Chapter 1: Echo - Autumn of the Dragon

CHAPTER 1

 

TEMPEST, DO THY WORST

 

Be careful of what you wish for.

~ Truth ~

 

 

SEA SPRAY smacked him spitefully in the face, causing him to splutter. An instant later, curse words rolled off his tongue, his usual response to anything that irked him sideways. By the gods great and insignificant, this weather truly tried a man’s resolve, didn’t it? Ha, the fates were testing him. Had he not insisted on adventuring as the ancients did? Well, best put his coin where his mouth had led him, and that meant, damn it, coping with what the elements had in store for this misadventure.

Ancient mariner, my arse, Echayn Valla fumed, and inadvertently swallowed another mouthful of icy ocean. Bloody idiot, what were you thinking?

He had thought to prove his mettle. Right, and as in the past, it had led him directly into the maw of serious trouble. Lifting his waterlogged head to the sails flapping like fishtails on a beach, he grimaced. Either they’d land up in the drink or the air currents would hurtle them into the heavens. No steering available now. Best to hang on. He was not giving in. No sorcery on this trip, he’d promised himself that. Not that one could do anything in this kind of weather; always a storm leeched away power.

Clutching the rail, Echayn watched the heaving ocean threaten to overturn his suddenly too puny ship. The Sea Sprite, pretty as she was, fast and sturdy, had been built with tropical waters in mind. Sparing a glance for the five sailors hunkering near the hatch, he grimaced once more. Old hands, they were, and mortally afraid. He should hark to that, shouldn’t he? He smirked next. It was also true that they were superstitious, and this tempest had the look of portent, didn’t it? Thus, they hunkered instead of acting as sailors should, believing some supernatural force had assumed control. No need to trim sails and what not, then. A mindset he couldn’t fathom.

“Bring the mainsail down!” he hollered, not caring if that was the correct way to say it. He wasn’t the seaman. “MOVE!” Other than rolling their eyes at each other, they didn’t budge. Fine. By the gods, then. Laughing, he threw his hands up. “Let the fates decide!”

Famous last words.

 

 

COUGHING and hawking, Echayn rolled onto his stomach. He was still on the Sprite’s deck. Well, there was that, at least. Hadn’t landed up in the drink when a spar broke free overhead and knocked him into the black of oblivion. Rising to all-fours, he gazed blearily around. Of the sailors there was no sign. Now what did that mean? Had they gone overboard? Where …?

He paused there in his thoughts, and in his movements. Silence. There was only silence. No sound of crashing waves. Not even a whisper of the gale that had nearly drowned him in sea spray. Not a creak or a flap of wood and sail. And the ship was motionless.

On his feet in a blur of concerted action, he levelled his sword at the surrounds. “Who did this?” he croaked. “Where are you?”

For, indeed, this silence was unnatural. Sorcery was absolutely in play. The kind able to override a storm, by the gods.

No answer came forth. Turning in every direction, he realised whoever or whatever had achieved this state had absconded … or watched from a distance, choosing not to reveal. Frowning, Echayn shoved his blade home and strode to the hatch that led below deck. Intending to check the bowels of the vessel, he was brought up short instead. In the narrow passage he discovered the five sailors, all unconscious, all unharmed.

Well. It seemed whatever being did this, needed them alive.

Why?

Three were Valleur – golden-haired and eyed – two sailors were Senlu – red-haired with blue eyes both – the latter having never sailed beyond the rocky bays east of Grinwallin’s mountains. Of course, that stretch of sea was for madmen, given its propensity for violent weather. The Valleur, on the other hand, sailed the currents around the Grenle Archipelago where life on the ocean was calm and warm for the most part. The odd tropical storm, of course, but nothing like to the one that had smacked into them here. Old hands, yes, but not that experienced regarding Luvanor’s great watery expanses when one broke it down to brass nails and rope knots.

While every man, woman and child of Valleur and Senlu extraction on Luvanor was capable of deploying magic, there was degree of talent. He, Echayn, chose seamen who were little versed. He wished to reach his destination by wits and sheer grit, not the ease sorcery delivered. He wished for proper challenge … and here it was.

Snorting, aware what he had asked for had been given, and should not a man be so careful of what he wished for, he shook the men. Soon enough, they sat in various poses staring at him. Probably thought he used magic. Ha.

“Not me,” he grunted. “Did anyone see anything?”

“It’s quiet,” Girvin, born and bred to Grinwallin, stated. “Why is it quiet?”

“This is why I’m asking.” Rolling his eyes, Echayn stood and retreated to the hatch. “Join me on deck.” He ducked through.

Beyond what amounted to a bubble of still atmosphere and ocean, the storm they’d landed up in continued to rage, showing no sign of letting up. Massive waves broke with regularity over their air pocket. A sobering sight. Truth was, had they not had their arses saved, this ship would be in the depths.

“Would you have taken us away?” Jaffiel of Kantar, whose name meant ‘loves the water’, the reason he chose a sailor’s life, demanded. “It looked as if you wanted us shipwrecked.”

That was an accusation, and who could blame the man? “I don’t know,” Echayn admitted. Would he have lifted them ship and all to calm waters? Despite his promise to eschew sorcery? Would he have had the power to do so in a storm? Who could tell? Then again, never had he stood aside when another needed saving. “Probably, somehow,” he sighed. “Someone else did this, though. Did you see anything?”

All shook heads.

“Well, we wait it out. Once that tempest blows itself into surrender, we go on. Meanwhile, let’s attend to repairs.” He eyed the sorry lot. They were not happy. “Tell me what to do; I’ll help.”

“Bloody crazy Vallas,” Jaffiel muttered, and swung away.

Leering at the others, Echayn spread his hands. Truth, after all. To the last, his family could not be called ‘normal’.

 

 

NIGHTFALL brought no change, and thus they gathered in the small space set aside for meals. Darris, a Senlu from the farms below Grinwallin’s plateau, prepared fresh bread, and soup from the remaining vegetables. Good fare, and his proficiency in the kitchen, or in this case, the galley, was the other reason Echayn had hired him. Pairing the offerings with ale, they sat around the table eating and drinking in silence.

“You misled us,” Jaffiel eventually said, shoving his emptied bowl to the side. “You said we’d be in no danger, an adventure of a lifetime …”

“Shut it, Jaff,” the brothers Ilan and Kelby growled simultaneously.

Young still, with Ilan the oldest, both plied the waters of Grenle, fishing in blissful conditions. Ilan could finger snap for a fire, and Kelby had a nose for bad weather, which was why Echayn brought him in. The two came as a team, and he was happy to accommodate them. Kelby, in fact, revealed at dawn that a storm headed their way. Given his warning, they had tried to outrun it.

“Yes, quiet,” Girvin put in.

“Why?” Jaffiel demanded. “I must watch my mouth because Echayn Valla hired us? You know what happens when you follow a Valla? Chaos!”

Leaning back with his ale, Echayn studied the man. Most of that was bravado. The sailor was afraid. If memory served, his single magical talent was for knots, most suitable in his line of work, but it meant he had not the wherewithal to protect himself. Not magically, anyway. Echayn suspected the man would be handy in a brawl. Before he could formulate a response, Darris did so for him.

“Pal, you agreed to follow this Valla. We all did. Can’t go crying in your soup about it now.” The cook slapped the table. “And don’t go blaming him for the weather. We’re at sea, idiot, and shit goes wrong sometimes.”

“Quit complaining,” Kelby said around a mouthful of ale.

Enough of this. Echayn carefully set his goblet on the worn table. “Truthfully, I should be the one taking the lot of you to task. You did nothing. Did I not hire you to steer this vessel upon oceans calm and stormy? Shit does happen. You hid from your duties, considered your fate another’s rather than make your own. You are Valleur and Senlu, for all gods’ sakes. You do not cower. What has you this terrified?”

They stared at him, with the brothers dropping their gazes first. Jaffiel sniffed as he said, “There’s a reason Senluar was abandoned.”

“Yet you took my coin.”

The man had the grace to appear shamed. “Didn’t think we’d get this far.”

Ah, they thought the crazy Valla would either magick them to their destination or turn the ship around when the going got tough. He’d bet his sword that they hunkered during the storm hoping he’d admit defeat and take them home. With their pockets filled, life would be pretty easy for a time. He’d wager the one who sold him the Sea Sprite had lined his pockets also; this ship was ill-suited to purpose.

“My lord …” Ilan began, only to be cut short.

“Out here I’m not bloody ‘my lord’.” Echayn stood. Reaching for his ale, he slurped the dregs in before slamming the goblet down. “Call me Echo, hear? That is who I am out here. Echo.” He marched away before he slapped someone.

COMING SOON!