Revenge

by Fiona McIntosh

  15

  Adongo of the Moruks

  The cold of the ocean angrily drank them up. Ryk clung tightly to Tor’s neck and Tor was aware of Locky holding just as tightly to his arm and thrashing alongside him. Tor had lost all sense of direction in the foaming, gulping frenzy. The Colours felt hot and bright within; they urged him to draw on them to lift himself out of the depths. But he was confused. Which way was up? Worse, the face of Goth kept swirling in front of him. He was swallowing salty water now; and if he was, it meant Ryk and Locky were doing the same. His only hope was that Goth was dying along with them, somewhere in the ocean’s cold depths.

  Tor. It was the voice of a friend.

  I must be sleeping if I can talk to you, Lys.

  Not sleeping, drowning.

  Maybe drowning would be a good thing.

  No, Tor. Use your power now and save yourselves…all of you.

  For what, Lys? he said, sinking further.

  There is no time for this, Tor. Call on the Colours.

  Why? he demanded.

  Your children have been found. They come to you. She closed the link and left him.

  The mention of Gidyon and Lauryn snapped him back to his fragile life. He turned; could see Locky’s eyes wide with panic, his mouth opening and closing as he used the last of his breath. Ryk must be dead, he thought, suddenly filled with despair. The boy was no longer gripping his neck as before. He summoned the Colours. In a moment they were breaking the water’s surface; gasping great breaths, sucking life back into their chests and coughing out the salty death which had almost consumed them.

  The Wasp was nowhere to be seen. Either they had been dragged far from it or it had sunk. The sea boiled around them but the Colours kept the trio safely cocooned.

  Tor looked wildly around, still dragging in air and wondering if his chest might burst from the effort. He noticed some craggy rocks through the darkness. Land! They could probably reach it if he guided them closer. No time to think. He cast his mind towards the shore and willed them to safety.

  He clambered wearily onto a ledge and dragged Locky with him. Ryk was slumped against his chest, unconscious. Looking around, Tor realised they must have reached an island for there was land stretching out beyond the ledge. Buoyed by this discovery, and the desire to see his children again, he pulled Locky to his feet and together, carrying Ryk between them, they limped towards the security of a sandbank. There they rolled onto the scraggy grass and sheltered in its natural dip. It offered some small but welcome protection from the howling wind.

  It could still only be mid-morning yet the colour of the sky made it seem like evening. The storm would rage for a while yet, Tor could tell. He pushed the boys into the ditch and checked on Ryk; he was breathing, but raggedly.

  Tor stood to get a better idea of the countryside around them. In the distance, he could just make out some kind of camp. He knew they could not make it there now. It would have to wait until his companions were stronger, and then perhaps they could approach the camp for help. Tor had to admit that he felt exhausted himself; it would do him good to rest awhile too.

  He turned back towards the sea for one last look to where The Wasp had presumably sunk. Scanning the horizon, he noticed a small piece of wreckage in the angry sea, not far from the beach below. There was a dark figure clinging to it. Goth, curse him!

  The so-called priest waved desperately. Tor could not hear what the man was calling out but guessed he would be begging for help. I will not save you, Goth, he thought. And I will not dirty my hands with your blood. The elements will take your life for me.

  The piece of wood was swirling madly in the waves now. It was hard to fathom how Goth could hold on.

  ‘Farewell, Goth,’ Tor yelled.

  The wind ripped his words away and threw them elsewhere. The man slumped and Tor watched the miniature raft being sucked hungrily back out to sea and then down the length of the beach. He watched until it was no more than a speck and he prayed that it might be the end of the man he hated most in this world.

  With Goth in a watery grave, Alyssa would at last be free. With this hopeful thought, Tor slumped down beside his companions, exhausted.

  He awoke with a start, not immediately aware that he had slept. He felt groggy and shook his head, as if to clear the mist from it. The storm had died around them, leaving just the angry wind and the rain, which had soaked them to their skins. When he tried to wipe the salt from his stinging eyes, he realised he was shackled.

  His senses back on alert, Tor looked around. There were several other men chained up in the rain; they were swarthy and dark-eyed with angular faces and long limbs. He guessed they were of the nomadic people from the Exotic Isles, those Eryn had mentioned. They murmured amongst themselves in a language he did not understand. No one spoke to him, even when they realised he was conscious. Tor pulled himself to his knees and considered using his powers to free himself. Then he remembered Locky and Ryk. He should sit tight and wait to see if they were still close by.

  He scanned the surroundings. From what he could tell, he seemed to be a long way from the sandbank where they had sought shelter the previous day. He had obviously been carried here and began to assume that he must have been drugged. It would explain his grogginess on waking; how else could they have moved him without him waking? He could remember nothing.

  It was nearing dawn when someone finally came. The man kicked awake those few who were still sleeping and motioned for them all to stand. Tor did as he was told, having noticed the ugly whip curled menacingly in the man’s hand. More men arrived. They looked like sailors. The fellow in charge addressed the prisoners in pidgin; Tor concentrated hard and managed to grasp at a few words. He need not have troubled himself. The man switched to Tallinese and introduced himself as Haryd, the first mate to Captain Blackhand.

  ‘You, tall man, you took the wrong wave. You are now a slave and will act accordingly. Your name?’

  There was no point in lying. ‘Torkyn Gynt.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Tal.’

  The man laughed. ‘We’ve never caught us an educated city man before. You will make me a big profit, Gynt. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Surviving,’ Tor answered and saw the whip twitch in Haryd’s grip.

  ‘No smart talk, Gynt. We punish slaves with fast mouths. You just answer my questions. I own you.’

  Tor held his tongue.

  ‘Which ship?’ Haryd demanded.

  ‘The Wasp. She sank in the storm.’

  His captors looked shocked.

  ‘You were on board?’ Haryd said loudly, walking closer now.

  ‘I and my two companions, yes.’

  ‘What about Captain Blackhand?’

  Tor was careful. ‘Dead. Killed by his own hand.’

  ‘You lie,’ screamed the first mate. ‘Blackhand, suicide? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I was there. It was not suicide; it was an accident.’ Tor could almost taste the heavy silence around him now as all the men listened. Even the other slaves had stopped their shuffling. ‘He was in the throes of his favourite sport of chopping off someone’s hand, one of his crew. The storm was gathering and an unexpected wave buffeted the ship…it was the one that broke her, I think. He must have slipped because the axe ended up in his own chest. The last I saw of him, his guts were sprawled the full breadth of the sinking Wasp.’

  Tor enjoyed the horrified look on his captors’ faces as he crafted his tale.

  Haryd managed to hold his nerves steady. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘All dead I would think,’ Tor answered. ‘Lightning struck the mast and set fire to the ship. It sank within minutes. I jumped with three others; two survived with me. I can vouch for no others.’

  ‘What were you doing on The Wasp?’

  ‘I had paid my passage to Cipres. May I ask where my two friends are?’

  ‘One is dying, if not dead already; he happens to be a member of our crew. The older one is prett
y enough that, in the absence of any whores, he will serve my men just fine.’

  Tor felt his anger rise. ‘I asked where they were. I am a physic, I can save the lad. As for Locklyn Gylbyt, it may interest you to learn that he is the brother-in-law of one Janus Quist, who I’m sure will be delighted to enter into discourse with you on how to treat his relatives.’

  Tor should have seen it coming. He had not only spoken to the man in a contemptuous tone again but he had terrified him with the mention of Quist. Haryd’s whip slashed across his torso and the pain of its bite into his wet flesh sent him back to the muddy ground. The lash came again, its sting flashing across his back now. The pain was immense.

  He heard Haryd spit at him. ‘You will never speak to me like that again, Gynt. From now on, if I address you, you will reply with your eyes cast downwards. You are a slave. You have conjured a fine story to save your skin but it won’t work, Gynt. You will be sold at Cipres in a few days, along with your arsesore companion. Now get up and heal the skinny lad because I need his services. And you are welcome to put a salve on the backside of your friend. I require him for sale, but I also need him healed and tight for my men for the next two nights at least.’

  He saved some face with the last comment and the sailors laughed. Just as Tor was ready to wipe the smiles from their mouths, he heard a voice like velvet in his head. It reminded him of the day he had seen the girl, Marya, bridled and Merkhud had spoken into his mind for the first time.

  Do not show yourself yet. It is not wise.

  The Colours faded and Tor looked around him suspiciously.

  Who speaks? he threw out.

  I. Two men to your left.

  Haryd was barking orders to his men and one of them hauled Tor to his feet. He took the chance to seek the owner of this smooth voice. A tall man was staring at him intently, the whites of his eyes glistening in his dark face in the dim light. He nodded slowly.

  Who are you? Tor whispered as he was dragged away.

  I am Adongo of the Moruks.

  Tor was shocked. Paladin? He was pushed into a tent.

  The Fifth. We shall speak later. The link snapped shut.

  Ryk was sprawled on the ground in a corner of the tent, shivering with a high fever. Tor pushed away the revelation of Adongo, though his mind swam with its meaning. He asked that his shackles be removed.

  ‘You do anything stupid, slave, and we’ll slash the boy’s throat,’ growled one of his captors. He motioned for the other to free Tor. ‘And I don’t mean this one. I mean our whore,’ he added and grinned nastily close to Tor’s face.

  It would be so easy, Tor thought to himself as he searched the shallow eyes. But killing was not his intent. He had always promised himself he would not use his powers to bring death…but that had become unavoidable recently. He could still see the blood pumping from the massive wound in Blackhand’s chest. And it would be easy to kill this man too; to kill all of them. But Adongo had warned him not to show himself yet. He would wait and learn more from the Paladin.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, not feeling polite.

  The boy was burning up. He would die before the day had reached full sunlight, Tor was sure of it.

  ‘My bag. Do you remember there being a bag with me when you found me? A leather sack?’

  The man looked at him dumbly. Tor tried again.

  ‘It was strapped around me when I swam ashore. Dark brown. It must have been found with me.’

  The man said nothing but a slight tilt of his chin sent the other fellow scurrying out. He returned not long afterwards with Tor’s bag. Relief washed over him but he said nothing, just took the bag from the sailor. Tor did not need the satchel; he had just remembered it and wanted the security of knowing he had it safely back in his keep. He pretended to rummage through it. Perhaps there was something in there which could help. The contents were such an odd assortment.

  He deliberately muttered aloud. ‘No, not here as I thought. Has anything been taken from here?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘Well, what I need is not here,’ he lied. Adding an edge of frustration he said, ‘Could I have some damp linens at least?’

  The second sailor disappeared again. The other picked his nose, entirely uninterested.

  Tor laid his hands on Ryk and summoned the Colours. He had to make it look as though he was testing the boy’s temperature. It was easy to wield his power to force the fever down but he could sense much more damage; something more sinister. In his fear, Ryk had fled deep within himself. Just the shell remained; his terrified spirit was hidden away and slowly dying.

  Tor thought quickly, recalling information he had read in Merkhud’s books. Before he could act, he must get rid of these men.

  He addressed them. ‘The boy is dying of a disease I’ve encountered only twice before. It is especially nasty.’

  Both men took a step back.

  ‘I’m going to need some help,’ Tor added, sounding matter of fact.

  ‘Not from me you don’t,’ one said. The other shook his head.

  ‘Well, he’ll die then. Haryd said I must save him.’

  ‘You said he’s dying anyway,’ grumbled the more senior sailor.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But I can probably save him, though it will take several hours and some help.’

  Neither man moved. He played his card.

  ‘All right. Fetch me one of the slaves from outside. Not just any one. The tall one, two to the left of where I was chained. I need someone strong. He also looks dumb and won’t ask too many questions.’ Tor smiled as though sharing a private joke.

  The sailors fell for it. The senior one even winked at him. ‘Watch him, Bluth,’ he said, leaving to find the slave.

  Adongo of the Moruks was led into the tent looking surprised.

  Tor sliced open a link. Just play along. It amazed him that they could understand one another when they spoke different languages. He wondered also why he was able to link with the Moruk when he was unable to do so with Saxon.

  Happy to, Adongo’s smooth, deep voice replied.

  ‘I won’t be removing his shackles,’ the sailor said loudly, shoving Adongo towards Tor and Ryk.

  ‘I understand. It won’t be necessary anyway,’ Tor said. ‘However, if you value your life, I would recommend you don’t tarry. If this boy so much as sneezes on you or even near you, you could suffer a similar fate.’

  The man looked horrified.

  ‘I am hardly likely to escape, but you can chain me to that tent pole if you want,’ Tor said.

  ‘How come you won’t get sick then?’

  ‘Because I have been exposed to this before and I did not become unwell. I must be safe from this disease. Many people are but we don’t understand why. You may also be immune, but then again you may not be so fortunate. Take your chance, Beryd…is that your name?’

  The senior man nodded. But he was persistent; he gestured towards the slave. Tor picked up on his thought and answered the question before it was asked. ‘And I’m presuming that he just doesn’t matter.’

  Beryd grimaced. ‘Yes, he does. He is leader of his tribe. He will fetch a good price at Cipres.’

  Tor needed to get him out of the tent. ‘Well, leave us both shackled and remain outside. I’ll call you once the fever breaks. When that happens, we will all be safe,’ he lied again. Beryd clearly needed pushing. ‘Or you can take your chance. Victims eventually bleed to death from the nostrils, eyes, ears, cock, arse.’

  The colour paled from Beryd’s face and he yelled out an order to his mate. Tor and Adongo were quickly shackled to the post; Adongo remained manacled but Tor’s hands were left free, although the chains on his legs were so short his captors knew he could not reach beyond the round tent.

  ‘We’ll be outside,’ Beryd said, covering his mouth and nose.

  Tor nodded and busied himself with showing Adongo how to press the damp linens to Ryk’s body.

  To their unbelievable good fortune, Ryk sti
rred at this moment and gave a half sneeze before sliding back into his feverish stupor.

  Beryd and Bluth fled.

  Thank you for coming, Tor said.

  I’m not sure I had any choice.

  No, I mean for re-emerging.

  So do I, the man said evenly, though I am not your bonded Paladin.

  I realise this. Do you know who is?

  I’ll know when I meet them, he said cryptically.

  Has Lys given you a name?

  Only that the person is young, Adongo said, avoiding the question.

  Tor noticed the man’s deliberate vagueness. He would not push it. They could discover more about each other later.

  Do you know who I am? Tor asked, hating the pomposity of the question.

  You are the One.

  I prefer you did not think of me that way.

  We all have our part to play. I am Paladin. You are He.

  Tor sighed. It was useless arguing the point further. Adongo, why did you warn me to hide my powers?

  The man grinned. These sailing men are scared of enchantments. They kill anyone whom they suspect of aiming magic at them. My race call it ‘fra-fra’—these men are scared of our beliefs, our culture, our magicks.

  And in Cipres?

  I have never been there, Adongo said, looking at his chains.

  Of course, I’m sorry. Where did they capture you?

  Many leagues away. We are a nomadic people but the pirates know our traditional routes. They come with fire and arrows and slaughter our brangos, burn our tents. They killed my woman…my twin daughters. He smiled sadly at Tor. But they cannot kill my memory of them.

  Tor had nothing to say which could offer any comfort. Adongo’s dignity reminded him of Cloot. The chieftain noticed his companion’s awkwardness.

  You did not bring this grief upon me, and if it had not happened, I would not be able to fulfil my destiny as Paladin. I accept my lot.

  You shouldn’t have to. Tor’s bright blue eyes blazed his anger. At that instant, he could have throttled Lys and her brutal manipulations.

  The man shrugged. Our life as Paladin is all about sacrifice. As I said, I don’t believe I have a choice. Their deaths were swift. They felt nothing. Only I felt pain and I am grateful for that mercy. But let us not dwell on it. Please…the child, he pointed to Ryk.