The King of Bones: Part 2
The Oaken Dream sailed for three days before coming in sight of another island. There was no dock, so several crewmen went ashore with a skiff to buy supplies. The Pilgrim went with them to translate, and Arrow went because the Pilgrim had wanted him to see a different island from his own.
The island was thick with massive trees that stretched up higher than Arrow had ever seen.
“Yolen wood,” the Pilgrim explained, noticing Arrow's shocked expression. “They can grow even larger on the mainland. The locals chop branches, split them into long fibers and weave it into everything. The road we're walking on, for instance, was woven from these fibers. The ladder you see before you, and the city we are about to enter.”
The Pilgrim approached a guard wearing armor woven from yolen wood and spoke to him in a language Arrow didn't understand. Nor did Arrow care, since he was craning his neck upwards to see a city built into the branches of the trees.
“Excellent,” the Pilgrim finally said in a language Arrow knew. “They have agreed to trade with us.”
They ascended the ladder and Arrow was amazed to see platforms, streets, and stalls all connected by stairways and rope ladders. The crew wandered off to buy food and wine, while the Pilgrim led Arrow to some of the stalls.
“If we are going to the Isle of Bones, then we will need to arm ourselves. Now, how good are you at hitting targets?”
“I don't usually miss,” Arrow shrugged.
“Excellent. An Arrow that fires straight and true. Then you shall have a bow that fits your name.”
Arrow was handed a green bow almost as tall as he was. On closer inspection, he could see it was made from hundreds of single strips of yolen wood glued tightly together. The string was also made from yolen fibers, and resisted Arrow's draw when he tested it.
“And these are your brothers and sisters,” the Pilgrim said as he gave the boy a bundle of arrows. “Now to find our weapon.”
The Pilgrim paid the stall owner and continued down the row, thoughtfully examining the wares until he found an unusual weapon.
“Why are you holding a lute?” Arrow asked.
“It is a very powerful weapon. One that can slay boredom and raise spirits. We will need it where we are going.”
Two hours later, everyone was ready. Several barrels of supplies were lowered down to the forest floor and the crew loaded it onto a wagon.
“Excellent, we still have time,” the Pilgrim said.
“For what?” Arrow asked.
“There is one more wonder this island has to show us, if you will indulge us.”
Arrow agreed, since he was eager to see if the splendor of the City of Weavers could be matched.
Arrow asked the question that had been nagging at his mind. “Why do you always use 'we' and 'us' when referring to yourself?”
“We are a brother of the Order of the Circle,” the Pilgrim laughed. “Every man, woman and child is connected by the bonds of life, and is a brother or sister to everyone else. As others succeed, we triumph as well. As others suffer, we mourn with them, for that is what brothers do.”
“What about fighting? And wars?”
The Pilgrim nodded. “Brothers argue. Brothers also fight, sometimes quite fiercely. We are, after all, only human. Our Order reminds people that brothers also reconcile.”
“You never said what your name was.”
“We gave up our name when we took the Oath of Brotherhood. We wander the world, and therefore the title of Pilgrim suits us fine.”
Arrow scratched his head. “Are you talking about yourself or your Order?”
“Precisely,” the Pilgrim smiled. “Ah, but I see we have arrived. Behold the Singing Meadow.”
It was a field full of flowers. As the wind blew over it, the flowers rustled with the sound of a million different chimes. Arrow stared with his mouth open as the Pilgrim began toying with the strings of his lute.
“Incredible,” Arrow muttered and saw the Pilgrim. “What are you doing?”
“Tuning, of course. Don't mind us, go listen to the real musicians.”
Arrow nodded and stepped away from the sound of the Pilgrim's lute. The Meadow stretched on for what he imagined to be miles and miles of flowers, all tinkling and whistling in the constant breeze.
“If only you were here, Ginnea.” Arrow closed his eyes and pretended that the breeze blowing through his hair was her fingers, the melody in his ears was her laughter, and the smell in his nose...
Arrow's eyes snapped open. He smelled fire and burnt hair. Bounding across the meadow was a giant cat, easily as tall as Arrow at the shoulders. Its fur was red as brick, but the mane and tail flickered and burned as red as the creature's eyes. Two great black fangs jutted down from its jaw.
The firelion paused in a patch of spotted bloodreds, the heat from the creature wilting the flowers and mangling the song. It saw Arrow, then casually licked its lips.
Time slowed for Arrow and he became aware of every hair on his body standing up. It would only take a few seconds for the firelion to reach him.
Arrow remembered he still had his bow and dropped into a crouch, the firelion charging him as soon as he did. Nocking an arrow and drawing back the string, he fought the pounding of his heart to steady his aim and shot.
The firelion howled briefly, then tumbled to a stop, dead. The arrow lodged in the creature's left eye.
Arrow sat down, scarcely believing he had survived. He watched as the fiery mane of the creature died away, dimly aware of shouting, running feet, and the lute banging against the Pilgrim's back as he ran.
“We heard a roar and...oh. We see your aim is as good as your namesake.” The Pilgrim stared at the dead firelion and the unhurt Arrow.
“Come,” the Pilgrim said, helping Arrow to his still-wobbly feet. “We must return to the ship.”
The next two days at sea were uneventful. The sailors whispered about Arrow having killed the firelion with a poisoned thunderbolt from his eyes.
“Don't worry about them,” the Pilgrim explained. “It gives the crew something to talk about and new outlandish tales to invent. At the next port they reach, you'll stand eight feet tall and spit fire from your mouth. In five ports, you'll be called an immortal hero who wrestled the beast for three days before snapping its neck.”
“Why would they do that?” Arrow asked.
“A tale is only as interesting as its teller,” the Pilgrim shrugged, looking at the horizon. “We wouldn't concern ourselves with it much. A storm is coming.”
Arrow followed the Pilgrim's gaze at the dark clouds gathering in the distance. Lightning flickered. “We're sailing right into it!”
“Indeed. Beyond that lies our destination.”
The next few hours saw a frenzy of activity on deck. The crew scurried frantically, tying down loose objects at the direction of Captain Skollen and furling the sail so the wind wouldn't rip it apart.
The storm itself hit suddenly, with waves surging against the hull violently and the wind flinging the spray into everyone's faces. The howl of the storm grew louder until Arrow tried to cover his ears to block the sound. It didn't work.
“Screamers!” one crewman shouted. He pointed at the clouds as a dozen pale shapes swooped down toward the ship.
“What?” Arrow shouted.
The Pilgrim roughly pulled Arrow to the deck. “The storm-dead, lad. Tormented souls that drowned in storms and now madly follow them. Stay down and don't move.”
Standing up again, the Pilgrim unslung his lute and began playing. It was a very simple chord progression, but the screamers began swirling around the pilgrim. They were pale, almost invisible, and their features shifted and changed like the clouds Arrow had spent so many hours imagining. Here an arm stretched out to grasp at the Pilgrim, there a swollen and bloated head let loose a dreadful wail.
Captain Skollen saw the screamers surround the Pilgrim and ordered his crew to push through the storm, swearing to use oars if they had to.
The next twenty minutes were more tense than anything Arrow had ever known. He stared helplessly at the playing Pilgrim surrounded by the storm-dead, mesmerized by their swirling movements.
As they neared the edge of the storm, a giant wave crashed into the ship, sending everyone tumbling across the deck. The Pilgrim got to his knees and found the neck of his lute broken, the strings splayed out uselessly.
A dozen hollow voices screamed as one and the storm-dead swarmed upon the Pilgrim, tearing at his clothes and battering him around the deck. The wailing reached a crescendo as they lifted him into the air, raking his flesh with their spectral claws.
Then the ship passed out from the storm cloud and into clear sky. The storm-dead let out a wail of frustration and the Pilgrim crashed heavily to the deck.
Arrow was the first to reach him, but it was obvious there was nothing he could do. The Pilgrim's face was bruised and slashed from the attack, and his neck was almost twisted off its shoulder. The Pilgrim's unliving eyes stared calmly at Arrow before Captain Skollen gently closed them.
“Land!” the lookout shouted, pointing urgently at a small, rocky island.
Arrow looked, but didn't see any trees, plants or any signs of life. “Is that it?” he asked.
Captain Skollen nodded. “The Isle of Bones. Get back to the ship by nightfall, or we leave without you.”