Published: December 2015

Publisher: Fickle Frog Productions

Format: Paperback

               453 pages

RRP: AUD$21.95

ISBN13: 978-0994167040

ISBN10: 0994167040

Genre: High Fantasy

 

Keeper of Scrolls: Book Four of The Dorean Line

By Stacey Logan

ONE

 

Sweat beaded on his brow and his dark hair clung to his face as he worked, regardless of the cold. Spring was nearing but he suspected its appearance would be short and late, if it arrived at all. He’d heard the old men that sat on the docks day in and day out, talking about the floods. They were overdue, they had decided, but it seemed no one truly knew when they would arrive. A long, cold winter, followed by a short, hot summer would begin the change that could last up to ten years—so he had been led to believe—yet, in the chill air, there seemed to be no hint of the warmth that would be required for the melt.

 

Picking up a crate, he paused to listen. He knew that the bay lay to the west but he could not see it through the thick blanket of fog that had arrived in the night. The ground before him was barely even visible but he began to slowly move towards the ship he was loading, employing his other senses to make up for the all-encompassing white that blinded him. The sounds on the dock were many and, on days such as these, their volume seemed overwhelming. Relying so heavily on their ears in the low visibility, the dockworkers, sailors and fishermen had trained themselves to ignore the incessant daily noises and, in so doing, the squawking seagulls, clanking chains, groaning ropes, and the tapping of the ships as they lightly collided with the piers, went almost unnoticed while he worked. His ears did not register the slapping sounds of the rigging as it collided with the canvass sails under the movement of the sea, he was too focused on the sound of the water lapping. The closer he moved towards it, the more careful he would have to be. Taking a fall into the bay on such a cold day would do little to improve his situation.

 

Cautiously, but efficiently, he loaded the crate onto the deck of a ship whose proportions were hidden from his vision by the misty shroud. Hired as a hand when the ship pulled into port, he was yet to view the vessel but it mattered little. All the ships that came to Kal-Rye were the same. Sloop, pinnace or dinghy, galley or the tallest of tall ships; it made little difference. Docking in the disreputable little city meant only one thing, that the cargo they carried was, at best, questionable. As the closest mainland port to the Buccaneer Isles, Kal-Rye couldn’t help but facilitate in the smuggling and piracy that ran rife around the islands. To turn away such business would have sent the struggling seaside community broke centuries ago.

 

‘Look out!’

 

Dodging to the side swiftly, a rush of air passed him and heard a thud as a pile of ropes crashed to the ship’s deck. Looking up was futile but the reflex was irrepressible as he turned his gray eyes to the rigging. He could see nothing above.

 

‘Apologies, friend,’ said the same voice that had issued the warning. Another thud sounded and he found himself face to face with a blonde man, taller than he by little more than an inch. Ropey and lean, his smile was amiable.

 

‘Accepted and unwarranted,’ he replied easily and tried to continue on his way. There was much work that needed doing and, in his experience, dallying would more often than not result in some sort of financial penalty that he simply could not afford right now.

 

‘What’s ya name?’ It seemed the man was less concerned about his finances.

 

‘Roch.’

 

‘Well met, Roch. Me name’s Strant.’ He extended his hand to the shorter, dark haired man who had wished only to avoid the distraction.

 

‘Pleasure.’

 

‘So ya a dockworker?’ Strant began, clearly eager to talk.

 

‘For today, at least,’ Roch stated simply. He knew where the conversation was likely to be headed but he wanted nothing to do with it.

 

‘Ever thought ‘bout hittin’ the seas?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘There’s a position just opened up on this ‘ere ship—’

 

‘Not interested.’ Moving towards the cargo waiting to be loaded, he hefted another crate. The larger items were being piled onto nets and hoisted onboard but the smaller crates and barrels were left for him. He’d been propositioned by crewmen and captains before, he knew that the man he was being asked to replace most likely met some messy end; such ends seemed to always be the fates of pirates.

 

‘Should ya change ya mind, come to the Dolphin’s Tail and find me. I’m sure by day’s end you’ll want nothin’ more that to jump on a ship and escape this festerin’ flea pit.’ Clapping his hand on Roch’s shoulder, Strant continued on towards the town.

The mist thinned a little as the day wore on but as the light faded it had begun to thicken again. Come morning, it was likely to be impenetrable. Roch sighed as he looked at the pier he’d spent the day clearing. The crates and barrels had been loaded onto the ship before noon and the fatigue he felt in his aging bones told him he’d probably overdone it. Nearing his twenty eighth summer, he was still young by any man’s definition but he couldn’t help feeling old.

 

Stretching his back, he heard it cracking and inhaled deeply of the briny air before he reached for an old net that had been tossed carelessly from the vessel that had made berth on the opposite side of the pier. Nets were troublesome if left in such a state and he shook his head in disapproval as he tried to free the tangles. Feeling his cares lighten as he studied the mess before him, he approached the task of righting the net as a form of meditation. He knew nets, having been raised by a drift maker he had grown up around them, and within just a few moments he had freed the tangles, smiling as he thought of the man he’d looked upon as a father.

 

Roch didn’t know exactly how he had come to live with the old netter, he had no memory of the years before, but it bothered him little. He had lived well and been cared for as though he were the old man’s own son but he had passed over ten years ago. Clumping the net and fastening it so that it would not tangle again, Roch turned his attention away from the pier and back to shore, smiling. He envisaged what the rest of his day would bring, his home, a warm meal and his bed. The invitation to join the sailor, Strant, at the Dolphin’s Tail was forgotten and he’d not even had to consider it. His life was quiet and void of adventure, just the way he liked it.

 

Walking through the streets, he lowered his head, amplifying his invisibility. No one noticed him, ever, and it was that kind of anonymity, the isolation, that he craved. His world had not always been so. There was a time, a decade past when, after his father had died, he had longed for attention. The foolishness of youth. His lust for excitement had resulted in too many nights lost at the bottom of an ale barrel, too many fights—both won and lost—and a loveless marriage to a vacuous woman who had left him almost as quickly as she had consented to marry him. His recklessness had cost him dearly, financially and emotionally. The gambling and drinking alone could have destroyed him but when his wife fleeced him, taking what little coin he had left when she abandoned him, he knew that his behavior could not continue. He thanked the gods that they had born no children. Had his wife been inclined to allow him to touch her, things may have been very different indeed.

 

The city was lit with torches as the light faded, the fog casting a warm, bulbous aura around the golden flames as they burned. Despite the inclement weather, there were many people still out. Some made their ways home, such as Roch did, while others made their way out to visit one of the many taverns or whorehouses after their long day of work. Roch didn’t care to trouble himself with deeper speculation about their activities. There was no need for it, he knew how his city—and the people in it—operated.

 

Climbing up a slight hill, his leg muscles burned but he was used to the feeling. He lived to the south of the city where the land sloped upward nearing the residences and he had spent his whole life running or walking up and down that slope.

The noises of the night faded as he approached his door. Just far enough away not to be disturbed by the raucous sounds of pirates, merchants, traders and smugglers carousing in the city, he stepped inside his wood cabin and closed the door behind him stomping the sand out from between his cold toes. He had never even owned a pair of boots, it seemed unnecessary in the sandy dunes that surrounded Kal-Rye. Sand, sea or ship, no boot was built to suffer all conditions. Removing his worn, old, leather cloak, he hung it from the peg just inside his door and made his way to the fire. Stirring the coals, he added what little wood he had and watched the flames jump to life.

 

 

Waking slowly, Roch groaned. Some days, it seemed like he was one of the nets his father used to work on, fixed to lead weights, sinking to the sea bed, unable to rise without help. Sleeping was one of his favorite activities, waking was not. In sleep, hours passed without his awareness. He felt nothing, no regret, no hope, no fatigue, just blissful oblivion. Waking brought with it pain; physical, pain from his previous day’s work, and loneliness. As much as he could appreciate it as the day wore on, in his first few moments of consciousness he always felt alone.

 

‘It don’t ‘ave to be this way ya know.’ The voice was not welcomed. ‘Ya still young enough to change ya ways.’

 

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and sat up on his tightly stretched net bed. The scarceness of wood in the area had caused the people of Kal-Rye to adapt to other means for furnishings. Affixed to the walls of his cabin, the net was pulled so tight it formed a sturdy enough platform for him to sleep atop.

 

‘What makes you think I’m going to start listening to you now, old man?’ he asked softly, his sleepy voice sounding like gravel to his own ears as he stretched his muscles in preparation for the day.

 

‘Hope.’

 

‘What hope is there for a dead man?’

 

His father’s ashes had barely cooled on the pyre the first time Roch saw him but it had taken years for the old man to begin speaking with him. Little more than an apparition, as the time passed, his image grew more and more solid—more real—and then came the sounds. The wailing had almost driven Roch mad, but then some would have argued that his ability to see the dead was a sign that his sanity was already compromised.

 

‘Hope for you, ya flagrant addlepate,’ the ghost mumbled irritably.

 

Roch’s answer was a smile and a grunt as he stood, ignoring the old man who huffed and burst, almost violently, into vapor.

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