by Martin Owton
Aron looked again at the corsair ship, close enough now that he could see men grouped in the bow and sunlight glinting off metal. “How many fighters would a ship that size carry?” He clutched at the rail as a rush of giddiness threatened to return him to the deck.
“Eight, maybe ten.”
“What about the rowers?” asked Maldwyn, who had joined them.
“Slaves, chained to their oars. Forget about them,” said the captain.
“We have six swords, plus you and your crew. If we show them our strength, that may be enough to stop them,” said Aron, hoping fervently that he would not have to fight in this debilitated state.
The captain snorted in reply.
“It costs us nothing to try,” said Aron. “Let’s get everyone up here.”
Maldwyn stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “It’s how we call to the sheepdogs in Nandor,” he said to Aron with a grin. “Get up here. Bring the weapons,” he called to the three Nandor guardsmen Thomi, Haas and Yirg who were dozing in the hold amongst the cargo. They gathered up the swords and scrambled up the ladder to the deck.
“I’ll get my bow,” said Edith. She slipped past the guardsmen and hurried down the ladder.
Aron took his sword and drew it from the scabbard. “Show them we’re armed,” he said and waved the blade above his head. The others did the same.
The corsair ship did not change course.
“What were you expecting?” The captain said, a long knife in his hand. “These are hardened murderers. Did you think they would be scared off by the sight of a few swords?”
“Their mistake,” said Aron.
Edith reappeared at his side with her bowcase and quiver and quickly strung her bow. She looked at him with a nervous smile and then at the corsair ship, now only a hundred paces distant; at least ten armed men stood in the raised bow. Aron would have felt confident of hitting them at that distance on dry land, but from the pitching deck of a ship at sea was a different matter.
“What are you waiting for girl?” said the captain.
Edith pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to her bowstring, gathered herself for a moment, then as the ship crested a wave, bent the bow and let fly with one fluid motion. The arrow struck the corsair ship’s side just below the warriors and stuck there in the planking.
There was a swirl of activity from the warriors. One produced a crossbow which he aimed towards them.
“Down,” cried Aron, but the bolt never arrived. Edith’s next arrow caught the crossbowman in the chest. He dropped the crossbow into the sea and fell back. The rest of the warriors dropped out of sight. An order was shouted and the oars were drawn in as the corsair ship closed on them.
“Hard a’port,” shouted the captain. The steersman leaned all his weight onto the tiller and the ship heeled over as they turned. The corsair ship turned in response exposing its side.
“The helmsman.” Aron pointed to the stern of the corsair ship where two men stood beside the tiller. Edith nocked another arrow and Aron watched her eyes narrow in concentration as she let fly. The arrow took one of the helmsmen in the belly. Aron felt his heart leap and Edith yelled in triumph. She nocked another arrow and, as the ship rode through the top of a wave, let fly again. The arrow struck the second man in the thigh as he bent over his wounded colleague. His cry reached them across the waves.
“Good girl!” cried the captain. Without no-one at the helm, the corsair ship veered off course and lost way as the sail lost the wind.
“Bring her back to the wind,” called the captain. The steersman leaned on the tiller again; their ship turned and picked up speed.
Aron watched as the corsairs wallowed in the swell until the oars sprouted again and the ship picked up way. Their sail swelled with the wind and they turned towards the coast.
“We’ve beaten them,” said the captain.
“She beat them,” said Aron. “That was magnificent shooting.” He smiled at her, but she turned away from his gaze.
“Told you I could hit a man,” said Edith. “They’re just like the men who have Celaine. I could have killed them all.” She unstrung her bow and carefully packed back into its case. “I’ll need more arrows when we get to Keshan.”
“I’ll buy you arrows and stand you a good meal when we get to Keshan,” said the captain.
At the mention of food, Aron realised that he no longer felt ill; for the first time in days he was hungry. But everyone on the ship has seen through the disguise.
“Did you eat that bacon?” he asked.
CHAPTER TEN
The sea glinted green and silver in the early morning sun between the trees; Celaine twisted against the rope that secured her to a tree to look at the towers and walls of the distant city and the water beyond. Where are Maldwyn, Aron and Edith? In the last dream she remembered Edith had said they were waiting for a ship. How long ago was that? The days had blurred into an endless nightmare.
Harsh raised voices broke the still of the morning.
“I’m going down into Keshan and I’m taking one man with me,” said Broll. “The rest of you will stay here and guard the girl.”
“Why shouldn’t we all go?” said a thin balding fellow with a bent nose the others called Pitkin.
“Because then we have to take the girl with us and we become targets. You know Keshan’s reputation. She stays here until we know where we’re going.” There was a mutter of assent among the other bandits, but Pitkin still objected.
“How do I know you won’t cut your own deal down there, take the dealer’s silver then come back and tell us a different price?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Broll. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
No-one laughed. Broll scowled at the group as they avoided his eye. “So how many of you have to come to keep you happy?” he asked after a long moment. “We have to leave someone with her.”
Celaine’s heart lifted; this could be the chance she had been praying for.
“Who’s going to stay?” asked Broll. “Someone has to.”
Celaine held her breath as she waited for their decision, but none was made.
“We’ll draw straws then,” said Broll. “Two shortest straws stay here. Fair enough?” Another mutter of assent.
Broll bent and picked up a handful of twigs, he discarded a few then held out the rest in his meaty hand.
“There’s only five,” said Pitkin.
“That’s cos I’m not drawing,” said Broll. “This is about who’s coming with me. Now shut your row and draw.”
Pitkin scowled and drew a twig; it looked long to Celaine. The other bandits each took one and held them out for comparison.
Broll examined them. “You and you. You’re staying. Let’s get on with it. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Celaine looked at the two who were staying to guard her; Thorold was big, pale -haired and, so far as Celaine could tell, as stupid as a tree stump. Jommi was almost the exact opposite, short, swarthy and with a sharp feral cunning. He stared at Celaine with a hunger in his dark eyes, and Celaine quickly turned her gaze away with a sharp stab of fear. This might be her best chance of escaping, but it was fraught with danger.
Broll hustled the other three bandits out of the camp and down the path that led towards the Keshan road. “We’ll be back before dark,” were his parting words.
Thorold ambled back to his bedroll and lay down.
“Hey Ox!” yelled Jommi. “Get up and get something on for breakfast.”
Thorold sat up and flicked his hair out of his eyes. “That’s woman’s work that is.”
Jommi looked at Celaine. “Yeah. If we can’t have any fun with her, then she might as well make herself useful. Can yer cook, wench?”
“I can cook,” said Celaine, wondering how far she could push her luck. “But not while I’m tied up.”
Jommi scowled at her and didn’t answer.
“What’s the harm,” said Thorold. “Can’t run fast
er than us can she?”
Jommi appeared to weigh it up for a moment then came and untied her, grinning and squeezing her calves as he tackled the knots at her ankles.
Celaine ignored him and stood up. “What have you got to cook?” she asked as she walked over to the remains of the last night’s fire. A few coals still glowed. At least she wouldn’t have to struggle over lighting another one.
“We got oats,” said Thorold. He held up sack which looked to be nearly empty.
“I’ll need water,” said Celaine.
“Get it yourself.”
“You might as well get it, Ox,” said Jommi. “You’ll have to go with her to the stream if she gets it.”
Thorold picked up a waterskin, scowled at Jommi and set off through the trees.
Celaine picked up the charred end of a branch and used it to scrape the remaining embers together wondering how she could get away from Jommi and Thorold. Making a run for it was out of the question, they were right about being able to outrun her; she would have to disable them somehow first. A lick of flame rose from piled embers, but she would need more wood.
“Where’re you going?” said Jommi as she turned away from the fire.
“To get more wood for the fire,” she said and kept walking towards a thicket where a stand of white trumpet-like flowers had caught her eye. As she had hoped Jommi did not follow her. She pinched one of the leaves and the foul smell it produced confirmed its identity; stinkweed. She quickly plucked a handful of the green seedpods and then bent to gather fallen wood, quickly collecting a double handful of dry sticks.
Concealing the pods beneath the wood in a roll of her skirt, she returned to the fire, conscious of Jommi’s eyes on her. She slipped the pods into the pot and covered them with oatmeal then attended to the fire, laying the driest sticks amongst the embers and blowing gently on them to encourage the flame.
“Where’s the water?” she asked Jommi.
Jommi scowled and looked around for Thorold. He was nowhere to be seen. Jommi put two fingers of his left hand to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Presently Thorold strolled into view carrying the water skin.
“Where were yer, Ox?” asked Jommi.
“I was watching the deer,” said the big man. “You scared them off.”
Celaine added water to the pot of oatmeal and put it on the fire, grateful that Jommi’s attention was focused on arguing with Thorold. She kept her head down and stirred the mixture with a stick, trying to keep the pods from surfacing as it came to the boil. She could smell the harsh odour of the pods on her hands. If this tastes anything like they smell then they’re going to notice. It would have been good to have something to sweeten it with, but it’s really too early for any berries. The mixture began to thicken and she lifted it out of the flames.
“It’s ready,” she called.
The two men ceased their bickering and came to the fire carrying wooden bowls and spoons. Celaine filled their bowls and watched them eat, heart thumping.
“A good thing for ye I’m hungry. This tastes like shit,” said Jommi. “What’d yer think Ox? Should I beat her?”
“More,” demanded Thorold holding out his bowl. Celaine filled it carefully, Jommi’s gaze following her. Not for much longer. She glanced up, measuring the angle of the sun. I’ll be gone by midday. She put the pot of oatmeal to one side, banked up the fire and made herself comfortable for the wait. There must be farms between here and Keshan. A city of that size needs a lot of food. I’ll try and find a farm and hope they’re honest folk. They can’t all be murderers and bandits.
The first sign that anything was happening was when Jommi started talking.
“You’re a very pretty girl.”
Celaine looked up, but he was not looking at her. Instead he was staring at a tree. Celaine had to stop herself laughing out loud as he put an arm around the trunk. She had heard many tales of the strange tricks stinkweed could play on the mind, but it was still fascinating to actually see them happen. Away to her left Thorold was watching him too, sitting with his back to a tree, a vacant grin on his face.
Celaine stayed where she was while Jommi continued his sweet talk to the tree. When Thorold slid sideways to lie giggling in the grass she decided it was safe to leave. As quietly as she could, she first crawled, and then walked away from the camp taking the path Broll had taken, with frequent looks back over her shoulder. I know I risk running into Broll returning on this path, but they’re surely going to be gone most of the day and getting lost is a bigger risk. I wish I had Edith’s sense of direction.
The path led through the woods to a track rutted by cart wheels several seasons ago. Celaine followed it down the valley to where it forded a stream. Her heart lifted at the sight of the margin churned by many hooves. Someone had watered their cattle here recently. She crossed over and followed the trail of mud and dung until she caught the scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. The woodland ended abruptly and across a field still strewn with tree stumps, she saw a collection of low thatched buildings. A small herd of shaggy cattle grazed away to her left. She started to run towards the farm but then thought better of it. It wouldn’t be a good start to panic their cattle.
A pair of dogs set up a racket of barking as she approached across the field and for a moment fear gripped her. What kind of people will they be?
A skinny dark-haired lad clutching a pitchfork appeared round the side of one of the buildings.
“Who are you?” he yelled thrusting the pitchfork forward. “Where’d yer come from?” His accent was harsh but understandable.
Celaine had put a lot of time into thinking about what she would say, but all of her planned words left her. “Help me,” she gasped and burst into tears.
The lad stared at her with eyes wide and mouth open. The barking grew louder. A great shaggy-haired dog bounded into view barely restrained by a rope leash followed by its owner, the rope coiled around the hook at the end of his left arm.
Celaine cowered away from the dog. The dog-owner laughed. “You can put that down, Will,” he said. “I don’t think she’s dangerous. Here, take the dog.”
He uncoiled the leash and passed it over to the boy who continued to eye Celaine suspiciously.
“So who are you, and what are you doing on my land?” His tone was gentle, but there was a hardness to his gaze.
Celaine swallowed her tears and took a deep breath, trying to summon a dignity she didn’t feel. “I am Celaine of Nandor, sister of Earl Maldwyn. I was ambushed and seized by bandits. I escaped them this morning. This was the first house I saw, but I fear they may pursue me.”
“We have men and swords enough to handle them,” he said. “My name is Kyvan. This is my farm and you are welcome.” He smiled at her, but the hardness in his eyes remained. Celaine felt a cold shiver of fear run through her and wondered if she had made a mistake.
The farmhouse was one long room with screens of woven willow forming private areas in the corners and a fire burning in a raised hearth in the middle. The smell of smoke mingled with an exquisite aroma of stewed lamb rose from the fire-blackened cauldron hanging over the coals. A sandy-haired young girl of maybe fourteen summers, dressed in a plain homespun smock appeared from one of the screened-off corners and stared silently at Celaine.
“Flora, we have a guest,” said Kyvan. “I’m sure she’s hungry, and she looks like she would appreciate some washing water.”
“Come and sit here, Miss,” said Flora, pulling a stool to the fireside. “Have a bite to eat and I’ll put water on for washing.”
“I’d best be about my business,” said Kyvan. “I’ll see you later.” He turned and walked to the door.
Celaine gratefully sat down and accepted a wooden bowl of stew from the cauldron and a hunk of dark bread. Flora busied herself with heating water in another pot and watched her silently. The stew was hot and rich with meat, and when she had finished Flora offered her another helping which she readily took.
“Would you want me
to wash that dress?” asked Flora. “I’ll find something that you can wear that’ll fit you.”
“Oh yes. Thank you,” said Celaine, and nearly succumbed to tears again at the thought of clean clothes.
“Come with me.” Flora led her to one of the screened-off corners, and handed her a plain woollen dress with a frayed hem from a wooden chest. Celaine stripped off her soiled and torn riding dress and handed it to Flora.
“I’ll fetch the washing water,” said Flora. She slipped out and returned with a two jugs and a bowl, one of the jugs was steaming gently.
Celaine sat on a stool and, with Flora’s help washed herself, luxuriating in the touch of the warm water. Finally they used the last of the water to wash her hair.
“Bless you, Flora,” said Celaine. “You’ve been so good me.”
“What did they do to you?” asked Flora. “Did they hurt you?”
“They killed my father and his men. Then they tied me up and took me with them.” Celaine’s eyes stung with tears as she spoke. “But they didn’t touch me.”
Flora said nothing and silently combed Celaine’s hair.
“Would it be possible to send a letter to my brother?” asked Celaine when the tears had passed.
“I don’t know,” said Flora. “I’ll ask Uncle Kyvan if you like.”
“Thank you so much. I’m greatly in your debt. The people of Nandor pay their debts and remember their friends.”
Wearing the borrowed dress, her hair wrapped in a drying cloth, Celaine lay on the straw bed in the screened-off corner, all the tension drained out of her. The meal she had eaten and the comfort of the bed lulled her into sleep.
Voices woke her. She sat up in bed, confused about where she was. For a heart-stopping moment she thought Broll had tracked her down, but the accents were different. Shadows moved across the wall as the voices drew nearer.
“Let’s have a look at her then,” said one. Celaine froze and looked quickly around the gloomy corner for some escape. Nowhere; the woven screens reached almost to the roof and the wall at her back was solid. She remembered the hardness in Kyvan’s eyes when he had smiled at her.