Free Book 1 - The Tyranny of the Night by Glen Cook Page A

Shallow Sea was so called because at dead low tide a tenth of its
bottom lay exposed and a third of the remainder did not rise above a tall man's
head. Ships on the Shallow Sea were broad of beam and drew very little water.
And had to be guided by very knowledgeable pilots. There were just two small
areas in all of the Shallow Sea where, at high tide, the water was over a
hundred feet deep.
    Navigation in the Ormo Strait was particularly harrowing. Immense volumes of
water raced back and form as the tides turned.
    People like the smugglers and fishermen of Ara knew their waters better than
they knew their wives. They started learning the waters when they were toddlers.
    Svavar sighed. "Yeah. We'll be lucky to get out of here today."
    Sigurdur said, "The moon is almost full. We could manage a night crossing."
    Finnboga mused, "We should liberate some horses after we get to the mainland.
Then we could catch up fast."
    Except, Shagot thought, that would make it impossible for them to come north
again—assuming they stayed ahead of the pursuit after they stole the horses.
    Svavar said, "It looks like the fog is thinning out."
    But visibility remained less than a bowshot.
    Shagot said, "You guys that went sneaking around, poking into stuff. Did you
find anything that explains why nobody is home? Or where they went?" The absence
of Ara's villagers bothered him. That likely meant an intercession by the
Instrumentalities of the Night.
    Those nights on the road, coming down from Skogafjordur, had produced only the
feeblest of troubles. Even considering the charms the band carried, the
supernatural weather had been unnaturally mild.
    Shagot shuddered. He did not like thinking too much. But he was captain of the
band. And it never hurt to be paranoid about the dark.
    The Huldre Folk had followed them. The hidden people were of more than passing
interest to them. Maybe they were responsible for all those little delays that
kept the band from catching the foreigners before they escaped from Andoray.
Why? If the foreigners' god became established here he would chase the hidden
folk away.
    "Hey!" Finnboga shouted. "There's a boat out there. It's coming in."
    Shagot saw it, too. It was not the boat that had taken the missionaries away.
This was a regular fishing boat, the kind that spent every clement hour at sea,
fishing. It was shorter and wider than the war craft Shagot and his companions
knew. But it seemed too well kempt to be your usual fisherman.
    Shagot pulled his band together. "As far as these people are concerned, we don't
know starboard from larboard. We're landlubbers. Understand? And let me do the
talking." The fisher looked like it would require a minimum crew of three,
though he could see only one man on deck. And there was a deck. So the boat had
a hold. Which made sense for a fisherman—or smuggler—who wanted to keep his
cargo from washing overboard in heavy seas.
    The closer the fisherman approached, the more perfect she
    seemed. They could pile aboard her and run all the way down the western coast
of Orfland, to put themselves into position to ambush the missionaries after
they completed their grueling passage through the island's bogs. They would not
have to slay the crew of the boat, even. If the fishermen were cooperative.

    "NAME'S RED HAMMER," THE BOAT'S MASTER SAID. "AND YOU men look like you need to
get somewhere in a hurry, without being noticed." Before Shagot could respond,
he added, "And this's my cousin, Smith."
    "Smith?"
    Red shrugged. "He just wants to be known by his nickname."
    Shagot grunted, confused. He could not get his thoughts to follow. "What about
the old man?"
    "That's Walker. My father. He's getting old and slowing down. He isn't much use
anymore. But he don't want to quit the game. So we take him along when we go
out."
    Shagot said, "We do need to get across the strait. And down the west coast of
Orfland, to Tyrvo, or even to Grodnir's Point on the