“South of Solapia,” the prince answered. He looked at Finn Rivers for confirmation; the boy was a fount of such knowledge, they had found, always chipping in with these little details. He had proven of great entertainment and insight during the long days it took to get here after the tempest, battling through a series of smaller ‘sub-storms’, as Captain Burton had called them, as well as a four-day period where they had languished, becalmed, upon a strange and silent silver sea.
That was almost more frightening than the storms had been. For those four days, the waters had gone still as a millpond, the winds dying as though the world had come to a sudden, abrupt end. They could see no land, and some of the men had started to fret that the storm had driven them out beyond the known oceans and into the empty void where thousands of other vessels had been known to vanish in the past. Even Bloodhound Burton had seemed wary for a while, with their water stocks running low, and the sun beating mercilessly down upon them. Men were prone to go mad in those conditions, he’d said, though once again the gods had proven themselves generous when they stirred the winds back up into a frenzy, and they drove themselves west toward the coast.
It’s all these Rasals aboard, Robbert Lukar had decided. The Seaborn were the people of the ocean god Rasalan and he was doing what he could to help them. Every day they sang their songs of prayer, remaining upbeat even in the direst of circumstances, and if it wasn’t for Bloodhound, there was no way they’d have lived through that tempest. The way he moved the ship on the waves…the way he outmanoeuvred and outwitted that manator. Lank had said later that the captain had been sent by Rasalan to save them, and tongue in cheek though the comment was, he did not seem to be far wrong.
Finn Rivers nodded. “Hundreds of miles south of Solapia,” he confirmed to the prince. “Almost directly south of the city of Azore. The Unseen Isles aren’t on most maps, because they’re too far away. That’s why they’re called ‘unseen’. People say they’re the farthest islands from the continents. Right at the edge of the world that we know.”
Bernie peered up at the great sandstone carving of Calacan again. “What happened to him, then? Did he get lost when he flew out searching for other lands?”
Finn Rivers nodded solemnly. “So some say. The goddess Aramatia made a land of her own, the local people believe. She wanted her own island, like her sister Solapia, so she went off to try to make one, far away across the sea. Only…she never came back. And Calacan grew so worried that he would fly out searching for her. And then he went missing too.”
“Maybe they both found peace,” Bernie said, in a hopeful voice. He looked to the eastern horizon. “Did anyone go looking for them? Like sailors and explorers? If Aramatia made a land of her own it would be a peaceful one, wouldn’t it? She wasn’t so fond of war like some others, I’ve heard.”
“She was a goddess of life and love and beauty,” Finn Rivers agreed. “If there’s a land of her own making out there, I’ll bet it’s real nice.”
He gave a grin, and that made Bernie grin too, though Robbert’s face was stone. Much as he liked the sentiment there, he didn’t want to let his own thoughts drift in that direction. If we wanted to find somewhere even half peaceful, we would have staggered toward the Telleshi Isles, he thought. But it was war Robbert wanted to seek, his own lands he wanted to defend. All this airy talk of mythical lands and goddesses and giant eagle-titans wasn’t going to lead anywhere.
He left them at the prow, stepping down through the men, offering what words of encouragement he could. The humidity was wretched down in their bunks and cabins, so most had come up for air, and the decks had grown crowded. Many had taken to sleeping on the little beach as well, finding little nooks among the rocks, erecting their own little shelters to stave off the sun.
Robbert joined Captain Burton on the quarterdeck. He held a monocular to his eye and was scanning the sea.
“See anything out there?” the prince inquired.
“Whales,” Bloodhound said. “See them. Smell them.” His nostrils flared. “Pod of them cruised past, few miles out.”
“Going which way?”
“North. Toward Bhoun.”
It was an island on the south coast of Rasalan, barely a hundred miles away, named for the god of whales. Apparently, the giant animals were drawn to the waters between the island of Bhoun, and Galaphan’s Grounding, further to the east, where the whale titan Galaphan had died and washed ashore. Some said that was due to old age. Others that Galaphan had been mortally wounded fighting Izzun, the kraken titan, in a bout that turned the sea to a great red-white froth, and created giant whirlpools that sucked a thousand ships down to Daarl’s Domain. According to the tale, Izzun, too, had died from wounds taken during the battle. Like the gods, the monstrous beasts of their making were often at war with one another, back during the early days, fighting for supremacy of land and sea and sky.
“Hand that over, will you,” Robbert said. He took the monocular from Burton and put it to his working right eye. The black patch he wore over his blinded left had become bleached and salt-stained now, the rest of his face kissed with a bronzing tan. He gave the sea a look, spotting no ships, no whales, nothing at all, then handed the monocular back, clutched at his godsteel dagger, and squinted out, looking again.
Burton frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if my eyesight is better with godsteel or that little gadget of yours.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “About the same. Hard to know with nothing to look at.” He performed the same experiment, this time looking up at the stone eagle on the cliffs above them, then over at Lank as he continued down the steps. He was nearing the bottom now. With both godsteel and monocular Robbert could see the beads of sweat on the knight’s forehead, the focused cast to his eyes as he took each step one at a time. Sir Lothar was not especially fond of the climb, clearly. “My sight’s better with godsteel, but it’s marginal.” He gave the monocular back again. “I’ve decided to head straight for Vandar,” he said. “Not Mudport, maybe, but one of the harbours further up the coast. I can’t waste time marching through Rasalan. The fighting’s in Vandar, Captain, and that’s where I need to be.”
Bloodhound scratched a grey-whiskered jowl in thought. They had heard from the occasional passing ship that the Marshlands had become a warring wasteland, overrun by the hordes of Agarath and their allies. There was even a rumour that a Tukoran army had been mustered to join the fighting, marching from Ilithor under the command of Robbert’s twin brother. If that was true, he had to do whatever he could to get to them. The idea of fighting beside Ray made him smile. For Father, he thought. That’s what they would say to one another, before they took to the field. Even if we didn’t say it with words, he knew. We’d say it with our eyes, and our hearts.
That’s how it had always been between them. Robbert always knew what Raynald was thinking, and vice versa. A glance here, a smile there, a little gesticulation that only they knew. In battle that made them almost one, knowing what the other would do. And maybe that’s what I need, Robb reflected. He’d lost the use of his left eye, but Ray would more than make up the difference.
“The crossing will be difficult,” the captain said, after a while. “We’ve been lucky since that manator, but that’s not likely to last. The amount of greatwhales we’ve been seeing…and that kraken the lads spotted a few days ago. Those beasts are drawn to fight, as Izzun and Galaphan were. Might be we’ll slip by unnoticed, but if not, we’ll be in a spot of bother, lad, make no mistake. And we can expect to see dragons soon enough too.”
“We have no choice,” Robbert said. “The way from Rasalan will take weeks of hard riding, and months if we’re forced to march afoot.” Which they would be. Robbert had some horses in the holds, but not many, and there was no way he’d be able to find mounts for three thousand men at any Rasal port, no matter how big. “I can’t wait that long, Captain. When we leave, we’re sailing west. There’s no other option.”
“Aye, so it is then. But just remember what you told me, princeling.”
Robbert remembered. “I told you to get us home safe. You’ve done a fine job in that so far.”
“Aye. So far. Now I’m not one to go running scared of krakens, as you know, but if you want to avoid a tussle, you’re going to have to trust me to steer our course. We’ll start west once we pass the Horn, but if I get a sense that it’s too dangerous, I’ll have no choice but to turn us north. Just making you aware.”
Robbert had to trust the captain’s judgment on that. He nodded to say he understood and looked across his little fleet of six. Each of the ships was tied up against a stone jetty, fastened to iron pylons with lengths of hempen rope, moving and creaking gently on the water. Blackthorn was still under repairs - she had taken a savage gutting from a rocky shoal only a few miles down the coast, puncturing her hull in several places, and the Seaborn were working underwater to fix her, holding their breath for long minutes at a time. Some could do so for upwards of ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes or more, Robbert had heard. Bloodhound claimed he could hold his breath twice as long as any of them, of course, though hadn’t yet risen to any requests to prove it.
Hammer was also undergoing some reinforcements from the battering the manator had given them, overseen by the boatswain George Buckley and the ship’s chief carpenter, Wick Ashton, both Seaborn of middling blood. By now all the masts had been fixed, the sails stitched back together, holes and breaches covered over and filled in with thick black tar, but there were a couple of areas down at the belly of the beast that still needed a bit of attention.
“Will they be ready when I give the order to sail?” Robbert asked.
“Buckley says we’ll be fixed up by tomorrow,” Bloodhound confirmed. “Blackthorn the same. Might want to give it an extra day or two to make sure, though.”
Two, three days, Robbert thought. If no more ships came in that time, he would call the command to leave.
A glint of sunlight on steel caught his eyes and he saw Sir Lothar long-striding down the rocky beach with that absurd gait of his, moving toward the stone pier at which Hammer had been moored. Lank gave an order to his men as they reached the ship, and off they went to seek their rest, staggering away to find some shade. Lank crossed the gangplank and joined Robb and the captain at the helm. He looked weary after a long night up there on the clifftops.
“Anything?” Robbert asked him.
Sir Lothar had a half smile on his lips. A tired smile. “There’s a ship incoming,” he told his prince. “It’s still far off, and looks in poor shape, but it’s one of ours.”
“Gullimer?” Robbert looked at his tall friend in hope.
But Lank’s head went left and right. “One of Lord Simon’s. Another Swallow ship.”
Robbert nodded. It was good news. Not the ship he wanted to see, but any of them was a boon to his cause. He heard a hammer of feet across the decks, and looked up to see that Lord Huffort was stamping their way, having left his cabin aboard Landslide, moored across the pier. Both of the ships were mighty galleons, with three great decks and four soaring masts furled with sails coloured in the hues of their houses. Huffort had been here for weeks now and had grown restive in that time.
“My prince.” The large, lantern-jawed lord greeted him with a perfunctory bow. He wore a linen shirt, cotton breeches, and a cloak of soft light wool, quartered in shades of brown and grey.
