The Huntsman's Amulet (12 page)

Chapter 18

The Lie

S
oren managed to keep
moving for the whole day. One step at a time, he pushed himself toward the rowboat. Even when his mind drifted to near delirium, part of him still kept his body moving in the right direction. However, as the day began to darken, he had still not spotted the upturned boat.

He knew how quickly the first hint of sunset became the black of night on that island, and started to panic. All he could think about was being stuck on that grey, damp island, sleeping half of his life away. What made it even more terrifying was the thought that the spells that had kept the city in such exceptionally good condition would keep him alive for an eternity also, stuck in that lifeless prison.

It was fully dark when he walked straight into the boat. He had been so caught up in the panic of his worst-case scenarios that he had been stumbling forward without any care or caution. His momentum carried him over the boat and head first into the sand, which filled his mouth and nostrils.

He got to his hands and knees and stared out toward the water. He could see nothing but the occasional phosphorescing wavelet. No sign of a ship. If Captain Joris had departed at nightfall, he would be long gone. That was assuming he had ever come back at all.

Soren was beyond exhausted and chilled by the cold, damp air. There was a pile of wood lying by the remains of the fire he had lit on the first night. There was also the food that he had buried. If he was going to be miserable, he could at least be warm and fed.

He had some dry tinder in his pack, but the wood was damp from having been left lying on the shoreline for over a month. It took several attempts, but eventually he got the flame to take, and it slowly grew into a proper fire. The warmth was welcome, and after allowing it to wash over him for a few minutes, he turned his attention to digging out the food buried under the boat.

It was still there, untouched by the imagined wildlife he had feared might take it. The oilcloth he had wrapped it in kept it from getting too wet, but it didn’t make for good eating even as hungry as he was. He chewed on a piece of dry biscuit without any enthusiasm when he felt his mind drift into another one of its bouts of waking sleep. His eyes grew heavy and his head was filled with strange and nonsensical things, pieces of memories, inventions of his imagination, all rolled together making it impossible to tell what was real and what was not. He forced himself to stay awake, not knowing how long he would sleep if he allowed it take him.

Somewhere in the midst of the desolation in his mind, he heard a bell ringing off in the distance, the campanile of some great cathedral in his imagination or the bell of a village signalling danger to its inhabitants, or the bell of a ship…

The bell of a ship. Soren snapped himself from the daze and listened carefully, his senses alert and sharp for the first time in hours. He could hear the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and the crackle of the fire, but nothing else. Had he imagined it? Had it just been a product of his delirious, dreamlike state? No, he heard it again, drifting across the water, no more tangible than the fantasies that had been running through his mind only a moment before, but he was sure it was there. Then again. He was certain he was awake. He was certain he was not imagining it.

He looked out into the darkness, straining to see anything. The bell rang out again, three distinct clangs. Then he thought he saw a flicker, faint, but he had definitely seen it. Just a tiny twinkle in a sea of darkness, no larger than a star in the sky. It flashed three times, and he heard the bell again, three more clangs. They were signalling him. They must have seen his fire. The
Honest Christophe
was still out there.

He flipped the boat back over onto its hull and shoved it down the beach toward the water’s edge with newfound energy. He drove hard with his exhausted legs, but they answered. He realised that he was laughing like a madman and as soon as he heard the hull splash into the water, and felt it float off the sand, he hurled himself in and lay flat on his belly in the bottom, panting from the exertion. He sat up as soon as he had caught his breath and with every ounce of will that he had left in him, he put the oars in their locks and began to pull away from the beach and the dead island.

He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was still heading in the right direction. He was so tired that he was throwing his body backwards with each stroke. The pressure on his oars was not equal and he realised the boat was corkscrewing along erratically, like a drunk stumbling down the street after a heavy night’s drinking.

His strength was fuelled by the elation of not having been left behind. When the little rowboat finally clunked into the side of the
Honest Christophe
he slumped back into the bottom, too tired to do any more. He could feel the abrupt movement of the boat as somebody jumped down into it. He was barely aware of a shape standing over him, and only just registered the sound of his voice.

‘Think he’s passed out, Captain. Still alive though. Looks awful.’

There was another voice from the ship, but Soren couldn’t hear what it said. The man in the boat with him moved about doing something, and then there was a jolting upward movement as it was hauled back on board the
Honest Christophe
. As it swung sideways over the bulwark and onto the deck, Soren let the exhaustion swallow him whole.

Soren sat in silence opposite Joris in his stateroom at the stern of the
Honest Christophe
. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders and sipped hot broth from a mug held in shaking hands.

Eventually Joris broke the silence. ‘You don’t look like you’ve had the easiest few weeks.’

Soren shook his head.

‘So, the stories about the isles are true?’ Joris said.

Soren’s appearance said more for the lie he was propagating than anything that would come from his mouth. He made the decision as soon as he woke up. Berengarius was right; the information in the library was too dangerous to ever allow back out into the world. Nonetheless, he needed to be sure that his message got across. ‘They are, and more. It’s a hideous, dead place. Even the few plants that grow there are twisted and evil looking things. There’s no food to be had; were it not for what I brought with me, I’d have starved days ago.’

‘Aye, you look like you could use a couple of decent meals. We’ll soon solve that. I’ve a hold full of Ventish apples and pears. I’ll have one of the lads bring you up some. A bit of fresh fruit will set you up again.’

Soren nodded and smiled in thanks.

‘Was there anything else of interest there? Did you find the city?’

Soren nodded again. ‘Yes, but there was hardly anything of it left. Piles of rubble, the remains of the city walls. Whether it was the years or the wars, the city was destroyed. I couldn’t help but feel there was something wrong about the place. About the whole island, but it was worse in the city. Can’t say what it was, but I couldn’t wait to be away from it. There were noises in the night. I never saw what made them, and I count myself lucky.’ He was concerned that he might be overdoing it, but sailors were a superstitious lot and Joris seemed to be accepting Soren’s story.

‘The straits then, they’re not passable?’ Joris said.

‘No, I don’t think so. I saw them from a distance and there was lots of debris in the water. The passage was narrow to begin with, but it looked like it was intentionally blocked. Some of the harbour walls and towers had collapsed into the water, but there was more to it than that. The straits were blocked for a reason. There’s something wrong about that place. Only a madman would try to take a ship through there. But then I suppose only a madman would have ventured onto those cursed isles in the first place.’ He forced a chuckle, but it was not intended to be convincing.

Joris stood and walked over and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘I thought it would be the case. There’s a good reason people stay away. You’re a brave lad, but don’t worry yourself any longer,’ he said. ‘You’re safe away from there now.’

Soren felt guilty for lying to Joris; he was a good man, but the myth of the Isles needed to be maintained. The consequences of its secrets getting out were too terrible to contemplate.