Renir remembered Drun’s caution, and looked around for the old priest, but he was facing the other way, as though this new phenomenon was of less interest to him than their wake. Renir unconsciously fingered his axe, then realising what he was doing put his hands to his sides, hoping none of the crew had noticed. Whatever threat they faced, whatever it was that troubled Drun, he could not face it alone, and with Orosh standing beside them, there was little he could do to draw the priest’s attention to the matter.
“Farewell Bay, friend Renir. That is where we bid farewell to the old ones. The birthing bay is on the far side, always facing the east.”
I can’t say I wondered, thought Renir, but saying goodbye to the old ones sounded somewhat ominous. He raised an eyebrow to Shorn, but the mercenary shook his head carefully, closing his eyes for a moment as if to shut off the subject.
If Orosh wanted to speak, he would let him.
“But they come to greet us here…?” asked Renir, mindful of stepping on a strange people’s beliefs. With Drun’s warning fresh in his mind and none of the other men seeming willing to take the lead, he felt obliged to engage the captain of this boat if no one else would. It wouldn’t be seemly to let him ramble on alone.
“Yes, sometimes we land here, when we come from the west. Fewer boats are built each year, though. Much is lost with the passing of the tides.”
Orosh seemed unaccountably sad as they drew closer, and Shorn took Renir’s elbow and led him to one side. Orosh did not seem to notice that Renir was no longer with him, but continued to calm the seas with his stare.
Diandom loomed closer, until they beached. Renir would have sprawled, but Shorn was braced and held him firm.
”Watch my lead,” the mercenary whispered, as Orosh leapt over the side to the deck, or land, or whatever it was that Renir could not decide.
“Drun warned me…”
“I know,” Shorn interrupted, and followed the crew down.
There was nothing for it. Renir followed his friends, Drun bringing up the rear. Arrayed before them were more than fifty Feewar, each as grim as the next. Not a one wore a welcoming smile. Renir loosened his fingers and watched Shorn for any sign that he was worried out of the corner of his eye.
“So, the student and the master return,” said a gargantuan man, stepping in front of the gathering crowd. “I thought I told you never to come back.”
Shorn’s sigh was audible. Wen made no move, but muttered under his breath, “Blasted Seafarers. Their memories are too long by half.”
“We asked for passage, and were granted it. Old wrongs hold no weight here, and we claim passage. You cannot harm us, Dainar.”
“Oathbreaker! There will be no right of passage for you! Hold them!” he cried, and weapons were in hands faster than Renir would have believe possible, had his own as not appeared before his eyes, held unwavering, facing the Seafarers, anger evident in each one’s eyes.
“We wish no blood shed, Dainar, just passage. Much water has washed the shore since then,” Shorn told the man.
Dainar’s chins merely wobbled, the only sign he had heard.
“You will face the court. Now, drop your weapons.”
Renir dropped his instantly, then picked it up with a sheepish grin and a scowl from Wen.
“I thought it would not be so easy. You will face the court, or you will die.” He motioned with one stubby hand, and unseen before, Seafarers bearing bows, which Renir had never seen, rose from the trees above.
“Bows are forbidden!” cried Shorn in surprise.
“Much has changed since you broke your oath, warrior. The old ways are drowning, and a new way shows itself to us. Now, drop your weapons or die where you stand.”
“Drop them,” said Wen. “We will find another way to win our battles. Some times, force of arms is not the way. They will not kill us.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Shorn, disgust evident in his gruff voice.
“I like this not one whit,” spat Bourninund, kneeling and placing his short swords on the living deck. “Not one whit.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Bourninund,” Drun spoke for the first time. “I think they mean to keep us alive a while longer. I will do what I can.”
“We have no choice, either way,” said Shorn. “If we fight we will never make it back to land. And we cannot run. We need them on our side, or we might as well throw ourselves into the sea and take our chances with the fishes.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think I want to do that. Not again,” said Drun, and folded his arms across his chest to wait.
Chapter Thirty-Five
They were fed well. Fish stew, mushrooms, which grew on the bark of the Ulian, and seeds. Sometimes there were mussels, which lived on the base of the boat — one of their captors, Gian, told them they dived and harvested the mussels. The seafarers could hold their breath for longer than most ordinary men, but Renir saw no gills. They were, after all, just men.
“Grilled fish, today. I wonder, they must have metal aboard, or else what would they hold their fires on, and what do you think they burn? I’m sure they wouldn’t burn their precious trees.”
Shorn barked a laugh. “Yes, they have metal. But are you sure you want to know what they burn?”
“Now you’ve said that, I’m not sure at all. Hertha always said my curiosity would get me in hot water. What do they burn then?”
Drun noticed the hesitation when Renir spoke of Hertha, but he said nothing. It was not his place to intrude, although, he had to admit to himself, that did not often stop him.
“Their waste. Nothing is thrown out on a seafarer’s boat. They dry it and burn it. Also, you’ve be surprised what grows on a seafarer’s boat.”
Renir gagged, his face paling even here, in the shadows of their cell.
“Oh, don’t worry, it burns hot and adds no flavour. Besides, you should be thankful. They don’t often cook. Usually they eat their food raw. If anything, we’re eating better than they are tonight.”
“I’d rather eat what their eating, if that’s the case, and thank you very much for spoiling my stew.”
“You’ll soon learn to eat what your given, lad,” said Bourninund, patting Renir gently on the shoulder. “A fighting man can’t afford to be choosy. Besides, it would just make you soft.”
“Shush,” whispered Wen. “They are coming.”
Renir could hear nothing at first, but slowly became aware of soft footfalls approaching along the corridor to the cells. He had been able to make out little of the boat on his way to incarceration, but it seemed they had been led to the south side of the boat — through what he could only describe as a village. There had been houses along the way, and crops of mushrooms growing, as though the seafarers were imitating a landfarer farm. He made out a clothier, with rolls of cloth hanging under an awning. The bones of some gigantic fish held the roof of one dwelling open, again covered in some canvas like material — perhaps a gathering hall, or a theatre of sorts, he could not tell. Their strange trees grew out of each other, some tall, some short, but evidence of human hands in what should have been the chaos of nature in the way they grew. Tunnels between the mighty trunks were evident, as were pathways and groves. Flowers grew in the canopies above, and seabirds nested. Perhaps they farmed eggs, and slaughtered the birds when they got old, as one would a chicken. He saw no other evidence of life, save the Seafarers themselves, who came to watch them paraded on their way to captivity, ushered on by men bearing bows and, unless Renir missed his mark, arrows tipped with razor sharp teeth. No doubt these, too, came from some deep sea beast he had never had the misfortune to cross.
He had heard tales of such creatures, from the Leviathans that prowled the sea under the lands, to the seawolves, whose teeth grew as long as daggers. It was said if just a scratch was received from a seawolf’s teeth, that it would bleed, an unstaunchable flow until the victim bled to death. They were just some of the tales he heard tell — like the many-armed sea snail, puffershrooms, gransalds and wai
ling fish, he even heard tell of fish that could fly, and mount the land, people that could breath underwater but who had fins instead of hands and feet…tales of the sea were endless, and old fishermen were fools for them, but he was beginning to think that perhaps there was a shred of truth in the old tales.
In the dim light outside their cells Renir was aware that the footfalls had halted, and that there was a woman, quietly watching them. The bar outside the door was lifted, and a stunningly attractive woman entered. The men all straightened their backs and puffed their chests out, apart from Shorn who sniffed and shook his head.
“I should have known you’d want to come and gloat,” he said, his eyes blazing with the anger that had fuelled him for so long.
“What, no kiss, no lover’s whispers for your wife?”
Renir dribbled some stew onto his shirt. Wife? What other secrets do we keep from each other, even now, so far along the road?
“You’re not my wife, Shiandra, and you never were. I told you then as I tell you now, we were not wed, and I would not wed you. Now, slither back to your cave and leave us to court, I will plead our case there, but I won’t plead to you.”
Faced with such ire Shiandra merely smiled sweetly and pouted. “I wanted you then, but if you will not hold to your oath, then perhaps you should face the justice of the sea. But I am more forgiving than the ocean, Shorn. I would take you back. You only have to ask.”
“You always were a hard bargainer, Shiandra,” said Wen, through gritted teeth. “Give her what she wants, Shorn, and be done with it.”
“Never!” Shorn leapt from his cot and took her round the neck. Renir leapt too, and took hold of Shorn’s arm, trying to free the woman — whether she was the reason for their captivity or not, Renir could see that throttling her would not get them out alive. Bourninund joined him, holding Shorn around the chest, while Renir struggled with the mercenary’s vice-like grip — it was like wrestling a bull. The strength in Shorn’s good arm was phenomenal, his grip like granite.
“Stop!” cried Drun, seeing that they could not break Shorn’s grip. Shiandra was turning blue, scratching futility at Shorn’s iron grip, soft choking sounds coming from her throat.
Where Renir and Bourninund could not move him, the power in Drun’s age cracked voice could.
Shorn pushed the woman away from him in disgust. She gagged and rubbed her throat, once sweet eyes now filled with murderous intent. Her voice still raw from being strangled, nevertheless she managed to speak.
“I will see you meat for the seawolves, my love. Meat.” This last she spat, and turned on her heel. She pulled the bar back down across their door, and the last sound as she stormed away was her laboured breathing, gradually fading. Only when she had gone did he hear Shorn’s breathing, heavy with rage. Bourninund carefully let him go, backing away. Sometimes there was no telling what Shorn’s rage would make him do, but he merely threw himself down on the cot and buried his head in his hands.
Renir left him alone for a long time, wondering how long it would be prudent to let him stew, his curiosity, and his sense of self preservation, growing in him all the time. Eventually, he could stand to wait no longer.
“What was all that about then?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Renir. Let me alone.”
“We need to know, Shorn,” said Bourninund solicitously. “We need to make it out of here alive, and I’m not just saying that because I like my skin. We have a job to do, and we can’t very well do it inside a seawolf’s stomach.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about, and I won’t,” Shorn said through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with fury.
Wen sighed. “If you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll tell them.”
“It’s not their business, Wen,” said Shorn, more calmly than could be expected from someone with such a furious face — even in the murk of their cells his scar glowed white with hot anger.
“We can have no secrets, now. Least of all those that might kill us.”
“Oh, I doubt very much they’ll kill you. It’s me that’s going to die in the sea.”He grinned at Drun, “Is this what you had in mind for me, priest? To die where I was forged? In the cold heart of the ocean?”
“It might happen, it might not,” said Drun mystically, and closed his eyes, as if the topic of Shorn’s impending death were of little import.
Shorn stared at him for a moment, disbelief on his face. “Is that all you have to say?!”
“Leave him be, Shorn. Focus your anger on getting us out of here, preferably on a boat,” Wen put a hand on Shorn’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off irritably.
“I’ll tell them, then, as you’re in such a mood.”
“Do as you like, Wen, but don’t drag me into it.” And with his last words on the subject Shorn turned to face the wall with an ill-natured huff.
Wen made himself comfortable and told them the tale.
“There are many things I am sure you don’t know about Shorn, and many things I could not say about him. His life until we met was one of flight, endless flight from those who pursue you now. He told me, and if he wasn’t such a sullen groat he could tell you himself, that he left his childhood home, the Island Archive, when he was ten years old, but what he didn’t tell you is that it was the Seafarer’s that took him onto their boat all those years ago.”
Renir settled himself. He loved a good tale, and any chance to learn more about the mercenary whose fate was tied to his own was welcome.
“I was already on the boat, ship or island — I’ve yet to find the words to describe the Seafarer’s vessels. When we met, the only two landfarers on the ship, we were drawn together, perhaps because no matter how welcoming the Seafarers were on the outside, deep down we knew that we were outsiders…however long we stayed aboard this vessel we would never truly be welcomed into their arms. We stayed under polite sufferance, and we both knew it. When Shorn discovered what I was, he begged me to train him. I had sworn never to raise a weapon again, but I could no more stand against his will than you all. He is a whirlpool, drawing those close to him into his fate. He tugs, and we dance on his strings. I have only just come to realise this, but had I known it then, I am not sure it would have changed anything. He is a vortex, and all those he touches are changed in the passing, as I was.
“I held out for a year, but the constant badgering of the young can wear the sturdiest of men down, and to my chagrin and eternal shame, I gave in. I began teaching Shorn, teaching him the only art I had ever known, and soon I discovered that he would be an artist with the palette I gave him, painting pictures in blood and bone. But I didn’t know that to begin with, and once I had taught him for too long, too long to stop, he had nearly surpassed me — and he was still so young. I could no more stop than kill myself. I have always been weak.”
This he said so sadly that Renir found himself wondering at the depths of shame that drove a man such as Wen. He was discovering that the weapons’ master was more than just a blade and arm. Perhaps he would be an asset yet…or perhaps his shame would be undoing, as Shorn’s rage might be his.
As if reading his mind, Wen said, “Shorn hid it well, but he was consumed with rage within. He hid it well,“ he repeated sadly. “He was calm in all his training. Never did he let on what he would become — a mercenary, a killer such as had not been seen since ages past. If only I had known…but then, perhaps the crucible of war has moulded him into what he needs to be in the final days. I do not know. The gods draw men into their plots and I cannot fathom their will or their ways.”
Shorn grunted, but kept his peace. Renir wondered if this was what Shorn wanted all along — a purging of the past — but one that was too painful for him to excise alone.
“I taught him well. But as he grew into a man, there were other dangers than just his sword. A young woman began to show interest in him. There had always been young girls watching us train, and men, too. But I would not train them, and they never asked. The Seafarers are pe
ople of deep pride. They would not have landfarers teaching them what they knew. Even if they had asked, I would have refused. But it was only natural that it should happen — I could no more stop it than stand against the tides. The young woman came back, day after day, and she would talk to Shorn, and then hold his hand, brush past him…all the ways a woman leads a man by the nose. But Shorn’s anger, I believe, held him back from love. Or maybe, I don’t know the truth of this, he sensed in her the seeds of darkness.”
“Shiandra,” guessed Bourninund.
“Of course,” replied Wen. “Who else? It is by her hand that we are held. She is Dainar’s daughter, and he can stand the wrong no more than she can. He would grant her the sun if he could. That such a beauty should spring from his loins…and Seafarer children are rare enough. She wanted Shorn, and Shorn did not want her.”
“I can’t see why,” said Renir. “She is as fine a woman as I have ever laid eyes on.”
“That’s not saying much, Renir. Your experience in such matters is shy, even for one so young.”
Renir bristled. “I can’t help it if I was married. How’s a man supposed to meet beautiful women when he’s got a wife?”
“Easy,” said Bourninund. “Most people figure on marrying someone beautiful in the first place.”
“Well, it’s not like I had a choice. She had her hooks into me before I had a chance to pick someone else. Anyway,” he added gruffly, “she wasn’t a bad woman.”
“Few are, Renir. I’m sure she was fair. Perhaps one day you will remember her so, too,” said Drun, who Renir had thought sleeping. The old man’s strange yellow eyes were closed, but his ears missed little, and his mind even less.
“Perhaps,” replied Renir. “Anyway, just because Shiandra loved Shorn, I don’t see why she would want to have him killed.”
“Few better reasons for ire than love, boy,” said Wen. “And I’m not sure love is the right word. I believe she coveted him. He was a fine looking young man back then, and she was, and by the looks of it, still is, a wilful woman. She wanted him, and he did not want her. But even so, a man is often led by his loins, especially one so young…”
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