Call of the Bone Ships

by Rj Barker

  “Sing!” it squawked in his face. “For life, sing!” And he did, opening his mouth, continuing the song. “All sing!” The gullaime sounded desperate, furious and scared at the same time. “All sing!”

  “Everyone,” shouted Joron, “sing with me!”

  They did – massive Anzir, wiry Farys, fierce Coult and all those of their crew that still lived joined him, and as they started to sing a nightmare appeared from the crack in the ground. A creature he had seen only once before. On a beach with Meas, and even fierce and fearless Meas had warned them off from going near it, even she had been afraid the thing would sense them.

  Three long legs coming over the cracked rim of stone, bending strangely as if they had no bones within them.

  Tunir.

  The creature looked like it was covered in wet, lank fur. It was without face or eyes or . . . He could not look away from those strange legs, the way they joined the rounded body. Had it not moved Joron would not have believed it could be a living thing, there was so little sense of any life Joron recognised, any creature he knew in it. Its emergence had drawn every eye, and every woman and man ceased to move or think, as if they were frozen by some ancient, primal fear. It was all Joron could do to keep singing, but by dint of this effort he pulled those around him back into song too. For a moment he thought them double-crossed, thought the gullaime had done this to kill them, for the singing seemed to drag the creature toward them in disturbing, staccato steps. It was Joron, the loudest and strongest singer, that drew it. It stopped in front of him. The smell of it stronger than the rotting forest – this was heat and age and illness, the stink of something corrupt, though not naturally corrupt like the forest. Something wrong, something that should not exist.

  As it stopped in front of Joron he fought down the fear, studied the Tunir. The beast was not covered in fur as he had thought, but spines. They rolled, line after glimmering line of them, first laying flat like fur then rising, pointing out as if to impale him upon them before laying flat once more, now pointing up. This movement, this process, constantly repeating, working its way up and down the beast in a hideous cadence. And as the spines rolled, regular as breathing, he saw the skin below, shining wetly. Red within the black.

  He had been ready to die. But he did not want to die on the spines of this beast. He feared he would never see the Hag’s fire if he did.

  “Tunir!”

  The beast’s name called in terror from the other side of the clearing. As if its name were a magnet the creature swept away from him, moving fast, unbelievably fast. Then it was among the enemy deckchilder and they were dying. Spined arms shooting out as it ducked and twisted around the strikes of weapons. Those facing it were not prepared to fight such a creature. Half of them ran, half of them fought – those that fought died first.

  “Gullaime ready,” squawked the gullaime, “Run. We run now.”

  Accompanied by the sounds of screaming and dying, Joron, his deckchilder and the gathered gullaime ran down the hill and tried not to think of what was behind them, tried to keep their minds on what was in front. Hoped Brekir’s ships waited on the beach. Hoped not too many of the enemy were in the forest below.

  And the screams behind them said going back was not an option.

  16

  The Deepest Cuts Are Hardly Felt

  The forest on the far side of the island was scabrous, like the skin of those who contracted keyshan’s rot. Joron’s upper arms itched. They ran through a variegated landscape, splashing through places open to the sky where the first rays of Skearith’s Eye were gently lightening the dark. The growing blue above looking unbelievably healthy compared to the brown and wilting forest.

  The ground they ran over was strewn with soft and yielding vegetation making them slide and slip along, and then they were back into the darkness, into the constant brown rain from the dying leaves above. And yet, the forest never fell away enough to give them a glimpse of the sea, of where their boats should wait, and they did not know whether they ran toward their own people or toward a shoreline full of the enemy, furious that their quarry had escaped, ready to spend that fury on those left behind.

  How long would they last in that case?

  Not long.

  The gullaime were far ahead of them. The time at the windspire, though brief, had energised them and their clawed feet were far more sure footed than the booted and bare human feet. Joron had given the windtalkers instruction to stop in the vegetation near the shore but had no idea whether they would do as he asked.

  Joron and those with him ran into a group of women and men as they came out of forest and into light. Half dazzled by changing light they were on the enemy before either realised what was happening. The enemy were facing the opposite way, no doubt staring after the flock of gullaime that had come thundering past, and Joron, Coult and their fellows fell upon them. Not stopping, not fighting in any meaningful way, only cutting holes in the ragged line so they could push through, dragging the enemy deckchilder after them the way a needle drags thread through cloth. Then Joron and his comrades finally burst onto a beach, running hard between the huge rocks that dotted the shingle and sand as pink as the new skin over a wound.

  The second time they found the enemy they were not as lucky. These women and men were facing them, had heard the screaming from their fellows and had set themselves up in a rough line. They had no shields and spears, or the fight would have been much harder, and if not for Coult – furious, reckless, angry Coult, who lay about himself with his curnow with such fury none could or would stand against him – then maybe they would not have got through at all. Joron only retained fractured glimpses of the fight. Gouting blood, flesh being opened. A hard impact against his back as someone fell. Mouths wide in screams. Blades coming toward him. Blocking. Slashing. Hurting. Being hurt. Then a gap in the line. Running.

  They lost three – two killed outright, one who took a cut to the leg and could not run. When Joron glanced behind him he saw the woman being hacked apart, heard her screaming for help but could only hope the Hag ended her quickly. Anzir ran by him, her face grey, blood streaming down her arm from an ugly-looking cut to her bicep. His back ached.

  Twice they passed single gullaime, seemingly lost and wandering. The first time Farys tried to pull him to a halt, pointing at the windtalker which was aimlessly pecking at the ground near the drooping plant line of the forest.

  “No time, Farys,” he shouted and pulled her away. Running from the screaming, baying, bloodthirsty mob behind them. With every step the enemy grew in sound and numbers, and he knew, as he ran and slipped and slid along the ground, he knew that if they were late, if Brekir did not wait for them, then his life ended here; on a rocky beach at the edge of a stinking, dripping forest.

  He wanted to stop, to slow, to look for boats on the shore, disrupting the smooth lines of waves lapping on the sharp pink sand. He could not. The baying behind him never stopped. He imagined a hundred, a thousand behind him, and how many waited further down the beach beyond the rocks?

  He did not know.

  He could only run.

  And run, and run.

  There.

  Ship rising!

  Brekir’s ship. Snarltooth. His back hurt. Snarltooth moving, out in the channel, wind filling its black wings, making them ripple and billow as the ship came about to catch the wind and turn away from the island. He felt his steps faltering.

  Too late.

  They were too late.

  So much pain.

  “Come on, Joron,” shouted Coult, grabbing his arm, “nearly there!”

  He would have said “No point,” or “Too late,” but he had not the breath, it had been stolen from him. All he could do was let Coult pull him on, running and running, his legs starting to become numb, his bones feeling as if they bent within his tired flesh, his back on fire, stumbling between giant rocks and there – the sea. Blue as fine glass, kissed with morran light. Where the surf washed the sand, where gullaime – gat
hered in gaggles, milling about – pecked at the sand or lifted clawed feet to experimentally place them in the water, avoiding the corpses of women and men gently rocking on the waves. In the distance Snarltooth making its way out to the deeper sea, surrounded by flukeboats full of those they had saved from the island. His back hurt. The scene before him framed by two massive grey rocks, one on either side. Forward, still stumbling, his arm held by Coult. The island rumbled, ground shaking as it settled, as the rocks and material of it recovered from whatever it was Joron had done at the windspire.

  And from behind came deckchilder. Ten, twenty, thirty. Not a lot, but enough. They held curnows and boarding axes, looked angry, spattered with mud and plant matter. The largest of them, a man in the leather straps of the Kept, pointed his axe at Coult.

  “We have you now,” he shouted. “Give up and you’ll at least die quickly. Fight us and I’ll give you to those who lost their loved ones in the fires.” By him was the shipwife. The one with his sword. Barnt.

  “Get ready,” said Coult; he was breathing hard also but managed a smile. “Stay behind me, Deckkeeper.” He seemed to know no fear. Joron clasped the hilt of his curnow.

  “Sell yourselves dearly,” said Joron, panting between each word. His back, such pain. “Don’t get taken alive.” More quietly, “He has my sword.”

  “You heard him,” shouted Coult to the woman and men around them. “What are you waiting for?”

  The big man stood before the enemy line smiled. Shipwife Barnt raised his sword, Joron’s sword, as if this was something he had been waiting for all his life. Then the smile vanished, the sword arm faltered and Joron heard another voice.

  “Down!”

  He span, saw Brekir running out from behind the massive rocks with ten women, another ten coming from behind the other rock. “Down!” she shouted again and her deckchilder formed into two lines. One on their knees, one standing. They brought up crossbows to their shoulders. Joron threw himself to the floor, feeling the sharp sand cut into wherever his skin was bare, knowing that when he hit the salt water his body would sting everywhere, but that was a joyous thought because it meant he would be alive, and just a moment before he had not believed he would ever touch salt water again.

  “First line,” shouted Brekir. “Loose!” And the bolts flew, cutting into the men and women on the beach. Three hit the big Kept who staggered back but, miraculously, managed to remain standing. Shipwife Barnt used him as cover. Brekir’s first line went to their knees, reloading. Brekir gave them a moment, then shouted, “Second line! Loose!” And the bolts flew again. This time the Kept fell and the volley was more than those still standing could take. Their shipwife shouted “Retreat!” and they vanished, running back up the beach. Then there were hands, too many hands, too many arms helping him up. Pulling him toward the shoreline, voices saying: “Lemme help you, D’keeper,” “You just stand, D’keeper,” “You lean on me, D’keeper,” and why were they acting like he was some stonebound new to the fight? Why were they so intent on keeping hold of him as they moved toward the flukeboats hidden behind the giant rocks? And there was he foolishly saying, “No, no, my sword, Meas gave me that sword.” Women and men were shooing gullaime aboard. Now they were half carrying him.

  He had not realised how tired he was.

  His back hurt.

  “I can walk,” he said, but the words barely made it out of his mouth.

  “Worry not, Deckkeeper.” A strong voice, one he did not recognise. “We’ll get you on the boats and aboard the Snarltooth, and we’ll have your wound sewn up and healed before you’re back on Tide Child, don’t you worry.”

  Wound? He had a wound?

  He wanted to ask where, but his mouth was no longer working. When? The pain, a long line of agony from his shoulder down to his waist. The more he thought about it the more it hurt until there was a line of fire across his back and deep within his flesh and if there had been any air left in his lungs he would have screamed. If there had been any energy left in his muscles he would have screamed.

  But there was not.

  He did not.

  Instead he closed his eyes, and let the Mother’s cold hand usher him away to unconsciousness. His last thought being, I do not even remember being hit.

  17

  The Depth of Scars upon the Ocean

  He stood on the rump staring forward. He had been standing there so long he had become unsure about whether the ship stayed still and the sea moved or the sea moved and the ship stayed still – or was it some mix of both?

  It hurt to stand. He felt the pull of the skin on his back, the complaining of the muscles beneath the broken skin, and each time he felt that pull he remembered pain and what had come with that pain: the feeling of enclosure, of terror and the certain knowledge that the Hag stood close to him. Sometimes he had felt his father’s presence, seen his face, but when he had reached out his father had taken his hand away. Not cruelly, not because he did not wish to be with Joron while he suffered; there was a tear in his father’s eyes when he removed his touch and Joron had cried out in his mind and he was sure, to his shame, he had cried out in the real world as well.

  Brekir’s hagshand had treated him first, or so Farys had told him, with much wishing of the man to the bottom of the sea. Joron even remembered some parts of the treatment. Biting on a piece of bone while the hagshand washed the long wound out with seawater, cold as he could get it, and then stitched it up with crude wingmaker’s stitches. The next day he could stand, even joke with Shipwife Brekir about never seeing the curnow blow that laid him low. But then had come the fever, so it had been cold water again. Stripping him naked and standing him on the deck, pumping gallons of freezing water over him until he could not see straight for the juddering and shivering of his body. So weakened by it he had to be carried back to his hammock, to lie sweating and moaning as the cold water had done little for him. By the time Snarltooth met with Tide Child, four days later, he was lost to the world, his wound had become an angry, raised red line on his back that leaked yellow fluid and stained the hammock he lay in and blankets they wrapped him in.

  Farys told him how Garriya had raged when he was brought aboard, cursed Brekir’s hagshand for a fool and woken Joron from his delirium with some evil smelling spirit. She had even come on deck to shout and scream at Brekir’s ship as it took the rest of the gullaime away. He remembered that, but only as a fraction of some terrible dream where he floated through black water, the blue glow of the Hag’s bonefire the only point of light, managing to be both warm where he was cold and cool where his skin was raging hot. Then all comfort was removed, some foul current in the water picked him up, rag-doll light, and tossed him around, forcing him to the surface where he took deep, hard breaths and found himself looking into the aged and worn face of Garriya, her eyes piercing his fever.

  “Do you want to live, Caller, aye? Do you really want to?”

  He must have said yes, must have, but he did not remember it. And the rest was vague – he knew she cut the stitches, opened what flesh had healed with a cruel knife, sopped out the corruption with cloths. Farys told him, and he wondered if she made it up, that Garriya filled the wounds with maggots she had found in a rotten piece of fish in the bilges of Tide Child. After a week she sewed him back up again, but not fully, and this was the worst part for him, the repeated agony as she opened and re-closed the stitches on his back time and again.

  “I do this all for naught you know,” that creased and filthy face looking into his. “When you will just repeat all you have done and return here, under my knives all over again.” Had she really said that or had it been a dream? It was the sort of thing she would say, but the next part was strange, even for Garriya, and he remembered it as if seen from the bottom of the ocean: the cold line of a blade at his neck. Her words – “Maybe better to end it all, aye? Better wipe the slate clean than open the door to go through it all again and again and again.”

  But she had gone through it, and so ha
d he. She had drained the wound time and time again until she felt happy enough to close it properly, and that – had that only been four days ago? Four days, ey, and he had believed he would never have the strength to hold a curnow again, never mind walk the slate of Tide Child.

  But he had and he did. And if any noticed Meas gave him softer tasks than usual then they said nothing, only seemed glad to have their deckkeeper back, and for that he was thankful himself, thankful he had made it back from the dark seas where the Hag waited, thankful his father had not taken his hand and led him back to the bonefire. Even Dinyl had stepped in and helped, though still no cordial words were exchanged, nothing but the bare minimum needed – but more than once Joron had noted Dinyl, when he thought Joron was not looking, taking the harder, more physical jobs. And if Joron was true to himself he did not know if he hated the man for it or not. Was it done simply to undermine him – Joron is weak now, let me take on his tasks – or to reform some remnant of their fractured friendship? He did not know.

  His every moment was to ache, to feel pain, or so it seemed. For the first weeks of consciousness he had, for the first time in his life, hated the sea, hated the way it never stopped moving, that it never gave him a moment of comfort. In the hammock he would swing, and when he found a comfortable place to lie he would, by tiny increments, be moved from it until his wounds once more rubbed against the material and pain chased away sleep. When he was well enough to walk the slate again the sea became his enemy; he had never realised how much he moved, even standing still he was forced to move to keep his balance, and all those muscles he had never once thought about in his life, now complained every time he did anything but remain totally still. There was one thing he welcomed – he had been without the song of the spires through his illness, and now though he was hurting, always hurting, the song had returned to him. He had not realised how constant it had been; he had begun to think of it as part of him.