Pirate and King, chapter fourteen

14

Rykkan and Nusie fought their way through a tangled screen of saplings and vines, eventually escaping the ancient road tunnel. On the far side were huge trees, a murky lake and a furious battle.

Rykkan stared in surprise for a moment, making an ugly sound low in his throat. A withered, grubby old man stood on a rock near the edge of that ox-bow lake, trying to fight off a pack of snarling and leaping wolves. He was using a stick to bash at the circling predators, but the wood was rotten. His club wasn't up to the fight, getting shorter with each wild swing. Worse, the wolves came from every direction but out on the lake, and he could not fight them all.

Nusie and Rykkan raced forward, dropping their packs, shouting and waving. Ryk had his spear, which he used inexpertly. Nusie had stones she scooped up from the lakeshore and threw.

“Oy! Over here!” shouted Nus, flinging rocks at the darting wolves. Two of them turned to attack her. One, Nusie drove off with a well-thrown shot to the eye. The other she dodged by splashing into the lake.

A nightmare of snarling, yelping and shouting clotted the next few heartbeats, as fangs sank deep into flesh, stones hit their targets, and Rykkan learned how to wield his new spear. The old man leaned down to scoop up a big gout of water, splashing it into the air. Each droplet grew explosively, becoming bushel-sized bubbles of fluid that flattened and half-drowned whatever it struck.

Nusie barely noticed. She fell to one knee, struck from the side by a mountain of fur and muscle and snapping teeth. Falling, she gulped muddy water but got her sickle up and slashed at the wolf, drawing blood and a gurgling cry. Too shocked to feel pain, Nusie scrambled to her feet and stood swaying as Rykkan splashed over to join her.

“Off!” he roared, thrusting Fred through the animal’s chest, clear up to his fist on the spear-shaft. Thud, squelch! The impaled wolf whined and struggled, then went limp, weighing Ryk’s weapon down like a big lump of pitch.

The other wolves broke and ran for the woods after that, melting away through the trees. For a confused moment, Rykkan and Nusie stood back-to-back in the scummy water, panting hoarsely and waiting for further attack. Nothing came at them, though. Even the insects and birds had gone silent. As for that withered old man, he’d collapsed to a crouch on the rock, hugging himself and muttering insults.

“Nus,” panted Rykkan, pulling the girl around to face him. “You all right, Lass? Not bad hurt, Pigeon?”

He tugged her garments back into order, making a pad from his own sodden cloak to stanch a bite on her arm that was just now beginning to throb.

“I’m well enough, Ryk,” she assured him. “All of a piece, still.”

He pulled her close with a soft, low moan.

“Nus… Nus… little bird…”

For mortals, life was hard, short and bounded by grief. People got old and then died, if they were lucky. If not, the end came through cold, starvation, sickness or accident. All the good that they had was their friendships or the brief, bright flower of love, before age and childbirth took that away, too. He’d come so very close to losing his Nusie. Had the wolf bitten higher, seizing her throat instead of her arm...

Rykkan lifted her out of the lake, then waded to shore. Setting Nusie down, the hunter kissed her forehead, then strode off to retrieve her pack and collection bag.

“Thank you, Ryk,” she said to him, forcing a smile. “I’m right as rain, Big Man. Go see ter the old ‘un, while I mix up a wound poultice and tear up some bindin'.”

“Aye… straight away. I just… Nus, if only I’d used my bow, we’d ‘ve been able to stand off and get ‘em, without any bites!”

The dark-haired herbalist paused in digging through her sack. She looked up at Rykkan’s glum, bearded face, saying,

“Ryk Hunt, that bow’s meant fer naught but conies and squirrels. All you’d have done is ter make the wolves angry. Fred worked a treat, Big Man, once you got the hang of usin’ him.”

He stroked her wet hair, still looking as though he were going to cry. Then, taking a deep, ragged breath, Rykkan nodded.

“Back in two shakes, Nus. Anything twitches a leaf, you give me a yell.”

Nusie took Rykkan’s hand and squeezed it.

“Aye that, Ryk. I’ll start some tea, ter put a bit of heart in us all.” It was getting late, and camp would have to be made.

Rykkan nodded again, set his broad shoulders, then turned to go fetch that huddled old man. Up close, the traveler they’d rescued did not reward the nose or the eye. He was bony and hunched, with a scowling face and filthy, straggling hair. Almost naked, too, dressed in a motley collection of sodden green rags.

“All right then, Old Timer?” asked Rykkan, approaching the half-submerged rock and its occupant. “You hurt anywhere serious?”

Rather than being grateful for help, the old wight shot Ryk a deeply suspicious glare.

“Mortals! Suppose you’ll be trying to rob me now,” he accused in a high and quavering voice. His accent was strange, but Ryk got the gist and shook his head, no.

“Not here ter rob ya, Old Timer,” he soothed, stopping short and raising both hands, palm outward. Tried to, anyhow, but Fred the Spear clenched in his fist made for an awkward peace gesture.

The old gaffer hissed, scuttling backward on his wet, rocky perch. For the first time, Rykkan noticed an iron-bound chest beside the skinny old lake wight. Made of waterlogged wood and corroded metal, the chest looked nearly as ancient and battered as its guardian.

Seeing the direction of Rykkan’s gaze, the lake man crab-walked over to cover the chest, concealing it with sodden cloth, withered limbs and lank hair.

“Be off!” he shrilled. “Off with you! There’s nothing here! Nothing to steal!”

Rykkan sighed. Leaning on his spear, the big man scratched at his itchy red beard.

“No one’s plottin’ ter rob ya, Old Timer. My oath. I’m Rykkan Hunt, from Burrough township. Her over yonder’s my intended wife, Nusie the herbalist. Well… herbalist once Arla kicks off. Fer now, she’s still learnin’, but if you’ve got any scratches, bites or a cough, Nusie can set ya right up.”

A few nightbirds were calling, as light drained away from the sky. His wounds and sore muscles were starting to burn, and Rykkan wanted to rest. He gestured to the spot where Nusie was setting up camp, extending an invitation, but the lake man just shook his head.

“No!” he snapped, eyeing Rykkan the same way a shepherd looks at a fox. “Don’t need any more help. My thanks. Now, be off, mortal!”

Rykkan looked around, seeing nothing but ancient forest, strange fruit trees and one dark, scummy lake.

“Where are ya headed, Old Timer? Don’t look like there’s many people here,” he said, trying again. The click-click of Nusie’s flint and steel, then the faint crackle of flame, brought ease to his heart. A smile split his red beard at the sounds and scents of camp being made.

“We’re headed south, seekin’ the Laran River,” he said, adding, “If that be your way, you’re more than welcome ter join us, Old Timer.”

The lake man’s expression changed, becoming intense and… something else. Something watchful and wary. Rykkan’s gaze darted back to the chest once again. It looked like a lot for the old man to carry. (From the smell, probably full of muck, rotten eggs and old fish.) Then he noticed the lake man’s feet, which were green and webbed, looking more like duck feet than anything human. Rykkan’s eyes widened, and he took a step backward. This was more than a lost old man, then. Far more, if not quite a god.

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“You… You’re a lake spirit?” blurted the hunter.

The old man snorted unhappily.

“Some spirit! Stuck in this cesspit, unable to fight off a pack of mutts!” he quavered, shaking his head till the lank, ropy hair flew.

Rykkan thought hard, considering all that he knew of the tales and epics. They weren’t much concerned with the plight or the history of mortals, but sometimes you gleaned the odd tidbit. Meanwhile,

“Ryk! The tea ‘ll be up soon, and I’ve set out a bite or two. This poultice ‘ll take a while longer, but you two can come take yer ease by the fire while we’re waitin’.”

“Comin’, Nus!” he called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from that very surprising old man.

“Are ya tryin’ ter reach the river?” asked Ryk. Mosquitoes began rising in clouds off the mudflats as evening drew on. It surprised Rykkan to see that the droning pests bit the lake spirit, too.

“I can’t get there,” snapped the old man. “It’s too far for me. The river used to be here, but now there’s only this wretched sump of a lake. It’s drying up and taking me with it.”

His eyes burned green and hard beneath lank, muddy hair as he drew that slimy old chest closer still. Rykkan pondered. Then,

“I’ve got ter ask Nusie… she’s the one with all the ideas… but since we’re goin’ that way ourselves, I could carry you, Old Timer.”

“You don’t have the strength,” growled the lake man. “Such a deed wants an elf or a hero.”

Rykkan held up a finger, meaning, wait a bit. Then he sloshed and stomped his way to shore and over to Nusie.

“He ain’t normal, Nus,” accused Rykkan, crouching down by the fire.

The dark-haired girl handed her husband-to-be a piece of flat bread and some crumbly cheese.

“Of course, he ain’t,” she agreed. “What normal person would be out here disputin’ with wolves on a rock? But bein’ a little bit odd is no reason ter leave him out there, Rykkan Hunt.”

Ryk ate mechanically, hardly tasting that leathery bread and strong yellow cheese. Meanwhile sparks flew upward like prayers, and the tea was beginning to steam in its little clay pot. The poultice ingredients bubbled and popped in a pan of their own, half buried in coals, and smelling sweetly of herbs.

“I’ll take him some food, but… you’ll hardly believe it, Nus… the Old Timer’s got feet like a duck. Says he needs ter reach the Laran River, but it’s too far fer him ter walk.”

“He’s a water sprite?” Nusie wondered, looking from Rykkan’s firelit face to the crouched and shivering lake wight. He was just a silhouette now, darker black against rippling water. “We’re less than two days from Burrough, and already we’ve found ruins, treasure, and some kind of spirit?”

Ryk spread his hands.

“He says he ain’t much of one, Nus,” replied the big hunter. “Give me somethin' ter feed him, and I’ll see what’s what. I could carry him out ter the river, I think.”

Nusie pursed her lips, not saying aye or nay. She gave him some bread, cheese and dried meat in a folded cloth, though.

“Tea ‘ll be done in a ten-count, Ryk,” she told him. “I’m addin’ pain-bark and fire-sweet ter help draw the sting from our hurts. His too, if he’ll have any.”

Rykkan accepted the food with a word of thanks, then brought the meal back to that strange, withered man on his rock.

“Here’s bread, cheese and good Burrough mutton, Old Timer,” he said, placing Nusie’s food before the hunkered-up lake wight. It was getting hard to see, even a hand-span away.

The old man peered at Rykkan from under his bushy and matted eyebrows. Made no move to touch the meal, saying,

“Throw it into the lake. Not as trash. As an offering.”

Rykkan shrugged, but did as he was told, flinging Nusie’s good food far from the rock and its glowering occupant.

“This is a gift fer the lake,” he announced, as shy stars peeped down from the heavens like a sprinkle of fireflies. “From Nusie Herbalist and Rykkan Hunt and this here Old Timer.”

The food plopped in and vanished, leaving that skinny old man looking a little less haggard. Then,

“I’m minded ter try carryin’ ya, Old Timer,” said Rykkan, flexing his bear-sized muscles. “The river can’t be that much farther…”

“A mile and a half, but you’ll never make it,” growled the lake man, slapping at bugs with one hand, while clutching the iron-bound chest with his other.

“I could do cartwheels a mile and a half,” boasted Ryk. “I could run that far! And it's all downhill, I expect. Anyhow, I’m willin’ ter give it a try.”

With night getting on, all that Rykkan could see was a pair of muddy green eyes, shining like swamp lights drifting over a bog.

“Go back to your camp and your female, mortal. Your wounds will turn rotten if they’re not seen to, at once. This water’s corrupted, and I’m too weary to listen to more of your nonsense.”

… which wasn’t a flat refusal. Ryk gave the old man a bow and salute, saying,

“I’ll be back ter check on you at the turn of the watch, Old Timer. In the morning, I’ll give Nusie my pack and then we’ll carry you down ter the river, straight talk and no lie.”

Later, Nusie went over to see the lake man, as well, bringing tea that she had to pour out in that scummy dark lake, and a poultice of shredded warm herbs and soft flannel. He had several oozing scratches and… yes… duck feet. Nusie wanted to ask about that but settled for spreading ointment and fastening clumps of soggy, steeped herbs, instead.

“It’s the best I know how ter do, Gaffer,” she told him. “The mixture draws poison and drives away rot. Arla ain’t taught me everything, yet, but I’m learnin’.”

The lake wight snorted.

“Your companion’s a fool, you’re a child and I’m going to die as soon as this lake dries up. Why bother struggling?”

“Because, Gaffer,” Nusie said (stubborn as a fly after sweets) “We’ve got people in Burrough who ‘re hangin’ on, hopin’ we’ll bring back an answer. Because the crops ‘re failin’, the goat’s ‘re castin’ their lambs, and people ‘re dyin’ of sickness. We were sent ter find help fer the village. An amulet, a wizard or a fighter, maybe.”

The lake wight looked off, saying nothing. Nusie persisted, splashing halfway around the rock to make sure that he saw her.

“Ryk is even stronger than he looks, Gaffer. He drove off them wolves, and he can surely carry you down ter the river.” She ought to have claimed a wish or a boon in return, but the moment seemed very dreamlike to Nusie.

It was their first night away from home, spent on the shore of a fetid lake, listening hard for bandits and wolves. They were supposed to be taking turns standing watch as the other one rested, but…

“Ryk, go to sleep!” Nusie ordered, while she sat up watching the forest.

“I am asleep, Nus,” he lied, trying to make his breathing sound even and slow. That was her Rykkan, right through.

The next morning dawned clear and cool, with neither traveler having gotten much rest. The old lake wight was still on his rock, watching listlessly as the two mortals broke camp. Nusie saved a few coals in her big-stalk carrier, because live embers were better for building a fire. The trouble was keeping them glowing, but…

“Worth a try at any rate,” she told Ryk, shouldering both of their packs.

Rykkan nodded, marveling at the beauty and worth of his Nus.

“We’ll stop often ter rest, Nusie,” he promised her. “Don’t push ter keep goin’, if you start ter feel weak.” As it turned out, though, Nusie’s burden was by far the lightest.

The old man didn’t look very heavy. Oughtn’t to have weighed more than a child, even gripping that soggy wood chest… but Rykkan had never lifted anything heavier in his life. Muscles straining, veins bulging, and breath rasping like fire, Rykkan seized that querulous wight and dragged him off the rock. Managed to shift his impossibly heavy burden, then staggered to shore, puffing and gasping.

“Cor, Ryk,” whispered Nusie, pointing back the way they’d come. “The lake water’s followin’!”

And so it was, as if Rykkan had drawn that entire body of water along, by carrying off the old man. A rumbling and crackling noise announced the water’s advance. Strangely, that slimy tide didn’t damage the landscape. Just wove past trees and over the burrows of animals, following Ryk and his quivering burden.

“Don’t drop me!” shrilled the old man, clinging to Ryk like an ox-heavy burr. “You’ll drown in the flood, and I’ll perish!”

Rykkan had no breath to spare in reply. He thought that his back would break, or his heart would give out, but kept moving anyhow. The old man’s squirming and threats made everything harder.

“I’ll drown you in mud! Choke you with slime!” screamed the lake wight. “You’ll drown till the end of the world, mortal!”

“There now, Gaffer,” soothed Nusie. “It’s not much further! I can see the river shinin’ just up ahead.”

…And a morning breeze brought them the scent of reeds and wet stone. Dark lake water flowed along behind them, trailing the old man on Rykkan’s heaving, half-broken back. The hunter lost track of time. Focused his will on placing one foot in front of the other, step after trembling step.

Finally, thank the unheeding gods, the riverbank came into view. Rykkan staggered the last fifty feet on rubbery legs, helped along by Nusie and the pressure of all the water behind him. The old man stopped shouting and kicking him, as they neared the stony north bank.

It should not have been possible, but Rykkan got that old water sprite into the Laran River, sloshing down the loose bank, where he simply collapsed. What happened next was slow, dark lake water flowing down to rejoin its source. The flood parted around Rykkan and Nusie, who kept Ryk’s head above water when he hadn’t the strength to rise. The flood was icy and turbulent, but it did not overwhelm them, roaring past on both sides, high enough to block out the dawn.

Rykkan clung to Nusie with all the strength he had left. Then, like his trek to the river, the flood finally ended, leaving two very wet mortals and a shattered wood chest on the riverbank. There might have been a flash of duck-feet out on the water, but nothing else. No thanks and no reward.

“No matter,” said Nusie, helping Ryk to get up. “The doing was good, even if nobody else ever finds out what happened.”

She got him safely away from the river and into a clump of willows, then draped a blanket around his shoulders, kissing the top of his dripping head. It was only midmorning, but Nusie built a fire using her salvaged embers. They’d be going no further that day. Maybe not even the next. Not until Rykkan recovered his strength.

The willows provided some leafy green shelter. Berry bushes were heavy with fruit, out of season. A nearby tree bore something very like custard-apples (though spicier) and fish were easily trapped in the shallows. It was another very good place.

There were no people, though. No mortals, no goblins, no elves. Looking as far along the Laran River as possible, Nusie saw nothing at all like a bridge or a ferry. Instead, the water rolled and spumed onward, undisturbed by anything bigger than low-skimming birds.

...And what were they meant to do next? What help could they find for Burrough before two months were up, and the Council made good on its threat?