David Farland - Sons of the Oak

Fallion stared up at her, unsure what to do or say.

It didn’t matter. At that moment, she imagined that she was in love with him. She’d never kissed a boy before. She wasn’t sure whether she had done it right. But it felt good. Her heart had hammered when her lips touched his, and she imagined that someday she would marry him.

She whispered, “Now we’re both orphans.”

Fallion felt embarrassed by the show of affection. But he heard real pain in her voice, so he hugged her back timidly. Somehow he knew that she needed him to hug her, perhaps even forcefully, as if he could squeeze the pain from her.

Myrrima brought back some breakfast a few moments later, and once Borenson returned, they prepared to leave.

Fallion felt as if this day would be forever emblazoned in his memory. But in truth, as they crept out of the inn that morning, he ambled through a haze. The city was wrapped in a gray mist so thick that he could barely see his own feet stepping one past the other over the grimy cobblestones, and the same mist seemed to cloud his thoughts. In later weeks he would remember almost nothing of that walk.

They reached the docks, where the water was as flat as a vast satin cloth spread upon the ground. A shroud for the sea, Fallion thought.

He heard noises behind them, shouts from far away, the brief sounding of a warhorn. He thought that the soldiers at the palace must be performing some sort of training maneuvers.

He stepped down from the docks into a small coracle, and once all of the little ones were in, he helped row. He looked at Jaz’s face, saw that his brother too was lost, weeping, locked within himself. Myrrima put a comforting arm around Jaz as the small boat made its way into the depths of the bay, out where the Leviathan was said to be anchored. The mist was so thick that droplets of water beaded upon Fallion’s brow and went rolling down his face.

The salt spray in his mouth tasted like blood, and the sea this morning smelled of decay.

Soon they neared a ship, looming above them in the heavy fog, black against the gray.

It was not a huge ship, at only a hundred feet in length, with five masts. A sea serpent’s head rose up at the bow, with long jaws full of grim teeth, its eyes as silver as a fish’s.

Sailors were rushing to and fro, hoisting up barrels of water, kegs of ale, baskets of turnips and onions, crates filled with live animals-chickens that clucked and pigs that squealed in terror-fresh meat for the larder.

The children reached a rope ladder, and all of them climbed up the sides. At the top they were met by a sailor-a strange little man with a crooked back whose face was as white as death. His hair was mouse-colored, and his eyes a hazel so light, it almost looked as if he had nothing but whites and pupils. His long coat and trousers were both made of black leather, and he wore no shoes. He jabbered at them for a moment and it took several seconds for Fallion to realize that he spoke a mixture of Rhofehavanish and some other language. Borenson was quick to answer in the same tongue.

“He says that they’re loaded and set to sail, but won’t be putting to sea until the fog lifts and we get enough wind to fill the sails.”

“How long will that be?” Myrrima asked.

“Could be here all day,” Borenson said. Myrrima looked worried, and Borenson whispered, “Don’t do it. Don’t lift the fog. We don’t want them knowing too much about us.”

Myrrima nodded almost imperceptibly.

For a long while, the children stood on deck while Myrrima and Borenson brought the family’s meager possessions up from the boat.

Fallion peered around. He saw other refugees, several families huddled, looking as if they’d lost everything in the world. Most of them disappeared below deck within a few minutes.

The crewmen finished loading the last of the stores, waiting for wind. They were a mixed lot. Most were white of skin, like Inkarrans, as white as albinos with silver or cinnabar-colored hair. But there were tan-colored men from Rofehavan, and even a couple of Blacks from Deyazz.

Their clothes were as varied as the men. The Inkarrans, as Fallion decided to call light-skinned ones, wore what looked to be silk tunics in shades of canary, wine, or crimson, with pants of some fine leather that looked like snakeskin, though Fallion had a hard time imagining where such huge snakes would be found. They wore colorful head rags, too, and most did not wear shoes, only sandals, which they abandoned as they climbed the rigging.

The darker men wore more mundane fare, pants of buckskin or cotton, often without a shirt. More than a dozen could be seen in nothing but loincloths.

Fallion watched a couple of white skins climb up the rigging. They checked the sails on one mast, then grabbed ropes and swung to the next. Both men released a dozen yards from their target, somersaulted in the air, and grabbed the yardarms on the way down-showing a grace that Fallion had rarely seen before, and then only in Runelords with endowments of grace. They looked more like acrobats than sailors.

I could build a strong army with men like these, Fallion thought.

While he was peering up into the sails, a deep voice sounded behind him, and a stout man with long black hair and a black beard said in a strange accent, “Sir Borenson, glad to see you’ve made it. This your crew?”

Borenson was climbing up the rope ladder with a bag over his shoulder, and the visitor peered down at him.

Borenson grunted and gently heaved his bundle over the railing. Fallion heard the soft clank of blood metal as the bag touched the hull and knew that his forcibles were inside. Nothing else clanked like blood metal. It didn’t have the ring of silver or the heavy thunk of iron. It was softer, more of a clacking, like sticks of bamboo whacking against each other.

Fallion looked up to see if the captain had noticed.

Captain Stalker peered down at Fallion and smiled. The clank had been soft but perceptible. I’m going to be rich, he thought. And when we sell the boys, I won’t even mention the forcibles to the crew.

He saw the briefest hint of worry on the boy’s face, and then it was gone.

The princeling wonders if I heard, Stalker thought. There’s enough blood metal in that bag to buy a whole ship like this.

Yet the worry disappeared quickly, and Fallion covered it with a question just as Borenson heaved himself over the railing. Fallion asked, “Where are your sailors from?”

Fallion stood straight, showing a poise that Stalker had seldom seen in a child.

This one is trained in arms, Stalker realized. Probably was taught to grip a dagger while other babes were still waving rattles. And he marshals his wits as well as his body.

“Landesfallen,” Borenson answered when Stalker didn’t. “They’re from Landesfallen.” Borenson bent over, trying to catch his breath, sweating from the climb. Whatever endowments he’d once had, they were gone now, Stalker realized. A soldier with endowments of brawn and stamina might feign weariness, but they couldn’t fake sweat.

That was one less worry on Stalker’s mind.

“Landesfallen it is,” Stalker agreed. The two men shook hands.

Talon peered up at Borenson in shock. “Is that where we’re going?”

Borenson got a veiled look in his eyes, but nodded yes. He gazed down at the children to see their reaction. They’d all heard tales of Landesfallen. It was a place of legendary terrors.

Sage began to cry; Draken hid his face in his hands. Talon just bit her lip and turned away, her face pale with fright. Jaz shrugged and peered around, as if he didn’t care. Rhianna glowered, put a hand on her dirk, and seemed prepared to do battle.

Landesfallen was the last place that Fallion wanted to go. It was on the far side of the world, a continent that, according to rumor, had never been fully explored.