The Captain smirked then, unwittingly and Kestyn shot him a look of anger, a look that invited him to challenge her. He swallowed and his face became noticeably blank as he realised he had offended her. He nodded and motioned for her to follow him. She was glad as they walked up the stairs that she had been sensible yesterday and worn leggings, the work she was sure the Captain was considering would have been impossible and embarrassing in a dress, she tied her hair up as she walked.
The day was a fine one, the skies were clear and blue and the sea calm. The men on deck looked up at the Captain and Kestyn’s arrival and then continued their work for Kestyn looked, at a distance, like another man. The leggings, cotton shirt and jerkin disguised her frame perfectly. She had tied her already short hair back at the nape of her neck the way she had seen men do and her face was plain. The Captain pointed at the mast, instructing her to reef some of the sails, to reduce area of a sail by rolling or folding part of it. She nodded and walked over to the men. She glanced up and saw three men holding onto the rigging with their bare hands, holding the buntline, a rope attached to middle of square sail to haul it up. Her stomach lurched as the wind suddenly blew ferociously and the men had to hold on for dear life.
On deck men were shouting instructions high up to the men. Kestyn looked around, unsure what to do. One man then grabbed her and instructed her to climb up the mast to aid the men above. She opened her mouth to argue but out of the corner of her eye she saw the Captain and knew she had to prove herself, if she failed at this his perception of her would be cemented. With grim determination she climbed up the mast until she reached the men. They acknowledged her with a nod and handed her a buntline. She glanced around whilst holding both the mast and the rope, the sea was a brilliant blue and the sunlight danced upon the waves. The breeze blew her cheeks and for a moment she forgot how high she was and began to enjoy herself.
A loud shout brought her back and she saw that they were waiting for her to haul up the sail. She began to pull but realised she would need both hands. She looked at the other men and saw them balancing on the rigging pulling up the sail. She waited until the breeze seemed less violent and hesitantly let go of the mast. As quickly as she could she pulled up her half of the sail and tied it to the rigging, grabbing back onto the mast with relief. The men motioned for her to climb down and she obediently obliged, happy to feel the hard wooden deck beneath her feet.
It was at this moment that Bryon chose to appear at the doorway which led to the hull of the ship. He cast his eyes around, looking for nothing in particular, but he quickly spotted Kestyn and walked briskly over to her, easily able to realise she was not just another man. No man had such brown eyes and such soft lips.
“What were you doing?” He demanded, noting her face was flushed.
She smiled, “I was helping them reef the sails, it was that or helping the cook and –”
“What!” Byron cried, interrupting her, “You were up there?”
Kestyn nodded, suddenly defiant and put her hand on her hip just as she had done when they had first met, and continued to do almost every time they spoke. Byron’s heart thumped but he reminded himself of the vow he had made. It didn’t matter that he was impressed that she had been able to aid the men, or that he wished with another heart that she hadn’t endangered herself at all, he had to knock her down, he had to show her he was cruel. He looked at her triumphant face.
“You really are a child,” he hissed and stormed off down into the hull of the ship, his heart breaking with every step he took. Kestyn clenched her fists in sorrow and ignored the praise from the men, who still believed her to be male and made her way to her cabin.
That night the Captain called for a celebration, noting the strained atmosphere in his crew. He opened a few kegs of metheglin and the crew helped themselves, dipping mugs into the frothy liquid. The deck was lit by hanging lanterns and one man had brought a fiddle with him and was playing a jaunty tune. A few of the men began to clap and soon a beat was established. The mead soon loosened everyone’s spirits and they began to sing along with the fiddle. They missed words and made many up but sang along regardless. It was a light hearted time and Byron found it strange that his life had shifted so abruptly from sorrow to happiness. He was free, for the time being and these men and the Captain had been nothing but kind to him and Kestyn.
He sat next to the Captain and drank his metheglin slowly, uninterested in the drink, happy just to be in the presence of the fiddler. Kestyn however was sat opposite him, consuming vast amounts of the mead, in competition with the men beside her. In the amber light of the lanterns her golden hair sparkled. She laughed with the men and flirted casually, as was her way. Byron’s heart squeezed tightly as Kestyn complimented the crew’s tanned, toned bodies glancing at him every so often, to establish if he was watching, and every time he was. He could not take his eyes from her. He knew she was punishing him for being so coarse with her earlier in the day, and he deserved it, but it did not stop his heart aching.
He stood up, deciding after more than an hour that he could not take any more, and refilled his mug full of mead. He then began to gulp it down, knowing soon he would be drunk and able to forget his troubles. Kestyn noticed him stand and drank her mead quickly so she had an excuse to refill her mug, and followed him to the barrel.
“You are enjoying yourself?” She asked Bryon, challenging him. The sound of the fiddle echoed around the ship and Byron after the mead he had consumed it hard to concentrate.
“Yes,” he said back, dipping his mug in and draining it of mead before refilling it again. Kestyn copied him and stood watching his face. She had consumed far more than him and he was impressed that it had not taken hold of her. He could feel his legs begin to tremble from the mead but he held onto the keg and righted himself. Kestyn opened her mouth to say something, her face soft, but a voice shouted high above them in the lookout.
“Cap’ in! Another vessel is on our tail.”
“Let it drift by us man!” The Captain shouted back, annoyed at the interruption to his evening.
“Sir it has lit its torches and is sailing straight towards us,” the man called back. The Captain froze then for lighting a torch was the symbol of a pirate ship. The enemy ship had waited until the Captain was too close to flee before announcing its intentions. Byron knew straight away who the other ship was and his head swam with alcohol and fear.
“Unfurl the sails, hoist the kedge, get moving!” The Captain roared, finishing his mug and thrusting it at a puzzled man. The fiddler stashed his instrument and the silence of the night seemed oppressive. Byron closed the keg and rolled it out of the way, then aided the men hoisting the kedge; a small anchor used to steady the ship. The Captain seemed to think they could outrun the enemy vessel. The Captain had hold of the helm and was turning it forcefully away from the other ship.
Kestyn ran to help anyone she could but she could see the blazing torches and knew it would soon be upon them. The other crew members seemed to notice this too and put down the various ropes they had been holding to the Captain’s dismay.
“What are you doing?” He shrieked, his face turning mauve in anger.
“Sir it is hopeless, might as well save our energy for a fight,” one man shouted back, one hand on the scabbard attached to his belt, another on the hilt of his sword. Byron looked around and saw most of the men were swaying, and his heart sunk for the General’s men would be clear headed and merciless. This would be a bloodbath.
“Boy, take this,” a man shouted at him, thrusting a long sword his way, and then one to Kestyn, who held it as though it would bite her. Byron looked suddenly at Kestyn, for he had forgotten she was still on deck.
“Go below!” He bellowed at her, gripping the hilt of the sword until it felt comfortable in his hand.
Kestyn walked over to him and leant on her sword, point first into the deck, “I think you’ve had too much mead,” she whispered mockingly at him, then turned to look at the enemy ship that w
as so close its boards were lit with their lanterns swinging on the deck. Byron squinted and saw the General at the helm, his face etched in shadow. His stomach turned at the sight, the General’s face meant their demise, a slow and painful death awaited. Time seemed to slow and Byron almost wished the ships closer together, the suspense was awful, if something must happen he wished it over quickly.
The General’s ship pulled up beside them, close enough to place a plank across and walk between. The Captain had abandoned the helm to stand with his men; they presented a united front, all fifty of them, a sizeable crew compared to the type of the ship, a mere cargo vessel, but Byron had a feeling that the soldiers would have a large gathering too, the General would have come prepared.
“What do you want?” The Captain yelled across at the General.
The General walked down from the helm and onto the deck, leaning on the railings casually, facing the Captain and his crew, “There seems to have been a misunderstanding back on the island,” he said calmly but it contrasted completely with the anger that blazed in his eyes, “you have something that belongs to me and I intend to retrieve it.” The soldiers moved to stand around him menacingly, in the pale moonlight they looked like giants, muscle bound and deadly, numbering over fifty Byron was sure, he could not quite bring himself to count them.
“Then you are no good dirty pirates!” The Captain cried, raising his sword in anger. “I told your men that I would not sentence this boy to death... they left me no choice but to kill them. My response is the same to you.”
The General laughed and motioned to one of his men. The man had picked up a large plank of wood and threw it across to the Captain’s ship with ease. The General’s men then filed across and landed onto the Captain’s ship filing out across the deck. Byron stood in shock, willing the mead to disappear from his head, his eyes locked with the General and he clutched his sword tighter. The General laughed and looked around at the Captain’s crew. His eyes finally rested on Kestyn. She held his gaze and lifted her sword a fraction to show she was armed. He walked towards her, unsheathing his own sword and quickly swung it around until the tip met her throat. She jumped then, betraying her cool exterior. The General laughed maliciously and sneered at her, eyeing her frame, even though it was hidden in a thick tunic and a cotton shirt.
To Byron the Captain’s ship seemed suddenly too small to house so many men ready for violence. He wished he could shrink away into the night and not have to face the army, for so long they had been a menace to everyone’s lives, but never had affected him, save long ago, a connection he would rather forget. Now all of their attention was solely on him and he could not escape their gaze. He could run, but Kestyn and the crew’s presence meant he had to stay and try to do something. The crew behind him were well armed and he had to hope that they were not drunk enough to understand what he was about to attempt now. He tested the long swords weight in his palm, it was heavy and far longer than anything he had ever fought with, but it was sharp that was all he could ask for in a weapon meant to kill.
Byron took a deep breath and swung his sword around, hooking it under the blade and flicking his hand upwards so that the General’s weapon was wrenched from his grasp. It flew into the air then clattered along the wooden deck, resting by the rails. Silence stretched, a shocked and deadly silence. Whoever moved now would instigate the fight they all knew was coming. The General turned his head to look at Byron, his eyes flashing, with amusement or irritation it was hard to tell.
“That was a dangerous move boy,” he said calmly, his voice far more terrifying when it was soft. The soldiers behind him shuffled simultaneously, hands on hilts of weapons, but none charged, clearly waiting for a signal. Behind Byron the crew and Captain too readied their weapons, Kestyn scuttling to stand by them away from the General. Byron stood still, he refused to move and begin the fight, if a bloodbath was inescapable he would not be its cause.
“Men,” the General said quietly, “hold your position and do not move unless I give the signal; it would give me great pleasure to teach this young lad some respect. What say you boy? If you beat me we will not kill your crew, if you lose they will die, but either way you are coming with us.”
“I will do nothing and you will leave this ship. I will not humour your pathetic games. I do not fight cowards,” Byron hissed.
The General laughed and it cut through the night and the soft sound of the lapping sea and creaking of the ships as they swayed from the waves. Under the golden light of the lanterns his shaved head and eyes looked severe and wild. He was the epitome of Byron’s fears; everything he had ever hated had branched from this man, the General of Woodstone’s army, and his father. Thinking the word made him shudder, it had been many years since he had allowed himself to think of their blood connection, it disgusted him and shamed him. Even when the General had kidnapped him, he could not view him as a father, who had given him life, but now Byron was on the edge of a very difficult choice, and many lives depended on it. Could he harm his father, even kill him? It was the crux of all things, if the moment came could Byron seize it? Bile rose in Byron’s throat that it had come to this. How could his father be so cruel? How could such a man have given life to a child? It helped Byron strengthen his resolve and knew he could harm this man if the time came. By disregarding their blood connection he could view the General as a murder and not as his father.
“You are deluded boy, now step up and become a man,” the General said. He turned to one of his soldiers and another sword was handed to him.
Byron cast a quick glance at the crew and the Captain; they nodded slightly, their faces pained. It was clear what they nodded at. Fight him, they were thinking. There was no other option unless they wanted a full on fight and none wanted any blood spilt. They were using Byron as a sacrifice and he was glad, he wished none of them any harm, if his life meant Kestyn was safe he would gladly give it. Byron turned back to the General and nodded, ignoring the flush of pleasure that ran through his father, it was clear the General wanted a spectacle, he had no doubt in his abilities, this was just a show, a chance to humiliate Byron before he recaptured him.
The crew and soldiers stepped back until a loose circle had been formed. Kestyn leant on the Captain and buried her face in his shirt, she could not watch Byron step up to a man as evil as the General. Byron ignored them all; his attention was solely on his father, scrutinising him. He remembered his weak points still; an old injury to his heel which when hit would flare up, a bone in his arm that had never quite healed and a fractured knee that still caused him pain. All were low shots that Byron would never dream of hitting in a fair fight, but this was not a fair fight, his life and the lives of those on board depended on his victory and if he had to he would demoralise the General to achieve it.
They circled each other, neither wanting to strike first and become vulnerable. Byron was unsure how skilled his father was, it was many years since he had seen him train, he had to rely on his own skills and pray it was enough. The General ran forward suddenly, swinging his sword in a seemingly random way, it was an easy move to parry and Byron did just that, catching hold of the General’s sword on the edge of his own and pushing him away. The General staggered back, a scowl on his face, and ran at him again. Byron parried the blow and spun on his heel avoiding a jab at his stomach. He attacked then, aiming at the General’s arm, not a killing blow by any means, but one that debilitated the General’s hold on his sword and attacked the once broken bone. The General parried it, thrusting Byron’s sword away, sparks dancing at the contact.
Byron jabbed his sword forward, aiming at the General’s chest and he sidestepped away, swinging his sword around to catch Byron’s ribs. He jumped back just in time, but the sword still managed to cut his shirt and shallowly, his skin. It dribbled blood, and stung but it was nothing Byron had not sustained before and it would not impede him. He attacked the General with more vigour, aiming blows in unlikely places, but ones he knew would harm his father, the Gener
al’s knee, neck, heels, anywhere that was unexpected and hard to protect. The General suffered cuts to all of these areas, screaming when his knee was struck by a skilled move by Byron using the hilt of his sword. His neck bled furiously and he had to step back to somehow quell the flow, his face was murder and the soldiers fluttered around him, dabbing him and tending to him, feared of his expression.
Byron allowed the General this breather, taking the chance to talk to the Captain. He walked over to the crew who all patted his arms and back and head, anywhere they could reach to show their admiration. When they were done congratulating him Kestyn used the corner of her shirt to wipe blood from a nick on his cheek. Byron smiled at her softly, and his eyes twinkled in the lamplight.
“Enough boy,” the General called, “stop fawning over that whore and come and face me.”
Byron turned slowly, unsure if he could control his rage, he knew blind fury was useless in a fight such as this. Striking the air blindly did no one any good, but to insult Kestyn so... he arranged his face and forced himself to grin at his father, enjoying as the General’s face turned red with anger. The General rushed at Byron then, his technique quicker and more subtle. Byron suddenly realised that the General had not been trying before, he had thought to beat Byron instantly and now he was beginning to realise he had more of a challenge before him that he had initially thought. Byron met the attack with a parry, sidestep and thrust of his own sword. It caught the General in the thigh, the wound several inches deep and long. The General cried out at the wound and again as Byron extracted his weapon. A cry from the crew rang out, and a gasp from the soldiers, but Byron ignored this, viewing the situation tactically. The General could not put his full weight on his leg now, and so his speed would be impaired.
Byron took advantage, he rushed forward, darting from side to side to provide a harder target and caught the General’s other thigh and his arm. The General dropped his sword in surprise and cried out in pain, clutching his wounds. Byron stepped back and went to stand before the crew, the General’s sword in his other hand.
Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) Page 52