Page 131 of The Cradle of Ice
“But what happened?” Jester asked, resting a palm atop his head. “Where’s our sodding ride out of this boiling piss pot?”
As if hearing him, a large shadow swept over the cliff and into view overhead. They all looked up. The ship was bathed in smoke. The ketch must have been circling, keeping clear of the flames, waiting for their return. But if nothing else, at least the fires had chased the clouds of lycheens from the area.
Kanthe waved his two torches, trying to signal the ketch.
Cassta yanked his arms down. “It’s not the Quisl.”
“What?”
As the smoke wafted clearer for a breath, revealing more of the wyndship, he saw she was right. Its keel was twice as long, its hull three times as wide. Flames blasted from its many forges. As it swept fully over the cliff’s edge, its flat stern displayed a prominent pair of gold crossed swords, the Klashean Arms.
“It’s an imperial battle barge,” Rami said with a note of terror.
Something twanged from the boulders ahead of them, sharp enough to pierce the fire’s roar. Jester grunted and dropped to a knee. He touched the feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his thigh. Another bolt sliced through his left ear in a spray of blood, sending him toppling over with a grunt of pain.
Rami waved them all back. “Down! On your bellies,” he yelled, not in anger but in fear.
Kanthe threw himself flat, knocking the air from his lungs.
Once the others obeyed, too, Rami stepped forward, raising his arms and hollering loudly to the sky, “I am Prince Rami im Haeshan! Fourth son of His Illustriousness, Emperor Makar ka Haeshan. My captors have submitted!” Kanthe lifted his head to peer around.
Shadows stirred from among the boulders and to either side. Overhead, warriors leaped from the ship’s deck. Wings snapped wide across their backs. They swept downward, rushing to secure the prince of the realm.
Kanthe looked toward where the Quisl had been moored.
Where did the ketch go? And how did the imperial forces find them?
He feared the worst.
Either Llyra betrayed us—or there was a spy with us all along.
ELEVEN
THE TIDES OF AGES PAST
The lifes of the ded onli ende when thei are forgoten. It is the memori of the livyng, pass’d from one age to the necst, that is the onli tru font of immortality. May your well næfre go dri.
—From the prelude to The Histories of Lost Heroes
51
DESPERATE, HEART POUNDING, Graylin dashed from one side of the skiff to the other. He searched the dark waters. But there was no sign of Nyx or Daal. The image of Marayn’s daughter being dragged off the boat, tangled in clinging tentacles, seared his mind. Though it had only been breaths ago, he knew he had to do something.
He pulled his sword, prepared to dive into the sea, to drown if he must.
I lost her once in the swamps of Mýr. I won’t lose her again.
“Someone comes,” Shiya warned from the stern.
Graylin leaned farther over the waves, looking to see what had alerted the bronze woman.
“Not that way.” Shiya pointed toward the distant glow of Kefta.
He didn’t see anything—until a closer flicker of flames glimmered through the fog. Voices echoed eerily, calling toward them. Though the words were in Panthean, the threat and anger were clear. From the mists, the outline of the Reef Farer’s barge slowly appeared, lit by its firepots. It was flanked by smaller boats.
They’ve found us. Somehow learned we were out here.
Graylin knew the edict for disturbing the Dreamers. While simply being in these waters was dangerous enough, any attempt to reach the Oshkapeers below was punishable by death.
