by Rj Barker
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Afterword
Just before The Bone Ships came out, one of my writer friends said, “I think it’s really brave what you’ve done, writing something completely different from your first trilogy.” And I thought, very much, “Wot?” Then another friend in the industry said, “Yeah, I’m surprised your publisher went with it: naval-based fantasy tends to die a death.” And I thought, very much, “It does?” Now, I’m sure you can imagine that these may not be quite the things you want to hear just before a set of new books is released. But I already knew that I’d chosen an idiosyncratic voice to tell the story in, made a deliberate decision to take my time getting into the world and to make my characters a little less than easy to like at first than in my previous books. And I have always been the sort of person that, when given a choice between what I want to do and what might be sensible, it’s always the former and very rarely the latter.
So even if I’d known these things beforehand we’d probably be here anyway.
Nevertheless, it was still a nervy thing, waiting for the release of the first book, and you really cannot imagine how gloriously happy it has made me that so many people have taken Joron, Meas, the Gullaime (especially the Gullaime) and the crew of Tide Child to their hearts. So thank you for that, and if your heart is maybe a little bit broken now, then I am sorry but, as you have probably worked out from the last line of the book, it was always going to happen this way (and if you’ve read my previous books, the Wounded Kingdom trilogy, you shouldn’t really be that surprised).
There’s always a moment in a book where, as a writer, you get a feeling about if something is working or not. It came in this book here when Meas sees Tide Child and says, “I never thought to see you again,” and I got this sudden rush of feeling, because she has come home, and we all know that comfort, of coming home. I think the idea of home and finding the people you need to be with to be you is at the heart of my writing. Inventing worlds and big action set-pieces is all well and good and fun to do, but it’s people that matter in the end, and people that fascinate me. War and violence are never glamourous or to be celebrated; they destroy lives and I try not to shy away from that in my writing. No one comes out of the events of these books unscathed; no one simply shrugs off their wounds, both physical and mental. The crew of Tide Child are not always the best people – indeed they do some terrible things over the course of the books. But, as I’ve said before, given the chance to do the right thing, they take it, as most people will. Even Indyl Karrad, our “bad” guy, is, in the end, motivated by a sense of fairness that has become twisted. In fact, it is the society of the Hundred and Gaunt Islands that is the enemy in these books (as is often the case in our world). Given leaders who shied away from war and chose a fairer society, or people who were less likely to accept others misfortune just because “that’s the way it has always been”, then the death and destruction wreaked over these books would never have happened (as is often the case in our world).
I have mentioned before the music that I listened to while writing, and during the writing of The Bone Ship’s Wake I was mostly listening to the dark folk of 16 Horsepower and Wovenhand, who seemed to fit the mood of the book. I thought I’d also recommend some further reading if you’ve enjoyed the naval part of these books: C. S. Forester’s Hornblower books are wonderful fun, and there would be no Tide Child trilogy without the brilliant Aubrey/Maturin books by Patrick O’Brian. In fact, if you’re already familiar with O’Brian’s work, I have no doubt you recognised my own homage to him in the relentless chasing down of Tide Child by Beakwyrm’s Rage.
I didn’t do a tremendous amount of research for these books as the age of sail is period of history I’ve always been fascinated by. There are loads of great biographies of Nelson of course, but I would recommend you having a look into Sir Edward Pellew who is equally fascinating, if not more so. If you’re one of the (thankfully few) people who felt the need to tell me “women could never command ships”, then I suggest reading up on the Chinese pirate Ching Shih, who had a huge pirate fleet. Her ships terrorised the seas of the early nineteenth century.
In the UK, there’s also lots of history to visit, from HMS Victory in Portsmouth to the Ropewalk Museum in Hull (the supply chain involved in getting sailing ships running is something I find fascinating but, as with many things, came under the purview of stuff you leave out cos it’s not needed for the story). In fact, if you are in the UK, it’s almost impossible to visit a seaside resort without coming into contact with our naval history. It’s also almost impossible to talk without coming across the navy too; not using the phrase “sailing” has been one of the most difficult parts of writing books in a world where that word does not exist. English is thick with metaphor and reference to ships.
There would be no Tide Child books without my agent, Ed Wilson of Johnson and Alcock, who always believed in it, and my editor, Jenni Hill, who has championed me as a writer from the moment she read Age of Assassins, and gently guides me toward better versions of the stories I write. There’s also a whole host of people behind the scenes that you never see who get these books out to you and I am thankful to every single one of them. I’m not going to do a massive thank you list as I always leave people out (but will say a quick hello to Magnus and Steve Savile of the Swedish crew and Jan at The English Book Shop, oh, and Dave at the Espresso Coco book blog, I think I forgot you again). But you all know who you are and the army of book bloggers and writers and many other people who I count as friends that I have made through writing is a constant joy to me.
Anyway, I digress. Thank you for reading, and for sticking with me and with these books. I hope you have enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. Remember, everyone you meet out there is living a life and they may well be fighting a battle you know nothing about. So, just like Meas gave Joron space to change, grow and become a better person, it’s a better world if we can all find the space to let others be who they need to be to get on. And, like the Gullaime shedding her robe to reveal the shining creature beneath, if we let them then people may surprise us in wonderful and magical ways.
Though, hopefully, without all the dying.
RJ Barker
Leeds, January 2021
extras
meet the author
RJ BARKER lives in Leeds with his wife, son and a collection of questionable taxidermy, odd art, scary music and more books than they have room for. He grew up reading whatever he could get his hands on, and has always been “that one with the book in his pocket.” Having played in a rock band before deciding he was a rubbish musician, RJ returned to his first love, fiction, to find he is rather better at that. As well as his debut epic fantasy novel, Age of Assassins, RJ has written short stories and historical scripts which have been performed across the country. He has the sort of flowing locks any cavalier would be proud of.
Find out more about RJ Barker and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at orbitbooks.net.
if you enjoyed
THE BONE SHIP’S WAKE
look out for
LEGACY OF ASH
The Legacy Trilogy: Book One
by
Matthew Ward
A shadow has fallen over the Tressian Republic.
Ruling families—once protectors of justice and democracy—now plot against one another with sharp words and sharper knives. Blinded by ambition, they remain heedless of the threat posed by the invading armies of the Hadari Empire.
Yet as Tressia falls, heroes rise.
Viktor Akadra is the Republic’s champion. A warrior without equal, he hides a secret that would see him burned as a heretic.
Josiri Trelan is Viktor’s sworn enemy. A political prisoner, he dreams of reigniting his mother’s failed rebellion.
And yet Calenne Trelan, Josiri�
�s sister, seeks only to break free of their tarnished legacy, to escape the expectations and prejudice that haunt the family name.
As war spreads across the Republic, these three must set aside their differences in order to save their home. Yet decades of bad blood are not easily set aside. And victory—if it comes at all—will demand a darker price than any of them could have imagined.
Fifteen Years Ago
Lumendas, 1st Day of Radiance
A Phoenix shall blaze from the darkness.
A beacon to the shackled;
a pyre to the keepers of their chains.
from the sermons of Konor Belenzo
Wind howled along the marcher road. Icy rain swirled behind.
Katya hung low over her horse’s neck. Galloping strides jolted weary bones and set the fire in her side blazing anew. Sodden reins sawed at her palms. She blotted out the pain. Closed her ears to the harsh raven-song and ominous thunder. There was only the road, the dark silhouette of Eskavord’s rampart, and the anger. Anger at the Council, for forcing her hand. At herself for thinking there’d ever been a chance.
Lightning split grey skies. Katya glanced behind. Josiri was a dark shape, his steed straining to keep pace with hers. That eased the burden. She’d lost so much when the phoenix banner had fallen. But she’d not lose her son.
Nor her daughter.
Eskavord’s gate guard scattered without challenge. Had they recognised her, or simply fled the naked steel in her hand? Katya didn’t care. The way was open.
In the shadow of jettied houses, sodden men and women loaded sparse possessions onto cart and dray. Children wailed in confusion. Dogs fought for scraps in the gutter. Of course word had reached Eskavord. Grim tidings ever outpaced the good.
You did this.
Katya stifled her conscience and spurred on through the tangled streets of Highgate.
Her horse forced a path through the crowds. The threat of her sword held the desperate at bay. Yesterday, she’d have felt safe within Eskavord’s walls. Today she was a commodity to be traded for survival, if any had the wit to realise the prize within their grasp.
Thankfully, such wits were absent in Eskavord. That, or else no one recognised Katya as the dowager duchess Trelan. The Phoenix of prophecy.
No, not that. Katya was free of that delusion. It had cost too many lives, but she was free of it. She was not the Phoenix whose fires would cleanse the Southshires. She’d believed – Lumestra, how she’d believed – but belief alone did not change the world. Only deeds did that, and hers had fallen short.
The cottage came into view. Firestone lanterns shone upon its gable. Elda had kept the faith. Even at the end of the world, friends remained true.
Katya slid from the saddle and landed heavily on cobbles. Chainmail’s broken links gouged her bloodied flesh.
“Mother?”
Josiri brought his steed to a halt in a spray of water. His hood was back, his blond hair plastered to his scalp.
She shook her head, hand warding away scrutiny. “It’s nothing. Stay here. I’ll not be long.”
He nodded. Concern remained, but he knew better than to question. He’d grown into a dependable young man. Obedient. Loyal. Katya wished his father could have seen him thus. The two were so much alike. Josiri would make a fine duke, if he lived to see his seventeenth year.
She sheathed her sword and marched for the front door. Timbers shuddered under her gauntleted fist. “Elda? Elda! It’s me.”
A key turned. The door opened. Elda Savka stood on the threshold, her face sagging with relief. “My lady. When the rider came from Zanya, I feared the worst.”
“The army is gone.”
Elda paled. “Lumestra preserve us.”
“The Council emptied the chapterhouses against us.”
“I thought the masters of the orders had sworn to take no side.”
“A knight’s promise is not what it was, and the Council nothing if not persuasive.” Katya closed her eyes, lost in the shuddering ground and brash clarions of recent memory. And the screams, most of all. “One charge, and we were lost.”
“What of Josiri? Taymor?”
“Josiri is with me. My brother is taken. He may already be dead.” Either way, he was beyond help. “Is Calenne here?”
“Yes, and ready to travel. I knew you’d come.”
“I have no choice. The Council…”
She fell silent as a girl appeared at the head of the staircase, her sapphire eyes alive with suspicion. Barely six years old, and she had the wit to know something was amiss. “Elda, what’s happening?”
“Your mother is here, Calenne,” said Elda. “You must go with her.”
“Are you coming?”
The first sorrow touched Elda’s brow. “No.”
Calenne descended the stairs, expression still heavy with distrust. Katya stooped to embrace her daughter. She hoped Calenne’s thin body stiffened at the cold and wet, and not revulsion for a woman she barely knew. From the first, Katya had thought it necessary to send Calenne away, to live shielded from the Council’s sight. So many years lost. All for nothing.
Katya released Calenne from her embrace and turned wearily to Elda. “Thank you. For everything.”
The other woman forced a wintery smile. “Take care of her.”
Katya caught a glint of something darker beneath the smile. It lingered in Elda’s eyes. A hardness. Another friendship soured by folly? Perhaps. It no longer mattered. “Until my last breath. Calenne?”
The girl flung her arms around Elda. She said nothing, but the tears on her cheeks told a tale all their own.
Elda pushed her gently away. “You must go, dear heart.”
A clarion sounded, its brash notes cleaving through the clamour of the storm. An icy hand closed around Katya’s heart. She’d run out of time.
Elda met her gaze. Urgency replaced sorrow. “Go! While you still can!”
Katya stooped and gathered Calenne. The girl’s chest shook with thin sobs, but she offered no resistance. With a last glance at Elda, Katya set out into the rain once more. The clarion sounded again as she reached Josiri. His eyes were more watchful than ever, his sword ready in his hands.
“They’re here,” he said.
Katya heaved Calenne up to sit in front of her brother. She looked like a doll beside him, every day of the decade that separated them on full display.
“Look after your sister. If we’re separated, ride hard for the border.”
His brow furrowed. “To the Hadari? Mother…”
“The Hadari will treat you better than the Council.” He still had so much to learn, and she no more time in which to teach him. “When enemies are your only recourse, choose the one with the least to gain. Promise me.”
She received a reluctant nod in reply.
Satisfied, Katya clambered into her saddle and spurred west along the broad cobbles of Highgate. They’d expect her to take refuge in Branghall Manor, or at least strip it of anything valuable ahead of the inevitable looting. But the western gateway might still be clear.
The first cry rang out as they rejoined the road. “She’s here!”
A blue-garbed wayfarer cantered through the crowd, rain scattering from leather pauldrons. Behind, another set a buccina to his lips. A brash rising triad hammered out through the rain and found answer in the streets beyond. The pursuit’s vanguard had reached Eskavord. Lightly armoured riders to harry and delay while heavy knights closed the distance. Katya drew her sword and wheeled her horse about. “Make for the west gate!”
Josiri hesitated, then lashed his horse to motion. “Yah!”
Katya caught one last glimpse of Calenne’s pale, dispassionate face. Then they were gone, and the horseman upon her.
The wayfarer was half her age, little more than a boy and eager for the glory that might earn a knight’s crest. Townsfolk scattered from his path. He goaded his horse to the gallop, sword held high in anticipation of the killing blow to come. He’d not yet learned tha
t the first blow seldom mattered as much as the last.
Katya’s parry sent a shiver down her arm. The wayfarer’s blade scraped clear, the momentum of his charge already carrying him past. Then he was behind, hauling on the reins. The sword came about, the killing stroke aimed at Katya’s neck.
Her thrust took the younger man in the chest. Desperate strength drove the blade between his ribs. The hawk of the Tressian Council turned dark as the first blood stained the rider’s woollen tabard. Then he slipped from his saddle, sword clanging against cobbles. With one last, defiant glare at the buccinator, Katya turned her steed about, and galloped through the narrow streets after her children.
She caught them at the bridge, where the waters of the Grelyt River fell away into the boiling millrace. They were not alone.
One wayfarer held the narrow bridge, blocking Josiri’s path. A second closed from behind him, sword drawn. A third lay dead on the cobbles, horse already vanished into the rain.
Josiri turned his steed in a circle. He had one arm tight about his sister. The other hand held a bloody sword. The point trembled as it swept back and forth between his foes, daring them to approach.
Katya thrust back her heels. Her steed sprang forward.
Her sword bit into the nearest wayfarer’s spine. Heels jerked as he fell back. His steed sprang away into the streets. The corpse, one booted foot tangled in its stirrups, dragged along behind.
Katya rode on past Josiri. Steel clashed, once, twice, and then the last wayfarer was gone. His body tipped over the low stone parapet and into the rushing waters below.
Josiri trotted close, his face studiously calm. Katya knew better. He’d not taken a life before today.
“You’re hurt.”
Pain stemmed Katya’s denial. A glance revealed rainwater running red across her left hand. She also felt a wound high on her shoulder. The last wayfarer’s parting gift, lost in the desperation of the moment.