by Rj Barker
“Aelerin, get ready.” The courser ran forward, leaning over the rear rail, staring into the sea, occasionally raising up their body to stare into the howling air. “Gavith!” he shouted to the bowsell stood by the gallowbow. “Grab Aelerin by their stinker, I’ll not have a rogue wave heave them overboard.”
“Ey D’keeper.” The bowsell reached out, taking hold of the courser’s stinker coat. A brief look over their shoulder, a smile exchanged between the two.
Black Orris fell from the sky, painful points of his claws digging into Joron’s shoulder where he perched, feathers ruffling in the gale.
Joron raised the nearglass, view obscured again by rainwater on the lens.
“Arse!” said Black Orris.
“Indeed,” he replied, and cleaned the lens once more. Saw the shipwife, watching the gallowbow crew, waiting, waiting. Then a gullaime in sodden white robes joined them on Beakwyrm’s Rage’s deck. “They have brought up a gullaime.”
“Be ready, be ready,” squawked their gullaime, shifting from foot to foot.
“Nothing you can’t handle, ey, Gullaime?”
“Nothing nothing.”
“Arse,” said Black Orris.
“Arse,” said the Gullaime, as if in agreement and there was laughter, split by Aelerin’s voice.
“Landward side!”
“Landward side ready!” shouted Joron and he heard Solemn Muffaz boom out the order and then it was lost in the teeth of the storm “Now!” And the order echoed through those three throats again, Aelerin to Joron to Solemn Muffaz. Joron dearly wanted to look back, to watch the barrels go over, ensure they were free of snags, make sure that the ropes held. But to do so may signal that something was up to the other shipwife. So he let the nearglass down and stared at the huge white boneship, while trying to scan the sea behind them. Did he see a string of barrels, momentarily lofted past on the crest of a wave? Did he see that in the moment before Beakwyrm’s Rage vanished behind another wave and Tide Child began to rise on one?
“Gavith, string the bow. I think we have range now. Aelerin, get behind the spine.”
“Ey, D’keeper.” The same acknowledgement from two voices.
Ship rising, ship rising.
Ship falling, ship falling.
Starting to raise the nearglass.
“Arse!” from Black Orris and Joron smiled to himself, wiped the end of the nearglass before looking through it.
“Ready yourself, Gullaime.”
The shipwife’s arm falling.
“Spin!”
The bowcrew spinning the bow.
“Load!”
The enemy gallowbow loosing. Dropping the nearglass from his eye, a spray of seawater making him squint. The Gullaime screaming into the wind, pushing its wingclaws forward into sodden air. The feel of something smashing into the sea to landward.
“Loose on the uproll, Gavith,” shouted Joron. “We don’t have any wingbolts or cutters so stay off their rigging, aim for the bowcrew.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” and Gavith grinned for there was little a bowsell liked more than the warmoan of a taut bowcord in the wind. And the ship rose and rose. “Aelerin, back to your place at the rail; Cwell, your turn to make sure the courser doesn’t join the longthresh.”
All running to act and the ship rose and rose and as it hit the highest point he heard Gavith shout, “Loose!” Felt the concussion of the bow as the arms sprung back to their rests. Felt the tension and the hope as all eyes followed the bolt as best they could through the stormy air. Saw the bolt aimed true but fall short.
“Spin it up, Gavith. We’ll hit him next time, just getting our eye in is all,” said Joron.
Wiped the nearglass, raised it to his eye.
“Seaward, D’keeper,” shouted Aelerin, and another order passed down the deck. This time he did see the barrels, tossed on white-topped waves, looking like no more than flotsam lost overboard, and in among them a lone figure, arms outstretched for a moment before the sea took them under and he had to restrain himself from asking, who was that? Who had they lost? Felt guilty that he looked around for Farys, for those who had been with him longest. Watch the other ship, Joron. Not ready yet. Not getting ready to loose. What trickery did Beakwyrm’s Rage’s shipwife plan? More white-robed gullaime joining him by the gallowbow.
“Seaward again, D’keeper, be quick!”
The order given, the barrels going over. Shouldn’t he notice something by now? Shouldn’t that great ship be slowing just a little with all that buoyancy wrapped around its keel? Had they missed? Was the courser wrong, was the storm simply too chaotic, had the Hag withdrawn her blessing? He swallowed, lowered the nearglass. Took a breath.
“He’s brought up more gullaime,” he said to the windtalker by him. “Can you handle them?”
“Handle, handle,” chirped the Gullaime, no hint of worry.
The bigger ship was near enough now that he did not need his nearglass, could see the crew spinning the bow, loaders waiting.
“Aelerin, behind the spine if you will.” The courser retreated, Joron stood a little straighter. “Gavith, spin, load and loose at will. See what damage we can do now he’s a little nearer.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” cried Gavith as the other shipwife’s arm fell. The Gullaime screeched in anger. The feeling of something rending the furious air. The crack of a rope snapping and he knew the bolt had come near that time.
“Solemn Muffaz!” he shouted. “Have that rope fixed or I’ll stripe someone’s back!” Then he turned to find the courser. “Return to the rail, Aelerin. Cwell, keep them safe.” Actions repeated as Tide Child loosed a bolt; it leapt out, missed Beakwyrm’s Rage’s bow but raked down his deck. “Good aim there, Reyan,” said Joron. Then leaned in close to the Gullaime. “You said you could handle our defence?”
“Gullaime make wind hard each side. Hard to fight. Hard.” Joron leaned in closer, so he could share his words with only the Gullaime; even though he knew no one on his crew would disagree, the words he spoke felt like betrayal.
“If it is a choice between the rigging and wings or the ship, Gullaime, drive the bolts into the ship’s hull or along the deck. If we lose a spine we all die. So if we lose some lives, then that is what must happen.” The Gullaime did not reply, only made a soft cooing sound and locked its masked face on Joron. Then Aelerin was shouting.
“Landward, D’keeper, to landward!” More barrels went over and Beakwyrm’s Rage rose before them, wingbolt being loaded on its gallowbow as it crested the wave.
“Behind the spine, Aelerin.”
“But I—”
“Do as you’re ordered!” Barking the words out, and the hurt on the courser’s face reminded him why he could not have friendship, why he must be alone in his command. The courser scuttled past him and the Gullaime screeched. A moment later, a crash, a shudder, a scream. Joron was on the floor. Shaking his head to clear it. Lying facing the beak. He sat, turned, behind him part of the bonerail gone. Reyan lying on the deck, her body rolling and slack with death. The gallowbow crew scattered around her, one other – Chafin? – dead, one wounded. Gavith sat on the deck, looking stupid and dazed. Joron pushed himself up. Where was the Gullaime? Sudden and sickening panic. But the Gullaime was fine, squawking and flapping on the other side of the deck. Then Cwell was there, pulling him up. Gavith getting to his feet, helping up the wounded of the bowcrew. Joron touched his shoulder and found the corpsebird missing. If Black Orris was lost, the crew would… But the familiar black shape touched down once more by his ear.
“Arse.”
“Farys!” he shouted. “Farys, where are you?” She came running, took one look about the deck.
“Seems he has his eye in now, D’keeper.”
“Ey,” shouted Joron. “Get that bow crewed! Get the dead overboard and the wounded to the hagshand.” He looked around him, “Aelerin! Where are you?” The courser pushed past, stopped for a moment when they saw the place where they had been standing was destroyed, the rai
l entirely gone. “Find somewhere safe to look over the rump, Cwell will help you.”
“D’keeper,” they said. “You are bleeding.” He reached up and touched his face by his eye, aware of the sudden stinging where the seawater met his skin. Found an open wound, pulsing warm blood.
“It is a poor commander that doesn’t show a few scars, Aelerin. How many more sets of barrels have we to go over?”
“One,” they said, which he knew of course; he only wanted the courser to stop thinking about how close they had come to death. “You would think that ship would have slowed by now.”
“It will, Aelerin,” he said, though the same worry shivered within him. “Be quick, they spin their bow, we should get another set of barrels in before they loose upon us again.”
The courser ran, standing in front of the bow as the new crew spun it up, shouted on by Gavith.
“Landward!”
The order rushing along the ship’s rocking and bucking deck. A repeat of all that had gone before. Though this time when Beakwyrm’s Rage loosed, the wingbolt did not hit. With a scream of fury the Gullaime raised its wings into the air and Joron was sure he heard it shout, “Over!” Then it sat back on the deck as if pushed, managing, despite being wet through and windblown, to look immensely pleased with itself. Aelerin rushed to the broken rail, Cwell holding on to them in the roaring wind as they watched the last of the barrels pass Tide Child to landward.
And, and, and…
And nothing.
The wind roared. The gallowbow spoke and the Gullaime shrieked as Joron stood, trying not to flinch as wingshot thudded into the hull, or skidded down the deck, or smashed into the sea by them, and Beakwyrm’s Rage got bigger and bigger. He knew that it was only a matter of time now. The frontspar of the enemy four-ribber was pointed at them, like a promise, like a finger, like a threat. I am coming for you and there is little you can do to stop me.
“I am sorry, D’keeper.” He turned, found the courser.
“Sorry, Aelerin?”
“That it has not worked.”
“We have done our best,” he said, then raised his voice, “and we must simply think of something new, for the Hag loves—”
“D’keeper!” He turned at Farys’s voice, saw her pointing over the smashed rail.
The frontspar of Beakwyrm’s Rage was, very slowly, moving away from them, ceasing to point directly at their prey as if the shipwife had taken pity on Tide Child and broken off his pursuit. But from the action on the beak of the ship it was clear to Joron it was not so. The shipwife was pointing down the deck, shouting orders. Arms waving. Women and men running down the length of the ship toward the steering oar, the gallowbow abandoned. Then, as if the Hag herself had lifted her hand and taken Beakwyrm’s Rage in her grip, the huge ship was wrenched around to seaward, a turn far too tight for such a big ship, for any ship in the midst of such a savage storm.
“Mother’s love,” said Joron quietly to himself, “for I only meant to slow them, truly I did.” Because he knew what must come next, what was inevitable in such high seas. The ship, this giant of the waves, was coming down. A collapse of slow and stately terror. Its top spars reaching for the water, raining deckchilder into the furious sea. His deck slanting sharply, spilling more crew into the water. Could he hear the screaming from here? No, it was the cheering of his own women and men, joy at the misfortune suffered by their enemy. Joy in Beakwyrm’s Rage’s certain doom as the spines, with a few sparse wings rigged for storms, smashed into the seething water in a froth of white; and the sea, the furious, angry hungry sea, rose up and threw itself across the stricken ship. Farys turned to him, a fierce grin on her face.
“Wrecked, ‘im, D’keeper, we wrecked ‘im good and proper! Must have fouled the rudder, ey?” She glanced back to the ship, then to him. “Shall we put the flukeboat over? See if any survive?”
“No, Farys,” he said, watching as another huge wave covered the white ship, and saying the words he must, that all knew he must. “For we are still pursued by the enemy.” He turned away. “Four hundred and probably more souls gone to the Hag in a moment,” he said to the air, then took off his hat, saluted the air. “They flew their ship well, ey?”
“Ey,” said Farys, and he found the screeching and celebration had stopped. His crew stood behind him, heads bowed at the sacrifice, the terrible but necessary sacrifice, that had been made to the Sea Hag on this day.
He took a breath.
“Back to it!” he screamed. “The storm still rages, would you join them in the sea?” The deck all action while Joron returned to his cabin, dark and shuttered off from the horror outside, as the Weststorm smashed the remains of Beakwyrm’s Rage to shards of white bone, floating on black and angry waves. There he sat at Meas’s desk in its familiar groove in the white floor while he dripped blood from the cut on his face, and tried to stop the shaking of his hands.
14
Leviathans of the Deep
It was as if the wrecking of Beakwyrm’s Rage was the sacrifice required to appease the Hag and the storms that served her. When Joron woke, from dreams of gliding beneath the cool water, fearless and hungry and sharp, Tide Child was free of the twisting and groaning and creaking that had been his passage through the storm. Instead Joron heard the familiar rhythm of the ship as it smashed through breakers. Heard the familiar sound of deckchilder set to cleaning the decks.
Mevans brought him food, hard bread and brackish water to soften it. As Joron dressed and ate, Mevans talked of putting the glazing back in, and though Joron was sure he had ordered the glass put over the side he said nothing of it. Mevans often made judgements and Joron let them pass, for they were generally good ones and, if he was honest, he was sometimes glad that he did not have to carry all the weight of the ship.
“Blue and clean out there, D’keeper,” said Mevans as he ran a cloth down the shining blade of Joron’s straightsword in preparation for sharpening the already keen edge.
“Good. How many did not live to see it?”
“We lost only eight, two from the bowcrew, Reyan and Chafin gone. Sarlin was bad hurt and will probably die, Garriya sat and held her hand all night.”
“I will go down to the hagbower before I go on deck,” said Joron.
“Then Camran, Brookes, Mchoo, Soori and Karlee are all missing; Jennil says she saw Camran get caught up in the barrel ropes, and I reckon the waves took the rest. Still a small price compared to that paid by Beakwyrm’s Rage, ey?”
“Indeed it is,” and he could not eat or sit any longer, he needed to be doing, to not be thinking. He stood, heading for the door.
“D’keeper,” said Mevans. Joron stopped.
“Ey?”
“Your scarf.” Joron reached up, touched the raw and burning flesh around his mouth and hissed.
“Of course.” Mevans held out the cloth to him.
“They would not care,” said Mevans as Joron tied the mask on. “They are as loyal to you as any crew I ever sat among. So they would not care.”
“It is good of you to say that, but the rot brings madness and we all know it. I look at some of the things I have wrought and wonder whether it has already taken me.”
“’Tis only the aftermath speaking there, D’keeper, many who live through an action feel the melancholy after. I say a third time, they would not care.”
“But others may,” said Joron, and he opened the door to leave before he spoke the real truth, before he said, and I do.
In the bowels of the ship he found Garriya, sat in the hagbower with Sarlin’s hand in hers and her head bowed.
“I came to speak to Sarlin,” he said quietly.
“Too late, Caller,” she said, “girl sits with the Hag now, and all her pain is over.” Garriya raised her creased and scarred face, stared out from between bars of filthy hair. “Would it were for all of us, but I fear it’s just beginning. The worst is yet to come, I say.”
“A ray of light as ever, Garriya.” The old woman stood, gently pla
cing Sarlin’s hand on her chest. She had been not much more than a child, really. Barely past her laying night and yet she came here, to die slowly and painfully on the water from a boneshard to the gut. “I do not want any of them to die,” he said.
“But they will, and many more yet I reckon. You could always fly away, become a fisher once more, boy, aye? Sit somewhere in the Gaunt Islands with a new name, cause no more deaths, raid no more settlements.”
“Leave Meas in her mother’s clutches?”
“Maybe Meas would wish it for you, did you think of that? Maybe you’ve already gone further than she ever would. Never heard of her laying waste to a village for supplies, taking those she needed as crew. She dreamed of peace, and do you bring it? Would she approve?”
“If she does not, old woman, she can tell me that herself.” He took a deep breath, turned away then stopped as he heard Garriya’s low chuckle.
“Matters not, and I jest with you.” She stood, groaning and pressing a hand against her back where it ached. “There is no peace for you, Joron Twiner, from the moment you sang a keyshan from the sea your course was set. Your journey is a red one, boy.” He turned, ready to be angry, to tell her to keep her old mouth shut, to stop burying him under her talk of what he “must” do or what he “was” or where he “must” go. She was there. Right in his face. “Never doubt, Caller, what is done is needed. Harsh, and hard it may be, but these seas are harsh and hard, and they ever will be if none rise. So steer your great boat well, and if it is what you need then find your shipwife.” She nodded, more to herself than to him. “Now I must tend to the sick. Surely you have some rope to tie or some other shippers’ thing to be about?” The woman pushed past him and although he was commander of Tide Child it was difficult for him not to feel that he was the one who had been dismissed. So he sat his one-tail harder on his head and wound his way up through the dark ship to the deck.