by David Mason
Thuramon’s words were true; by the time the fish had baked a little while, the wind was less, though still strong and steady. The other two crewmen came on deck for their night watch; the sun was almost down, now. They took their share of the food, with the glum silence that all four crewmen seemed to have as a common law; and a jar of the bitter yellow wine that Grothans liked was opened for all.
“Eh, now,” one of the crewmen said, suddenly. He picked the last bit of fish from the leaf, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Hugon. His expression was much less sour than usual. “Now, that’s a tasty bit, young fellow. I thought you was some sort of lord, when we was hired out for the trip. You a master cook, might be?”
“Thanks, friend, but I’m neither lord nor cook,” Hugon told him with a grin.
The other crewman, who seemed as nameless as any of them, was looking their way, also wiping his mouth with a satisfied look. He came closer, and spoke to Hugon.
“Ye’re cook enough, and more though you’ve a landsman’s look about you,” he said. “Listen, you may have thought we’re a bit… uh, unfriendly, might say. Keep to ourselves, as it were, we north coast men. Y’understand, it’s our way.” He reached down and got the wine jar; when he finished, it was much lighter. He belched, and squatted down.
“Man came to us, said he’d pay well to run four travelers across to the shore,” the crewman said. “Right. The gold pieces in hand, and no questions. Ask us none, we’ll ask you none.” He took another pull at the jar. “We’re not asking where that damned wind came from, either,” he said, pointedly. “Nor what you’d be doing in the Empire. We’ve had a sight of queer cargoes aboard the Virgin in our time, haven’t we, Yonn?” He grinned at the other man, who grunted in reply, and took the jar.
“Me… my name’s Yorgan, by the way… me and the others, we’ve had the Virgin since she was built, just the four of us, doing such business as came our way,” Yorgan said. “Small, she is, but fast. And us coasters, we know more of the sea than most folk. We can go anywhere, and damn few can find us if we don’t want to be found, you understand. As there might be, well… things to be took here, there, and about, something light but worth a good deal, and somebody might need a fast boat with good, silent, men…”
“They damn bastards, Mazain folk, made themselves a great list of things to be taxed,” Yonn said, with a broad grin. “More of ‘em every year, stuff folk would like to buy, but with the taxes and all, too dear. So, we used to bring ‘em what they required, and our prices hadn’t a tax on ‘em. Of course, business isn’t too good now, what with the fighting and all… that’s why we were lying in port when we was asked to do this trip.”
“There’s always work for us, one place or another,” Yorgan said, with a philosophical shrug. “Them other two, Ullof… he’s the one with the flat nose, steering there… and Bungt, the fat one, and us, we manage pretty well. We’ve a bit of gold put away to buy something a bit bigger than the Virgin, if we’ve a mind to. Or maybe for other uses… we haven’t decided. Been talking about it, now and then.” He stopped and looked at Hugon, then at Zamor and at Kavin, one by one, thoughtfully; and at Thuramon, last.
“Whatever you’ve got to do ashore there I’m not asking,” Yorgan said. “This village we’ll be coming to, now… there’s friends of ours there. If you’re there a month or two from now, we might have the Virgin there to take you off, or there might be somebody else in our line of business dropping by. You’ll understand, we keep no regular schedules in our line of work, eh?” He grinned.
“Anyway, whenever you’re back, if you ain’t hung or sliced up, the way those bloody Imperials like to do a man in,” he went on, “we’ll be about, if you look for us. Now, I was just now thinking…” He took another dram of wine. “You, the name’s Hugon, ain’t it? Yes. Anyway, you seem a handy sort, know your way around a ship, and maybe you even know how to use that sword you’re wearing, eh?”
“Hold on, friend Yorgan,” Hugon said. “Here, let me have a drop of that jar before you finish it off.” He swallowed a gulp, and made a face as he set it down. “Grothan wine; whale piss. Ugh. Look, I am only a fair hand with a blade, and maybe a decent shot with a crossbow…”
“He’s better than a fair hand with a crossbow,” Zamor grunted. “You forget, I’ve seen you shoot, Hugon.”
“But I’m a man of peaceful habits, in spite of the way I seem to be getting into brawls lately,” Hugon said.
“Now, I may be putting the matter wrongly,” Yorgan said. “I’m not a man as is handy with words, you’ll see. We’re a peaceful lot ourselves, avoiding bloodshed unless somebody makes it needful. We be men of business, purely. Now, I’ve been thinking. Spend a lot of time at sea aboard the Virgin, we do, and none of us has ever been much of a hand with grub. Times the food’s been so damned grim as to make a man think of giving up the sea, that it has.” He shook his head sadly. “Well, we tried to mend matters a while back. Bought a plump wench as was said to be a fair hand at cooking and all, which was true enough. Thought she might be handy with a few other things, as it might be. And we agreed, like we do in other things, ‘twould be share and share alike, no advantage to any one of us; the lass could bunk with each man in fair turns.”
Hugon chuckled, listening with fascination. “It didn’t work out, then?”
“It didn’t,” Yorgan said, glumly. “She cooked well enough, but after a bit, she weren’t even doing that, not regular. What she was doing, she kept setting one of us against another, stirring things about… oh, I don’t want to be talking about the way it was. We near came to knives, after a bit. So we sold her, took a loss on it, too. Made up our minds to bear with things as they were. But, well now, I was wondering… the way I told you, we might be taking our gold and seeing about a bigger ship. If we do, we’d need one or two more lads at least, handy folk. Full shares, it’d be.” He looked at Hugon. “You being such a hand with cooking, now…”
Hugon laughed, and shook his head. “I’m a landsman, friend. And I’ve already promised my large friend here to go to the North, to Numori, and see the sights there. No, thanks… I’m not a seaman at bottom, not a bit of it.”
“Well, if it comes to that, we could fair enough use the both of you,” Yorgan said. “Looks like he could be a useful one, he does.”
“I’ve no special love for salt water either,” Zamor said.
“Eh, now,” Yorgan said. “Maybe I didn’t put the whole of it out for you to be considering. Spoke of a bigger ship… well, we’ve reasons, y’see.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Can’t tell you all about it, but there’s business to be done. A place pretty far off, where a man might pick up treasures. More than you could think, enough to make a lord out of a man if he liked, and no trouble at all, beyond going there and taking it. But it’s a long way, into seas that few men have traveled…” Yorgan stared at the darkening sky. “Now, it happens we know the road there, and we’ll go when we have a bigger ship. If you’d like to join us, you and your big friend, we’d be glad to have you.”
The man stood up and stretched. “Time to take the watch, anyway,” he said. “But remember what I’ve said when you’re done with your business.” He stumped off toward the steering oar, and Yonn went forward.
“Now, there’s an offer,” Hugon said, stirring the last of the charcoal to make it burn away. He chuckled ironically. “From my lowly condition as vagabond, ballad singer and thief, I may rise to be ship-cook, pirate and smuggler.”
Kavin, in the shadows, chuckled. “Cousin, your fish dinner was excellent. Cooks are much rarer than either poets or heroes. Accept the compliment Yorgan paid you and be content.”
When Yonn called below, to rouse them, it was still black darkness outside. But the sails were down, and the Virgin rode at anchor, rubbing her side against a rough wooden pier. There was a dim light in the eastern sky, a hint of dawn; a couple of torches burned on shore. By their dim light, it was possible to make out dark houses, and silent m
en who moved nearer to the wharf; there was also a strong smell of drying fish.
“This village lies near the highroad, and the city is no more than half a day’s riding, southward,” Yorgan told them. “There is a man called Klamash, the innkeeper here… he comes, now. He has horses, for you, and anything else you might require; and if you wish to send word to me, he is trustworthy. Leave any message, at his inn; it’s called the Green Girl.”
The man called Klamash was a cheerless-looking individual, gaunt and gloomy. He led the four men to a torchlit yard, where horses were waiting; aged nags, but rideable, Hugon thought.
“Best we can do, sirs,” Klamash said, looking at the mounts. “Hard enough to get horses, now, the way things be, and the prices… you’ll have gold, I suppose.”
Thuramon counted out pieces, and Klamash took them; but he did not seem to be cheered, even by that.
“Mind you, I’m not asking why you’re heading for the City,” he said. “But I doubt you’ll be back. Most folk that value their hides are going the other way these days, going up into the northern provinces. Mazain now… if the Emperor’s taxmen don’t strip you, or the soldiers chop you, you’ll be finding the city under siege any day now, so you’ll starve a while. Before the rebels come in and hang you for managing to stay alive.”
He re-entered his inn after that cheering pronouncement, and the four men prepared to mount and ride. Hugon, groaning, swung into his saddle, and noted that Thuramon seemed to mount as lightly as a much younger man might do. The others were mounted, and two extra horses led behind to carry the baggage. They rode in single file, out through the darkened village and toward the highroad.
Fraak slept peacefully on Hugon’s saddlebow as they jogged along. Hugon rocked uncomfortably in the saddle; the bony nag he rode was not the easiest of steeds to mount.
The road was a good one, wide and well kept; yet it seemed curiously empty for such a highway. It was not till mid morning that they saw any other travelers; and this was a caravan of carts that trundled by in grim silence. The passing riders made no friendly greetings and kept to their own side of the road as they passed.
“Merchant folk,” Kavin said thoughtfully, peering back at them. “With their goods and families, too. That’s no good omen for any city when those folk leave it.”
There were other such carts, now and again; but no one seemed to be going their way. The farms, on either side of the road, were rich-looking, with fields and groves near ready for harvest, but there seemed to be no farmers about. Twice they passed peasant houses with doors wide open, empty of life.
“You’d think this country had been plundered already,” Hugon said. “If it weren’t for the harvests there, not touched…”
“Apples!” Zamor said, suddenly.
Ahead, on a hillside, apple trees were ranked closely together, and the scarlet gleam of ripe fruit shone among the leaves, and on the ground. Zamor pulled his horse around toward the slope.
“I’ve hungered for apples since I was thrown into the galleys,” he said, and spurred his mount up the slope.
“Well, now, I could enjoy one or two myself,” Hugon said. “We’re near the city, and we might as well enter with full bellies.” He turned to ride after Zamor. After a moment, Kavin and Thuramon followed.
As the riders cantered toward the orchard, Zamor had already dismounted, and was biting down on a big apple. He looked toward them with a grin as they approached, and held up a red prize, half eaten.
“As good as the apples at home,” he called out. “Try one!”
Fraak sailed off Hugon’s shoulder and into a tree above Zamor’s head, where he snapped at a fruit, gulping it in two bites. From his pleased note, he evidently liked it; his tail curled around a branch, he swung his scaly head, seeking another.
“What’s become of the farmers?” Kavin asked. Still in the saddle, he reached to take an apple, and bit it. “These are cultivated, not wild.”
“Fled, as those others seemed to be fleeing,” Thuramon said, getting down from his horse. He sat down and opened a saddlebag, extracting cheese. “We may as well eat now, before we enter the city. It can’t be more than another hour’s ride to the gates.”
At that moment, as Hugon prepared to swing a leg over the saddle and dismount, a wild scream echoed in the orchard. He paused and stared, trying to locate the source; Zamor, dropping his apple, came to his feet with a grunt, and Kavin’s horse backed, wildly.
“That way!” Kavin cried out, and yanked at his horse, pulling it round; he kicked it, and plunged through a wall of brushwood ahead. Hugon followed, clattering after Kavin as the dismounted Zamor ran in their wake. The screaming continued, a woman, wailing in wild terror, and as the two horsemen careened through and out into an open space, they saw its source.
There was a wide clearing in the trees, and at one side there were three big carts, brightly painted, parked with shafts down. Near them were ragged tents, and at the center, a small fire crackled. Near the fire, two big men in red cloaks held a writhing woman, who shrieked insanely as she tried to break free. Four other men, also red-cloaked, wearing cuirasses and helmets, sat their horses near the carts, lances lowered, holding half a dozen ragged people at bay.
The seventh man stood over the fire, laughing loudly; a child, a naked boy of two, was held head downward over the crackling flames, swinging back and forth, his ankles gripped in the big man’s hand. The child screamed in terror and pain as the fire touched his hair, and the woman shrieked again, wildly.
Hugon, behind Kavin, saw the entire scene in a flash, as his horse crashed into the open space; his hand dragged at his sword, and he thumped his heels into his horse’s ribs, hard. Kavin, ahead, already had his sword out. Kavin’s horse leaped forward, and Kavin leaned from the saddle, grasping. His hand caught at the child, as his horse’s shoulder struck the man who held it, knocking the man off his feet as Kavin galloped past.
A moment later, Hugon was upon the man, who was scrambling to his feet with a curse, dragging at his sword. Hugon’s blade sheared down and into his neck; he screamed and fell.
Kavin pulled up, and carefully lowered the child to the earth, leaning from his saddle. He straightened, and swung round as Hugon drew rein beside him; the two men faced the others, grimly.
“Why, you motherless dogs…” one of the two men on foot, those who held the woman, began. But she had managed to bend far enough to sink her teeth into his arm, and he released her with a maddened yell; she ran for the child.
At that moment, the four lancers swung their horses and came into a grim line, facing Kavin and Hugon; their lances swung down, level, and they crouched for the charge.
Behind the four lancers, Zamor loomed, his axe swinging high; and a lancer suddenly flew from his saddle as the curved blade struck. But the remaining three shouted and spurred forward; while the two on foot ran toward Zamor, swords out, between the three horses.
Hugon felt a stab of fear as he saw two lancepoints, both seemingly aimed accurately at his chest; and a momentary flash of resentment at their choice of himself. Then, he had no more time for thought; he was too busy. He parried one lance, slamming hard with the flat of his sword to deflect it, and twisting his body to avoid the second. The lancer crashed into Hugon, shoulder to shoulder, and both men fell earthward with a crash.
Kavin, meanwhile, had managed to swing his left arm over the thrusting lance that came at him; he seized and yanked hard, drawing the unfortunate rider up out of his saddle, and down, onto the lifting point of Kavin’s sword. But the sword, impaling, had been twisted from Kavin’s hand as the rider fell, and now he was weaponless.
Meanwhile, the third lancer had pulled his horse back, and high on its hindlegs; his lance aimed downward to where Hugon and the second man rolled, clutching at each other’s throats. The rider stabbed and missed, raised the lance to try again.
Then, as Kavin rose in his stirrups, reaching for the other rider, a winged bolt of lightning erupted from the trees. Fra
ak, screaming, shot straight into the lancer’s face, claws out; the man rolled from his saddle, yelling with pain as blood spurted.
Zamor’s axe swiftly put an end to the first man who had charged him; the second, more cautious, was crouching and circling, in an obvious effort to pass the big man and flee. On the ground, Hugon had managed to hold his man for a moment with his left arm across the fellow’s throat; he thrust upward, and managed to get his point under the heavy cuirass, grunted, and leaned hard. The man groaned, bubbled blood, and died.
Hugon, panting, got to his feet and saw the end of the performance. The blinded rider had crashed into a tree, and then Fraak struck again, beaked jaws and iron claws outward, in a flying blow. The man folded up, his throat open.
“Damn it,” Zamor growled at the other side of the clearing, “Stand still!” He lunged forward, dropping his axe, and his huge fist swung to slam against the man’s head; the other fell as if he had been struck with the axe itself.
“Nine Gods!” Hugon said, catching his breath. “Now, here’s a f-fine slaughterhouse!” He stared around, and grasped his horse’s neck to support himself. Fraak sailed around him once, piping in an anxious tone, and settled on the saddle above him.
The woman had the child in her arms and was soothing it. She stood up, and came toward the men. She was a tall, handsome woman, with black hair and a tawny skin, dressed in a strange bright garment. The others, who crowded behind her, seemed of the same sort, dark folk with big noses.
Thuramon appeared, and was coming across the clearing with a slow, dignified walk, stepping around the gory evidence of the recent struggle with complete indifference. The woman saw him and cried out, in a strange language, a series of queer clattering words.
Thuramon smiled, and answered in the same tongue. The woman, clutching the child, dropped to her knees and bowed; the others behind her did the same, muttering in awe.