Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 21

A Less-than-Friendly Greeting

Notes:

Andd we hath reached the Phoobs...

*****

Landing in the vicinity of or anywhere near the Phoobs would have been a terrible decision, one quite possibly detrimental to rescuing his daughter from Amrah's clutches. Instead, Hyrindale diving underwater with him on his back was the best solution, as they could get close enough to the Phoob Islands without being sighted. 

Artham came up sputtering, an arrow's shot away from one of the smaller (and outer) Islands, one hopefully not swarming with Fang scouts or others Amrah might have employed. The swim was somewhere between barely manageable and grueling, and many concerns regarding the state of his sword or supplies ran through his head as he made his way to shore. 

Sincerely hoping his assumption that the small island was abandoned held true, Artham pulled himself out of the water and onto rocky, dry land that, unlike him, did not drip and create obvious water-spot trails. 

Finding a way to get to the main melding station of the Phoobs that isn't this sounds like an excellent, because dripping all over the island sounds a bit like a, HELLO, I AM HERE!!! message, Artham thought drily as he pulled his shirt off and wrung the water out from it. Salt water dried into clothes would turn into a dreadfully itchy mess if he did nothing, and while he could resist the urge to scratch, anything hampering stealth reconnaissance tended to, well, hamper stealth reconnaissance. 

Speaking of reconnaissance, how he would actually carry it out was another issue. As of that moment, nothing came to mind. His wings were gone, so his previous method used when rescuing Kalmar would not work anymore. Very few times in which he actually wished he still had the enormous things some classified as weapons, but this was one of them. They would serve him well now.

Yet the Maker had seen it fit to instruct his King to rid him and many other people of what were handicaps in a way, and arguing with such a choice seemed a violation of trust placed in him. Artham knew he was not his wings, for though they were (in a way) a gift from the Maker, they were still a symbol of brokenness, of wrong choices. 

He was a Throne Warden, first and foremost, and even though he did not directly serve his King and nephew as of that moment, he did obey. That in and of itself was a form of service, of love. What better way to prove his courage than bringing home a dear member of their family, one lost for years? One who was his daughter. 

Artham glanced toward the core of the Phoob Islands in the distance, the one in which the melding chamber, and hopefully Amrah and his daughter, resided. Once again, the doubt in that the trip, his halfway-formed plan, the wavering hope, was based on Janner's logical hunch fluttered into his mind. How could it not? It wasn't as though he didn't trust Janner—quite the contrary, in fact. The lad had had genius ideas at times, perhaps the one most tender to his heart when he climbed the Great Tree in Ban Rona and jumped.

It was rather the opposite, in fact. He did trust Janner and Janner's hunch. He agreed the Phoobs was the most logical place Amrah would take his daughter to. And it was just the sort of location she would want to lure him to as well. That was it, of course. He was unwilling to admit it out loud, almost completely reluctant to whisper it into his mind, but he was nervous. Anxious. Scared, even. Amrah and the Fangs had held him in the Phoobs for weeks, dangling above the melding chambers, seeing child after child swayed into Fangishness because they had lost all hope.

It was the same view he and Esben had had in Throg, one where their cage dangled, facing the melding chambers where day after day after day people willingly turned their souls over to Gnag and his Stonekeepers. That had been after they had taken his daughter and Arundelle away, of course. Perhaps it was how cruelly and mercilessly the Fangs treated them was what pushed Esben into such dark hopelessness: if Gnag and his monsters were willing to hurt a young pregnant woman, and later her child, for the fun of it, what wouldn't they do to the Queen of Anniera and her Jewels?

Memories and fears aside, Artham had around five weeks to plan and carry out a rescue mission, and exhausting all the time was not his intention. Two weeks was the maximum amount of time he wanted to spend in the Phoobs, and the earlier he carried out his yet-to-be-formed plan, the stronger the element of surprise.

That was one thing he could not lose. He would botch the entire mission if Amrah discovered he had already arrived, since he had technically broken her rules regarding him being the only one to rescue his daughter. Hyrindale had helped with transportation and given him an enormous advantage. Such a thing would surely infuriate Amrah, and he did not have any desire to test her patience. 

Like mother, like daughter, though, and even if he had not seen her anger, only odd forms of ecstasy and honeyed persuasion, Murgah's burning anger had terrified him. She was cruel in her anger, throwing her prisoners into the melding chamber if they refused and hitting them into submission if it was necessary, sometimes just for fun. Maybe that was why Podo had so successfully deterred him when he came to Glipwood: the anger had reminded him of Murgah to the point at which he had run like the scared Cloven he was. 

Ah, another point. From the moment he ran out of the Deeps of Throg, he had known few things, but one he was sure of: the title "Cloven" branded him. A split, crushed, twisted thing he was, inside and out. He could do nothing to fix it, nothing to change it.

The Maker and Kalmar had changed that, though, and he was Cloven no longer. He was whole. And no matter the cost, he would rescue his daughter from the black, looming mass crouching amidst the sea and sunset.

*****

Doing reconnaissance was difficult when you couldn’t actually scout your target in any way, Artham realized. He had no boat to get him to the main island and swimming sounded as though it was a poor choice for many reasons.

Because of that, nearly all of his reconnaissance was done from memory, of what he remembered about the island, its layout, its weak points, its innards, its escape routes. He had dangled there for weeks, after all, and that had given him plenty of time to observe the inside where the melding chamber resided.

The main entrance was the one used by the Black Carriage and its driver, the one normally carting children to their inescapable fate. Yet…it seemed as though there was a second entrance, a smaller one, the one he had come through.

The Fangs had dragged him, of course, and he had been crazed and only half-alert at the time, but he knew he entered through the back route. All those coming through the main entrance were transported by the Black Carriage, but one thing he was acutely aware of was that he had been kicked, shoved, and finally dragged along down a dark, claustrophobic tunnel. Well, he was acutely aware as long as the tunnel hadn’t been a figment of his imagination that unfortunately worked a bit too well at times.

Artham shook his head. He did not have the luxury of second-guessing himself. That state of mind would have to wait for a different time, one when lived he cared dearly about were not on the line. He had to believe the Maker would give him sound recollection, because otherwise, all reconnaissance would have to occur the moment he set foot on the island, whenever that might be. 

It'll be when I can find some sort of boat, Artham thought ruefully as he looked out at the water. Already he had been there an entire day and had yet to come up with a single idea related to boatery. And honestly, he was making excuses, considering he had had the several days' trip to the Phoobs to figure it out. 

His mind decided to wander for a moment, and Artham couldn't help but grin at the thought that once it had been an anomaly to cross the Dark Sea in five days, and here he and Hyrindale had done it in four. His smile faded as he realized the wrong sort of people could exploit that dreadfully. As soon as he was back in Anniera, he would present the suggestion to Janner and the other regents. 

Oh, and Janner—his mind was wandering more than he planned. Good thing no one was around to jump him. His nephew had crossed his mind so many times, to the point at which Artham almost believed something was actually wrong, that the cough had developed into something horrible like pneumonia or consumption or something else dreadfully life-threatening to the old and young and weak.

But that didn't happen, Artham told himself, crossing his arms as if that somehow bolstered his confidence. It didn’t happen because it just wouldn't. It's illogical that something would happen as soon as I left Anniera. That sort of thing only happens in books.

“Do not shift thyself another hair, my transpiring fellow,” came a very familiar voice from behind. “Or I may find that the head that sitteth between thy shoulders maketh a top-notch centerpiece.”

“Gammon!” Artham exclaimed, whipping around to face his friend, clad from head to foot in his somewhat ridiculous Florid Sword garb. He had yet to fathom why in Aerwiar his friend was on the outskirts of the Phoob Islands, but it was an easy enough question to get an answer to. “Actually, you're just the sort of person—”

Gammon's eyes narrowed to slits in his mask. “Nay, sir, do not address me as such! I am Florid, and no other! Remove thyself from these premises faster than physically possible, for if thou dost not, my threat from before stands still.”

Laughing nervously, Artham put his hands up. He hadn't considered Gammon might very well not recognize him as a result of the melding. After all, before he had had feathery hair, reddish skin, talons for fingers, and enormous, black wings. Now he looked like a normal person. Confusion wasn't completely unexpected. “It's just me—”

But before he could get another word in, Gammon's sword had sprung from its sheath and drawn a line across his upper arm. Artham's mouth dropped open in surprise, and as he backed away, he couldn't help but feel relief that his shirt was crimson. It would make it harder for Arundelle to spot bloodstains from any superficial injuries later. 

Like those dished out from someone you would consider a “close friend”? he thought drily as he spun to avoid another one of Gammon's jabs. 

“Remove thyself from these premises!” Gammon ordered again, louder this time. “The first wound was a warning; the next will be a command.”

Artham pursed his lips and glanced around the small island, observing for any sort of cover or obstacles that might take part in what could very soon spiral into a duel if he couldn't convince Gammon of who he was.

“Gammon, I promise,” he began again, casually moving away from the feinting point of his friend’s sword. “You know me. I'm Artham Wingfeather! Remember, the crazy guy with wings who met up with you in Kimera and helped liberate the children in Dugtown?”

Glaring, Gammon scoffed at him. “Sure, and I am a normal human being without stealth capabilities. Thou hast met thy match, imposter! The true Artham Wingfeather is in Anniera as of this moment, and last I checked, he has wings.”

Anger flashed in Gammon's eyes, and with the next jab of his sword, one that was certainly meant to be a direct hit and not a feint, Artham reluctantly drew his sword. As suspicion and even triumph mounted in Gammon's posture, he could only hope his fighting style would be recognized. 

Their blades clashed, a lovely and yet deadly sort of zing ringing out through the evening. Brief concern that one of Amrah's potential scouts would hear made its way into Artham's heart, and urgency took over his mind. He would have to convince or subdue Gammon as soon as possible, otherwise his entire purpose for being there could be in jeopardy. 

“How's Maraly doing? Or, rather, Shadowblade,” he asked during a bit of a lull in the duel.

“That is none of the concern, hideous imposter!” Gammon grunted angrily, his sword coming down hard on Artham's blade, using his full weight to shove him into a rock that appeared behind them. 

Clenching his teeth at the effort of pushing back trying to keep both himself and Gammon from being dreadfully wounded in the process, Artham settled for breaking the rules of duels and shoved him onto the ground with his shoulder. 

Success was his, and Gammon toppled, his sword flying in one direction as he landed on his side in what looked to be a bruise-creating position. 

“You cheating, self-centered, disgrace of a—” Gammon growled, looking as furious as a mad cat.

“Before you kill me,” Artham said calmly as he planted his foot on Gammon's chest only to keep him down, the tip of his sword several inches away from his friend’s nose. “I need you to listen. I am Throne Warden of Anniera, Artham P. Wingfeather, Son of Jru Wingfeather, protector of those who cannot protect themselves. If I was an imposter, I would have killed you by now. After all, I do have you at sword point.”

Glaring at him, Gammon raised himself into a sitting position. “You put forth a decent point, no pun intended. Answer me this, then: if you are Artham, what happened to you?”

Artham smiled and considered whether or not he should sheath his sword. Probably not, he decided. Gammon still looks kind of apt to attack. “It's quite a long story, but the short one is that the Maker saw it fit for Kalmar, may he rest with the Maker and his forefathers, to meld with the Cloven still trapped in Throg, and I was healed at the same time.”

Pure confusion passed over Gammon’s face, but it was gone in a flash; Artham didn’t mind. It was an odd thing to see his friend confused or nervous or concerned or pretty much anything other than confident and audacious. 

“That makes almost no sense,” Gammon said drily, a hint of concern in his words. “There's no way Kalmar is gone. And, frankly, I really don’t—”

“ARTHAM!!” came Maraly’s crowing voice, and in seconds, her arms were unexpectedly wrapped around his waist. 

Artham blinked in surprise for a brief second before smirking. “I suppose that banishes your disbelief, doesn’t it?”

Gammon’s mouth had dropped open in surprise the moment Maraly flew onto the scene, and after Artham had sheathed his sword, he semi-begrudgingly accepted the helping hand up.

Maraly had decided to stand off to the side stoically as was normal and cleared her throat as if to erase her ecstatic nature from moments earlier. “Hey,” she grunted, and Artham burst out laughing. “Gammon, how’d ya manage ta think he was anybody ‘sides Artham?”

Gammon pretended to cough  and adjusted his eye mask that really didn’t need adjusting. He seemed embarrassed, and Artham couldn’t help but see the hilarity in the situation. “That’s not important,” he muttered, sounding more ashamed than dismissive. There was something else in his eyes, though, related to what had been said minutes before about Kalmar. Questions would need to be answered. “Artham, my friend. What brings you to the Phoobs? It isn’t exactly a pleasure spot.”

“No, it’s not,” Artham agreed. “Frankly, I would never come back here if there was no need. But there is a need. Amrah the Stonekeeper is holding my daughter captive, and I suppose the Florid Sword and Shadowblade could come in handy in terms of getting her to safety.”

“Great!” Maraly exclaimed, whipping a dagger out from who-knew-where. Apparently she didn’t feel a need to ask where his daughter had spawned from.  “When do we start?”

*****

Notes:

As you can see, certain things were not discussed in this chapter (i.e., Artham did not inform Maraly and Gammon that Kalmar is now dead and Janner is King, and for that matter he also didn't inform them that Janner was dead and is not anymore, etc.). Gammon and Maraly don't know what happened in Anniera because the Ernamere just left the Shining Isle two weeks earlier and therefore has yet to reach Skree.

We also don't know why Gammon and Maraly are floating around in the Phoobs, but they'll tell Artham at some point...

Please let me know if there are any canonical errors^^

(writing Gammon as Florid was so much fun XD)