Darkwell - Douglas Niles [59]
Gwen screamed as Koll spun around, his own eyes widening. The most horrible creature he had ever seen slithered over the transom, flicking a forked tongue toward him. Its pale eyes bulged, and rows of sharp wicked teeth gleamed in its widespread mouth. Its vaguely humanlike body was completely covered with green scales, and it used clawed hands, with webbed fingers, to pull itself into the bottom of the boat.
In the instant of his turning, the northman froze in panic. What could he do? He gaped in terror as the manlike form slithered forward. Suddenly his fear galvanized into action, and he reached for one of the long oars. He lifted the oar from its lock and brought it crashing down onto the creature's head as the monster tried to stand. It slumped to its knees, and he crashed the oar down upon it again, snapping the wooden shaft in two but dropping the creature senseless into the hull.
"What – what is it?" gasped the maid as Koll slumped weakly to the bench.
For a moment, he could not speak. Bile rose in his throat, and he feared he would lose his breakfast, but finally his tongue freed itself from his terror. "I – I've heard tales of the fish-men, dwellers of the deep. Sometimes they struck ships, but only far at sea," The northman spoke slowly as he regained his breath.
"Look… Codsbay!" cried Gwen, pointing to shore. They watched in horror as a wave of huge white bodies plodded menacingly from the surf and entered the town, striking down any humans who did not flee before them. And then another wave of invaders rose from the sea, and still more hastened in their wake.
Koll pulled the sail taut as they watched, and soon the wind pushed them slowly toward the strait.
"Where are you going?" cried the distraught young woman as she saw his course. "My family's there. We've got to go back!"
Koll nodded at the town. Flames had already begun to flicker upward from the buildings. "They've either fled, and are safe, or they did not flee… In either case, we will not be able to help them."
She turned with a sob to watch the shore, seething in chaos behind them.
"We'll go to Oman's Isle," he promised. "There we can get help and sail home as soon as possible!"
Of course, he couldn't know that Sythissall and the sahuagin already swarmed across the length and breadth of Oman's Isle, and that the survivors were already fleeing toward the cramped security of the Iron Keep.
* * * * *
They rode steadily toward the Darkwell, each immersed in private thoughts, but they all shared the common purpose now. Nothing else mattered until they could confront the root of the evils that plagued the land and had slain their friend.
Tristan wondered what Robyn would do when they reached the well. Some secret with the scrolls, she had indicated. Why had she refused to give him more details? This, he realized, was just another evidence of the depth of the change between them. She no longer confided in him or sought his advice. He realized with sharp clarity just how much he missed her. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself, cursed the red-haired woman, cursed all the circumstances of that fateful night.
All he could do now was strive for atonement, and so he would. To start, he would see that the companions all reached the grove of the Great Druid, and the goal of their quest, alive.
For a while, they rode in silence, all of them sharing their grim purpose. Even Newt seemed to sense their resolve. He sat forlornly ahead of Robyn in the saddle, curled against her stomach, silent for once. Behind her, lashed to the saddle, rested Daryth's silver scimitar. Tristan had offered it to her as they buried their friend and, reluctantly, she had accepted the gift.
All the riders looked nervously this way and that, sharing a grim apprehension yet seeing no visible threat. Tristan took a measure of comfort from the fact that the