The Elder Gods (9 page)

“Those things splashing around out there don’t have anything to do with the weather, Cap’n,” Ox scoffed.

“Maybe not, but I’m not about to take any chances. Don’t fool around with things, Ox. Just leave them exactly the way they are.”

And so the
Seagull
proceeded south at a goodly rate with dolphins leaping along in front of her bow as rosy dawn tinted the eastern sky.

“There’s a fire on the beach, Cap’n,” Tree-Top called down from the topmast.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Hook-Beak called up to him. “There’ll be two more farther on south. After we pass the third one, we’ll need to keep a sharp eye out. There’ll be an inlet that leads into a fair-sized bay. That’s the place we’re looking for.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Tree-Top called back.

The
Seagull
passed the third bonfire in the early afternoon of the third day after Sorgan’s meeting with Longbow, and Hook-Beak ordered the crew to keep a sharp eye off to port.

They rounded a headland, and just beyond there was what appeared to be a narrow channel stretching back between two rocky promontories.

“I’ll take her, Ox,” Sorgan said, laying one hand on the tiller. “Get the oarsmen in place, and drop the sail. Let’s not run her aground this close to the rich lady’s home village.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Ox agreed.

Hook-Beak considered his options as he steered the
Seagull
through the channel and on into the sizeable bay lying beyond. He was fairly sure that Longbow hadn’t been trying to deceive him, but it might be better to take things a little slow and steady here. He didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know him. He glanced at the sky. It was midafternoon now, and it’d probably take some time to locate the village and row up the bay to wherever it was. That could possibly bring them to this Lattash place at sundown or even later. It might be safer to drop anchor a ways out from shore and wait until morning. That way they’d arrive in broad daylight, and everybody could see what everybody else was doing.

“Shinny up the mast, Ham-Hand,” he told his second mate. “See if you can spot that village, and then find us a place to anchor for the night. We’ll sit tight until morning, and
then
we’ll go talk with the rich lady.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Ham-Hand agreed. “Let’s not rile up the natives if we don’t have to.”

They anchored the
Seagull
off a rocky shore where there was no discernable beach. Hook-Beak didn’t want anybody to come creeping up to his ship in the dark. He stationed lookouts aloft and others in the bow and on the stern, just to be on the safe side.

The night passed quietly, and everything seemed to be all right the next morning. The lookouts had seen several fires near the broad, sandy beach at the head of the bay during the night, and Sorgan called the crew of the
Seagull
to the aft deck for a little conference. “I want you men to mind your manners when we go into that village,” he told them. “Don’t start getting any ideas about their womenfolk or try to grab any trinkets from the men. We’re probably going to be outnumbered by about ten to one, so let’s all be real polite. These people seem to need some help from us, and there’s been some talk of gold as payment for that help, so behave yourselves. Don’t start waving your swords and spears around, and don’t snarl or shake your fists at anybody. We could be talking about a lot of gold here, and I’ll be
very
unhappy with anybody who does anything to upset the applecart. Have I made myself clear?” He looked around at his crew with bleak eyes and an even grimmer expression.

They all seemed to get his point almost immediately.

They raised anchor as the sun was just coming up, and the oarsmen slowly rowed the
Seagull
up to the head of the bay where the nighttime lookouts had seen the fires.

“Take her on in until we’re about a hundred yards from shore, Ox,” Sorgan instructed. “We’ll drop anchor there and wait to see how the natives behave. If they seem peaceful, fine. If they act belligerent, we’ll turn the
Seagull
around and go someplace else.”

“I get your drift, Cap’n,” Ox agreed.

Sorgan noted that the village of Lattash was quite a bit larger than the one where he’d met Longbow, and there were many canoes on the sandy beach, and fishnets drying on poles near the canoes. It appeared that the natives of Lattash were primarily fishermen. The houses, if they could be called that, were made, for the most part, of tree branches tightly woven about dome-shaped frames, and, though they appeared to be a bit crude, Hook-Beak was fairly sure that they kept the weather at bay. There was nothing in the village that could really be called a street, since the individual huts appeared to have been randomly placed.

There was also a well-packed ridge or berm between the village and the river, which came down out of the mountains just there, and that strongly hinted at the possibility that the river sometimes overflowed its banks.

It wasn’t long before a dozen or so canoes were paddled out from the beach by leather-clad natives. Sorgan noted that they were all fairly well armed. Their arrows and spears had stone points, but a well-sharpened stone point could probably find a man’s vitals almost as well as an iron one could.

The canoes drew up in a sort of half-circle between the
Seagull
and the beach, but a single one was paddled up to within a few yards of Sorgan’s ship. There were only two natives in the canoe. The one who was doing the paddling appeared almost as burly as Ox, and he had a flaming red beard that reached halfway to his waist. The other native was much older, and he had snowy hair, which he wore in braids.

The red-bearded native skillfully brought the canoe to a stop, and his older companion rose to his feet. “Welcome to Lattash, Sorgan Hook-Beak,” he said in a deep, rolling voice. “Long have we awaited your coming.”

“I am honored by your greeting,” Sorgan replied. A certain formality seemed to be in order here. He didn’t know these people, so he didn’t want to take any chances.

“I am White-Braid of Lattash,” the man in the canoe introduced himself, “and the younger men of this village even heed my advice—every so often.” The old man smiled faintly.

Sorgan had noticed that Longbow had also seemed to have a similarly dry sense of humor. He straightened. “I have been told that the Lady Zelana would have words with me, Chief White-Braid,” he said.

“I have heard so myself,” White-Braid replied. “This is my nephew, Red-Beard,” he said, gesturing toward the native who’d paddled the canoe. “He will escort you to the cave where she dwells. I shall remain here so that your men will need have no concern about your continued well-being. In time, these precautions may no longer be necessary, but we are strangers still, so let there be no possibility of deception.”

“You are very wise, Chief White-Braid,” Sorgan said, “and I shall be guided by you in this matter.” If White-Braid wanted formality, Sorgan was ready to pile formality on him until he was hip-deep in it.

The two of them rather carefully changed places. White-Braid came on board the
Seagull,
and Hook-Beak climbed down into the canoe. “Treat our friend well, Ox,” Sorgan called up to his first mate.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Ox replied respectfully.

“Why does the lady called Zelana live in a cave instead of in the village with the rest of the tribe?” Sorgan asked the red-bearded native, who was paddling the canoe smoothly toward the beach.

“She doesn’t really belong here, Sorgan Hook-Beak,” Red-Beard replied, “and she isn’t very fond of us.”

“I thought that she was the queen of this part of Dhrall,” Sorgan said.

“Not exactly,” Red-Beard replied. “Our legends say that she’s lived forever, but that she doesn’t care for people very much. She went away a long, long time ago. She came back just recently, and now she’s staying in that cave at the edge of the village. My uncle tells us that she’s very powerful, and that if she wants something to happen, it
will
happen. Uncle White-Braid gets a little strange when he talks about her. I think he’s afraid of her, and that’s most peculiar, because he’s not really afraid of anything. She never comes out of that cave, and the only servant she has is a little girl. The child comes out of the cave to tell us what Zelana wants us to do.”

“What does she look like?” Sorgan asked.

Red-Beard shrugged. “I’ve only seen her twice, and she keeps her face covered. I overheard my uncle once when he was talking with some of the other old men of the village, and he was telling them that she changes every so often.”

“Changes?”

“She doesn’t always look the same.” Red-Beard stopped paddling. “When we get to the beach, I’m supposed to lead you right along at the edge of the water. Uncle White-Braid told me to be very careful to keep you right out in plain sight all the way to the cave of Zelana so that your men won’t have any cause for concern.”

“Your people seem to be very cautious, Red-Beard,” Sorgan observed.

“Uncle White-Braid seems to prefer it that way. Old men are like that sometimes.”

“That might explain how they lived long enough to get old.”

“You’re probably right,” Red-Beard conceded, taking up his paddle again. “We’ll have to go ashore just ahead. There’s some sharp rocks just below the surface of the water farther on down the beach, and I’d rather not rip the bottom out of my canoe.”

“How far is it to this cave?” Sorgan asked.

Red-Beard pointed with his paddle. “It’s in the side of that hill near the end of the beach.”

“It’s quite a ways from the village,” Sorgan observed, noting that the hill was oddly dome-shaped and its sides were mostly bare rock with scant vegetation.

“The one called Zelana doesn’t seem to like the way we smell.”

“Am I supposed to bow down to her or anything like that?” Sorgan asked.

“I don’t think so. Uncle White-Braid would have mentioned it. Just tell her who you are. She’ll probably know already, since she’s been describing you ever since she first got here.” Red-Beard drove the prow of his canoe up onto the beach, and then he and Sorgan pulled it on up until it was clear of the water. Then they walked on down the beach, being careful to stay in plain sight of the
Seagull.

“Have you heard anything about some kind of trouble that might be coming this way?” Sorgan asked.

“There’s always trouble in this part of the world, Sorgan Hook-Beak,” Red-Beard replied. “The tribes can go to war about almost anything. Here lately, though, we’ve heard some stories about the creatures of the Wasteland.”

“Where’s that?”

“Off beyond the mountains,” Red-Beard replied vaguely. “I don’t really know very much about it, because the old men don’t like to talk about the Wasteland. The creatures who live there are supposed to look sort of like people, but I don’t think they
are
people. Zelana can probably tell you more about them. I think that’s why she wants to talk to you. There’s the mouth of her cave right over there.” He pointed at an irregular opening in the rocky hillside. “My uncle told me to make some noise before we go on inside. He said that we don’t want to startle Zelana.”

They approached the cave mouth with a certain caution. “Zelana of the West,” Red-Beard called into the echoing cave, “I am Red-Beard of the line of White-Braid the chief, and I have brought an outlander named Sorgan Hook-Beak to speak with you.”

They waited for a few moments, and then a beautiful little girl with fair hair came out of the dark cave. “What kept you so long, Hook-Beak?” she asked Sorgan. “The Beloved was starting to worry about you. Come along, but wipe your feet before you come inside. She gets very peevish when somebody tracks mud into her cave.”

Sorgan and Red-Beard followed the little girl through the irregularly shaped opening and on through a twisting, narrow passageway into a large chamber where a small fire burned some distance back from the cave mouth. A woman with dark hair and wearing a filmy gauze garment was seated near the fire with her back to them. “It’s about time you got here, Hook-Beak,” the woman said. “Has the
Seagull
gone lame?”

“It
is
a fair distance from Longbow’s village,” Sorgan replied, feeling more than a little offended.

“That didn’t bother her very much when she was chasing down that Trogite treasure ship a little while back.”

“How did you know about that?” he demanded.

“The Beloved knows everything, Hook-Beak,” the little girl told him. “Everybody knows that.”

“That’ll do, Eleria,” the woman in gauze said. Then she turned to look at Sorgan.

Sorgan’s knees went weak at that point. She was by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Don’t stare, Sorgan,” she said primly. “It isn’t polite.”

“Forgive me,” he said, flushing slightly. “Your appearance startled me. You must be used to that by now, though.”

“It does happen every so often,” she admitted. “At least you’re strong enough not to swoon at the sight of me. That can be
so
irritating. I see you’ve brought Red-Beard with you.”

“Actually, he’s the one who brought
me,
” Sorgan replied, his voice still trembling a bit. “He showed me the way.”

“Then you know each other. Good. He’ll be going with us when we return to Maag. We’ll have to stop and pick up Longbow as well, but we can go into the details later. Let’s get down to business here. I need warriors, and I pay in gold. Are you interested?”

“The word ‘gold’ is
very
interesting,” he replied. “Who do you want me to kill, and how much gold will you give me after he’s dead?”

“You’re a blunt man, Sorgan,” she said.

“It saves time,” he said with a shrug. “Are we talking about some kind of war here?”

“Well, sort of. How much do you know about the Land of Dhrall?”

“I’d never even heard of it until I met Longbow about three days ago. Red-Beard here was telling me something about some people that live over beyond the mountains. I gather that they’re the ones you’d like to have me kill. Is this some sort of tribal squabble? That sort of thing happens in Maag all the time.”