Arn stood at the bottom of the cliffs, looking out into the saltwater lagoon. His raft leaders and band chiefs stood in a circle with him, looking out there with him. Joroth and Keeya stood opposite each other, while Jorik the Embalmer and Logern stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Coniran stood separately from the others, with crossed arms.
“Bravar will maintain the fishermen,” Logern said.
“And Im, the hunters,” Coniran added. The rising sun shone on the sun above and cast an eerie glow into the lagoon.
Arn nodded. “Joroth, will this be good?” he asked. He had already spoken to his brother, but he wanted them all to see him ask it. His sister Keeya snorted and looked down, where the waves lapped the stony shore quietly.
With a scratch of his brown beard and a nod, Joroth said, “I believe so.”
“Jorik, will they be aptly protected from injury and illness?” Arn asked next.
Jorik nodded. “I believe so. I put Home-maker Yottroa in charge of the healing while we are gone.”
There was a tense air to the silence. For Arn, the eerie atmosphere held his anxiety for their arrival and his eagerness for the hunt. For the others, it was the fear of death, for in an hour they would be hovering over water deeper than their nightmares. Arn had to dispel the aura for them, so he called a name they didn’t expect. “Shar!” he cried out. “Get over here.”
Shar limped out of the group of men and women nearby. The crowd was preparing supplies and loading the rafts which were tied to the edge of the lagoon with ropes and rocks. Shar moved with a lurching gait, and a smile that faded as erratically as the progress of the feet. Nervously, he entered the circle of leaders and whispered, “Yes, Arn?”
“You will be on my raft, because I do not trust you with the others.”
“I will go?” he asked. “I will, I will prove myself to you. To atone for all I’ve done to you. Before.”
Arn smiled a small smile and stepped closer to Shar. “You will, or you will go plunk into the Deep.”
Logern chuckled, and Keeya smiled. Shar opened his mouth crookedly and lowered his head in a respectful bow. He shuffled away to help the others in whatever manner he could. Arn looked at his others and let out his breath. “When we get to Scoa,” he told them, “Taran will lead all capable fighters. He answers only to me.”
Logern bristled, folding his arms and looking sharply at Taran.
“You will all obey what he says, unless I say otherwise.” Taran puffed out his chest at Arn’s words.
“I didn’t think you would ever lie to me,” Logern murmured, sullenly. He glared at his friend Taran and bit his lip. “But your ambitions are clear now.”
“Logern,” Arn said, and the fisher chief’s eyes flicked up to Arn’s. “You are the chief of fishing and that will not change.”
“It will one day,” Logern replied. For a moment, the silence grew even sharper. “But not today.”
Arn smiled and nodded. “We are agreed then.”
Keeya strode away briskly. Her stamping foot and swinging arm said to Arn, ‘Stop wasting my time with your mad dreams.’ Coniran walked away second. His controlled pace said nothing to Arn and was of far more concern to him than Keeya’s walk.
The rafts were ready soon enough, and Arn boarded one with Jorik, Shar, a few hunters, and a few fishers. Their raft sailed last, by Arn’s decision. He waved for Logern’s raft to go, and then for Taran’s. He wanted to make certain they wouldn’t idle until Arn’s raft left the lagoon and then disembark.
When it was time, Arn splashed in the shallows to push his raft deeper himself. They crossed the gentle waves of the lagoon quietly, watching as Logern’s raft entered the swelling currents of the Deep. Arn felt the rattling in his bones that he only felt during a hunt and he missed the painted mask he used to wear. He watched as Taran’s raft followed Logern’s—both stayed afloat. It was good for Arn that they did—if something happened on this voyage, he would surely be put to death.
As they lurched through the mouth of the lagoon, one of the men lost his lunch. Arn pulled the oar and kept pushing through the waves and onto the Deep. He looked to his left, where Shar toiled with his own oar. Though he sat on hid folded legs instead of standing with feet spread, Shar’s brow was dripping with sweat. Shar looked at him with a smile, through the sweat and then went back to his work.
The midday sun started to beat down and Arn felt that heat he had felt on his first voyage. He took a sip of his canteen and ploughed the raft further. “We’re doing it,” Logern shouted back. He pointed behind them. Arn had seen it before, but the other tribespeople let out sighs and exclamations at the sight of Razaad from the Deep.
“You doubted me?” Arn asked, and then started to chuckle. He stopped rowing to laugh a while, though everyone else looked at him uncomfortably. The three rafts continued toward Scoa.
It was the middle of the night when they arrived. Arn had shown them all how to go in order to avoid the tide-buffeted cliffs. Though it took far longer to sail north of Scoa before landing, they all arrived safely.
A waxing moon peaked down at the blue beach as Arn’s raft followed the others over the black waves. Each crest, near the shore, looked like teeth seen through a frowning mouth, rolling onto the sand and dissipating. Arn watched it as he oared, feeling that no two waves could be the same and therefore were lost for eternity after Scoa smashed them. For the first time since they left Razaad, Arn felt dread. He heard the silence of Scoa and waited for a screech from those tawny cats.
It didn’t come at first. They splashed through the waves and hauled their rafts up onto the beach. It was hard work dragging them through the sand past the tideline. They were all exhausted, but Taran did his job, eagerly picking on any who stopped to stand around.
“We need rest, but we have no homes here,” Jorik told Arn. “No shelter.”
Arn smiled. “You all gather close, and listen to me,” he called. The tribespeople gathered around him, so he didn’t need to make unnecessary noise. “Tonight and only tonight, we will stay in the ruins. They are a place of evil, as you may soon learn, but they will provide us ample shelter until homes are built.” Against his hip, the metal sword burned as hot as the sun. He quieted the voices inside that told him it really was a place of evil. He wouldn’t believe such things when Jorik could believe in them enough for two or three men.
A murmur went through them all. They left the rafts stranded high on the beach and carried all their supplies up through the forests. Arn led them slowly and struck the first man who stepped loudly on a branch with enough strength to blacken his eye. Soon they understood that silence was imperative.
The moon had started to sink when they reached the ruins. The warriors looked as terrified as the craftspeople as they gazed at the taller structures and wondered what this strange place was, so far from Razaad. Jorik the Embalmer touched the first wall they came to, frowning at the cool sensation of the moonlit stones. “Who built this place?” he asked quietly. “How?”
Arn frowned. “I do not know. It makes me realize how much I do not know.”
“Do not think like that,” Jorik said. “What we know of Razaad is more important than what we know of Scoa.”
“That may be,” Arn muttered. He led them to a large structure where they could all sleep under the same roof. He told them, “This place has been claimed by Gethra. Stay above the surface, and do not venture deeper.”
“What lies deeper?” Jorik asked him.
Arn shook his head. “Our tribe will be cursed if we go deeper. I will kill any who do, to protect us.” If any went deeper and found metal swords like his… he could not lose that advantage, not yet.
“Do as he says,” Jorik told the tribe. “For I cannot heal a curse.”
After that, Arn wasn’t certain how many of the tribe could get to sleep, but Arn slipped into a dreamless dark place as soon as he laid down. He was back, and his body knew it would need all the energy rest could muster.