Fic: Twenty Roads Cazaril Did Not Take

[jeriendhal]

"And heave!" the galley's captain ordered. He and the oar master shoved Cazaril over the railing. Cazaril's arms and legs were wrenched sharply as his body's full weight pulled against the ropes hogtying his wrists and ankles. He let out a scream, his shoulders feeling as if they had been pulled out their sockets, as he swayed above the foaming wake of the Roknari galley.

He twisted his head to one side, spotting the pursuing Brajaran galley, its rowers digging their oars into the sea in pursuit of their prize, barely twenty cable lengths behind them.

After few minutes he lost the feeling in his hands and feet as the cords of the rope dug into his skin. The heat of the noonday was baking him, making him sweat, the cool, deadly sea less than six feet below him. They'd tossed him over just before the mid-day water ration was to be given out, and he felt himself growing parched, heat crazed. Some deep, sleeping part of him that still insisted on being addressed as "Castillar" made note of this rude behavior, and started mentally composing a cutting letter to the owner of the galley.

He giggled to himself, the imaginary letter suddenly seeming so utterly hilarious that he didn't notice the first of the crossbow bolts striking the stern of the galley. Then one whizzed right over his head and he let out a cry.

"Pull me in!" he screamed, his throat cracking. "Pull me in for the love of the Father and the Son, the Mother and the Daughter! Pull me in!" But the captain, more concerned with outrunning his pursuer than pulling in the slave he'd hung out to insult the Brajarans, ignored his cries, or more likely didn't hear them at all above the shouts of the oar master or the creaking of the hull. More bolts sang around Cazaril, as the Brajarans kept firing. They could see him, surely. Were they only concerned with somehow slowing down their prize, or were they actually trying to hit Cazaril, to end his terror and misery?

Time seemed to slow for Cazaril, the rocking of his body as it swayed on the end of the rope seeming like a mother's gentle rocking of their child, trying to lull them to sleep. He could count the bolts as they were fired at him, watching them travel towards him as slowly as a stick floating in a stream. Whether they actually struck seemed unimportant. He became distracted by the sheer effort of their taking flight. How amazing it was, the construction of a crossbow, the strong but flexible bow arm, the sinews of the bow string, the clever mechanics of the draw crank. It seemed miraculous somehow, but surely men could not create miracles to impress the gods.

Wait, that was important somehow. He tried to recall the lesson that the divine had once tried to teach him when he was much younger and less patient. Something about Ordol and the immaterial nature of the gods…

He felt the rope he hung from give out a musical twang, as a bolt bounced off the stern railing. Cazaril twisted his head upward, to see that the bolt had struck the rope, its sharpened broadhead tip damaging, but not quite slicing through the thick cord, leaving his remaining support to rapidly fray.

That was important too, somehow, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

He was still thinking about it when rope snapped and the sea rose up to embrace him.

Like a lover, Cazaril opened his mouth to accept its kiss.

Comments

[selenite.livejournal.com]

I'm really enjoying this series, thank you.

[squishydish.livejournal.com]

This roads series is great, and this one is particularly well written. The last two lines are fantastic.