Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  Bronwyn could barely stand straight without banging her head on the low ceiling beams. With four paces, she could easily cross the cabin she shared with her dwarven “partner.” Even so, they were traveling in comparative luxury. In the identical cabin across the narrow walkway that served as a hall, clearly visible through the two open doors, slept six occupants: four men and two ogresses.

  One ogress snarled in her sleep, half-roused by the woman’s movements. Bronwyn grimaced and eased toward the cabin door, going one small, stealthy step at a time. The small porthole in the cabin wall showed a sky that was still more sapphire than silver, and her shipmates would not thank her for waking them so early. All six had been late to bed, scorning sleep to sit on the floor of the cabin recounting tales, playing dice, and swigging away at some syrupy, spice-laden drink. Rough though they were, these crew members shared an odd companionship born of long acquaintance and battles shared. Bronwyn almost envied them. She, a newcomer and their employer, had been excluded from this fellowship, but she had seen enough to know better than arouse their collective ire.

  Bronwyn stooped at the door to pick up her boots and carried them with her as she slipped through the open door. She crept down the short hall to the ladder leading above deck and climbed it one-handed. On deck she found pretty much what she had expected to find.

  Near the bow, standing nearly toe to toe with arms folded and eyes blazing, were Captain Orwig and Ebenezer Stoneshaft. The top of the dwarfs curly red head barely reached the ogre’s belt, forcing him to tip his head way back to glare at his adversary, but Ebenezer’s angry expression conceded no disadvantage. The two of them were engaged in yet another round of verbal warfare, lobbing insults at each other with a force and fury that brought to mind flaming pitch balls and a pair of trebuchets. Bronwyn was no delicate spring flower, but she caught her breath in surprise at the sheer creativity of the dwarf’s pungent explanation of Captain Orwig’s parentage.

  The small sound startled the combatants. They glanced over, and identical sheepish expressions flooded their unlike faces. The captain collected himself first, and after acknowledging Bronwyn with a curt bow, he strode aft to sound the morning rise bell.

  Bronwyn’s gaze tracked him. Near the stern was mounted an old cart’s wheel that had been adapted as a steering device suitable to the ogre captain’s strength and size. Two paces to starboard was a huge brass triangle hanging from what appeared to be a miniature gibbet, upon which was a hook holding the long brass rod used to sound the alarm. But Orwig ignored the brass clanger. He drew his cutlass, which he thrust into the triangle and spun in several quick, impatient circles.

  An urgent clanging shattered the morning quiet and brought sailors roiling up to the deck. They came with their weapons in hand, feet still bared, sleep forgotten in the promise of coming battle. For a few moments, the crew scanned the waters for the threat, and then, when it was clear that there was nothing to be seen, they turned incredulous faces to their captain.

  “Practice drill?” one of them ventured.

  “Morning!” Orwig roared in response. “Layabouts, the lot of you! To your tasks, and quickly.” He spun away and scampered up the rigging, nimble as a squirrel despite his vast size.

  Bronwyn sighed and sat down on a low barrel to pull on her boots. Captain Orwig seemed an able sailor, but he was still an ogre. The captain had no more love for Ebenezer than the dwarf bore him, and the exchange of insults and challenges was growing steadily hotter. Bronwyn suspected it was a matter of hours before the two of them came to blows.

  The crew, too, were getting restive. She’d overheard some grumbling about their canceled shore leave, and she had marked their muttered expectations that this unplanned trip would have to pay well, and pay soon, to be worth the while.

  She rose and looked about for Ebenezer. He stood with his ankles crossed and his back leaning against the mainsail mast. His current occupation was staring out to sea and puffing at a small clay pipe.

  “That’s an interesting notion you shared with Orwig,” she said in a casual voice. “That particular use for lizard man eggs had never occurred to me.”

  The dwarf jumped and then colored. “Wasn’t meant for your ears,” he mumbled.

  Bronwyn took the pipe from his hand and sipped a bit of the fragrant smoke, then handed it back. “Orwig has a good record as a captain, and a good reputation as a smuggler—odd though that may sound. Everyone I talked to said he delivers what he promises, no tricks, no excuses. He’ll take us where we need to go, but mark me, Ebenezer, you can only push any ogre so far.”

  “Itching for a fight, isn’t he?” Ebenezer said with immense satisfaction. He dragged at his pipe, then blew out a trio of smoke rings in quick, expert puffs.

  As the implication of this sank in, Bronwyn gaped, then shook her head in disbelief. “You’re doing this on purpose? To work him up for the fight ahead?”

  “There’s that,” Ebenezer agreed. “And it’s a bit of sport, to keep my mind off.…” His voice trailed off, and he nodded at the sea.

  “It’s almost over,” Bronwyn said, as much for her own assurance as the dwarfs. “We should catch up with the slave ship today. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Yeah? Big place, that sea. Easy to miss one small boat.”

  She shook her head. “Orwig bribed one of the Gatekeepers in Skullport to tell us where the slave ship was sent. We know where the Grunion emerged and have a good idea where it’s bound.”

  Ebenezer shuddered at the reminder of the journey up through the magical locks linking the subterranean Skullport with the open sea. Dwarves, it seemed, did not take kindly to magical travel. Ebenezer’s dense, compact body resisted the process. Unlike any of the other people aboard the ship, he had felt the magical passage as burning physical pain. “Like being ripped through a thick wall all at once, but in lots of little bits,” was how he had described it to Bronwyn after he’d recovered from the ordeal.

  His hand shook a little as he lifted the pipe for another long drag. “Lotta water out there,” the dwarf repeated. He glared at Bronwyn, as if daring her to prove him wrong.

  Bronwyn understood completely, and she chose her next words as much for her own reassurance as his. “We were set on the same place on the sea as the Grunion emerged. Now, the slavers are going to want to get where they’re going as fast as possible. This time of year, the warming air over the land causes a strong coastal wind. They’ll take full advantage of it. Much farther out to sea, the wind diminishes; much closer to shore, they’ll run the risk of shoals, rocks, and harbor patrols. The corridor is not that wide. As long as Captain Orwig follows the wind, we should pass within sight of them.”

  The dwarf glanced up at the sails. There were three of them, mounted on a pair of tall oaken masts. All three were curved tight, so full of wind that not even a ripple disturbed the taut white sheets, but he still looked doubtful. “They got a jump on us.”

  “True, but the Narwhal flies three sails to the Grunion’s one. This ship is built for pursuit and battle. The Grunion is a tub—an old ship, with a deep keel designed to hold a great deal of cargo, and according to the dock manifesto, it’s heavily loaded. It can’t possibly outrun us.”

  He slid a sidelong glance up at her. “For a person that don’t like water, you know a lot about this sort of thing.”

  “I’m a merchant,” Bronwyn said shortly. “I have to know how things are moved from place to place.”

  “There’s that,” he agreed, but his shrewd, sympathetic gaze suggested that he understood far more than Bronwyn wanted to say. She had spent many years learning all she could about the slave trade, in hope of tracing her own path back to her forgotten home and family. And yet, this was the first time she had taken action on behalf of people who, like herself, had been stolen away from all that they knew. She was relieved that the dwarf did not ask her why this was, or press her to explain why she suddenly felt compelled to help him and his clan. That she could not explain, not even to hersel
f.

  They fell silent, both of them gazing out over the sea. It had faded to silver, and on the eastern horizon a deep rose blush shimmered over the water to herald the coming sun.

  Far above them, a harsh undulating howl tore out across the water—a sound like that a wolf might make had he the capacity for speech, but in a voice far deeper and more ominous that any beast of forest or tundra could muster.

  Bronwyn spun and squinted up at the crow’s nest. Captain Orwig shouted the make-ready alarm, pointing toward the east. He vaulted over the side of the crow’s nest and scrambled down the ropes, shouting orders as he went.

  The crew went into action immediately. Several of them dragged coils of rope to the starboard side, fastening one end of each coil to iron loops set into the deck and tying grappling hooks on the other. Some sailors ran for weapons, and still others tended the sails.

  “Mount the bowsprit!” roared Orwig as he leaped down onto the deck. He shouldered his way through the chaos and shoved the first mate away from the wheel. He took his place at the helm and hunkered down, his piglike eyes narrowed on the ship ahead. “Shift the ballast!”

  Several crew ran to the enormous pole that stretched down the middle of the deck, from bow nearly to the mainsail. They deftly loosened the knots that kept it from rolling and then crouched, ready to lift. On the count of three they heaved it upward, grunting with exertion, then staggered to the bow. They lowered the weapon into the slot built to hold it—which was reinforced inside and out with iron plate—then tightened the bolts. Meanwhile, other sailors put their shoulders to heavy barrels of ammunition—ballista quarrels, scrap-iron grapeshot, and wicked spiked balls—and slid them down toward the stern to balance the ship.

  Bronwyn whistled softly as she took the measure of the ship’s weaponry. The bowsprit resembled a giant lance, banded and tipped with iron. With it in place, Narwhal really did resemble the deadly, spear-headed fish for which it was named. She understood why Captain Orwig had designed his ship thus and why the crew suffered the inconvenience of stepping over the bowsprit in its usual resting place in the center of the deck. When it was in place, Narwhal was clearly a battleship, and as such would be regarded warily in all legitimate ports and even in Skullport.

  She shaded her eyes and looked across the brightening sea at the fleeing ship. It looked much as it had been described: old, nondescript, hardly worthy of notice. The sail was much-patched, and the ship gave the impression of being the last possession of some down-on-their-luck fisher family. But the number and weaponry of the small figures clustered on the deck gave lie to that illusion. Grunion was well defended, and her mercenary crew appeared more than ready for a fight.

  “Prepare to ram!” Orwig bellowed. His massive arms corded as he wrenched the wheel around. The call echoed throughout the ship. Several sailors hauled at the ropes of the sails, intent upon seizing every possible breath of wind. The ship rolled precariously to one side as it hurtled forward. Bronwyn had thought Narwhal was moving fast before, now it sliced through the sea with a speed that etched a deep path in the water behind them.

  The slave ship tried to evade, but it was far too slow and clumsy. To Bronwyn’s eyes, it looked like a rabbit, frozen by fear as it awaited a raptor’s claws.

  “Brace!”

  The ogre’s shout thundered out over the sounds of the rushing wind and water. All over the ship, sailors seized handholds and braced themselves for the coming impact. Bronwyn threw her arms around the mast and held on tight. Ebenezer took a grip on the anchor’s chain with one hand and Bronwyn’s belt with the other. A fleeting smile touched her lips at this instinctively protective gesture.

  The two ships jolted together like giant knights in an uneven joust. The first thundering, shivering boom was followed by a sharp, splintering noise. Wood shrieked against wood as the bowsprit plunged through Grunion’s hull.

  As soon as the shudders of impact subsided, Narwhal’s crew leaped into action. Eight sailors snatched up large shields and knelt in a row, providing a shield wall. Behind them a dozen archers and half as many loaders kept a storm of arrows arching up toward the slave ship’s deck. Bronwyn hurried over to join them and soon fell into the rhythm of reloading the small, deadly crossbows.

  Left alone, Ebenezer looked about for something to do. At the railing gathered the largest and strongest crew members. They were taking up the coiled ropes and hurling grappling hooks toward the other ship’s rail.

  The dwarf shrugged, willing to try. He darted over to the rail. Grabbing one of the lines, he gave it a twirl as he’d seen the others do and let fly.

  The grappling hook whistled through the air—and plunged into the side of the ship a foot or two below its intended mark. Though the aim was a mite off, Ebenezer gave himself full points for force. Wood gave way with a splintering crash, and the hook disappeared into the side of the ship.

  This feat earned him a brief, incredulous stare from the sailors. Ebenezer just shrugged and picked up another line. This time his aim was better. The hook sailed over the railing and into the chest of a black-bearded mercenary who was busily sawing off one of the other lines. Iron hooks bit deep, curved under and through ribs. The man flew backward, messily and unarguably dead.

  Seeing as how the human didn’t need his body any more, Ebenezer thought he might as well try to make use of it. With a fierce tug, he pulled the line back. The dead mercenary’s head crashed through the hole Ebenezer’s last throw had created. The dwarf gave the line an experimental tug.

  “That should hold,” he said with satisfaction, and turned to the next rope.

  But the task was completed; all the hooks had been thrown, and there were so many connecting lines that the slave ship looked like a netted fish.

  Some of the more agile sailors ran up the ropes under a cover of arrow fire from their comrades and took the fight to the slave ship. Ebenezer marveled at the cat-footed humans and then leaned cautiously out over the rail to survey the dark expanse of water below.

  Bronwyn came to Ebenezer’s side. The dwarf noticed that she didn’t look any keener about the idea of crossing than he felt. “I don’t suppose you can swim, either,” he ventured.

  Her response was a grim smile. “We’ll just have to make sure we don’t fall in.”

  She climbed over the rail and took up one of the ropes with both hands. With a deep breath, she dropped to hang over the hungry sea. She began to work her way across, hand over hand, her feet swinging precariously from side to side to aid her momentum.

  “Stones,” breathed Ebenezer, both as curse and compliment. “That woman’s got a barrel full of ’em!”

  Determined not to be outdone, he hauled himself up to the rail and tugged at a couple of ropes before he found one he thought might hold his weight. He dropped and began to inch his way across.

  Bronwyn made it over in moments. Swinging herself over the side of the slave ship, she darted a quick look back at the still-struggling dwarf. She beckoned impatiently, then pulled her long knife from its sheath and hurled herself into the battle that was raging across the deck.

  “Hurry up, she says,” Ebenezer muttered as he gingerly eased his way along, never quite letting go of the rope with either hand. “Easy for her to say. Long arms, nothing to haul but a scrawny little—”

  A sudden, sharp downward jerk stopped him in mid insult. He sent a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes widened in pure panic. His rope was fraying, threads of twine flying free, just at the point where it rubbed against Narwhal’s rail.

  The dwarf frantically redoubled his pace, his arms pumping, intent upon getting over while the getting was good. He was perhaps ten feet from the ship when the line behind him gave way.

  Howling in terror, Ebenezer swung toward the dark water. He hung onto the rope for dear life, and instinctively brought his boots up before him, legs stiff and braced.

  He slammed into the ship, just above the waterline, and with a force that rattled his bones and sent white-hot flashes of pain
shimmering through every fiber and sinew. Old wood gave way with a mighty crack, and his feet plunged through the hull. He wrenched them free, and with a few determined kicks he punched a hole big enough to crawl through.

  Ebenezer wriggled through, cursing at the thought of the splinters he’d be picking from his legs and backside. The sight inside the hold stopped him in mid curse.

  There were his lost clan, looking thinner and more bedraggled than any dwarf should ever have to look. They were chained to wooden bunks so closely packed that they looked like bookshelves, too close for them to so much as sit up. Barrels and crates were spilled about every which way. In the center of the chaos stood a small, brown-haired child, her face utterly white and her big brown eyes rounded with terror.

  The ship rolled suddenly as the sea rocked it lose from the caravel’s lancelike prow. Water spilled in through the shattered hull. For a moment Ebenezer had the uncanny feeling that he was reliving Bronwyn’s personal nightmare.

  “This is no damn time to be taking a bath!” exclaimed a querulous and much beloved female voice. “Are you gonna cut us loose or just pass the soap?”

  A grin split the dwarf’s bearded face. Tarlamera was alive and feisty as ever! He hurried toward her voice, picking up the child as he went. He placed the girl on a crate, well out of reach of the frigid water that sloshed around his ankles. Before he left her, he took a small knife from his belt and pressed in into her hand.

  “For rats, with two legs or four, just in case they trouble you,” he explained kindly.

  The child’s fingers closed on the knife, and her eyes were steady as she nodded in understanding.

  Ebenezer grinned and chucked her under the chin. Durned if there wasn’t yet another female lacking nothing but a beard. The tunnels were full of them these days.

  Then he was off, axe in hand, chopping at Tarlamera’s prison like a deranged forester. The way he saw it, there was no way he could cut through so many chains—the best and quickest way to turn the dwarves loose was to demolish the bunks.