[Florin & Lorenzo 01] - The Burning Shore

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  The sky to the east reddened with the light of the approaching sun. It wasn’t until the fiery orb had finally emerged from the sea that Florin appeared. He strolled casually onto the deck, Lundorf and Lorenzo following in his wake, and greeted the assembled men.

  “Good morning,” he said, the well-practiced confidence of his voice flawlessly smooth despite his dry mouth and damp palms.

  The knots of Bretonnians, Kislevites and sailors that had by now surrounded the fighting deck like an amphitheatre of unwashed flesh, returned his greeting impatiently. Rumour and counter-rumour had swept through the ship’s company, each new conjecture fuelling a dozen more. By now so much money was riding on the outcome of this duel that Jacques and Florin weren’t the only ones who had learned to dread the warmth of this new day.

  They looked at each other now, the light of the growing sun already painting them both blood-red. Despite their bravado both men saw their own fear reflected in the other’s eyes, and both men respected it.

  For a moment they stood almost as comrades in the face of the danger into which they were both headed. The arrogance and the anger which had brought them here had gone now, washed away by a night of phantoms and anxious reflection. All that remained, all that held them on this collision course, was pride.

  As the sun cleared the distant horizon and began its long track over a world still full of promise, that hardly seemed enough.

  Jacques considered apologising. More used to action and insults than diplomacy he struggled to find the words, some way of taking back the meaningless insult of the day before without losing face with his comrades.

  But it was too late. Before he could find such words Lorenzo, his voice booming with all the professionalism of the world’s ugliest ringmaster, pushed his way into the centre of the deck to address the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, sparking a torrent of catcalls and raucous laughter, “we are here this morning to settle a matter of honour between two of our gentlemen colleagues.”

  He waited for the nervous jeering to die down before carrying on.

  “The duel is to be fought between Captain Sir Florin d’Artaud, late of Bordeleaux, and Jacques Ribbon who, according to his second, is from ‘nowhere in particular’. A fine town, I’m sure.”

  “I think it’s in Kislev,” one of the sailors shouted from the safety of the rigging, provoking a dozen bloodcurdling threats from below.

  “And now the sun has risen,” Lorenzo pressed on, “and the appointed time has come. It remains only for me to remind the more simple-minded among you of the rules. Only the participants may fight, and only with their chosen weapons: gutting knives.”

  Lorenzo paused to see if the crowd would respond to the jibe, but now, with the promise of blood drawing so near, they were no longer really listening. Instead they were busy jostling for position, leaning hungrily forward like wolves over a fresh kill.

  “The duellists will fight until death or surrender,” Lorenzo concluded. “Now if you gentlemen will shake hands and return to your starting posts we can begin.”

  Florin, who had stripped to the waist in defiance of the dawn chill, weighed his knife carefully in his left hand and stepped forward, right hand outstretched. Jacques did the same and they briefly clasped hands. Their cold sweat mingled as their frightened eyes met. Stripped of his friends and his arrogance Florin realised for the first time how young his opponent was.

  And how nervous.

  “If you gentlemen will stay in your corners until I count down to zero,” Lorenzo said, no longer having to raise his voice. The catcalls and cheers had died away. Now there was nothing to rival his voice except for the eerie song of the wind in the rigging.

  “Five,” he began, and watched Florin rolling his shoulders, muscles clenching and unclenching beneath the rough marble of his goose pimpled skin.

  “Four.”

  Jacques took a long, drawn out breath, and twitched his knife from side to side in nervous anticipation.

  “Three.”

  A Kislevite called out drunkenly, and was quickly silenced by his mates.

  “Two.”

  Lorenzo, his pulse racing, was seized by a sudden and irrational reluctance to continue.

  “One,” he whined, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  He glanced to one side to notice that Jacques had become still, his breathing had calmed, his stance had relaxed. A real professional.

  Damn, thought Lorenzo, and said, “Zero.”

  Nothing happened.

  Florin and his opponent both stood and watched one another, seemingly more relaxed than any of the breathless crowd that surrounded them. In the silence the wind blew, and the planking creaked, and the sails snapped and bulged greedily.

  And then Jacques attacked.

  With a sudden, wild yell he hurled himself forward. His spindly frame pirouetted across the deck with a surprising grace, and the crowd erupted into a roar of excitement as he closed on Florin.

  The sickle-shaped blur of his knife whipped through the air towards his opponent’s throat and Florin side stepped, dipping out of the way as the blade flickered over his head.

  But as he ducked, Jacques’ fist rocketed out to catch him on the chin. The punch connected with a dull thump that sent Florin flying back against the gunwale, stars floating through his field of vision and the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

  He barely had time to spit before Jacques was on him again, yellowed teeth bared in a snarl as he flicked the razored hook of his knife towards his captain’s eyes.

  This time Florin jumped forward, trying to get inside the blow, but Jacques saw the movement in time and leapt to one side. He let Florin rocket past him. Then he reversed his grip on the knife and struck, slashing the gutting knife across the muscles of Florin’s back with a wide, easy swing.

  A spray of blood, ruby bright in the morning sunlight, burst through the air. The crowd howled out in a storm of appreciation.

  Florin, his face deathly pale, turned to face Jacques. He tried to ignore the deep burning pain and the terrifying flow of blood that pulsed down his spine. Instead he concentrated on his enemy.

  He couldn’t believe how agile the mercenary was, how quick. For the first time, he realised that he was facing an opponent who was much, much better than he was.

  Deep within his stomach the first hint of panic twisted and stretched, like some slowly awakening beast.

  Think, Florin told himself. Think.

  Jacques circled around, taking his time now that his enemy was bleeding. He watched him raise the unfamiliar blade of his knife uncertainly and take a step forward. Then another. And then he stumbled, staggering back to his feet.

  The crowd howled at the scent of exhaustion, their faces contorted into masks of greed satiated or denied.

  Jacques watched his opponent shaking his head like a bull in the ring as he retreated across the deck, leaving a trail of bloody droplets behind him. He realised that he must have opened an artery as, weak from blood loss, Florin dropped his unused razor onto the hard planking of the deck and sank to his knees.

  The cacophony of the crowd grew deafening as he cautiously approached his dying officer, grabbed a fist full of his hair and lifted his head. The vulnerable flesh beneath Florin’s chin was pale and untanned, and for a second Jacques found himself hesitating. Then he steeled himself and brought the razor down.

  But he was too late.

  Before he could administer the coup de grace he felt his ankles gripped and his feet leaving the floor. With a shout of surprise he fell backwards, arms flying out instinctively to break his fall. Florin, yelling through a mouthful of bloodied teeth, leapt to his feet and spun his opponent around so that he hit the deck nose first.

  There was the crunch of breaking cartilage, followed by a gout of blood, but before the mercenary had a chance to feel the pain of his broken nose Florin had pulled his ankles as wide apart as the handles of a wheel barrow and kicked him between the leg
s.

  Jacques’ scream rose even higher than the roar of the crowd as Florin, eyes wild with desperation, drew back his foot and kicked again. Jacques, his mind blank of everything but for the incredible pain that had exploded in his groin, dropped his razor and reached down to protect himself.

  As he did so, Florin flipped him onto his back, lifted his foot, and stamped down. Through the prism of his tears Jacques saw the descending horse shoe of his captain’s heel as it snapped down onto his upturned chin.

  And then it was all over.

  “Stitch that!” Lorenzo, suddenly a much richer man, howled with glee.

  “Well done,” said Lundorf, relieved if a little uncertain of his friend’s technique.

  But the last thing that Florin heard before he collapsed was the voice of the crowd, roaring like some great monster as he fell backwards into the warmth of unconsciousness and a pool of his own blood.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The wind had been merciful. It had waited until the ship’s surgeon had finished sewing up the ruin of Florin’s back before it began to play.

  It started gently enough: merely rippling patterns into the rolling surface of the water and scattering the light of the setting sun. Then, gradually, it became bolder, rushing across the water in sudden charges that sprayed ruffs of white water up from the top of the swells. The foam shone ice-white as it flecked the air, the chill brightness belied by the warmth of the breeze.

  The sea soon joined in with the fun. It rolled its waves higher and sharpened their ridges, so that instead of just little flecks the wind could rip great white sprays from their heads. Trailing these crests back like plumes from a warrior’s helmet the wind, caught up in the excitement of the game, blew harder.

  The sea wasn’t to be outdone. It reared up in response, carving valleys and mountains from its surface in shapes designed to challenge the wind’s imagination.

  Overhead the sky became jealous. Its scowl became greyer as the game below grew rougher, and the light bled out of the world. Soon it began to growl with anger, bitter at the fun that its brothers were having, but the wind and the sea were too enthralled to notice.

  It wasn’t until the sky began to spit with frustration, the first crackling flames of its rage flashing down to hiss across the cloud shadowed water, that things began to turn nasty. Suddenly this was no longer a game.

  Suddenly this was war.

  Yet had an eagle been watching the Destrier and her two sisters as they rode through the battle it would have seen little amiss. Bobbing this way and that, the ships seemed happy enough amongst the thrashing of the sea. They moved as effortlessly as motes of dust on a summer’s breeze, now racing up to new heights on heaving swells, now plunging suddenly down into the green shadowy depths below. It seemed all the same to the little flotilla, even when their formation was broken and they were scattered across the ocean’s boiling surface like matchsticks in a millrace.

  But amongst the ships’ passengers, the voyage was rapidly collapsing into a nightmare. The mocking whine of the wind was interspersed with the blunt impact of the sea against fragile walls. The terrifying groan of tortured timbers split the air, blending with the cries of men sure their world was about to end.

  Only the sailors remained silent. Their faces grim and white beneath a sheen of salt spray they worked swiftly but calmly, bound by a discipline forged from fear and confidence in equal measure. Swinging around their ropes and hanging from winch handles like acrobats they dragged the sails down, fighting the howling wind for possession of the cloth.

  Their captain watched them, silent for the most part. His men knew what they were doing. He wouldn’t burden them with unnecessary orders.

  Only when danger loomed ahead did he step in. Once a loose boom, snapping free of its restraining cord, brought him racing down to the stern, a hastily assembled gang of men at his heels.

  Later a coil of rope rolled across the deck, the tangled hemp as dangerous as a snare on the pitching ship. He and the first mate battled their way down to clear it away, and then he worked his way up to the stern to find out why the foresail still remained unfurled.

  Above him the clouds ripened into a heavy black mass and then, suddenly, burst apart into a torrent of rain.

  An hour later the storm proper began.

  Lorenzo sat and shivered. He cursed, low and loud, muttering the profanities with the sort of quiet intensity that other men reserve for prayer. The fact that he was kneeling on the floor, leaning over a bucket as other, more spiritual men, might lean over a reliquary, just added to the illusion.

  Every now and again he’d crawl to his feet, being sure to keep at least one handhold clamped onto the interior of the pitching cabin, and would look down on Florin. In the days, or perhaps weeks, since the storm had begun his master had sunk into a deep, burning fever.

  “Gods rot the bollocks off that cursed surgeon,” Lorenzo repeated for the hundredth time as he rolled Florin onto his side and checked the brown stained mass of his bandages. Reluctantly he peeled them back, revealing the jagged rail of the poorly stitched wound that followed the bumps of his spine.

  It was weeping again: a thick yellow liquid seeped out from between the stitches.

  According to the surgeon that was a good thing. Perhaps that was why he’d stayed locked in his own quarters since the storm had begun.

  “Worthless scum,” Lorenzo decided as he lent to feel Florin’s brow. The burning flesh beneath his hand was worryingly dry, and Lorenzo knew that it was time to try and get some more water into him.

  “What a gods forsaken place,” he grumbled as a sudden, gut-wrenching yaw sent his knuckles cracking painfully against the wall and his boot heels squeaking across the planking. He waited until the ship had righted herself before crawling across the tiny room to recover the water skin.

  It felt worryingly slack, almost empty. Never the less Lorenzo unhooked it and took it back to Florin.

  “Here you go, boss,” he said, pinching Florin’s stubbled chin and shaking his head back and forth. The only response was a groan of complaint, but that was good enough for Lorenzo.

  Carefully, bracing his knees beneath the bunk, he lifted his master’s head and put the spout to his lips.

  “Drink up,” he demanded, lifting the flask higher so that the last swig of their water spilled down, some over Florin’s face, some into his mouth.

  Lorenzo squeezed the water skin and realised that it was empty.

  He cursed again, and looked resentfully at the tightly sealed door of their cabin. The skipper had promised to send water into them twice a day. He’d promised soup too, come to think of it. But for the past few days there’d been no sign of water, or of soup, or anything else.

  For all Lorenzo knew he and Florin were the last survivors of a ghost ship. The two of them would rot away in the squalid isolation of this tiny cabin whilst the Destrier swept to her doom.

  He tore his thoughts away from that disturbing idea and instead indulged himself in a brief fantasy, a dream of impossible comfort that involved nothing more than curling up in his bunk and waiting for the storm to pass.

  A horrible squeaking groan from the ship’s innards snapped him back to reality. He knew that he no longer had a choice. Without water Florin’s fever would devour him, and he’d no more allow that to happen to his friend than his friend would allow it to happen to him.

  Struggling out of his jerkin and leaving it in the dryness of the cabin Lorenzo hung the four water skins he’d managed to scrounge across his chest and opened the cabin door.

  The storm, it seemed, had been waiting for that very moment. With a deafening roar it pushed past him in an arc of salt spray and howling wind, the force of it scouring the inside of the cabin.

  Lorenzo, head bowed down as he struggled out of the cabin onto the lifting deck, swung the door shut behind him. The slam of wood on wood was lost in the cacophony. The spray that lashed across the pitching deck was thicker than rain, and the manservant found h
imself spitting out bitter mouthfuls of sea water as he seized one of the ropes that lined the Destrier’s gunwale and pulled himself forward.

  He tried not to look over the side into the thrashing abyss that waited below. Beneath the weight of the storm clouds the sea was black and bruised, the mad flecks of foam that scudded across its surface a dull grey. It looked alive, Lorenzo thought, tearing his eyes away. And hungry.

  With tears streaming down his face he pulled himself along the gunwale towards the hatch that led to the water casks below. The Destrier, meanwhile, lurched drunkenly from one side to the other, now filling Lorenzo’s field of vision with the ravenous depths of the sea, now hiding everything but for torn rigging and boiling skies.

  Somehow, despite the weakness in Lorenzo’s knees and the rolling in his empty stomach, he ignored the twin monsters of sea and sky and pulled himself forward. By now his hands had frozen into petrified claws around the rough hemp of the rope. Blisters grew and popped as he slid his palms down the unforgiving surface.

  “Come on then,” Lorenzo roared in tiny defiance of the elements. “Gome and get me.”

  The storm snatched at him in response. Dragging himself ever onwards, Lorenzo laughed with a hard edge of hysteria in his voice.

  By the time he’d drawn level with the hatch his hands were pink with a burning compound of blood and seawater. Although his destination was only a lunge away he made himself wait as the Destrier rolled to the left, bringing her side down close enough to the sea’s angry surface for a sudden wave to rear up and slap him a numbing blow across the back.

  “Rot your bollocks,” he snarled defiantly and waited for the Destrier to right herself. The second she did so he unclenched his hands from the rope and dived across the deck.

  As soon as he left the support of the gunwale his feet slid from under him and he fell onto his knees. But it was too late to give up now. Crawling across a slick of polished wood and running water, sliding this way and that, he struggled desperately onwards towards the oasis of the hatch.