The Spy and the Hound

Part 1 - Arrival

The Emerald Sea was smooth as glass and the Vinterfin mists clung to the water in fear they might glimpse the starlight above, or gods forbid the sunlight. Defiant cliffs climbed in the distance, dragged down by an oppressive cloak of fog. The vapor fled the full moon over the horizon, a glimmer of blue sky waited impatiently to strike down the cotton-covered world.

A smuggler’s skiff silently pawed at the water while the mists hid her cargo from unwelcome eyes. Two men, separated by a hound and a standing horse, rode the skiff nervously toward the island. The gentle grind of the shandbar shushed the boat as she snuck ashore.

A muscular man with a scar above one eyebrow stepped onto the shore. Black coat, black shirt, black trousers and black boots. Even his scar, tattooed black and hidden in his straight black hair. His unique style stood out, but he didn’t. He’d crafted the image of the everyman, just as easily a cleaned up peasant, a polite merchant, or a noble’s useless fourth son.

Arrival. The most dangerous part of infiltration. Sir Cero Qualms was well aware of the risk, and justifiably alert. His cold grey eyes searched for threats, then witnesses.

The shore of the most dangerous country in the world waited for him. Satisfied that a thousand wizards would not burn him into ashes, he pulled his horse out by the reins.

Biscuit was a good mare, and she’d fetch a fair price on the island. First, to carry his burdens to town, then find a new life as a farmhand.

Next, a massive hound, an Altova, hopped out of the shallow vessel. On their voyage, she’d been the only one able to move with impunity. Rare and trained to crush armor and bone in the same bite.

Lovail’s thick mane bristled over hard muscle, wound tight and ready to snap. She was built of bloodthirst and fury, her only leash an unbreakable loyalty to her master. Even she remained silent while they came ashore.

Cero surveyed the cliff for where he would make his ascent. The name of this cliff escaped him this early, nor did he care to wring the memory from his tired mind. It looked flat enough from this far away. Exhaustion would only weigh down the ropes he’d lift the horse with further.

The last passenger’s departure set the ship adrift, but its pilot, Steven, rebeached her quickly enough. His wool longcoat had dipweed stains on the breast where his spittle had missed. Vile juice squirted into the sea and narrowly missed his long, oily black braid. He planted his oar through the surf into the sand and retrieved a small can from his pocket to replenish his dipped lip. “I’ll take my gold then, sir. I’ve gotten you here, and that was the deal,” he said with a rounded cheek and stained teeth.

The man only ever smuggled essentials like rum and food. This was his first living cargo, not that he could complain. He kept his bulbous nose clean so the Law always had bigger fish to catch.

Cero shared a long, hard look with his hound. The smuggler had done right by him and little wrong. Terrible luck, really.

“Remind me the amount?” he asked while he avoided the smuggler’s gaze. His black-leather glove contorted in an odd signal which only Lovail could see.

“Fifty go–” was all Steven could get out before the Altova tackled him. Her yellowed teeth reached for his neck.

Steven fed her his arm instead, then screamed when she crunched it in two.

Lovail swallowed the appetizer, then tore out his throat and silenced him. The only sounds he made, soft schlacks punctuated by the impotent crunch of defeated bone.

Cero turned further away from the brutality. He’d seen it before and likely again, but he could never escape that moist sound of meat in her maw. Even when he slept.

While she ate her fill of the dead man, the spy stole a shovel from the boat and dug a shallow grave. An amateur would dump the body in the sea, but that left a trail. Besides, it was the will of Helios that men be buried with eyes high.

Lovail whined in disappointment when her prey was buried. She’d picked the thighs clean and peeled a fair amount of the smuggler’s calf away.

Before he hid the body, the spook glanced over the man for anything useful. In the shredded clothing, dipweed can and meager coinage still held value, and the man collected them.

Cero couldn’t sail, but the skiff provided a last resort to drift away and hope for hapless rescue. With Biscuit’s help, the spook managed to drag the boat out of the water. After rinsing the blood out, of course.

After a distance, the cliff hooked toward him and revealed an opening. Spook and horse dragged the boat into the cave instead.

The cave was not on his map, but the spy could fix that. He unfurled a scrap of leather he’d made and squinted at it in the dim twilight, then made a small cut with his knife. Invisible to most and excused as rough-handling.

It showed a patch of shore on the mainland and the outline of this island. Rhyla stood alone in the northern sea, a waypoint between Selvmere and Nebanin. It had two main ports where its rivers had cut through the cliffs. But there were three rivers, and only two ports.

Cero had hoped the third river had cut a yet undiscovered landing, and it seemed he’d been correct. If it came to it, an army from his own kingdom of Windstrom could counter-attack.

The cave wrapped around the inside of this cliff, hidden from the sea’s view. No wonder the mapwrites had missed it. As the sun rose however, he saw that the cave reached upward.

A cathedral of stalagmites shimmered in their climb toward the cavern roof. Mist coiled down a set of limestone switch-backs. A cloud river three men wide. Wide enough for a supply wagon and a horse.

Cero dropped his knife in shock. Far above him, dawnlight cut through the misty flow. Helio’s light from the heavens. The whistling wind of the cave’s maw might as well have been a chorus.

He turned to Lovail and said, “Island of wizards, right? Must be an illusion.”

The clever hound shook her head and bounded up the first switchback. She climbed a fair way before she returned to him and play bowed. She waggled her stump of a tail.

Convenience in nature made Cero wary. The wizards were capable of many feats, but this stumped him. A secret port for a navy, long abandoned? A pirate’s cove? What could have possessed them to build and abandon a port like this?

It was best not to linger, in case it was still in use somehow. The spy shrugged and told his hound, “Richard would be ecstatic to hear about this. An army’s road into the most unassailable nation in the world. But we have another mission. Maybe we’ll find a sailor and turn around.”

The horse and hound were freshly rested, but Cero had been awake for days. He trudged up the switchbacks, his legs burned with effort and his eyes demanded slumber. He tied a feed bag to Biscuit, emptied his waterskin into a bowl, and collapsed near the mountain. The view of the woods could wait for him.

His exhaustion was a consequence of a sound strategic decision, but everything had a price. Lovail would guard him. Biscuit would remain nearby. I don’t have many human friends, do I? The last thought before sleep claimed him.