Beyond Chaessar, Khellian had finally risen to see what the fuss was about. His cold white light caught on Seaborn’s blade, flashing in Draken’s eyes. Chaessar took advantage of Draken’s hesitation. He pressed in hard. Their swords locked and he shoved Draken back. Draken was bigger than Chaessar by half a head but weakened by pain and his sword was shorter. The shove came out of the bright light glaring in his eyes, catching him off guard. His bad leg went back as the ship rumbled under their feet again. His knee locked. The motion twitched Draken neatly to the deck. He landed on his weak shoulder and a low cry escaped his lips as he rolled to his back. The joint had slid out of place and back in, as it was prone to do. The ship rumbled again. A loud crack cut through worried murmurs of the crew. Draken heard a female voice shout; Aarinnaie, not an Ashen.
Chaessar blocked Khellian’s light, looming over Draken in silent, sharp relief. The tip of his sword pricked the skin over Draken’s heart. “Bind him and take him below.”
Draken growled and shoved up as hard as he could against the blade. Cold metal sliced through his flesh, slid between and through bone. He summoned his flagging will and shoved harder, gasping in agony as his heart tried to pump around the unforgiving steel. The stilling of his blood hurt, every vein lit with hot flame. It overtook every cut and the deep ache in his dislocated shoulder. Draken drew in air but the labor of it proved too much to try again. Chaes-sar cursed and yanked his blade back. Draken got the vague impression of a cacophony of voices and boots.
The Eyes glowered down at him. Draken felt a sudden surge of terror—not of Chaessar or the Ashen or even death, but of the realization he had lost his way. Using their will against them yet again.
The tingling sharpened, pinpricks inside his skin, converging on his chest, searing the wound closed from the inside out: organs, muscles, skin knitting. It felt as if someone worked inside the wound with blades and a hot poker. His body arched, head flung back hard against the wooden deck under his back.
Screams and shouts invaded his fugue. Jarring cracks shuddered through the ship and the galleon under his back tilted precariously. Water splashed, sounding like high tide crashing on shore. His body slipped, moved. The prickling intensified to burning. His free hand scrabbled weakly at the deck and he groaned, drawing on the last of his scant air. His other hand gripped Seaborn tightly. This was what he wanted, what he needed. But he kept sliding, headfirst. His misshapen, dislocated shoulder caught on the rope rail. He released his grip on Seaborn in the shock of pain. The jarring on the taxed joint overtook the agony of healing. It started to retreat, to fade back to tingles. The ship shuddered and cracked again. A swell carried it on a sickening ride, up and then down. More screams. He slipped again, the rope tugged on his shoulder again and ripped a scream from his throat. And then he was falling, tumbling end-over into the sea.
He hit on his side and the force of it shoved him to his back. His shoulder lurched back into place. He tried to scream again but his mouth and lungs filled with water. The sword spun away beneath the waves. Unable to move and worn from the healing, he let the depths drag him down. Blessed icy numbness started to overtake him. He thought he could still see the glow of the Eyes, liquid and moving through the waves.
Something bumped him … a fish? A man? He didn’t know. He opened his eyes again to darkness, feeling only the slow drag of the sea all over his skin.
Quiet. Peace.
Not bloody again.
Draken’s eyes strained without his meaning to. Bruche?
Korde’s balls, I never knew someone who wanted to die worse than you. Too damned bad. The gods see fit to keep you alive yet. Cold invaded his body, icier than the sea. Bruche scolded on: You should know by now the gods make your will their own. I’d have some peace if you’d quit trying resisting it.
His body started to move without direction from his mind, arms and legs churning the water. Behind it, he felt paralyzed and exhausted. His head turned, his eyes turned. He saw a man waver nearby, highlighted by moonglow. It caught on pale blond hair but faded as the man drifted down. Beyond, a great, dark, sinking shadow. His body swam deeper, toward the blond glow.
You did your job well, but you’re not finished yet. The gods would have you save him.
Who?
Galbrait, you bloody fool. Bruche’s voice was hard but not uncaring. Draken’s body kept swimming toward the drifting man. Bruche … Bruche was making him swim. He blinked; the water stung his eyes. He could feel more of himself as Bruche settled into his bone and muscle, as familiar as his own bed and coverlet.
His lungs started to burn. And you? he asked to distract himself. Why are you along for this jaunt?
The gods’ will is mine as well.
He swam faster, joining Bruche’s efforts and pushing past them. Reached out, grabbed Galbrait’s limp, cold arm. The Prince didn’t respond. He’d been hurt, and then dumped in the ocean, surely he was dead? But they started to swim upward anyway.
Clever, that. With the sword and the healing. Good to see you haven’t lost your touch.
Just swim, Bruche. His chest seized on the last of the air; it was all he could do not to open his mouth and suck in water. His newly healed heart seemed to twist in his chest.
They emerged a few heartbeats later, Draken gulping air. He pulled Galbrait up into a secure embrace so he could hold his head above water, though the Prince was still and limp. He coughed up water until his throat stung. At last he mastered himself and looked around wildly. Wreckage and survivors scattered the waves. Men and women shouted, climbed on floating bits of wood. Half of the Kingsblood had tilted to its side and was sinking, the edges of sails, top-most mast, and rail still above the waves, but not for long. The other half was … gone. The Bane had freed herself and eased away, though her sails hung ragged and limp. The Brînian sailors were at the rail, staring out over the wreckage, shouting down to survivors. Draken rode a swell, wondering if Galbrait could possibly be alive, if his men were shouting taunts or offering aid.
He started swimming awkwardly that way. It was slow going with one arm, though Bruche kicked his legs rhythmically. The Monoean survivors were too busy scrabbling for their own lives to pay them mind and even with bright Zozia and powerful Khellian lighting the scene, Draken was certain his dark hair and skin made him a mere shadow against the black sea.
Draken paused to rest and spotted Aarinnaie, picking her out only by the silhouette of her mass of curls flying loose around her head. She called his name, voice high-pitched and frantic, cutting through the shouts of the clamor of frantic Monoeans.
“I’m here.” His voice was too low, rough from swallowed water and exhaustion. He coughed again, tasting salt-tinged bile, and cleared his throat. “Aarinnaie! I’m here.”
She turned toward him, scanned the seas. She made to climb the rail and jump but someone else pulled her back. Her screams of protest pierced the night, momentarily quieting the din of the survivors in the water. The silvery shape of Osias appeared, pointed. Halmar edged to the rail and then dove over in a perfect arc, splitting the wood-strewn waves with barely a splash.
Halmar emerged moments later near Draken, looked for him, and swam his way.
“Take the Prince.” Draken shoved the limp body to Halmar. “Get him aboard.”
“I came for you, Khel Szi,” Halmar said, though he slipped a strong arm around Galbrait’s chest. The Prince’s head lolled to one side, eyes rolled back.
“I can swim.”
Halmar nodded and turned to swim back.
Without thought, without words, Bruche’s presence filled Draken’s body again. He drew in a great draught of air and dove deep. All noise cut off but for Bruche’s voice.
It’s on some ship wreckage, sinking slow. I saw the glow, sensed the bloody thing. Bruche sounded oddly reverent.
Draken had barely dared to hope. He swam with the spirit’s strength behind him, cutting the water, deeper and deeper until he approached the shadow of the ship-half that had sunk. Lungs bur
ning he stared hard into the moonlit gloom underwater. Blinked. There. A faint glow coming from below. It lit a drifting body.
He pushed harder, lungs screaming as he released some air. As a sailor he was no stranger to ocean swimming, but he’d never been this deep. His swimming slowed, his mind thick and sluggish. Thoughts moved with the current, gentler down here under the waves. Back to his seafaring days, back in the navy … he’d had a friend, a second-mate called Waen. They’d gambled and whored together as young men, before Lesle, when Draken realized his uniform would attract women, if not the most chaste or noble …
Draken!
He blinked as his hand reached out for the pale light. His thumb found the loose leather on the grip and he relaxed into Bruche’s control.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He lay on deck coughing up seawater, all his weight on his bad shoulder. It ached. His lungs and throat stung. His fingers gripped the familiar loose leather wrapping.
Be easy, mate.
He couldn’t think to answer, couldn’t think past the notion that Bruche was still with him. He was soaking wet and freezing.
The spirit drew back from Draken’s consciousness, giving him a little space. Draken blinked up at a drenched long tunic clinging to a narrow leg. He tried to say Aarinnaie’s name, but it only brought another round of coughing. His hand gripped Seaborn as coughing wracked his body. It went on for some time.
“Be easy. You had a rough go but you’re fair safe now.” Osias, his hand on Draken’s back. It was the only warm thing Draken could feel.
Reality snuck back into his mind. He lay in a cold puddle on the cold deck of the Bane, night air seeping into his wet skin. He shivered and tried to push up, still coughing a little. Tyrolean caught his arm and helped him to sit.
“How did you do that?” Aarinnaie said. “You were unconscious. Half-drowned. How did you keep hold of your sword?”
“I can’t believe you found it,” Tyrolean said.
Draken could only shake his head and cough out, “Galbrait—alive?”
A beat. “Aye,” Tyrolean said. “Halmar sewed him up. Says the cold water slowed the blood flow. They got the water from his lungs. He’s still unconscious.”
And may not be right again. Brace yourself, friend. You know what drowning can do.
He did. He’d seen a sailor drowned and brought back to the living. Unable to speak, to feed himself, helpless as a babe. What would he do with Galbrait if it came to that?
Throw him to Ma’Vanni. It’s a better peace than life as a simpleton.
The spirit took command of Draken’s arm and slid the blade into the soaked sheath still strapped to his leg. Draken drew in a careful breath and eased it from his throat. No coughing. He started to climb to his feet; Aarinnaie took one arm and Tyrolean the other. He shrugged them off and limped to the rail to look over. He only almost stumbled once, but he gripped the rail tightly. Osias joined him there, glowing silently. But he gave Draken a nod.
“Halmar’s spitting mad,” Aarinnaie mentioned. “He said you said you’d follow him when you gave him Galbrait.”
“Had to get the godsdamned sword. How many Monoeans are left?”
“Less than half,” Tyrolean answered.
A violent shiver ran through Draken. “You’ve just been watching them drown?”
“They attacked us,” Aarinnaie said indignantly.
Truth, they had. “Call out orders. Drop lines over the side. Pull in as many as you can.”
“We can’t feed them all, much less control them. They’ll take the ship and—”
Draken gave Aarinniae a flat look.
“I’ll, um. Fetch you a cloak,” Aarinnaie said with abrupt docility Draken didn’t trust, and turned away.
“Aye, Your Highness,” Tyrolean said, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. He turned toward Joran.
Draken stared down at two men clinging to a makeshift raft of ship’s hull. Their bodies were in the water and they glanced up at the Bane but said nothing. The shouts had ceased. The Monoeans had given up.
And you’re about to be their savior, Bruche said. Well done.
I’m short fighting men. And Galbrait needs his people about him.
You’ll make them swear to him, then?
That’s the idea, but you know what they say about best laid plans. The first of the ropes were dropping over.
#
Forty-seven. It was a number Draken wouldn’t soon forget. The rescued Monoeans sat in ordered rows on the deck, a few obstinately rebellious fellows chained but most subdued by a few arrows trained on them and threats of being tossed back overboard. The sea sharks had come, turning the water around the ship into a roiling frenzy. Since most of the sailors left in the water were mere floating bodies, screams were few. The scent of brine and blood rose around the ship though, and Draken didn’t want to wait around for the bigger monsters that made distracted sea sharks their prey. He gave Joran the order to set sail. They needed to get moving again, though it would take some careful maneuvering through the big chunks of debris, some of which were big and jagged enough to punch a hole through the Bane’s hull if they met at top speed. The ship was hindered by lack of sails anyway. They’d get to clear water and make repairs.
The Ashen watched him charily as the healer bound his arm to his chest to immobilize his bad shoulder. It made Draken feel off-center. That, and getting used to having Bruche again.
Along with the soldiers, the Brînians had plucked a half-dozen casks from the sea as well. It was something of a Monoean superstition to leave some barrels half-full for just this sort of experience; it still wasn’t anything like enough water for everyone aboard.
As Joran gave the orders, Tyrolean picked his way through the Monoeans crowding the small deck and ducked lines as the crew drew sails. “Galbrait is awake, Your Highness.”
Draken heaved a sigh. It shifted his shoulder enough to deepen the dull ache.
Ah now, it won’t be so bad. The lad idolizes you.
Draken suppressed a snort and nodded to Tyrolean. He cast a glance out over the mostly light heads of the Ashen … Captives? Soldiers? Bruche asked. Draken didn’t know, and he knew less what to do with them. “See they are given water and a little to eat.”
“Bound to run out of provisions, Khel Szi,” Joran said.
“We’re not so far off the Zozian Coast and we can feed and water fair well at Khein,” Draken said. “Third rations until then. Do you think the water will hold out?”
“Only just,” Joran answered, shaking his head no.
Ah. No point in panicking the crew. Clever lad.
“See that it does.”
“And if it doesn’t, Khel Szi?”
“We’re not throwing anyone overboard, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Joran cast a worried glance to the lightening sky, which was turning brilliant blue. A steady wind buffeted the Bane. A good sailing day. But the Bane’s crew had sour expressions, which deepened whenever they looked at the Ashen.
Sparing enemies thus isn’t done. Brînians don’t trust it.
“Pray Agria for rain and a stiff wind toward Akrasia then. We’ll get this over with as soon as possible.” Draken said.
He turned toward the back, edging his way through the prisoners to get to his cabin. Ashen leaned in to make way for him, and eyes followed him. More than one face was reddening under the rising sun, though the wind was fair cool enough. The sails cast a little shade but room would need to be made for some of them in the hull. Sunsick would sweep through them, especially on thin water rations.
The cabin smelled of blood and salt. Tyrolean halted at the doorway as Draken stepped through. Aarinnaie leaned her hip against the table, arms crossed over her chest.
Galbrait opened his eyes. “Your Highness.” He didn’t struggle to move, just lay still. His voice was breathy and weak, but even enough. “Apparently I owe you my life.”
“I only pulled you from the sea,” Draken said.
“Your life you owe to the healers and to the gods.”
A slight quirk of a humorless smile. “They wouldn’t have had their chance at me if not for you pulling me out.”
Draken assented with a nod, but he wondered. After all, the gods had given him back Bruche. “Aarin, would you take Tyrolean and see to the provisions. I don’t trust our crew to do the figuring fairly.”
She cast another glance at Galbrait, but obediently went. Draken waited until they’d shut the door behind them to ease down onto the bench from the table. His knee hadn’t benefited from his dunking, and his back and chest had stiffened from having his arm bound to his chest.
“We pulled nearly fifty of your men from the sea,” he said.
Galbrait shifted on the bed, wincing as he made to sit up against the cushion stained in his blood. The sea had left his hair knotted and his injury had left his skin pale. “They won’t want me.”
“You must at least try,” Draken said. “Speak to them when the wind and lack of water have worn them a bit, when the shock of it all falls away. They’ll realize they need you.”
“Monoea does not want me.”
He suppressed a sigh at the melodrama and reminded himself Galbrait had barely seen twenty Tradeseasons. Still, that shouting about there being a king on board niggled at him. Who had he meant? Himself or Draken?
“You can’t take the rebels’ opinion as your own,” Draken said. “Your mercy will indebt these men to you. They might well be enough to sway the rest of the army in your favor.”
“In your favor, you mean.”
A fair point.
Draken mentally shoved the spirit back. “I’ve never made a pretense that keeping war from Akrasia was my first concern. That serves Monoea, as well.”
Galbrait’s brows drew together as he considered this. “I’ll see them,” he said at last.
“When you can walk well,” Draken said. “They need you strong.”
Another hesitation, and then a grudging nod.
Bruche heaved a sigh that achieved Draken’s lips. Best you could hope for.
#
A sevennight later, they’d made all the repairs they could and had continued limping along on their course, having given up all prayer of catching the rest of the fleet. A few of the Monoeans had made themselves useful: hauling lines and raising sails, mending rope. There was no sunsalve aboard a Brînian ship so several Ashen were soon so burned they required the cover of below, and far more than their share of water. The rest did their best to stay out of the way, helping only when they were bid, talking amongst themselves. and watching the Brînians with narrowed eyes. Doubtless they all thought themselves prisoners of war and Draken did nothing to dissuade that. He spoke to none of them, but he heard his name in their conversations. Some few had placed him as Aissyth’s bastard mixbreed cousin and made no secret of their contempt.
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