“Deformed!” proclaimed the red pirate. “Twisted, ugly, and deformed!” He leaned closer to the youth and said confidentially, breathing garlic, “Hogger has one eye, Kneecap’s got a wooden leg, Black Tom is missing three fingers, Fenris be earless, and Gums ain’t got a tooth in his head. A man has to be ruined to sail on the Windwitch. Fires of Tapthar! You’ll fit in well here, mo reigh, you’ll fit like an egg in its shell!”
He laughed, revealing gaps in his dentition that seemed to go through to the back of his head.
“Me, I’m physically perfect. See that?” He flexed bulging sinews in his right arm, which was tattooed with ravening birds, their toothed beaks gaping, looking faintly ridiculous.
“I wouldn’t like to meet me in battle, mo reigh. It’s the brain—the brain that’s twisted. I’m mad, see?” His jutting eyebrows shot up and down rapidly. “Sianadh the Bear, unconquerable in battle!”
He roared, a wide grin splitting his weather-lined face. The cabin boy whimpered.
“What is the matter, tien eun? See, I unbind you and your reigh friend.” Squatting, he did so. “You two lads are to join us! You shall be buccaneers on the upper drafts. Every now and then, such as today, we lose a few hearty hands. Captain Winch needs to replace ’em with young ’uns nimble in the rigging. Don’t look so sad! ’Tis better than being sold as slaves in Namarre like these shera sethge shipmates of yours here. And you, Captain, are to be ransomed to your Cresny-Beaulais Line.”
Captain Chauvond groaned, licking blood from his lips.
“Now, don’t bleed all over the clean deck. You lads, see that keg over there? Go and fetch water for yourselves and your shipmates. Make yourselves useful or Winch will notice you and you’ll taste the lash. We sink anchor at dusk, then we eat and suffer. ’Tis a shame we left your cook in a tree—ours is a sadist and poisoner—’twould have been kinder to our aching bellies to have swapped one for t’other. Look lively there!”
The two youths hurried to obey.
The brig was a lean, streamlined ship, but run on more slovenly lines than the merchant clipper. The crew, less disciplined, were more careless and prone to unprovoked outbursts of violence. Captain Winch, however, ruled with a steely hand.
Having risen, the wind was blowing hard.
“Aloft and stow the top-gallants!” Winch’s stridor, with all the power of a gale behind it, burst over the decks like a hailstorm. “You new lads, get aloft before I kick yers aloft.”
The cabin boy looked frightened and opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He and the deformed youth followed some of the hands up the thrumming ratlines on the weather side of the rigging, not having the least idea of how they would do the job demanded of them. Although the ship moved in relative harmony with the wind, its speed and direction deviated somewhat. The wind beat the lads down against the shrouds and banged at them. Climbing over the overhanging futtock shrouds was not for the fainthearted; their feet and legs disappeared from sight, and all their arm power was needed for the last heave onto the tiny platform. Once over that hurdle, the climb to the second platform with its smaller overhang was easier. The black top-gallant sails leaped and slatted among the clouds. Ropes and rigging tautened on all sides. Far below, perhaps a hundred feet down, they could see the men working on the decks. The massive yards slanted perilously over the wild tors and scarps, crevasses and clefts that stretched in every direction like crushed lime velvet tossed over a table setting. Trees raced by below, each leaf sharply delineated in every shade of green and gold.
They must step resolutely from the ratlines to the thin foot-rope festooned beneath the spar, which shuddered as the draperies of flogging canvas cracked the wind like whips. The foot-rope sagged under the first man’s weight so he sank almost below the yard, but it lifted as more men stepped on it and, finally, the two lads. There were now about four sailors on either side of the yard. The sail hit the lads in the face and knocked off their taltries. The brig rocked in its passage along a rocky crevasse, the masts swinging in long, graceful arcs. They were clinging to an erratically swiveling pole a dozen stories above the deck. The cabin boy’s face was pale, and his teeth clenched. The nameless lad did not look down again. Panic ebbed and was replaced, gradually, by exultation. Up here, he felt like a King. Had he possessed a voice, he would have shouted.
The sail had already been partly gathered in from the deck, the clewlines drawn to raise its corners and the buntlines pulling in the bulk of it up to the spar. The men leaned over the yard, seeming to hang on with their own belly-muscles so as to leave two hands free. They reached far down to grasp a ruck of wind-shaken canvas. It beat back at them and blew from their hands. The wind pinned them flat against the yard, tearing at their clothes.
“Heave, you laggards!” an angry voice brayed.
The lads copied the men. After pulling the sail up, they jammed a pile of it under their bellies, then grasped some more. When all the sail had been bunched up, they flattened it along the crosstree, then rolled and lashed it. Then they must descend, climb the foremast, and do it all again. There was no tuition for new crewmen on this vessel; it was “learn or die.” Most of the buccaneers had learned that way and were prepared to give as much quarter as they themselves had received: namely, none.
At sunset, the Windwitch anchored in a deep and narrow ravine. Lurid light speared between almond-shaped clouds standing in the lee waves of the land formations, reddening a mountain peak shaped like three old men standing in a row. When the Windship was snugged down for the night, sails furled and lines coiled, the crew partook of their meal on the mess deck, so aptly named, slopping it into their mouths, wiping their greasy hands on their hair or clothing or any other surface that tended in any way toward absorbency.
The two lads drooped, almost too exhausted to eat. After a few bites they huddled together where some of the wounded pirates lay at the side. There they dozed, oblivious of the gibes halfheartedly hurled their way. Adversity had created a kind of comradeship, despite the fact that neither knew the other’s name and never a word had passed between them.
Hawking, swaggering, elated by their recent victory, the hale crew-members argued about the division of the spoils.
“Let’s have it now, I say. We’ve worked hard for it. Let’s see the color of the gold in them chests.”
Cheers and the banging of pewter tankards greeted this oratory.
“If we divvy it up now,” said a horse-faced rascal, “where should we stow it on this bucket? In our hammocks? In our ship-bags? To have them made lighter by some sneak-thief such as Spargo as soon as we turn our backs and go aloft?”
Spargo, who had just then buried his nose in a jar to take a deep draft, thumped the jar down, spluttering. Rum splashed out of it. Also, carelessly, he had thwacked it right in the middle of his dish. Grayish gravy flew up, splashing his face and nearby diners, who snarled aggrievedly.
“Did I hear you aright, Nails?”
Nails leaned closer to him, lips curled back to show the remains of his teeth. Spargo did not flinch.
“Blow me down,” Nails invited, thrusting forward a stubbled jaw like a fist.
Spargo’s eyes slid from side to side in his frozen face. Most of the crew had stopped eating and were watching.
He pushed Nails’s shoulder.
Laughing, Nails playfully shoved him back, harder. Spargo’s face turned purple. He thrust against Nails with all his strength; Nails barely kept his balance, then returned to land a blow squarely on Spargo’s jaw. They rolled together across dinner plates loaded with boiled cabbage, charred mutton, and flour dumplings in gravy, to the chagrin of their shipmates, who instantly joined the melee in revenge for the ruining of their dinners, no matter whether the fault had been the brawlers’ or the cook’s. The lads from the Tarv prudently removed themselves as far as possible from this storm of flailing fists, cabbage, and pewter.
A sharp crack split the air along a black seam, and silence gushed out. Winch stood, whip trai
ling negligently from his paw. Beneath his horsehide jerkin he was shirtless. His bare chest sported a pattern of snakes and the usual tilhal, dangling on a thong. Wide leather bands studded with iron adorned his wrists and tree trunk waist. His brown hair was shaved to stubble on one half of his head and hung in long greasy braids on the other. He wore a necklace of sharks’ teeth, and gold rings flashed in his earlobe and one nostril.
“Reef it, you puke-stocking rabble of misbegotten dung-eaters.”
Growling, sullen, the crew scraped dumplings and gravy off themselves and began to eat the larger chunks. Still standing, the captain surveyed them with a surly visage, adding for good measure:
“Anyone care to have a conversation with Lady Lash?” He grinned then, bulge-eyed as a lunatic, but received no reply.
As the men settled back into order, or a semblance of it, red-haired Sianadh said conversationally:
“Dung-eaters? Now why should he call us dung-eaters? What does Winch know about Poison’s secret recipes?”
“Poison don’t use no recipes, ’e makes it all out of ’is own ’ead.”
“That explains the texture”—Sianadh nodded wisely—“but don’t be concerned, Croker—you ought to be used to eating things other people would scrape off their boots.”
Croker, an irascible giant with an enormous blue-veined nose, jumped up and pulled a knife out of the cutting laughter. In answer, Sianadh sprang to his feet facing him, one hand gripping the top of his scabbard.
“I’ll slice out your foul tongue, stinking Ertishman.”
“Don’t be so certain, mo gaidair. I have a long, wicked weapon to trounce ye with.” Tension mounted again, so soon. Winch devoured mutton noisily, seemingly unperturbed.
“Do not be so quick to provoke me. All my foes run when they see me coming!” the giant thundered.
“Really, Croker? Even before they smell you?”
Veins stood out on Croker’s brow. “Toad-spotted scum! I have never been defeated.”
“Well, ye must run swifter than we gave you credit for.”
“You think you’re so clever. I’ve seen donkeys with more wit than you.”
“Aye, someday I’ll meet your brothers.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Sianadh rolled his eyes upward. “Ye’d be doing me a favor, me bucko.”
“Draw yer weapon!”
Croker sliced runes on shadow parchment with the flash of his knife’s blade. Responding with one fluid movement, Sianadh whipped a large sausage out of his pocket and flourished it triumphantly. Guffaws galed back and forth over the mess deck. Tension was released like the spring of a fired mangonel as Croker caught the sausage tossed to him, dropped his knife, and clapped a meaty hand on Sianadh’s back.
“Ah, you be not such a bad jack for an Ertishman, Bear.”
“And I’ve always loved ye, Croker. The rain shall never fall on me while ye are my shipmate. There is always ample shelter beneath your nose.”
Croker joined in the laughter, his cheeks swollen with sausage. A moment later he looked puzzled, then shot a frowning glare at Sianadh, but it was too late. The red-haired man was by then seated in the middle of a circle, clutching a tankard in one hand, telling a story.
“This be a tale from Finvarna, my home in the west. The hero, Callanan, when he was a youth was trained by Ceileinh, the famous warrior-woman.”
“Ha! Only the Erts of Finvarna would have women warriors!”
“That is because the least of our women is mightier than most Feorhkind men,” was the seamless reply. “Do ye want to hear the tale or don’t ye?”
“Aye! Aye!”
“To continue—Ceileinh held a stronghold in the mountainous country, wild and lonely. It was built atop a high plain surrounded on most sides by a sheer drop hundreds of feet down. From up there ye could look out across the heights and deeps to distant mountain peaks. Those who ventured there had to be stalwart and stouthearted. Ceileinh’s fastness was renowned far and wide. All youths who wished to learn fighting skills went there for their training, which was arduous but made the best warriors of them, in the end—the best with spear and sword and bow, the best at horsemanship.
“One day as Callanan’s training was nearly finished, sentries came riding in at a gallop, shouting that an invading army was pounding up the mountain path. It was headed by the infamous she-warrior Rhubhlinn, Ceileinh’s fiercest rival, in her winged chariot. They swept away all who stood in their path, until they reached the cliff-top plain where Ceileinh and her company waited, forewarned, armed and ready, some on foot, others on horseback or in their chariots. Then a battle began. Rhubhlinn’s mightiest heroes were slain single-handed by Callanan, but there were heavy losses also on Ceileinh’s side. Both armies drew back for a breather, with neither side having gained the upper hand, and the leaders, despising this waste of their best champions, challenged one another to decide the outcome in single combat.
“But young Callanan demanded to take the place of his instructress. Knowing the measure of his keenness and valor, she agreed but warned him of Rhubhlinn’s renowned ferocity. He only said. ‘Tell me what Rhubhlinn cherishes most.’
“‘She loves above all things her chariot, her horses, and her charioteer. Such a team they are, skilled, experienced, and peerless, her pride in war.’
“‘I shall not fail you, my Chieftain,’ said Callanan. He saluted and went forth to battle.
“The watching warriors kept vigil in a wide circle on the dusty, gore-spattered plain while those two combatants met like thunder-giants in the middle. First they fought with spears, but they were closely matched, and the spears shattered without doing harm. Their swords were brought forth, then. But Rhubhlinn was the more seasoned in this play, and soon she disarmed Callanan, breaking off his sword at the hilt. A great cry arose from the throats of the watchers. Rhubhlinn bared her teeth, seeing victory within her grasp, and drew back her arm for the fatal blow. But Callanan was no fool and had prepared himself.
“‘Your chariot and horses have stumbled at the top of the cliff and are in peril of slipping over!’ cried he.
“Rhubhlinn, tricked by this hoax, turned her gaze for one instant. In that instant, Callanan seized her in his arms. His grip was like steel—he threw Rhubhlinn down and pressed his skian to her neck, demanding surrender or death.
“Then she yielded to him and promised that she would never again fight Ceileinh. See, this tale goes to show that it is not strength alone that wins battles.”
“This tale goes to show that Ertishmen tell improbable stories,” commented Black Tom, who was immediately gifted with an eye to match his name.
The night wore on; the fights wore off; the tankards were refilled. This was a celebration of another victory. Talk turned to the day’s battle, then to other ships, the ships of the ocean. The legend of the Abandoned Seaship was told, and tales of the terrible shang unstorms and waterspouts in the northern seas, past which no ship could sail. Nothing lay beyond the Ringstorm—it was a barrier around the rim of Aia to stop ships from falling over the edge into nothingness. They spoke of the lands of the south: cold Rimany, where the Icemen dwelled with their milk hair, snow skin, and magnolia eyes, and of the known lands of Erith, where warriors slept for centuries deep beneath the hills while eldritch wights stalked the green turf above their heads. And, in whispers, these ruthless cutthroats mentioned, shuddering, the Nightmare Princes of the Unseelie Attriod.
They spoke, too, of strange tableaux they had seen in various parts of the world, left by the shang winds to repeat for centuries, gradually fading over time. They talked of the sailor who, among these very mountains, had been ordered to climb down the outside of the hull to effect repairs on a moving Windship but had been so terrified that he had stolen sildron to put in his belt. Strong winds had snapped his safety-rope, and he was cast adrift, helpless in the air and blown into tall gullies where ships could not go. Aeronauts claimed to have seen his decomposing body flying past at twilight, even w
hen his bones must have dropped to the ground long since. A scoop net was kept ready by the helm in case that sildron belt was ever spied.
“Stormriders have flying-belts,” said one of the crew, “but you never hear of that happenin’ to them!”
“Of course not,” said another, “they are not so stupid as to put high-grade around their middles. Their flying-belts are personally made to their weight, see, so that if ’n they fell, they would be brought to a halt ten feet up from the ground. Then they unbuckle and drop down.”
“Aye, but that do not ’elp them much if a tree gets in their way!” someone chuckled.
“Pig on a spit!” the first offered wittily.
Once, Red-Hair heaved himself to his feet, swaying out of synchronization with the ship. Gravely he called for attention, raising his tankard high; his audience responded with an expectant hush.
“I would just like to say, me buckos,” he slurred, “that at no time in my life have I ever”—a pause for emphasis—“ever”—another ripe pause, during which the crew focused on him with difficulty and enormous expectation—“had any idea …” The red-haired man looked up with a confused air as he trailed off.
“what I was talking about!” he finished, thumping himself down and smiling benignly all around. The crew cheered weakly.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 13