The essence wars an envi.., p.17
The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 17
She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. For now, she had to focus on the lake crossing. Ferries from the northern docks varied, some departing on overnight sails, others making slow stops at outposts along the shore. Timing depended on the season, the wind’s favor, and the temperament of the captains. She needed an overnighter if she hoped to reach the Kard’s head by the following evening. The sooner she arrived, the sooner she could rest before the long march ahead.
The docks bustled with the usual trade, fishermen hauling in their catches, merchants overseeing crates of goods being loaded onto cargo boats, travelers negotiating their fares. A light breeze carried the scent of lakegrass and fresh fish, mixed with the damp, resinous trace of dockside timber. Braegor padded beside her, his thick coat absorbing the warmth of the sun, his sharp eyes tracking the movement around them. He seemed unbothered, as always, though his presence alone was enough to part the crowd. People gave the massive hound a wide berth, their wariness tempered by the quiet respect his size commanded.
She stopped beside a weathered ferryman tightening the ropes of a modest vessel. The boat looked sturdy, its hull darkened with age and travel, but its rigging well kept.
‘Do you sail south to the Kard’s head?’ she asked, her voice steady despite the gnawing unease at the back of her mind.
The man glanced up, his face lined from years under the sun. ‘Aye,’ he said, sparing a wary look at Braegor. ‘We leave at dusk. Should make the riverhead by mid-evening tomorrow, if the wind holds.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll take passage.’
The ferryman named his price, and she handed over the coins without hesitation. As he turned back to his work, her gaze wandered to the lake, its endless blue stretching toward the horizon. Two days, she thought. Two days on the water to settle her thoughts, to steel herself for what lay ahead. But the stillness of the lake, the ease of the transaction, and the absence of obstacles all left her uneasy.
Was this the calm before the storm? Or was it simply the world moving on, indifferent to her struggles?
She sank onto a bench near the docks, her pack at her feet, Braegor lying beside her. The events of the past week replayed in her mind: the wolf, the boy, Brennar, the guards she had killed. The more she thought on it, the less certain she became. Had she acted out of necessity? Or anger? The distinction blurred, twisting each memory until she no longer knew which version was true.
She glanced at Braegor, his breathing slow, his trust in her unshaken. That trust was both a comfort and a burden. If she failed, if this journey to Garette Fort unraveled as her time in Jonika had, what then?
The sun dipped lower as the ferrymen made their final preparations. Soon, the lake would carry her southward, closer to the fort and the answers she both sought and feared. For now, she would let the boat and the water set the pace. Fate would come soon enough.
By late evening, the boat had slipped from the docks, its sails catching a gentle wind that pulled it south. The rhythmic creak of the mast blended with the lapping of water against the hull, a soothing cadence that did little to settle her thoughts. Maerwyn leaned against the railing, the cool night air brushing her face.
Above, the moons should have cast their pale glow across the water, but a slow-building bank of clouds swallowed their light. What had promised to be a luminous, steady journey now seemed cloaked in something heavy, something waiting.
Traveling by night was never easy, but Lake Eldrith had a reputation for relative safety. The vast expanse of sapphire water, cradled by the gentle rise of peaks on either side, was sheltered from the worst tempests that battered the greater waterways. Yet the same geography that offered protection also birthed erratic winds and sudden storms, the lake’s temperament shifting without warning. Tonight, however, fortune seemed to favor them. A steady breeze carried the boat southeast, its course true, and by the time dawn stretched across the horizon, they had made significant progress toward the lake’s heart.
Morning arrived with an uneasy stillness. A once-steady breeze had faltered, leaving the boat adrift on a glasslike expanse. Overhead, a heavy slate of unbroken gray sky smothered the sun’s light beneath thick clouds stretching in every direction. The air felt weighty, the silence that suggested something unseen was gathering just beyond reach. Maerwyn couldn’t decide whether it signaled peace or something far less forgiving.
The captain, a wiry man with a face creased from years on the water, barked orders to the crew, but even he couldn’t will the sails to catch more than a feeble breath of wind. At a crawl, the boat drifted, its sluggish pace testing the patience of those aboard. Resorting to the oars, the ferrymen strained against the stillness, their muscles pushed to the limit. If they were forced to row all day, they might demand more coin, or worse, refuse to push through the night.
Maerwyn sat near the stern, her legs folded beneath her, Braegor sprawled beside her. His thick fur blended with the boat’s shadows, his ears twitching at the occasional creak of wood or splash of an oar. He watched the crew with quiet scrutiny, unbothered by the mounting frustration that prickled at Maerwyn’s skin. She reached for the straps of her pack, tightening them again, though everything inside was already secure: her provisions, her quiver of Soulpiercers, the cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
She was ready. Or so she told herself.
Her thoughts drifted to Garette Fort, the unknown waiting there gnawing at the edges of her resolve. The soldiers sent ahead had taken the long march south, perhaps they had made good time, or perhaps the journey had drained them. Either way, they would be expecting reinforcements, not just a lone commander. A garrison stripped of its weapons and numbers was brittle, one push away from collapse. The Chancellor had left the Southern Verdathisa defenses threadbare, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into something worse than a weakened command. What if there was nothing left to salvage?
The boat rocked gently, the rhythm deceptive in its calm. Beyond them, the lake stretched endlessly, its surface dull beneath the oppressive sky. Lost to the haze, the sapphire brilliance of Lake Eldrith disappeared, its waters reflecting nothing but cold, muted light. Stillness pressed in, thick and unnatural. Even the air felt stale.
She forced the air from her lungs and glanced at Braegor. At least he remained steady, a presence unshaken by the slow drag of uncertainty. His breathing was even, his gaze tracking the movements of the crew but betraying no concern. Maerwyn focused on that. One moment at a time.
The hours stretched long.
By midmorning, the wind shifted, though not in their favor. What little momentum they had slowed further, the sails slack, the boat dragging stubbornly against the lake. Maerwyn clenched her jaw. It wasn’t just her; the crew moved with an edge of unease, their murmurs tight-lipped and clipped.
‘It’s not usually this bad, my lady,’ the captain said, approaching her near the bow. His boots thudded lightly against the deck, his expression tight but calm.
Maerwyn managed a thin smile. There wasn’t much to say.
The captain squinted at the sky, his mouth set in a hard line. ‘We’ll be back on course soon enough. The wind will shift—it always does.’ He gave a firm nod, more to himself than her, before returning to the crew.
Four ferrymen strained at the oars, their backs bowed, their muscles taut. The steady splash of wood cutting through water was the only sound, a hollow rhythm that filled the silence. Progress was sluggish. Every lost hour was lost coin. None of them could afford to waste the day drifting.
By midafternoon, the wind answered.
It rolled across the lake in slow, rhythmic waves, stirring ripples across the glasslike surface. Sails swelled as the water grew restless, whitecaps cresting as the wind built its strength. The crew moved swiftly, trimming the sails and adjusting the rigging. The boat lurched forward, cutting through the water once more, its path sure and steady.
Maerwyn watched as the captain passed again, his expression carrying the smugness of a man who wanted to say I told you so but had the sense to keep it to himself.
She let the barest smile touch her lips. The fort still loomed ahead, distant and uncertain. But for now, the wind carried her south, and for the first time in hours, the journey felt like it was moving forward.
A sharp crack of thunder rolled across the lake, low and menacing, like a great beast stirring in its sleep. It echoed off the eastern hills, their rounded peaks cloaked in a stubborn veil of early spring mist. Though distant at first, the sound set the crew on edge. The captain’s hurried movements betrayed his unease as he bellowed orders, his voice sharp above the rising murmur of the lake.
‘You might want to get below deck, my lady!’ he called, words clipped, urgent. ‘We’ll be rough before dusk, mark my words.’
Maerwyn raised her head, scanning the horizon. The air had shifted, thicker now, damp and cold, laced with the bitter scent of impending rain. But she didn’t move right away. Storms were nothing new to her; she had braved worse at sea. Yet something in the captain’s tone gave her pause. She glanced at Braegor, the hound standing steady but alert by her side, his ears flicking at another distant rumble rolling through the hills.
The rain came suddenly, pelting down in icy sheets that stung her skin and slicked the deck beneath her boots. Within minutes, the drizzle turned to a deluge, hammering the boat and shrouding the horizon in a veil of gray. Maerwyn tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders and moved toward the stairwell. The wooden beams groaned as the boat pitched, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm against the hull.
Below deck, the air was cool and damp, heavy with the breath of wet wood and cargo mingling in the confined space. Barrels and crates rattled as the boat rocked harder, the steady creak of the timbers broken by sharper, more desperate groans. Braegor followed close behind, claws scraping for purchase as he adjusted to the shifting floor. His body was low, his amber eyes darting to every corner as if searching for the unseen threat that had sent the crew into motion. His unease mirrored Maerwyn’s own, though her composure was a thin mask pulled taut.
Then came the lightning, a jagged, searing arc that tore through the sky, illuminating the hold in an eerie flash. The thunder that followed was no longer distant; it crashed overhead with deafening force, rattling the boards and sending a tremor through the boat. Shouts erupted from the deck, frantic and muffled over the howling wind. Maerwyn forced herself to breathe, steadying against the wall until the shouts turned to screams.
One word broke through the chaos, carried into the hold like a curse.
‘Spout!’
Her breath caught. A waterspout.
The boat lurched violently, the stern dipping so low it felt as if the lake itself might swallow them whole. Maerwyn’s hands shot out, gripping the nearest crate for balance as the surrounding cargo shifted in protest. Braegor let out a low growl, his sturdy legs splaying wide as he fought to keep steady. Another wave slammed against the hull, reverberating through every plank, every nail, every bone in her body. Then another, harder still. She was thrown sideways, her shoulder colliding with a barrel.
The storm roared now, a symphony of howling wind, driving rain, and the eerie, resonant whine of the waterspout drawing closer. Above, the wooden beams groaned under the strain before the hull itself let out a long, rasping moan—a sound of something about to give way. Lightning struck again, and through the open deck door, Maerwyn caught sight of it: a towering column of churning water, twisting with unnatural grace as it devoured the lake.
The boat pitched sharply, sending the world tilting. Crates and barrels tumbled, smashing into each other like battering rams. A heavy crate of Gusia City potatoes crashed inches from Braegor, who scrambled to avoid the debris. Before Maerwyn could find her footing, another crate careened toward her, clipping her shoulder and sending her sprawling backward. Her head struck something hard. The world swam.
She forced herself upright, her breath coming fast and shallow. The hold was chaos now, water pouring through the widening cracks in the hull, pooling around her knees, rising fast. Braegor paddled furiously, his amber eyes wide with panic as he barked, sharp and piercing, jolting her back to focus. She gripped the nearest beam, her knuckles white. But then came a sound—one that would haunt her for years.
A crack, louder than thunder, louder than screams. The boat itself was coming apart.
The hull groaned, wood splintering in great, splashing chunks as a massive section of the wall was ripped away. Through the gaping hole, Maerwyn glimpsed the waterspout’s churning edge, a wall of twisting water and debris, moving with terrifying speed. Spray lashed through the breach, cold and biting, as the air crackled with a force beyond nature.
The wind howled, drowning out all other sound. Lightning slashed the sky in staccato bursts, revealing shattered planks spinning wildly before vanishing into the vortex. The sheer scale of it overwhelmed her; the lake itself felt as though it had been swallowed into the storm’s wrath.
For a fleeting moment, Maerwyn thought she saw into its heart, not an eye of calm, but a violent, shifting void where mist and water clashed in an unrelenting dance. Instinct drove her to cling to the fractured beam beneath her, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought against the storm’s pull.
The bow snapped free with an ear-splitting crack. The world tilted.
She lunged for Braegor as the boat pitched downward, the icy water swallowing them both. The cold stole the breath from her lungs, locking her muscles in a vice. Her arms flailed until her fingers found purchase, a broad section of the deck, splintered but still intact, bobbing unevenly amid the wreckage. She hauled herself onto it, the wood dipping dangerously before settling under her weight. Her soaked cloak clung to her like a leaden shroud, every movement sluggish, but the raft held.
The waterspout roared past, tearing through the lake, scattering wood, water, and thunder in its wake. Braegor swam desperately, his powerful legs kicking against the storm’s pull, before he reached her side. She clung to the wreckage. He clung to her.
Then, at last, the storm relented.
The night descended, cold and suffocating. The lake lay eerily still, the only sounds the gentle lapping of waves against the scattered debris.
Maerwyn drifted in and out of consciousness, the exhaustion dragging her under like an unseen current. The night was a blur, flashes of sky between heavy lids, the shifting creak of the wood beneath her, the steady warmth of Braegor pressed close. She woke once to the deep, aching cold that had settled into her bones. Again to the distant flicker of lightning, far off now, harmless. Again to nothing at all.
When she next stirred, dawn had begun its slow crawl across the horizon. A breeze, cool and steady, brushed her face, carrying the crisp scent of open water and distant reeds. The sky, painted in muted lavender and pale blue, cast a dim glow over the lake’s rippling expanse.
She groaned as she shifted, her body stiff and protesting. Her head throbbed dully, and her limbs ached with the deep-set fatigue of too many hours spent in the cold. Braegor stirred beside her, his fur matted, his breath slow but steady.
The shattered deck, their fragile sanctuary, bobbed gently beneath them.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, her fingers tightening against the wet wood as the wreckage swayed. The lake stretched in every direction, vast and deceptive in its stillness. Faint outlines of land sat on the edges of her vision, impossibly distant.
Two miles, maybe more.
On any other day, she might have been able to swim it. But now? Her body felt leaden, drained, each movement sluggish. The thought of plunging into the water made her stomach twist.
She reached absently beneath her cloak, fingers brushing the leather straps of her quiver. Still there. Thunderbow. The Soulpiercers. But her provisions, her pack, were gone. Lost to the storm.
She exhaled shakily, forcing down the rising unease.
The sun had climbed higher, streaking the lake’s surface with silver and gold. Maerwyn squinted toward the shoreline. Had the wreckage drifted in the night? Or had the storm carried her farther south than she realized?
Beside her, Braegor let out a low whine. She glanced down at him and ran a hand through his damp fur.
‘We need to move,’ she murmured.
Her limbs argued. Her head swam. Even bracing herself made the world tilt. The thought of swimming that distance felt impossible.
The lake was still. The shore, distant. Forward was the only choice.
Maerwyn drew a breath and pushed herself upright.
‘Braegor,’ she called.
The hound perked up. Without hesitation, he leapt into the water, strong strokes slicing forward.
She followed.
The cold bit deep, the lake clutching her in its jaws. She clung to a splintered plank and kicked after him, her focus narrowing to the slow, burning rhythm of each stroke.
CHAPTER 11 – The Rising Tide
Maerwyn woke with a jolt, the darkness pressing in unfamiliar and suffocating. Braegor lay beside her, his heavy breaths steady, but even in sleep, his ear twitched, attuned to her every movement. The rhythmic hush of water lapping against the shore reached her ears, mingling with the whisper of wind weaving through unseen trees or cliffs.
She lay face down, exactly where she had collapsed after dragging herself to shore, exhausted, half-frozen, her awareness fraying at the edges Her limbs felt weighted, as if the lake still clung to her, the cold sinking deep into her bones. She had clung to a single plank, a jagged splinter of deck no longer than her own body, that had been her only salvation from the abyss of Lake Eldrith.
Her throat tightened as she scanned the dim shoreline, searching for any sign of the others: the captain, the sailors, the men who had fought to keep the boat moving through the storm’s wrath. But there was nothing, only the ceaseless murmur of the lake and the bitter wind pressing against her skin. They were gone, swallowed by the depths.
