by A. J. Smith
“Yes, Adeline Brand,” said Bjorn. “We do. These are the strange Eastron we fished from the water.”
He moved over to two tables, parallel against the starboard wall. There were two bodies, though they were covered in green cloaks, rather than red. The spirit-master pulled back one of the cloaks to reveal the corpse of a woman, her upper-body broken into pieces.
“She was dashed against the rocks,” continued the healer. “Took me ten minutes to put her body back together.” He replaced the green cloak, respectfully covering up to the woman’s neck, before removing the cloak on the second table. Underneath was a dark-haired man with no visible injuries.
Captain Driftwood joined his spirit-master. “This man was dead. When Kieran pulled him on deck, his skull had a hole in it.”
Bjorn Coldfire tilted the body onto its side. Cradling the man’s head, he showed that there was no wound in his skull. “Also,” said the spirit-master, hooking eye-glasses behind his ears and inspecting the man’s body, “he had broken ribs, several destroyed organs, massive internal wounds, and two crippled legs.” He fully removed the cloak, revealing a naked man, apparently free of wounds.
I approached the table. He was Eastron, but not a camp I could identify. He was no Winterlord or Dark Brethren, and certainly not a Wolf. He was of average build, with a little fat around the midriff, but solid shoulders and arms. “Wyrd?” I queried.
“Can you use wyrd when you’re dead?” replied Bjorn. “If he’s got it, he’s not shown it. His body just… started to heal. And it’s not spirits; the void is clear.”
Then, with a gulp, and a violent intake of air, the man’s eyes shot open, and he sat up. Everyone but me threw themselves backwards, shocked at the sudden movement. Driftwood swore and fell over, the blonde bosun needed to grab the wooden ceiling and the spirit-master clutched his chest, as if the shock caused a heart murmur.
“By the fucking Bright Lands!” exclaimed Tynian Driftwood. “I nearly soiled my fucking self.”
The man panted, clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as he took in his surroundings. Before he could do much more, I had my hand around his throat, pushing him against the wooden hull. “Who are you?” I demanded.
He spluttered against my grip, trying to free himself with weak arms. “Daniel,” he coughed. “My name’s Daniel.” He stopped struggling when he saw the dead woman lying next to him.
“Very well, Daniel,” I replied, loosening my grip around his throat. “I’m sorry, but your companion is dead.”
He realized he was naked and clutched at the green robe, covering himself below the waist. He had a tattoo of a bear, looking out from his chest. The design was highly detailed, with the bear’s arms crossed and its eyes narrow. Daniel scurried from his table and leant over the body of the woman. He kept one hand balled in his green cloak, and placed the other on his companion’s forehead.
“Her name was Lissa,” he said. “She really wanted to see the Severed Hand.”
“Welcome aboard,” said Captain Driftwood. “Now, who the fuck are you, and how the fuck are you alive?”
The strange Eastron stood from his dead companion and faced us. Bjorn Coldfire approached, holding his eye-glasses and inspecting the man. Driftwood and his bosun kept back, but wouldn’t allow the naked man to move far.
“Well,” said Daniel. “How I’m still alive is a story for another time. I’m here to speak to the ruler of the Sea Wolves, whoever that may be.”
I sized him up. He was panting, and clearly not at his best, though there was still little of the warrior about him. “That is me,” I replied, standing close to him. “I am Adeline Brand, called the Alpha Wolf.”
He stopped panting and frowned, looking at me with quizzical eyes. “The Alpha Wolf?” he queried. “Who gave you this name?”
“The Old Bitch of the Sea,” I replied. “When I agreed to lead the fight-back against the Sunken God. What does that mean to you?”
He bowed his head, being careful to keep hold of his green cloak and maintain his modesty. “I speak for Eva Rage Breaker,” he said, “called the Lady of Rust. I’m her friend, and she wants to talk to you. You’re invited to the hold of the Starry Sky. Perhaps allies… for your fight-back… or your retreat.”
*
Allies…
The word had been running around my head for weeks, and now I’d heard it from Daniel I wanted to hear more, but Bjorn Coldfire’s intervention stopped Driftwood and I from endlessly interrogating the strange man. The spirit-master insisted that Daniel lay back down and be thoroughly checked. I suspected the healer was acting out of curiosity, rather than concern, as he ushered us from the healing chamber, but I let him have his way. We’d be back at the Severed Hand soon, and I could properly converse with Tomas Red Fang regarding the message, and who these potential allies were. I also needed time to think, and make sure the evacuation was well underway. As to how the man had survived, I judged Bjorn as a better person to investigate than I.
As the small fleet passed the Gates of the Moon, no more than an hour from home, I sat down for some food with Driftwood and Kieran Greenfire. Tasha usually insisted on cooking for me, but had been warned not to anger the captain’s steward. She was a cantankerous old Sea Wolf, who would likely draw blood at the suggestion of a Kneeling Wolf sharing her galley. As a result, I ate more basic fare than Tasha usually provided, and was almost forced to reignite an old argument about my distaste for fish.
“Stew’s nice,” said Kieran, shovelling down a spoonful of fish stew. “Sure you won’t try it?”
I glared at him, across my own bowl of steaming vegetable soup. “This is fine,” I replied, tearing off a hunk of bread, and dipping it in the rich liquid.
We sat in the captain’s cabin, and had not yet found a way to talk about the strange Eastron who’d come back from the dead, nor who these potential allies could be. Driftwood had chewed on his beard a great deal, and I’d scratched my head, but no actual words had been exchanged.
“I can carry on talking about this lovely stew,” said Kieran, a wry smile on his slim face, “or one of you can tell me why a dead man is now a live man.”
The captain and I looked at each other. His red beard was tangled and flared, from too much fiddling, and no longer resembled a fork.
“Bjorn will find out,” grumbled the captain. “Because I haven’t got a fucking clue.”
“Me neither,” I added. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. If your spirit-master doesn’t know, hopefully mine will. If there are tales of this, Tomas will have heard them.”
Kieran frowned. “He had a hole in his head,” said the quartermaster. “And not a small hole. A big fucking hole.” He chuckled to himself. “It’s strange… We killed an enormous Sunken Man yesterday, and I find myself more intrigued by the man who no longer has a hole in his head. I think my brain finds it easier to think about.”
“Let the rumours flow,” said Driftwood. “I reckon the crew would rather they were gossiping about this, than scratching their eyes out, thinking about that frog, and how we’re going to win a proper fight against them with so few Sea Wolves left.”
“Your lot have seen shit like that before,” I added. “I mean the Sunken Man. The rest of the fleet will be suffering more than us.”
“Well, then,” replied Driftwood, “it’s probably a good thing that the man who came back from the dead was pulled aboard this ship.”
“His name?” asked Kieran. “Did he tell you.”
“Daniel,” I replied. “Didn’t give a full name.”
“He must be a Sundered Wolf,” said Driftwood, as if the idea had suddenly entered his head. “Never met one before.”
I leant back from the table. It hadn’t occurred to me that Daniel was a Sundered Wolf. His people barely featured in our history. I’d heard of them, as had every Eastron, but they were simply not involved in the Kingdom of the Four Claws. The old tales said that King Sebastian Dawn Claw arrived with four cla
ws and formed a kingdom with three of them. The forgotten lord, called Fast Claw, was Eastron, but never an invader. And that was it, mostly things I remembered from books Arthur and I were forced to read as children.
“So, he wants me to go and meet with the leader of the Sundered Wolves,” I mused. “Interesting.”
“And that explains why he isn’t dead?” queried Kieran, finishing his fish stew and wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Can all Sundered Wolves do that?”
“The woman was called Lissa,” I said. “And she is certainly dead.”
“Bjorn will know,” repeated Driftwood, screwing up his face and slowly munching on a mouthful of fish. “Or Tomas. They’re both far cleverer than us.” He played with his beard again, smoothing it down as best he could. “I’m better with things that die, no matter how big and spiny. Though the talk of allies does make me breathe a little easier.”
The three of us sat in silence for several minutes, Kieran and I echoing Driftwood’s easier breathing, before a knock on the door made the other two jump. The captain’s steward was allowed to enter without knocking, and the bosun would never interrupt a rare food break, unless there was an emergency. I feared it would be Tasha, and that she’d get shouted at by the captain’s steward.
“I’m eating,” bellowed Driftwood.
“You eat too much,” replied Bjorn Coldfire from the far side of the door.
“Come in,” grumbled the captain.
The slender spirit-master appeared almost skeletal as he entered the brightly lit cabin and took a seat opposite his captain. All three of us looked at him, as if our conversation could now continue.
“Well?” prompted Kieran Greenfire.
Bjorn helped himself to a chunk of bread. “Well what?”
I banged my fist on the table, making plates, bowls and cups jump a few inches into the air. I glared at the spirit-master, but said nothing.
“She did it before I could,” said Driftwood, lifting his bowl from the table and continuing to eat. “Don’t be funny. How’s he alive? And who are these allies?”
Bjorn nibbled at his piece of bread, barely opening his mouth as he ate. “I looked at him as thoroughly as I know how. Every sense I have, every wyrd-craft I know, says that man is a healthy, middle-aged Eastron. No scars, no bruises; heart, brain and lungs are perfect. If it weren’t for the tattoo, he could have been born this morning.” He took another miniscule bite of bread. “And, before you ask, no, he didn’t tell me how he did it. Just kept saying it was a story for another time, but he kept talking about friends we’ve not yet met. He wouldn’t be more specific.”
Driftwood held his bowl of fish stew close to his mouth, trying to hide his disappointment. Kieran just lent back and slowly shook his head. Of the three of us, I cared the most, not about a man who could come back from the dead, but about friends I’d not yet met. The Sea Wolves were not good at making friends. Plenty of people were afraid of us, and we’d never cared, preferring fear and respect over friendship. But that was before our hold was attacked, half of us were massacred and we lacked the forces for a fight-back.
“Is he a Sundered Wolf?” I asked, after a few moments of silence.
Bjorn put down his bread, and slowly nodded. “He was more talkative about that, and why he’s here. He says that, long ago, something was written in the Wolf House. Something the Alpha Wolf needs to see.” He caught my glare, and screwed up his thin face. “He’d heard the name before. He was surprised to hear you claim it, but it means something to him. And his talk of friends is most definitely sincere.”
17
Returning to the Severed Hand was not a warm homecoming. The deserted hold, languishing under a jagged tear in the glass, looked like a grey tomb, or perhaps a huge monument to fallen Sea Wolf might. It was a reminder of all that had been broken, and how nothing could be repaired. One hundred and sixty years of history and memories, loaded aboard two hundred ships, and bound for Last Port. It was the great exodus of the Sea Wolves. Everything we had ever been, and everything we would ever be, was now floating, and all of it appeared so much smaller when outside the stone walls of the Severed Hand.
As we glided gently towards Laughing Rock, each ship rang a bell to greet us. Over half were large transport vessels, containing families, non-combatants and supplies. Everything that could be packed and transported – scrolls, artefacts and the worldly belongings of many thousands of Sea Wolves. There were fast cutters, armed with ballistae, and large warships, dripping with armoured Sea Wolves. They would encircle the vulnerable transports during the voyage, with a cluster of Kneeling Wolf galleys acting as support. We’d pick up more ships at Rathwater, and again at Four Claw’s Folly, until the huge fleet was ready to enter the Sea of Stars. But I judged less than a quarter as warriors, and a tiny fraction of those as true duellists. So many had died defending the Severed Hand from the Sunken God’s chaos spawn. The wolf within me saw a small pack, with too many frailties to protect and no den to defend.
It took an hour for the remaining seven ships of our fleet to weigh anchor and pass messages of loss and victory to those who remained. There was no celebration of our victory, nor lament for our losses. Everything was absorbed with stoic resolve, even talk of my duel with the Sunken Man, as if each and every Sea Wolf was beginning to accept their future. Most weren’t told about Daniel or the Sundered Wolves, as I feared any talk of allies would be giving false hope.
“Adeline, just to be clear, everything ever written at the Wolf House is now piled in crates and baskets, and stowed across a dozen ships. Added to which inconvenience is the fact that I do not know which of those ships contains the index scrolls. If there are tales of Sundered Wolves who can’t die, they are beyond the reach of my memory and my hands.”
Tomas Red Fang had joined me aboard Halfdan’s Revenge, along with Jonas Grief, Wilhelm Greenfire and a few trusted captains. The stateroom of Driftwood’s ship was full, with us all gathered around a map of the Kingdom of the Four Claws. No one had suggested that we meet on dry land, and the only people still in the Severed Hand were a few duellists, doing a final sweep, and a handful of Pure Ones who wouldn’t leave.
“This Daniel is of little interest to me,” offered Wilhelm Greenfire, the High Captain. “Of more pressing concern is the fragile state of my crew, and many other crews. We need to be more prepared next time we face a creature of such size.”
“And we ignore the invitation from the Sundered Wolves?” I queried.
“Yes,” he replied. “We ignore it, and sail for Last Port. This Lady of Rust can offer us nothing we need.”
“More warriors?” added Tomas Red Fang.
The High Captain looked down at the elderly spirit-master as if he’d said something terribly stupid and naive. “The Sea Wolves need no help from cowards,” he stated. “I’m surprised to hear you say otherwise.”
I rubbed my eyes and leant forwards against the edge of the table. “Master Greenfire, I would be grateful if you would assist the master-at-arms in arranging an order-of-sail, and prepare the fleet to move in a day.”
“Tell everyone to say their goodbyes,” said Jonas Grief. “For no one will see the Severed Hand again.”
“Precisely,” I added. “Concern yourselves with the good of our people, while Tomas and I indulge my curiosity. Whether you like it or not, we need friends. If we find nothing compelling, we leave in a day.”
“Adeline,” said Tomas, “I don’t know how you think I can help.”
“Come with me,” I replied, leaning back from the table. “The rest of you have work.”
Wilhelm grumbled, but I left the stateroom too quickly for him to actually say anything. Tomas came with me, and the meeting quickly dispersed behind us. Much needed to be done to move a fleet of such size. Many of the larger vessels had no armaments, and could move only slowly.
“Adeline,” snapped Tomas, as we made our way down a deck to Bjorn Coldfire’s chamber. “Stop treating me like this. Or is Rys the last person you
respect?”
“Rys is probably dead,” I replied, not pandering to the old man’s need for reassurance.
“At least tell me what you’re thinking,” he barked.
I stopped before the healing chamber, and again steadied myself on the overhead framing. His words made me pause, and I closed my eyes for a moment. What was I thinking? The duellist, Adeline Brand, wanted nothing more than to confide in the old spirit-master, but the Alpha Wolf didn’t want to think too much, or justify her actions. She had heard tell of new friends and she wanted to meet them.
Without meaning to, I found myself flaring at Tomas. I stood close to him and narrowed my eyes. “You want to know what I’m thinking?” I snarled. “I’m thinking everyone should just do what I fucking say.” I maintained eye contact, making sure I’d cowed the old man. After a moment, his papery skin wrinkled up, and he turned away in submission. There was a brief flicker in his pinched eyes, as if he had a response, but chose not to voice it.
I turned away from him and opened the door to Bjorn’s chamber. I knew I should knock, but irritation at having to explain myself made me barge in. The healer jumped in surprise and stood from his work, preparing a dead Sea Wolf for burial at sea. The gangly man recovered his composure and gave me a shallow nod. “Hello,” he said. “You brought a friend.”
Tomas Red Fang joined me in the large chamber and the two spirit-masters grasped wrists, while I closed the door. Daniel was no longer in the central chamber, and most of the dead Sea Wolves had already been sown into their red cloaks. All except Lissa, the dead Sundered Wolf, who remained under her own green cloak.
“Where is he?” I asked Bjorn. “I need more information from him.”
“Getting dressed,” replied the spirit-master. “He’s rather intelligent, you know. He knows much about the Severed Hand, like he’s studied it. And the Sea Wolves… well, he appears fascinated by us and our history. And our liquor.”