The Temple of Vitus by Chris Turner

Author:Chris Turner [Turner, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

2: The Mantaray coast

Risgan did not realize how close he was to the estuary of the river Vlon and the sea. The water glinted through the trees and he came out of the wilds a haunted man, bedevilled by gibbeths, usilmars, basilmurks, wet worms, leeches, wire snakes and other such creatures.

At his wits’ end he had one murky night clawed his way up a giant mandrake tree to elude the coiling tongue of a kodo—long ago he had lost his famous purple powder renowned for deterring gibbeths, though he doubted if such preventative would actually gain any protection against a kodo. No sooner had he escaped the creature than he was set upon by several large grey flapping things—perhaps Nalsi’s legendary stone owls. Shouts and frantic knife hacks had repelled the brood at last, though gnashing beaks and talons had ripped his clothing and drawn blood.

The trees finally broke, and the river, to his left, became a wide sluggish bay, almost a lake. Vaster than vast, the sea still ranged east and west, but of colour much more muted aquamarine. He prayed to Douran that shelter would find him here, for he was spent.

A family took him in, for he had stumbled the last few steps to their fishing village three leagues from Fugis. Upon seeing his emaciated and haggard condition, the wharf-side fishermen gathered him up and gave him food and shelter for the night. Risgan had no coins to offer, save three measly curios hidden in his pouch, which they refused, professing that he could repay them by joining their fishing crew with Alred and his son Albrek. Every morning they went out every to troll for gizza.

Within a week, Risgan had healed himself of his wounds to tolerable shape, though he hosted new scars and bleak memories of the perilous flight through Mangor forest. Though he should have been the worst for it, he appeared to have recovered much of his vigour, much to the amazement of his hosts. They saw a half dead man arrive, and within days an energetic figure rise from the ashes, looking even younger than when he had come. In truth, Risgan did feel more spry; he looked a few years junior than when he had left Xoltux wrapped in the kodo’s tongue. Wryly he reminisced that the youth talisman’s magic had healed Varwa as easily as him, for it was during the handling of the nephrite during his showdown with the shaman, that the miracle had taken place.

A league out to sea, Risgan assessed his duties on the Drifting Sparrow, meandering in the drowsy heat, rocked by lazy swells. It was a mid-sized scow powered by a single sail, square-cut, equipped with foredeck, twin companionways, aft deck, fore cabin and a clever telescope which swivelled on a pedestal by the ship’s wheel. Nets were hauled onto the deck, assisted by Alred and his winch while his son manned the wheel. Risgan was relegated to sifting fish, bagging ‘Aukwoks’, ‘Ters’ or ‘Gizza’, which were consigned to the oily drums as and when necessary.

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