“Will it be fine on its own?” he asked, referring to the ship.
“She,” Nikolaj corrected, with a grunt of effort as he tried to keep pace with Sten’s rowing. “Sailors call our ships she, bad luck to do aught else. And yes, she’ll be as safe as a babby asleep in its crib.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” Caspian glanced back at the Havørn, which indeed looked almost serene as tiny waves lapped at its – her, he corrected himself – sides. “Why refer to a ship as though it... she’s female?”
“Because a ship is like a wife and mother to us,” Captain Brandt called from the prow. “Caring for and protecting her crew... and as vengeful as a cut snake if you don’t treat her right,” he finished, to laughter from the other sailors. Even Sten smiled fleetingly.
When they were within a dozen yards from the shore, Jan and Dorric leapt out into the surf, and dragged the rowboat up onto the beach. Caspian tried to hide his relief as he stepped onto solid ground for the first time in over a week. He resisted the urge to kneel and kiss the wet sand.
Together, they dragged the rowboat away from the water, towards the base of the cliffs. With a cry, Jan pointed towards these, and Caspian saw what he had spotted. A dark shadow cut into the grey rock; a cave entrance. Even though none of them could possibly have become any wetter than they were already, at some unspoken command they jogged towards the cave and whatever refuge from the storm it offered.
Sten had managed to grab an armful of sticks and branches from somewhere, and piled them close to the mouth of the cave. Jan and Dorric joined him. The three of them hunched over the kindling, attempting to coax the damp wood to catch alight. Nikolaj, the first mate, had stripped down to his undergarments, and was hanging his wet clothes on rocks standing nearby. Captain Brandt stood apart from his men, one arm resting on the rock wall as he stared out into the rain.
“What do we do now?” Caspian asked, coming up to him.
“We wait,” the older man replied. “Not much more to be done, unless you wanted to go for a swim.”
“I’d probably be drier if I did.” Perhaps it was the weather, or homesickness, but a gloominess had settled over Caspian. Evidently, his mood had been given away by the tone of his words, as the captain laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, lad,” he said. “The boys’ll have a fire going soon, and then we’ll eat. Once your belly is filled with roasted meat and rum and your clothes are dry, you’ll feel better. Just be glad we’re in here, and not out there.”
Caspian wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the cove they had found, outside of which the storm was even now raging, or the cave, which was more sheltered still, but he saw the sense in what the captain said. He sloped off towards the rear of the cave, and gamely tried to count his blessings as he sat shivering on a rock.
Truthfully, he was at a loss as to what to do with himself. Genuine free time had been a rarity on the Crag, where life had followed a familiar pattern of study, chores, meals and sleep. Now, for a brief time, he was left to his own devices, and it was as if he was hearing his own thoughts for the first time. There weren’t as many of them as he might have hoped.
Caspian smiled sadly. He was even a disappointment to himself.
He glanced around at the cave walls, his mind wandering. It would have been a good opportunity to delve into Elder Tobias’ correspondence, but he hadn’t dared to bring any of the books or letters he had taken from the Crag into the rowboat. It would have been just his luck to have fallen in and ruined them all.
The rock walls weren’t smooth, he saw. Instead, they were covered in pitted holes, most large enough for him to be able to put a fist inside, had he been so inclined. Caspian peered into the hole nearest him, but saw nothing except inky blackness. He thought about asking the captain or one of the crewmen about it, but decided against it. For all he knew, the insides of all caves were filled with such pockmarks, and he wasn’t in the mood for his ignorance to be the cause of further mockery.
Caaaaaasssssss
Caspian felt a breath of cold air on the back of his neck as he heard the voice, a barely audible whisper. Startled, he leapt up from the rock. His eyes searched the darkness at the back of the cave feverishly, heart pounding against his ribcage. The cave was not a deep one and, despite the lack of illumination, he was able to just about make out the wall at the back. There was nothing there. Nothing that he could see, at least.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice emerging in a tremulous squeak rather than the commanding tone he had intended.
Just then another waft of cold air touched his face. Chill fingers brushed lightly across his cheek, as his name once more came to him in a faint sigh at the very edge of his hearing.
With a choked gasp he staggered back towards the cave entrance, and stood panting behind the reassuringly solid figure of Sten. Jan glanced up briefly, before shaking his head and turning away. “I think His Holiness here has been getting acquainted with The Lady,” he said, with a chuckle.
“The Lady?” Caspian wiped droplets of sweat from his forehead. He felt his heartbeat begin to return to normal. “Who’s that?”
Before Jan could reply, Captain Brandt cut across him. “Just a legend, nothing more.” He scowled at the young sailor. “Pay it no heed.”
Eventually, Jan and Sten got a small blaze going. They cautiously added more wood, which was soon burning merrily. The five men and Caspian huddled gratefully around its warmth.
As darkness began to fall outside the cave, Dorric drew raw haunches of some miscellaneous creature from a leather knapsack, stuck them on metal spits he’d brought from the ship and leaned them up close to the flames. By dint of the fact he could be relied upon to serve a simple plate of food without poisoning the rest of the crew, he had seemed to have assumed the role of ship’s cook. From what Caspian had seen, the man was an honest soul and a stout sailor, but utterly devoid of imagination. As a result, the meals he prepared on board the Havørn was similarly honest but bland, and the cause of much grumbling. Caspian, accustomed to the near-indigestible fare served to novices on the Crag, had seen little wrong with it. At least, those meals he had been able to temporarily ingest.
Nobody was grumbling now. The aroma of roasting meat had them all salivating. Caspian breathed it in deeply. He didn’t ask what animal Dorric had found to butcher, however, as he was slightly afraid of what the answer might be.
As their dinner was cooking, Captain Brandt reached into his topcoat, and brought out a bottle of clear liquid. He popped the cork, raised the bottle to his lips, and took a long draught. “Ah,” he sighed happily, “a fire can warm a man’s boots and his hands, but it takes a drink to warm his insides.” He passed the bottle to Nikolaj, who took a slug from the bottle.
It was still half-full by the time it had made its way around the circle to Caspian. When he took the bottle, he caught a waft of alcohol that made his eyes sting. “Is this rum?” he asked, blinking away tears.
“Not rum, no,” Captain Brandt replied, vaguely. “Not exactly. It’s in that general vicinity, though.”
Caspian felt five pairs of eyes on him as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. At first the liquid was surprisingly tasteless. Then it hit the back of his tongue and set his throat on fire. He coughed violently, which sent the liquid fire into his nose. He felt himself retch, hearing laughter but too caught up in his own private misery to care. After much spluttering and gagging, he brought himself under control. His eyes watered and his mouth still stung, but there was a pleasant heat in the pit of his stomach.
A mischievous grin was plastered across Jan’s face. “Don’t fret, chum, Westcovian grog ain’t meant for young’uns anyway.”
Dorric and Nikolaj sniggered dutifully, but Captain Brandt was watching him thoughtfully. Holding Jan’s gaze, Caspian lifted the bottle once again and took a bigger draught. The heat was not as intense the second time, and with barely a cough he handed the bottle back to the captain. The young sailo
r said nothing, but after a long pause he gave a small nod of acknowledgement.
Caspian fought to keep the look of triumph from his face. “So,” he said finally, when he trusted himself to speak without retching, “are you going to tell me, then?”
Jan poked impatiently at the spitted haunch nearest him. “Tell you what?”
“About The Lady?”
“Oh, that.” Jan smiled broadly and drew back, settling down again slightly back from the fire. “Are you sure your belly can handle such a grisly tale?”
By now, darkness had fallen completely. The flames wreathed them all in a flickering orange glow, sending their huge shadows dancing on the cave walls all around them. Caspian shivered, and not only because of the way the cold air chilled the damp clothes on his back. But his curiosity was piqued. “I spent a day and a night alone in a castle with the slaughtered remains of dozens of my Brothers, after seeing and hearing them cut down as they feasted. I’m no sailor, I make no bones about that, but I’ve stomached more than most do in a lifetime.”
A couple of the crewmen shifted uncomfortably, but Jan’s eyes, as hard as flint, just regarded him levelly for several moments. “Do you know where we are, right now?” he asked. Caspian shook his head. “Have you heard of The Scorch, then?”
This time, Caspian nodded. “It’s where King Caderyn fell. He burned the land from the lowlands to the Granite Pass, but it wasn’t enough to stop the Legion.
“A desp’rate move,” Jan agreed. “As he retreated north before the might of the emperor’s army, his troops fell upon the farmlands. They took all the crops they could carry, the people too, and set everything aflame behind them. He hoped he could starve the invaders, give them nothing but cold ashes to fill their bellies, before crushing them at the Pass and sending them back to Ehrenburg with their tails between their legs.”
“It almost worked,” said Nikolaj bitterly.
Jan snorted. “Rot,” he replied, heaving a gob of phlegm into the fire to emphasise the point. “He was doomed from the start. The Legion was too strong, and they hadn’t been forced to march through ashes far enough, not nearly. He’d wanted them starving, but by the time they got to the Pass all he’d done was rile them up. Even so, he’d chosen his ground well. The Granite Pass is narrow, the ground between loose and liable to trip a man if he’s not careful. At first, the battle went Caderyn’s way. The Legion could only approach slowly in narrow columns, where the northern infantrymen kept them bottled up easily. All while their archers, up on the high ground, fired down on those behind. For a while it was like driving piggies to the slaughter.” He shook his head. “There were just too many of the swine.”
“What would you know of it, pup?” Nikolaj shot back, hotly. “You weren’t even born. I was there, standing shoulder to shoulder with my comrades. Caderyn’s plan was sound. He wasn’t to know what the Bloody Prince was plotting.”
“Prince Adelmar?” Caspian asked.
“I was just getting to that, you old codger,” Jan grumbled. He turned back to Caspian. “Just when Caderyn thought the battle won, Adelmar hit them from the rear. When he’d seen what the northmen were doing in the farmlands, he’d taken his vanguard through the foothills and across the Dragon’s Back. How he did it so quick I’ll never know. A born soldier, that one. Still in his teens then, and already won more battles than I’ve got teeth.”
“I heard he was born with a sword in his hand,” chipped in Dorric. “Cut his own way out of his mother’ womb.”
“A lie, but not too far from the truth,” Jan replied. “She died giving him birth, but there was nothing unnat’ral about it. He came into the world covered in blood, and has remained so ever since. The north was lost the moment he arrived on the battlefield, its last great army caught between the hammer and the anvil. Poor bastards didn’t see it coming.”
Nikolaj prodded the flickering fire with a stick, his mood sombre. “It was a massacre,” he said quietly. “Caderyn had stationed all his fighting men at the entrance to the Pass, to hold back the Legion. He left all the others behind us. To protect them.” he grimaced. “The farmers, the women and children, the old and the sick. When I saw Adelmar’s vanguard falling on them from the hills, that blood-red armour of his leading the charge, I pissed myself.”
Jan snickered, and the first mate shot him an angry glare. “You’d have done the same, boy, and worse. We saw our deaths, then, as they fell on us. The farmers and their families were first, the Bloody Prince and his men hacking at everything that moved. It happened so fast. The screams...” he closed his eyes momentarily, before continuing. “The Legion felt our fear then, and fought like demons at the Pass. We stood firm at first, but they overwhelmed us. A few men fled, then others joined them. We were broken. King Caderyn tried to rally us, but it was chaos.”
“How did you survive?” asked Caspian.
Nikolaj didn’t meet his eye. “Many ran, though we were surrounded. When it was clear that we’d lost, we threw down our swords.” He stared into the flames. “Most people think that when two armies meet, there’s nothing left of the losers but carrion. But it ain’t like that. It’s not about killing every last foe, it’s about who breaks first. We lost a thousand soldiers, or thereabouts, one in five men. But the families...” the first mate’s voice began to crack. “Thousands killed, in the blink of an eye. Defenceless. It was seeing them fall that broke us.”
“What happened after that?”
Jan spat into the fire once more, where it evaporated with a hiss. “Caderyn’s army was decimated, is what happened, and the last northern king’s head ended up on a pike outside the walls of that bloody great fortress the emperor built to mark his victory.”
“War’s End,” said Caspian. Jan nodded, but there was a snort of derision from the first mate.
“Pfeh,” Nikolaj growled. “Found a way to boast while spitting in the eye of the north and making sure we was all kept bottled up. He was always a sly one, was Old Bones.”
Caspian’s brow wrinkled. “Old Bones? I’ve not heard that before. Where’s it from?”
The grizzled first mate’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he looked up and held Caspian’s gaze. “What were they teaching you on that godsforsaken rock?” he asked, with a hint of bemusement. “Have you never heard the Lay of the Quiet Lord?”
“No,” Caspian replied. “But I’d like to.”
“Aye, well, it’s a cheerful ditty,” said Nikolaj, slightly mollified. “Just the sort of rhyme to brighten a night such as this.” Then, in low tones, he began to recite a few verses, the telling of which made Caspian shiver.
Old bones upon a throne of gold,
Whispering halls long since grown cold.
At rest, yet withered, creaking hands
Grasp tight a rusted iron band.
From deathly slumber ne’er to wake,
The haunted lord stirs not nor breaks
The silence of his vaulted tomb,
Nor senses the impending doom.
In tower high is done the deed,
Betrayal born of jealous need.
Two hearts arise from silver pool,
One fair and just, its brother cruel.
The blade strikes true, the circlet falls,
A new lord rules the shadowed halls.
The mourning son in fear takes flight,
And seeks the dawn to end the night.
“And that’s about the emperor?” Caspian asked, when the first mate fell silent.
“Aye, and his sons,” Jan agreed. “The Bloody Prince and the sneaky one.”
“The young are quick to speak with conviction about subjects of which they know nothing,” Nikolaj retorted. “It was my own ma who first told it to me, and that was back in Fat Fredi’s day. Maximilien was still a young man himself then.”
Captain Brandt shifted his weight before the fire. “It’s true, it’s an old rhyme in these parts. Nevertheless, some parts ring true and the nickname has certainly stuck. It’s a braver man th
an me that repeats it to his face, though.”
“Then who is it about?” asked Caspian, his interest piqued.
The captain shrugged. “An old king, perhaps, one long-forgotten. It’s not too surprising if parts of it seem to hold relevance today. There’s nothing new under the sun, or so they say.”
“Does you want to hear about The Lady, or not?” Jan demanded suddenly, clearly nettled by the interruption in his tale. He shot a meaningful glare at the first-mate, who for his part ignored his young ship-mate and continued to stare into the crackling flames, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Yes, of course,” said Caspian. “But what does it have to do with the emperor’s bastion?”
“I was getting to that,” Jan replied irritably. “The point being, that’s where we are now. If you climbed up those cliffs behind us, you’d see The Scorch all around. Most of the lowlands recovered over time, and the farmers eventually returned, but around the Pass the soil was too thin. Once everything had been burned off, there was nothing left to grow back. It’s just rock and ashes for dozens of miles in either direction. Nothing grows in the Scorch, and nothing lives... save those poor souls in War’s End.”
“Not a duty I envy, manning those walls,” Captain Brandt interjected, taking another swig from the bottle. “That land is cursed.”
“That’s what they say,” Jan went on, with a nasty grin. “And I can’t say as they’re wrong, either. Before Caderyn’s firebugs passed through, there were farms and villages here. The soil was thin and working it was hard, and those that lived here were the same – thin and hard. But they got by. A long time ago, before my grandfather was even born, The Lady was one of them.”
“Who was she?”
“Nobody knows for certain. Some will tell you that she and her husband were merchants in one of the towns that were here back then, others say that they were actually lord and lady of this, that or the other. But all agree they were nobility or close to it, and wealthy either way.”
Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) Page 20