The Crown of the Usurper (48 page)

  "A few," growled Maanam. "Don't piss your kilt, I'll get you there safe as you like. Of course, what you do when you get there is your business. We normally leave stuff we don't want found and come back for it later. Nobody ever stays there; least, none that intends to."

  "What does that mean?"

  "You can be as wily as you like, sometimes the Nemurians might catch you inside the one-mile limit."

  "And what happens then?"

  "I haven't got a clue," said Maanam. "Nobody's ever come back to tell, have they? You just go missing."

  "Or perhaps they just got lost and swept out to the ocean," said Noran, but he knew he was grasping for straws of comfort. Maanam did not deign to give a response to such speculation.

  They sailed hotwards, the dusk on their left enough to light the waters, but just barely. No lamps were lit and the crew moved quietly about their tasks, no voices raised in command.

  "Coming up to the one-mile limit, I reckon," said Maanam, scratching his ear. The dark, jutting rocks of the Nemurian coast were highlighted ahead by a ruddy light reflected off surf and spray. Maanam looked left and right, perhaps gauging his position from the peaks that disappeared into the night sky. Further inland some of the mountains were topped with halos of fire, lighting the clouds from below.

  It was stunning and equally terrifying to Noran, who realised that he was within a half-hour of setting foot on Nemurian soil. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there, or how he would get back, if at all. The Nemurians would be just as likely to slay him out of hand for trespassing against all agreement as they were to listen to his talk of woe concerning the Askhan Empire. Even if he had a chance to speak to someone in authority, the pirates were going to take all of his money, Noran was pretty certain of that. The Nemurians were mercenaries, and he would have nothing to pay them.

  Realising this, he approached Maanam, who was in quiet conversation with the tillermen.

  "Ease over starboard, aiming for the cleft between the hills there." Maanam turned as he heard Noran's feet on the wooden deck. The captain smiled, but without any genuine humour. "Not long now, we'll have you on-shore soon enough. I'm not a heartless man, you can have a sack of clothes and such."

  "I need one chest of coin," Noran said softly. "I have to hire Nemurians, after all. One chest. You can keep the other three. Believe me, that's more askharins than you have ever seen."

  Maanam seemed to think about this, and put his hand across Noran's shoulders. The two of them walked to the aft rail, guided by the captain's step.

  "You have yourself in a bit of a fix, Noran Astaan," said Maanam, leaning his free arm on the timber of the rail and looking down into the water. His voice was quiet. "You see, there are lots of rocks in the water here, and a ship can be holed in moments. And I only have the one boat and none of the men are wanting to risk getting capsized in the heavy surf. I just don't think you'll be wanting to carry too much baggage."

  "You have lost me, captain," said Noran. "If you cannot get the ship to shore and you will not take me over on a boat, how am I supposed to get there?"

  "This is why you I need to hang on to all of your chests, you see," said Maanam. "You can't swim with them."

  He grabbed Noran's belt in both fists and hefted the nobleman over the aft rail, his laugh following Noran down until he crashed into the water, driving all of the breath from his body. Noran bobbed on the waves for a few moments, the sound of his own splashing louder than the pirate's guffaws, until the wake of the ship dragged him under the surface.

 

The sound of waves crashing on rocks brought Noran to consciousness. He felt water lapping at his feet and sharp rock beneath him but was too weak to move. Gulls made their raucous calls overhead and he realised that day had come, the light seeping through his eyelids as clarity returned.

  He opened his eyes and rolled to his back with a grunt. The sky was smeared with grey clouds of ash and smoke. Raising his head a little, he looked down at his feet. He was lying on a shelf of rock that sloped down to the sea, the water washing closer as the tide came in. With no clue as to how far up the slope the sea would encroach, Noran summoned up what strength he had to push himself to a sitting position.

  He had no idea how long he had been in the water, or lying in a daze upon the shore, but the sun was still low, casting golden light on the waves. All he could recall was the desperate pounding of his heart and the fire in his lungs as he had struck out for the forbidding shore of Nemuria. He could not remember reaching sanctuary, but the burning of his arm and leg muscles stood testament to his struggle against the swirling currents.

  The first rule of survival, he told himself, is to survive. That much he had achieved, but he was stranded on an isle of the Nemurians, without coin or even clothes to change for the sodden garments that clung to his body. He was in violation of the edicts of the Nemurians, and though he had escaped a watery grave there was little to hope for in his immediate future.

  "Best not get washed out again," he said to himself. The ache of his limbs turned to sharper pain as he pushed himself to his feet and plodded a few steps up the slope. A jutting rock provided support while he caught his breath, sucking in air through gritted teeth. His right arm was fearfully painful and he looked at it, seeing a stain of blood soaked through the linen of his shirt. He tentatively pulled up his sleeve, revealing a gash from wrist to elbow. It was not deep, but the salt of the water sent surges of pain through him as he examined the wound. He still had a knife at his belt and stripped away the sleeve to make a rough bandage. It provided little comfort, but he hoped it would be some protection.

  Becoming aware of a ravening thirst, he looked around.

  The slope was part of the footing of a mountain that soared up into the sky overhead, smoke billowing from its peak. Off to his left, further inland, he saw wisps of steam issuing from vents, and pools that bubbled like cauldrons hung over flames. The horizon was blocked off by more volcanoes. The air was thick with the stench of rotten eggs, but further up the side of the volcano he could see low bushes and thintrunked trees. Where there was vegetation, there was water, he reasoned. He pushed himself away from the support of the rock.

  He took a faltering step, summoning up reserves of endurance he had not tapped since his escape from Magilnada.

  The sound of small pebbles tumbling drew his attention to his right. What he had taken for a rock about fifty paces away started to expand, rising up from the ground, its shadow lengthening towards him. A club-ended tail unfurled, thudding to the ground as the Nemurian stretched to its full height, nearly half again as tall as Noran and three times as broad as him. What he had seen as grey stone flexed, revealing itself to be dark scales, and two yellow eyes opened.

  Noran's first instinct was to run, but there was nowhere to run to, and the Nemurian would have easily outpaced him even if Noran had been in the prime of fitness. Seeing that escape was not only impossible but counter-productive to the goal that had brought him to the island, Noran drew the knife from his belt and laid it on the ground before raising in his hands in what he hoped was the universally accepted gesture of surrender.

  "Take me to your leader?" he suggested.

  The Nemurian plodded across the slope with long strides, tail swinging and bouncing behind it. Noran could not stop himself taking a step back as its shadow engulfed him. It stopped at the knife and looked down. The Nemurian reached out with delicate, slender fingers and picked up the blade. It examined the knife for a few moments, turning it one way and then the other.

  Noran realised that the creature did not wear the armour and kilt he associated with the Nemurians and glanced between its legs before he could stop himself. He was glad that he was not confronted by some inhuman phallus, but only a stretch of light scales that disappeared between the Nemurian's thighs.

  "Do you understand me?" he asked.

  "The waves warned of your coming," the Nemurian replied in a lisping accent. Noran had never spoken to one of the creatures before and was surprised by its gentle tone. The eyes that regarded him, slowly scanning from toes to face, did not seem angry, but he was not foolish enough to believe a Nemurian's expressions would mirror those of humans.

  "I hope they said good things about me," Noran joked. He started to shiver, but whether it was from fear or the shock of his ordeal in the sea he did not know.

  Slitted nostrils widened as the Nemurian sniffed heavily. It reached out, handing the knife back to Noran. The herald took this as a good sign and smiled as he took the weapon, shoving it back into its sheath with fumbling fingers. The Nemurian's fingers grasped Noran's shirt and he pulled away out of instinct. The creature made a sound like two stones rubbing together and reached out again, tugging at the wet linen.

  "The sun brings life," it said. Noran tried to remain calm as it gently stripped him of his shirt and then tugged at his breeches.

  "Right, wet clothes, of course," said the herald, taking a few steps backwards. "I can take care of that."

  Conscious of the Nemurian's inquisitive gaze on him, Noran unbuttoned his breeches and stepped out of them, rebuckling his knife belt around his naked waist. The wind was warm even this early in the day, and as he took off his ragged sandals Noran could feel the heat of the rocks on the soles of his feet. He stopped shivering almost immediately, with the warmth of the sun direct on flesh. Trying not to feel too selfconscious about his nudity in front of his alien host, he pointed to his chest.

  "Noran," he said. "Noran Astaan. From Askh."

  "Stranded fish," said the Nemurian, which Noran thought was a strange name, until he realised the creature was talking about him.

  The Nemurian laid a hand on his shoulder, with surprisingly light touch for such a large figure, and pointed up the slope. There were several more Nemurians standing there, about two hundred paces away. Iron gleamed in the sun, a sight much more familiar to Noran. He told himself that he would not have received such a gentle welcome if the Nemurians planned to kill him anyway, but he could not help but wonder as he looked at the armoured figures waiting for him. His brief contact had already shown that the Nemurians did things very differently to Askhans.

  With an insistent but tender push, the Nemurian set him up the slope. He took a few steps and looked back.

  "Thank you," said the herald. "For whatever that is worth."

  "The stones decide," came the enigmatic reply.

 

Noran's return to wakefulness was accompanied by the soft slap of leather and a gentle swaying motion. He did not remember falling asleep, and nor did he remember being picked up by one of the Nemurians, but that was plainly the case. Judging by the close smell of metal and tanned hide, he was being carried in its arms like a child. Though it was not the most dignified way to travel, he was pleased to rest his tired limbs and made no move that would betray his woken state. Opening one eye a crack, he looked down upon a vast lake, ringed by verdant slopes. Strangely shaped rocks jutted up from amongst the foliage, on which had been painted brightly coloured patterns. Curves of stone arched over the treeline like bridges, and from them hung what could only be described as enormous nests made of entwined branches and broad leaves, each spacious enough for several dozen men to lie in comfort.

  He also saw more Nemurians, clambering up the rock bridges and swinging along ropes from one nest to another. They moved with a grace that was far from their lumbering strides on land. Out on the lake, large flat-bottomed boats bobbed on the waves, and he could see nets draped through the waters between them. Moving his head slowly, opening his other eye to peer past the thick arm of the Nemurian, he saw that the lake stretched for more than mile behind him, ringed by volcanic upthrusts.

  The Nemurians were talking, or so he assumed from the half-whispered syllables and grunts that passed between them. He was also surprised to hear the bleating of goats nearby, heard against the noise of the wind in the treetops.

  The Nemurian stopped and lowered him to the ground, its green eyes regarding him critically.

  "I think I can walk," said Noran. He looked up and saw that it was nearly noon. He remembered nothing of the morning passing, but it was clear they had travelled at speed for some distance.

  "We have come," said the Nemurian. "The stones beckon."

  The creature stepped aside and Noran saw that they had come to a large cave mouth. Something glittered with pale green light within and he could see the outlines of more Nemurians, settled on their haunches.

  A strange hooting call overhead drew his attention and he looked up to see a lattice of ropes strung between the slope above the cave and a pinnacle of rock. There were several Nemurians of different sizes but all smaller than those he had encountered – infants he guessed – hanging from the ropes, looking down at him with curious gazes. Some of them used their tails as extra limbs, swinging from one rope to another with the ease of monkeys despite their size. Several pointed and made more whooping noises. Noran had the suspicion it was laughter and placed his hand over his exposed genitals out of instinct.

  "I am a man-speaker." This pronouncement came from the cave entrance. The Nemurian who made it did not wear armour or kilt, but around its neck hung a long scarf of twisted leather strips studded with a king's fortune in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and other precious gems. Its scales were pale grey, with flashes of dark blue across the shoulders, the face a deep purple colour around bright green eyes. "Nok'ka is an acceptable term of address."