by John Gwynne
He was one of the villagers who had joined them during their flight through Narvon; he’d been stacking barrels below decks, unused to the pitching of a ship at sea. There’d been an accident. Pax the oarsman – Atilius’ son – had heard him screaming and helped him onto the top deck.
Where’s Brina? The old healer had told Cywen to prepare Gorsedd for resetting his broken bone, which mostly meant filling him up with seed of the poppy.
‘Another sip,’ she said to Gorsedd, and with a wince he complied.
Pax was standing to one side, watching. He looked almost as pale as the man with the broken arm. Cywen swayed as the ship rode another swell, the one huge sail tight and snapping in the wind. They’d been at sea for two days now, early the first day leaving the sluggish marsh river behind and entering a wide bay that they’d continued to row through, the sea tame and relatively docile. The second day they had rowed into open sea, skirting the coast. A strong wind had almost immediately caught them and Dath had yelled for their sail to be unfurled. The wind had freed them all from the oar-benches, at first everyone relieved and thankful, but after half a day on the open sea over a score of people had lined the ship’s rails, vomiting into the slate-grey and foam-speckled waves. Cywen had been one of them. She’d sailed across the straits between Ardan and Domhain with no problem, but this sea was another beast entirely, as different as a wild horse from one broken to ride. She’d hardly seen Dath as he hadn’t left his post on deck since they’d left the wide-mouthed river estuary and entered the sea. Fortunately a good dozen of the oarsmen had worked on a ship’s crew before, and so Cywen was vaguely confident that they had the skill required to avoid sinking by incompetence. That was something.
‘Come on, then,’ Brina said, appearing suddenly and squatting down beside Gorsedd, one hand on his shoulder, the other about his elbow. She looked into Cywen’s eyes.
‘You ready for this?’
More than he is, Cywen thought. She took a deep breath and nodded, then wound a leather cord around Gorsedd’s wrist. She gritted her teeth and pulled.
Gorsedd screamed.
No amount of poppy milk can dull that pain.
The bone sank back into flesh, like a shattered ship sinking into the sea. Why am I thinking of ships sinking. Cywen tugged harder, waiting for the click that Brina had told her would signal that it had settled back into its proper place. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She glanced up at Brina, willing her to say that it was done.
Brina didn’t, just held on to Gorsedd’s elbow.
The leather cord slipped in Cywen’s hand, the bone poking through flesh again.
‘Rest a moment,’ Brina said. ‘Dry your hands. Try again.’
Cywen released the cord as gently as she could, Gorsedd howling, eyes rolling.
‘You could lend a hand, as you’ve time to stand around watching,’ Brina snapped at Pax. He winced but nodded, looking more scared of Brina than the blood and bone oozing from the injured man’s arm.
‘Can I help?’ a grating voice said above and behind. The giantling Laith looked curiously over her shoulder at the wound. Buddai wagged his tail at Laith’s voice, though he seemed to otherwise still be asleep.
Cywen smiled and Pax looked relieved. Brina explained to Laith what she had to do.
Laith gripped the cord and looked to Brina for the nod.
‘Don’t pull his arm off,’ Brina said. ‘Slow and steady.’
‘Slow and steady,’ Laith repeated. Then she pulled.
The bone disappeared, sliding smoothly back into the wound. Laith made it look as easy as stretching dough for bread.
‘You have to go further than the break,’ Brina said, ‘then it should slot into place. You’ll feel it.’
Laith’s face was knotted with concentration. She continued to pull, then she smiled.
‘I felt it,’ she said and let go of the cord.
Gorsedd sagged in their arms.
‘You know what to do,’ Brina said, then stood and walked away. Her hand was pressed tightly to her side, the outline of the giant book clear under her cloak.
Cywen frowned as she watched Brina leave, then groaning from Gorsedd drew her attention. She washed out the wound, drizzled it with honey, gave him some more poppy milk, then pulled out her fish-hook and thread ready to stitch the wound. She couldn’t hold his arm still for the rocking of the ship. She looked to Laith but she was playing with Buddai, completely oblivious to Cywen now.
She has a short attention span.
‘Here,’ said Pax, and he took Gorsedd’s arm.
Cywen began her work, stitching it loose to allow it to drain, then bandaging it. As she did, her eyes wandered to Pax. He was fine featured, high cheekbones on a tanned face, close-cropped hair and stubble for a beard. And bright blue eyes. There was something in them, a haunted look that seeped from them. Something niggled at Cywen about him. Something missing.
‘Where’s your warrior braid?’ Cywen asked him.
His eyes touched hers and then looked away.
‘Lykos cut it off.’ His hand rose to a ragged tail of hair.
‘Why?’ Cywen was horrified at the thought.
‘Did it to all of us on our first day at the oar-bench. Said we were less than men, let alone warriors. He gave me this, as well.’ He pulled up his linen sleeve and twisted to show her a circular lump of sliver flesh, a burn-scar. Part of it was scabbed and weeping a mixture of blood and pus. ‘His mark, to show me as his property.’
‘Why’s it bleeding?’
His face twisted, part shame, part embarrassment. ‘I tried to cut it off. I couldn’t; it hurt too much.’
Laith laughed at that from over with Buddai. ‘I am not surprised,’ she said, laughing some more.
This giant lacks any sense of sympathy.
Pax scowled.
‘Here, let me clean it for you.’ Cywen asked Laith to take Gorsedd to his cot.
‘After,’ she said. ‘I like your puppy.’
Puppy! Buddai’s big as a pony. The hound did look smaller, though, beside Laith. The giantling was on her hands and knees, hiding her face in her arms. Buddai was slapping at Laith’s arms with a paw, then digging to reveal Laith’s face. The giant laughed and rolled onto her back, Buddai licking her face.
Cywen dabbed at Pax’s wound with salt water. He winced but he did not pull away.
‘You’re sister to Corban, aren’t you?’ Pax said.
‘Aye,’ Cywen muttered, scrubbing the scab away, applying pressure to squeeze all of the pus out of the wound, and then bathing it in a salve that Brina had prepared. ‘What of it?’ She glanced up at Pax and saw a new look creeping over his face. Awe.
‘He’s going to kill Lykos.’
‘Is he?’ Cywen asked.
‘Aye. Lykos is evil, sure as the sky is blue. If there is an Asroth then Lykos serves him. And Corban’s the Bright Star – everyone says it. And look around: giants – Balur One-Eye stepping out of the faery tales. Jehar – they are the greatest warriors that have ever lived. A wolven as his guardian.’ He shook his head. ‘And he set us free.’ Something like adoration was in his eyes now. ‘Lykos tried to break me, made me less than a man.’
Are you old enough to be a man?
‘At first I did not believe we were free, thought it some twisted ruse for Lykos’ pleasure. Then, when I knew we were free, all I wanted to do was find somewhere to be alone, to live in peace, away from it all. To hide. But now, after listening to what your brother said, who he is. He will kill Lykos, he will win this war, and I will follow him.’ He was grinning at Cywen now, nodding fervently.
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that,’ Cywen said, not really knowing what to say.
He’s talking about my brother. Ban, whom I used to push into puddles. ‘You’re done,’ she said, standing. ‘Keep it clean. And don’t try to cut it off again.’
Laith laughed at that, then she hoisted Gorsedd to his feet and carried the injured man to his cot. Pax nodded his thanks to Cywen and sto
od, hovering.
‘Tell your brother . . .’ he mumbled. ‘Tell him us oarsmen, we owe him. And love him. He set us free.’
‘Tell him yourself,’ Cywen said. ‘Here he is now.’
Corban was walking along the deck, his wolven pelt pulled across his shoulders.
It is colder, suddenly, and this wind finds every gap there is.
Storm padded at Corban’s side. Her coat was slick with sea-spray, the markings that streaked her torso darker now they were wet. Thick muscle rippled along her chest and flanks as she walked beside Corban, her head almost as high as his chest.
She’s still growing.
Storm padded over and nuzzled Cywen, almost pushing her over. Pax took an involuntary step back. Cywen stroked the coarse fur of the wolven’s muzzle. As she looked closer she noticed a host of scars latticing Storm’s head and body, silvery stripes where fur no longer grew, one ear ragged and frayed. The last few years have given us all scars, of one nature or another.
Storm saw Buddai and bounded over to him, a cub again.
‘Cy,’ said Corban, smiling. He looked to Pax. The young man mumbled something unintelligible and left.
‘He thinks you a hero,’ Cywen said.
‘Then he’s wrong,’ Corban replied. ‘I’m sure you told him.’
Cywen grinned. ‘I’m starting to think of you as a bit of a hero, myself. Even if it wasn’t so long ago that I used to tell Mam on you for wiping your nose on my cloak.’
‘I can always count on you.’ He smiled. ‘Walk with me.’
The two of them picked their way along the deck, a companionable silence settling between them.
‘I’m sorry – I’ve wanted to see more of you,’ Corban said.
Cywen shrugged. ‘There’s a lot to be done, I imagine.’
‘Huh.’ Corban snorted.
‘You have to learn to delegate. Learn from Brina.’
He laughed at that, something that he’d done rarely of late, she realized, seeing him.
‘I’ve done better, I’ve asked her to delegate for me.’
‘I know.’ She paused, wondering whether to speak her mind. Then she did. ‘I’m worried about Brina,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘She’s different.’
‘What, you mean grumpier?’
‘No, not really. If anything, less grumpy, less sarcastic.’
‘And that’s something to worry about?’
‘Aye. She seems less interested.’
‘That doesn’t sound like her. If anything she’s too interested in everyone else’s business.’ He said it with an affectionate smile.
‘Exactly. It’s out of character. At first I thought she was ill, but it’s not that. She just has no interest in anything. Except her book.’
‘The giant book?’ Corban asked.
‘Aye. She doesn’t know I’ve seen her, but she sneaks away to read it. And she won’t let me look at it any more.’
Corban frowned. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. After Heb . . .’ He fell silent, lost in a memory. ‘She grieved hard. But I thought she came through it, in the end. As much as any of us do.’ He glanced at Cywen. ‘I’ll try and do something . . .’
Laughter rang out from above and they both looked up. Figures were climbing in the rigging about the sail. After a moment Cywen realized it was Dath and Kulla.
‘I think she likes Dath,’ Cywen said.
‘I think so too. The only person that doesn’t seem to have noticed is Dath.’
Ha. Cywen laughed to herself. I could say the same about you, brother.
They watched Dath climb through the rigging, swinging between ropes, moving like a monkey through the treetops.
‘For a coward he can be ridiculously brave,’ Cywen observed.
‘Dath’s no coward,’ Corban said. ‘He just screams louder than the rest of us, that’s all.’
Another silence settled between them.
‘Where are we sailing to, Corban?’
‘Drassil.’
‘And then what?’
‘War. An end to all of this.’
Aye. But whose end?
‘It seems to me a great deal is being asked of you, little brother.’
‘Asked of us all,’ Corban said. ‘And I agree. If ever I meet Elyon the All-Father face to face, I’ll have a few things to say to him.’
Me too.
They stared out over the ocean. The sea stretched into the horizon, a foam-flecked world of grey and green, shimmering beneath a hard blue sky.
‘We’re leaving summer behind us,’ Corban observed.
‘Aye. And sailing into winter.’
‘It feels like that.’
Corban, I’m scared,’ Cywen said.
He gripped her hand and squeezed. ‘So am I,’ he replied.
Cywen crept through undergrowth, looking back at the rows of sleeping forms along the riverbank, framed by the dying embers of a dozen fires. Further off in the darkness their moored ships creaked in current and breeze.
Can’t go too far, or I’ll walk into someone on first watch.
She eventually sat with her back to a wind-twisted tree, sharp-thorned bushes shielding her from the eyes of anyone not sleeping at this late hour. She concentrated on becoming completely still, even trying to slow her breathing, and listened. When she was convinced that no one had followed her she opened her cloak and pulled out Brina’s book, opening the pages to the bright moon above.
What is Brina so obsessed with?
For a ten-night they had sailed east and north, while the weather turned colder and sullen black clouds hid the sun. Dath made sure they never lost sight of the coast, a line of dark cliffs and shattered coves, each night searching for an inlet or bay, sometimes just a strip of beach to shelter. They had moored in a cove for two days while a storm lashed the coast, the eight ships bucking and rearing on the waves like wild stallions. On the thirteenth day, soon after sunset, Dath had sighted the estuary of a great river flowing into the sea that Meical confirmed would take them to Gramm’s hold. Another two days they’d rowed against the current, the wind still helping them, and earlier this day, as the sun was setting, they’d turned a bend in the wide river and Meical had pointed out Gramm’s hold, a pinprick upon a distant hill. Behind it had been a dark stain on the land, as far as Cywen’s eyes could see.
Forn Forest. Cywen had felt a dread settle upon her looking at it.
Dath said it was half a day’s rowing, at least, so the decision was made to make camp and approach the hold in daylight.
And so here she was, sneaking off in the dark to take a look at the book that seemed to be leaching Brina’s enthusiasm for life.
Carefully she turned pages, knowing how fragile it was, moving steadily to the back of the book. The part that Brina had forbidden her from looking at. In the moonlight the pages took a silvery hue, the writing like black shadows crawling across the pages. Things began to change, as she’d seen before, more diagrams and runes. Occasionally words she recognized.
She paused, mouth working, brain aching as she tried to translate what she was seeing.
‘An dorcha sli,’ she breathed. She blinked and stared harder, the words seeming to be clawing out of the page at her, the flesh on her arms and neck goose-bumping as the words appeared in her mind.
‘The dark way.’
Suddenly she felt scared, a creeping terror filling her, as if eyes were watching her, crawling over her. The darkness around her abruptly felt ominous, the silence malefic.
Almost against her will she turned more pages, eyes glued to the runes scrawled before her.
‘Ghloigh gheasa,’ she murmured. ‘The spell of summoning. Fuil de namhaid, blood of an enemy.’
This is not Elyon’s way of faith. What is this? And why has Brina been spending so much time poring over this?
A twig cracked behind her and as Cywen was turning she felt her ear gripped and pulled, hard enough that she either had the choice of following the ear or
having it ripped off.
She staggered upright and came face to face with Brina, angrier than she had ever seen her before. Her lips were twisted, noises spluttering from her mouth, but rage seemed to have taken her beyond the use of speech.
Cywen felt truly terrified.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted.
‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be, you thieving, back-stabbing, soft-footed, plotting little witch,’ Brina hissed. Cywen tried to take a step back, but found that unfortunately in her anger Brina hadn’t loosened her grip on Cywen’s ear.
Escape was out of the question, so Cywen resorted to the next option.
She screamed.
Immediately footsteps were thumping and voices calling.
Brina grabbed the book from Cywen’s hands and tugged it out of her grip, slipping it into her cloak just as the first people reached them. Two guards from the first watch – Cywen recognized one of them as Akar, the Jehar captain.
Close behind them but from the other direction Meical and Corban appeared, Balur striding out of the darkness from another direction.
‘What is going on?’ Meical asked.
Cywen looked at Brina, then Meical. She wanted to tell Corban about the book, ask Brina what it was that she’d just read, and what exactly Brina was doing, but something stopped her. Deep down she felt something horribly wrong was going on, like an infection in a wound that ends in gangrene, but Meical and Balur’s looming faces served only to keep her mouth closed.
‘She was sleepwalking,’ Brina said. ‘I woke and saw that she was gone – found her and woke her. She screamed.’
Sleepwalking! Is that the best you can do?
She looked to Corban, saw the question in his eyes and on the tip of his tongue, but for once he kept it firmly behind his lips.
If Corban can keep his mouth shut, then so can I. Besides, Brina may not wish to remove my intestines with her bare hands if I keep her secret – is it a secret? – a little longer. I’ll talk to Corban alone.
‘You were sleepwalking?’ Meical asked her, one long finger prodding Cywen.
‘I – I don’t know,’ Cywen said. ‘I was asleep, and then . . .’ She gestured around her. She stopped her eyes from flickering to Brina.
If anything, Meical’s frown bunched deeper.