed and sputtered and Lon asked him some other questions that he'd conceived during the rest period.
"Clyde. Do you feel different on this island?" he asked. He felt different, but he was different and so there was no comparison. He wondered if Clyde might notice how the air and very smell of this place made a body more energetic, and more enthusiastic if that was possible.
"I do." Clyde raised and lowered his arms. "My hands feel lighter here".
"Have they ever felt that way before?"
"Sometimes. When I pray." The clerk moved his arms up and down feeling their weight, "but never this light."
"How long does it take to make cloudstone umm powerful through prayer?" Lon asked politely.
"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.
The slave revolt on the second boat waned when the rebels couldn't break free. Why could they not get away? Then Lon saw then how a towrope connected all three vessels. The minuchin were tied to the shore party. The mutineers must not have a blade or any way to cut that cord.
Now these soldiers armed themselves to kill the slaves they'd ensnared. These mutants had dared to quest for their freedom and would be destroyed. Lon sensed how the Crols rejoiced at the prospect of murdering them and he knew they'd be distracted by that horrible task. He watched as one fetched javelins from the bow of their beached landing craft.
Lon saw two slaves abandon the middle skiff and wade to shore with boat oars held as weapons.
Out at sea, the two galleys disgorged more troops into more small craft. How many boats did they have? There'd be two dozen soldiers on shore in ten minutes.
Lon hustled across the tide pools as quick as he could manage. He switched hands with his saber to keep his balance as he leapt rocks and rivulets. He ran in a gully to hide his approach. When he finally emerged he was forty paces behind the javelin thrower. But then to his dismay he watched that Crol kill another captive. Chase Kluth, I'm too late to save that one.
The javelineer was skilled at throwing his bolts. Two rebels lay dead in the lorry with oak poles in their chest. The enemy cackled with pride and readied his third rod.
Further down the beach his comrades battled rebels waist deep in the water. That pair of escapees appeared to work together quite well. One of them was Jarl the lionfeigor! He'd managed to trade his boat oar for a guard's sword.
The other escapee was Tharus. The green skinned swampkin ruled the surf. He'd appear just long enough to strike and then disappear from sight. He rose behind a roller and knocked a Crol sideways into Jarl's slashing blade. The enemy howled and held up his bloody hand. The javelin thrower grumbled loudly and took aim at the big cat in the waves.
The sea drover's white hair was spotted by the soldiers on approach. The occupants of the third boat issued a loud hue-and-cry as they tried to warn their comrades. But the spear-thrower was too absorbed in his murderous marksmanship to hear anything beyond the waves and his own heartbeat. Their warnings came too late.
Lon raised his saber, blunt from all the vegetation he'd hacked that day, and bounced off the bones in the spearcaster's neck. The dull blade was still sharp enough to sever his spine and the homicidal hunter dropped like a sack of potatoes. Lon didn't waste another thought on him.
The third landing craft, no longer in such a hurry to reach the shore, went silent at the grisly spectacle. But they came alive again when the dreaded renegade carried-on down the beach toward the shore party. They tried to warn their unsuspecting brethren with fresh shouts.
It was Jarl who first saw Lon and he couldn't keep the surprise from his eyes. A look of pure amazement came over the big cat's face and the soldier he dueled backed away from the match. The Crol knew something had changed. He shifted around and saw Lon and tried to warn the other guards. Jarl drove his blade into his mouth and silenced his cry. The lion retracted the steel and a vomitous torrent of blood flowed-out over his body and he collapsed in the surf. The second feigor-at-arms tried to avenge him but Lon beat him back with his dull metal saber and Jarl stabbed him through the heart. The water ran red around their corpses. The third Crol nursed his cut-hand and tried to flee out to sea. Tharus appeared and pulled him under.
Lon checked the third landing craft just in time to see an athlete hurl a lance. The lad ducked the well-aimed spear which sailed a few inches over his head.
"Lonny?" Jarl still stared at him in disbelief. He appeared more concerned with his sudden appearance than the next boatload of Crols. "Is that you?"
"Jarl." Lon nodded quick to confirm his beliefs, "It's me. Lonny from Dundae." The big cat looked unconvinced until Lon added irrefutable proof. "The wood weasel. It's still me." Then he spotted the swampkin's face in the wash and called to him, "Tharus. Come now. We can't win here."
"Lonny?" The lizard emerged from the surf. "Is that you?" He repeated Jarl's question, and then looked over at the lionfeigor who nodded confirmation and waved him ashore.
Another javelin bisected the space between the runaways, and that's when they all heard Minister Horne scold the spear thrower.
The third landing craft pitched in the swell which made his job near impossible. Regardless, Lon saw how he clutched another bolt.
Minister Horne lifted his hood to reveal himself at the front of the lorry. He wore the same yellow jacket and its tall collar rose up from under his boat cloak. He scolded the ill-trained harpooner behind him for having such poor aim. The priest waved his hand to stop the oars and he held their position twenty paces from shore.
The killing had ended and calm descended over the seaside. Lon could hear Tharus and Jarl looting the bodies and rummaging supplies. He smiled with approval when he saw how they'd both worked to outfit themselves with proper boots from the dead soldiers. That was quick. He'd done the same thing last night. Lon stood in the sandy surf and faced his pursuer who sat snug among a boatload of bodyguards.
"The Sea Drover lives." the priest cackled in Common and so Lon knew it was for his benefit. Most Crols refused to learn or speak the inter-tribal tongue which they considered base. "You're a blessed abomination," he continued after another wry chuckle. "A very special feigor."
Lon listened in silence. He pondered the idea of swimming out and tipping the craft. All eyes were on him now and he could see more small vessels had departed the triremes.
"I can help you." Minister Horne continued solemnly, "you're caught between powerful forces you don't understand.'
"Because I am just minuchin?" Lon mocked. He opened his arms to mimic the perfect feigor in the circle sketch that he'd seen on the altar and which he knew was depicted in the Prima Alocer. This action reminded everyone of when he was tied-up inside the ring.
The Crols saw the irony at once, as well as Tharus and Jarl, who grunted with amusement. The sea drover was now the very model of a True Pattern feigor. His long curly white mane shone bright and his muscles glistened with sandy moisture in the morning sun. Hundreds of tiny cuts on his muscular body gave him the appearance of a fierce opponent and perhaps someone still imbued with whatever he'd soaked up from the artifact. The Crols were impressed, but so were Tharus and Jarl. Their memory of Lonastasius Treanole was challenged because right then he looked anything but minuchin.
"It is so," Minister Horne replied. "Your present appearance doesn't fool us. Yaclev takes many forms; corruption favours beautiful feigor."
"So will you still call me Sea Drover then?" Lon quizzed, "or will you now refer to me as Yaclev?"
It was another clever response and Jarl and Tharus both grinned at his audacity. It was one thing to stand up to the most powerful person in the world but quite another to make him appear foolish. Horne ignored his irreverence.
"This isle will consume you lad. Come back with me and rule as a Prince of the Realm."
Lon couldn't believe how desperate he sounded. He would have laughed aloud but the priest continued to humble himself.
"You'll want for nothing Lonastasius," Horne said. "A farm? How about a village filled with farms? Help me and you can rule Dundae as Governor."
"He lies," Clyde of Barobell surprised everyone when he rose up from behind a sand dune. He'd remained hidden but chose to show himself to save Lon from the honeyed words of his former employer. He still carried their spear spiked with crab meat and a boat saber. His muddy face and clothes proved he'd accompanied Lon this far and they'd worked together to survive. He glanced at Tharus and Jarl but ignored their suspicious eyes to declare again. "He lies!"
Clyde's sudden appearance shocked Minister Horne. He stared slack-jawed at the runaway valet and shifted himself in the boat to better study him.
"Stay there Sire Tolden!" One of the Crols cried. "We'll save you." Another yelled.
"Save yourselves fools. If you continue to serve this blood thirsty tyrant you'll all perish. Run now while he hasn't any prayer in his stone!"
But then it was Minister Horne's turn to laugh. He clacked and pointed at some baggage. A baize bag was raised and from this sack he pulled forth the orb which appeared duller than before; his templestone now looked like a lump of grey quartz and it no longer possessed its brilliant glow. But it did have some power.
The young lad stood on the shoreline and watched Minister Horne palm the piece. A dull light shone forth between his fingers. "Lonny," the priest said, "join me and thrive at my side."
Horne said something else that rumbled and a golden vision thundered across the waves. It was the same geometry as appeared on the flag and it floated directly towards Lon.
The sea drover felt the golden shape strike his body. It washed him; his feet in the sand, the pattern pulled on his mind and tried to uproot his consciousness. He felt Horne behind the sign. The mystic tugged on his soul and made him question his resolve. What an incredible ability!
"Join me and thrive at my side," the priest repeated and now it was a persuasive argument. Lon considered what it would be like to be the Governor of Dundae with many farms of his own; he'd have timber rights, logging camps and crews. He'd buy a big house for his mother...
Then he saw the spear-thrower behind the patriarch raise his next lance and his casual glance at Horne and the soldier's queer smile shook him free. These are all lies he realized. These bastards would kill him the moment they stepped onshore. There were even more landing craft on approach. He couldn't fight them all.
"Lonny. Help." Clyde gasped behind him.
The sea drover spun around and the priests' mind control fizzled. The white-haired lad became alarmed when he saw that Tharus and Jarl had the noblekin on his knees, ready to be executed. They were not waiting for permission, but rather, they'd staged it as a nice show for the Crols.
"Stop." Lon commanded. The two freshly-liberated captives, his friends from the Annabelle just looked at him and he stared back. He saw them now as half-starved survivors, dressed in rags, they thirsted for water and craved revenge. But he wouldn't let them kill Clyde. The noble scholar was a good honest feigor, no matter what costume he wore.
Tharus and Jarl had dumb looks on their faces as they examined him. They were probably trying to guess why he now traveled with the minister's surviving attendant? They were still trying to sort him out. And this was a moment.
"Lonny?" Tharus asked, his webbed fingers still held Clyde's arms.
"Lonastasius..." Jarl growled, his furry claws on the captured sword, its blade dripped blood on Clyde's neck. It was clear they wondered how much of the weakling they'd known on the Annabelle still remained here in this magnificent white-haired being who stood before them.
Lon ignored them both to reach out and help the noble to his feet. He pushed away the swampkin's hands and knocked back Jarl's blade and by these actions he assumed command. The sea drover helped Clyde stand and he gave him back his saber. This was a far more damning presentation for Minister Horne to watch. In his eyes it must have looked like Lon had converted his foremost follower and won him over to his team. Now they were all four renegades, and the priest scowled loudly at the show.
Jarl and Tharus looked at each other mystified and then gazed at Lon whose hair seemed to glow in the morning sun. They probably wondered why the enemy scribe was now their equal, but they accepted it, temporarily.
The sea drover picked up the heavy spear which Clyde had carried and which still had crab flesh spiked on its point. He pulled off the pink meat and handed the lump to Jarl. Then he strolled back to the water's edge with the lance in his right hand.
"I'll track you down wherever you run, slave." Minister Horne declared and the flag of Crol flapped in the wind to punctuate the threat. His deep voice echoed inside Lon's brain. "You're not worthy of the role you've been dealt and the body you now inhabit."
The javelineer stood-up in the boat to properly aim and apply enough muscle to his ballistic. The white-haired lad didn't wait for his attempt. He hurled his own pike and his aim was terrific.
Oarsfeigors took evasive action and tried to maneuver clear of Lon's shot; the upright harpooner lost his balance and fell backwards. His legs pushed the craft to the left. The vessel yawed and the incoming missile struck a rear passenger square in the chest.
The Crol in the stern was surprised by the blow. He'd probably thought himself safe in the back and likely didn't see it coming. The lorry turned and the missile pierced his left lung. He fell out and flailed about in the sea with the spear still lodged in his breast.
"Clack clarack Sea Drover must die," Horne commanded and he pointed at the fearless slave who stood defiantly on the beach. They locked eyes and Lon stared down an empire.
But only for a moment. More landing craft rowed ever closer. Lon turned and walked away as the priest uttered more threats and dire predictions.
Lon smiled casually when he faced his companions. The white-haired lad picked up his saber at his feet and calmly walked through the group toward the tall grass beyond. He focused his eyes on the distant waterfall. He strolled past Clyde, Tharus and Jarl and forged them into a team with his youthful defiance and eternal confidence.
The lionfeigor's ears twitched and he grinned to show he appreciated the young lad's swagger; he watched in awe as Lon sauntered away towards the wilderness.
Clyde of Barobell cast a wary glance at the swampkin and then at the big cat and then he clutched his sand-covered saber to follow a couple paces behind their white-haired leader.
Tharus and Jarl grinned at each other and admired their new boots and sharp swords; they high-fived one another and rejoiced in their freedom. The lion clutched the crab meat and these two freshly liberated captives brought up the rear.
The four escapees had long disappeared from sight by the time Minister Horne's landing craft breached the surf and his yellow snakeskin boots touched the sand of the Forbidden Isle.