‘Thank you.’ She nodded to the boat’s master. ‘You have your orders.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He eased back, resigned to his situation, and spat over the side. ‘If you lot would step the mast that would be a big help.’
* * *
The figures came shuffling out of the deeper gloom in the middle of the broad subterranean chamber that was the no-man’s-land separating the feuding Sharr and Sheer families of Exile Keep. Othan Sharr, now the Sharr of Sharr with the death of his elder brother, paused in his gnawing of a roasted rat carcass and narrowed his own rather beady, rat-like eyes upon the strangers.
‘What Sheer trickery is this?’ he growled to his cousin/wife, Amina Sharr, on his right.
She pushed back her nest of frizzy hair, narrowed her eyes, then hissed a grating breath and gripped the battered table with both sinewy hands. ‘Didn’t I say with Geth and Turnan gone they’d try something?’
The rest of the Sharrs lined up along the table facing the no-man’s-land slowly set down their cups and crusts of bread.
‘What foolishness is this?’ Sharr of Sharr called out to the now motionless figures. ‘There can be no parley or truce between us – you know that!’ The slim shadowy shapes remained silent. The Sharr of Sharr squinted his tiny eyes even further. ‘What are they doing? I can’t quite see. Are those … costumes?’
Across the empty chamber, along the far wall, sitting at the table of the Sheer family, Gurat Sheer, the ancient Sheer of Sheers, similarly squinted into the gloom. ‘What are those asinine Sharrs up to now?’ He fumbled at the littered tabletop before him, found a stick, and hit the elderly man next to him. ‘What is this, Jatar?’
Jatar, Gurat’s eldest nephew, wiped the spilled wine from the front of his shirt and glared at his uncle before glancing out across the dusty flagstones of the chamber. His greying brows rose. ‘Looks like a full frontal assault.’
The Sheer of Sheers banged his stick against the table for attention. ‘Haven’t had one of them in generations.’ He pointed out to the chamber, shouted: ‘So desperate now are you, Othan, you dried up rat?’
The figures paced closer. Jatar pushed himself back from the table, frowning. Gurat snorted his contempt. ‘What foolish trick is this?’
Amina Sharr pushed her unruly nest of hair even further from her face to better see. The figures – they looked very thin.
‘Such costumes of bone and rags will not terrorize us!’ the Sharr of Sharr laughed.
Amina touched her cousin/husband’s arm. ‘I do not believe those are costumes, husband dear.’
The Sharr of Sharrs lost his smirk. His beady eyes narrowed to slits as he studied the bizarre skeletal apparitions. ‘Oh dear. They resemble descriptions of the dread army of bone and dust.’
As one, the skeletal figures drew long blades of stone from ragged belts and sashes of rotting uncured pelts. Shrieking her rage, Amina Sharr surged to her feet, thrust with her hands, and actinic power lit the low-roofed chamber like a blast of lightning.
Along the other wall, the Sheers kicked back their chairs, some leaping over the table. The Sheer of Sheers slammed his stick to the table, breaking it. ‘Send them back to their nether-realm, boys and girls!’
The no-man’s-land of shattered furniture and dust erupted into a firestorm of unleashed power where flurries of lancing iron shards peppered stone, the air itself solidified into sheets of rock-hard ice, the flagstones parted revealing black gulfs, and raw unleashed chaos itself roiled through the air in clouds consuming all it touched.
Through this blistering conflagration of energies the figures of bone and rag hides advanced. They threw milky brown flint knives that sliced Sharr and Sheer mages, or rebounded from defensive glyphs. A heaved stone broadsword, a full arm’s length of razor-sharp black chalcedony, arced through the air to take the head from young Manadara Sheer. Her arms fell and the channelled raw chaos she had been summoning gushed on to the table, consuming it and the flagstones beneath. The nearby Sheers scrambled in either direction.
The foremost warrior of bone and dust pushed through curtains of ice shards so impossibly keen and hard that they penetrated even its fossilized bones to stand like daggers. It reached the Sharrs’ table. A single blow from its grey flint longsword parted the timbers in an eruption of dust and slivers.
Amina Sharr confronted it. ‘To annihilation!’ she howled, and, leaping, she locked her legs about the creature’s torso and released all hold upon the arcing energies sizzling her flesh. The two burst into a cloud of ash and soot that dispersed about the coursing, contrary winds of the chamber.
The Sharr of Sharrs, coughing, waving the ash of his cousin/wife from his eyes, slid along a wall. He tried to right himself but found that for some reason he couldn’t. He peered blearily at his arm where it ended at the elbow. He remembered, vaguely, a sword flashing before him, raising an arm … Shaking his head, he continued sliding along the wall. Perhaps if he made it to the entrance to the lower regions …
His path brought him to a shadowed figure awaiting him. He pulled up short, raised his gaze.
The skeletal figure punched its stone longsword through his chest. Coughing anew, the Sharr of Sharrs smiled and dragged himself even closer. He cupped his hand against the discoloured naked bone of the skull as if caressing it and peered into the darkness of the empty sockets. ‘We will take you with us, you know,’ he promised. ‘We neither can outlive the other.’
‘Just so long as you go,’ the creature’s answer came, breathless and faint.
Hand and skull exploded into shards of bone. Both bodies fell.
*
Lanas Tog and Ut’el Anag silently watched the thick sooty smoke gush from the shattered entrance of the inner stone structure. Through the pall emerged the remnants of the warband they had sent within. They waited until no more appeared, then Lanas Tog said, ‘This deviation has cost us dear.’
‘The nest had to be extirpated.’
‘We cannot delay.’
Ut’el swung his nearly fleshless face to the south. ‘True. They are close.’ The head tilted, as if in thought. ‘Yet numbers are still with us. Perhaps we should turn upon them. This structure could provide a trap …’
Lanas Tog reached out as if she would grasp the Bonecaster’s shoulder but pulled her hand of sinew and bare bone back at the last moment. ‘Remember our task. Once it is completed, there will be no more argument between us. All shall be moot.’
The battered skull turned to her. ‘True. Why blunt our weapons upon each other when our quarry lies so near …’ He motioned the gathered T’lan onward, stepped close upon Lanas. ‘However, remember that I will allow nothing to come between me and the completion of our sworn task. I have waited far too long for this.’
‘We, you mean,’ Lanas observed, her voice even fainter than usual. ‘We have all waited far too long.’ In answer, Ut’el merely held his carious face close for a time as he stepped around her, then walked off.
After a lingering glance to the south, Lanas followed.
* * *
Reuth was not impressed by what he saw of the gold-seekers’ tent town of Wrongway. It stank, and appeared disorganized even to his inexperienced eye. Tents and huts lay all about with no clear avenues or paths, as if everyone had simply set up camp wherever they wished. And with a heavy spring rain last night, it was now a cesspool of mud tracks and overflowing latrines.
Storval went ashore, accompanied by Riggin, the nominal leader of the ten Stormguard. The rest of the Stormguard, plus the new captain’s closest supporters among the hireswords, were under orders to remain on board. It did not take him long to realize why: so that the rest of the Mare crew did not simply slip the mooring ropes and sail off.
With the evening coming, he decided that this was to be his chance. At the stern, he’d hidden a bundle of what few spare clothes he possessed. He collected a meal of old bread and dried fish and sat there close to the stern plate to wait long into the night.
Yet he
was not alone. Two of Storval’s closest supporters hung about as the hours slipped by and the twilight deepened. Then he realized: Storval had set a watch upon him. He, their prisoner pilot, a valuable asset, would not be allowed to slip away.
He wanted to cry then, and he damned his lack of worldly experience. He’d never fought or trained for such things. He was a scholar! When other children were scuffling and drubbing one another he was kept indoors and forced to learn his letters.
Wiping his sleeve across his face, he leaned against the ship’s side, set his chin on his arm and watched the shore. Fires were rising all about the sprawling camp. He could hear loud voices, snatches of laughter and songs from the many informal tent-taverns.
He wondered what Whiteblade would do in this situation. The answer was clear enough: he’d swim to shore. Only, like most, Reuth couldn’t swim. It was a rare talent indeed. Yet, thinking of it, there were other ways. Wood floated, and sailors’ lives had been saved by grasping hold of such things as oars and timbers. He dropped his gaze to the mooring pole lying at his feet. That would do.
He would have to be quick. Toss it over then jump after.
But what if he missed? When then? Like any sailor, he had a terror of drowning.
Yet who said this would be easy? Of course he’d have to take a risk. No gain without it.
Very well. This would be it.
He lifted his bundle of clothes from where he’d stuffed it from sight and set it next to his feet. Then, fighting to steady his breathing, he reached down and lifted the pole from its housing and threw it overboard.
‘Hey? What’s that?’ his minder demanded across the stern deck.
Taking a deep breath, Reuth grabbed hold of his sack and vaulted over the side. The water was shockingly cold and his head sank beneath the surface. He immediately abandoned his bundle to flail blindly for the pole. His searching, grasping hands found nothing. In his panic, he inhaled a mouthful of water and then complete frenzied terror took over. He lashed the water, opened his mouth to scream, but only more water rushed in. He inhaled further, sucking the fluid deeper into his lungs.
Something jabbed his side and scraped a flaming tear across his ribs.
Sudden noise, shouts, splashing, even laughter. He was hanging gaffed: a boathook had him by his clothes. He was yanked up the side of the hull, gagging, vomiting, to thump down on the deck like some sort of hooked fish. Someone kicked him in the side. He pushed his hair back and peered blearily up at Jands, the new first mate.
‘That’ll teach ya,’ the mate said. ‘Storval won’t like to hear of this!’
The gathered hireswords had a good laugh then wandered off, leaving him under guard. He let his head thump to the timbers of the decking and pressed a hand to his side. He’d failed. Made a mess of it. Unlike Whiteblade, who’d made them all look like utter fools.
Seemed there was more to it than just the need and the desire. There had to be some sort of accompanying experience and skill. Well, how could you gather the required experience unless you tried? At least he’d tried. Couldn’t take that from him. He curled up to try to conserve his warmth, and wept fiercely into his fists. At some point in the night one of the Mare sailors dropped a blanket over him.
The next morning, Storval came aboard and announced that they were sailing for Mantle to pledge their swords to the leader of the invader army there, some sort of veteran Letherii commander named Teal. His next act was to manacle Reuth to the stern, next to the rudder.
Reuth wouldn’t have minded the position had Gren still been the steersman. However, the big friendly Jasston native hadn’t recovered from the arrow wound in his leg and had died of infection. Reuth suspected neglect was closer to the cause, as the man had been no friend of Storval or his hiresword lackeys. The new steersman was one of Storval’s hangers-on – he certainly didn’t owe his position to any skill with the rudder.
So it was that the next few days passed in a series of cuffs, sour glances and curses sent Reuth’s way. It was as if this fellow Brener, a dense Katakan native, somehow resented Reuth personally for some slight or wrong the lad couldn’t even remember.
At last, they anchored close to the shore just short of the cliffs and the guarded harbour of Mantle. Storval and the Stormguards had all the crew go ashore. All but two – two guards set to watch the Lady’s Luck, and no doubt Reuth as well.
As the evening darkened, Reuth sat hunched with a few feet of chain manacling him to the timbers of the stern deck. He decided right then that this truly must be his night and that was all there was be to it. No more half measures. No more running. He’d come to realize that there were no easy escapes for him. He considered his freedom incalculably important – valuable enough to be bought with blood. Others’, and probably some of his.
What set his plan in motion was the sight of Gren’s pair of big fighting dirks tucked between the boards just behind the gear next to the stern-plate. Big enough to hack away the meat of the timber round the pin securing his chains. Big enough to take a man’s life, if necessary. Though he still hoped he could avoid that.
So he waited, behaving himself, while the coast came to life in campfires, and voices called to one another, and he overheard snatches of distorted shouting and laughter. To the east, cliffs rose straight from the shore and now they stood black as night. Night birds emerged and fish splashed snapping up insects in the calm waters of the bay. Across the clear night sky the Goddess’s Wall, as the Korelri had it, emerged to shine as a horizon to horizon barrier, where, they said, she kept watch against all manner of uncanny demons.
At least that was what they said now that she had been banished from the physical realm.
He waited long into the night, and would have waited even longer but for the fear that Storval, or others, would return or be sent back to the vessel. He took up one of Gren’s fighting dirks and reversed it to hold it tight to his stomach.
‘Emmel,’ he called, ‘the anchor’s come loose and we’re sliding in towards shore.’
‘The Lady’s Ire we are,’ Emmel growled and, coming up to him, dutifully leaned out to test the chain. Reuth saw his chance and lunged, hammering the man high in the back and sending him tumbling over the side.
Things all rushed together then. Jands called, sharpish, ‘What was that?’
Emmel managed one gurgled call before going under. Emmel, it appeared, belonged to that majority of sailors who did not know how to swim. Reuth yelled: ‘Gods below! Emmel’s fallen overboard!’
‘What?’ Jands appeared in a rush.
‘He was testing the anchor chain …’
Jands, too, leaned out. But something tipped him, perhaps the strangeness of the situation, or Reuth acted too quickly. In any case, his push, intended to send him after Emmel, merely had the first mate tumbling to the deck.
‘Lying little sneak!’ the man growled, and came at him obviously intending to beat him to a pulp. The point of no return had been reached for Reuth. He swiped the blade out across his front as the man lunged. He hadn’t wanted to, and he closed his eyes and flinched backwards as he did so.
Jands let go a fierce yelp of surprise combined with a disbelieving snarl of pain and rage. Reuth forced himself to open his eyes to see the man staggering back, a hand clenched to his forearm where a long deep gash welled blood that dripped from his fingertips to hit the deck in big wet droplets.
‘Bastard sneaky snotty upstart,’ Jands was cursing under his breath as he made his way to the mid-decks. Reuth knew what the man was going for and turned to the pin that secured the chain of his manacles. Using the heavy knife like an axe, he hacked at the wood on either side of the pin. Chips of fresh bright yellow wood jumped to the deck.
Jands yelled from somewhere out of sight: ‘Shoulda killed you right away! There’s those of us who argued so. But no, Storval had to save your skin till we reached the goldfields. Well, you brat …’ he appeared, a rag tied around one arm and a shortsword in his other hand, ‘… we’re here now, a
ren’t we.’
Reuth hacked at the timber in near-blind panicked desperation. The man closed and swung. Reuth parried the awkward blow and realized that the man was swinging with his off-hand. Thank the gods for that. Snarling, Jands swung again, and Reuth, completely unfamiliar with knife-fighting, or any other sort of fighting for that matter, barely managed to deflect the blow, which struck him high in the head and sent a white-hot spike of pain across his mind.
Through a pink haze he saw Jands pulling the weapon back for a straight killing thrust. He remembered then, almost giddy, that Gren always carried two dirks. No sooner had he thought that, or imagined it, then he threw with all his might, falling forward to the wet decking as he loosed the blade.
Some time later, perhaps a mere heartbeat or two, he blinked to wakefulness. He could only see out of one eye. Something slick and hot coated the other. Jands lay a short distance off, awkwardly, one leg twisted back beneath him. He was holding the grip of the dirk where it protruded from his lower stomach, just above his crotch. He was groaning and babbling.
Blinking, shaking with shock and pent-up panicked energy, Reuth used the ship’s side to lever himself to his feet. He pulled the second dirk free and set to hacking at the timber once more.
Jands turned his head to him. ‘You’ve done for me, you damned piece of worthless shit.’
Reuth kept hacking. Every blow sent shockwaves of agony through his head. Black spots danced across his vision – including his gummed-shut eye. A loud roaring came and went in his hearing, as if the vessel were approaching an immense waterfall, or raging surf.
‘Me! Poor Jands, who never hurt no one!’
Reuth kept swinging. Gods! Would he have to cut the ship in half?
‘You’re a useless sneaking backstabbing snivelling spoiled rat! That’s what you are.’ Jands panted to gather breath for another rant. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done for me!’
Leaning forward – which took some doing without blacking out – Reuth took hold of the iron pin and tried to yank it back and forth. It gave … a little. He returned to bashing at the wood.
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