The Huntsman's Amulet (Society of the Sword Volume 2)

by Hamilton, Duncan M.

  ‘How long’s that going to take?’

  ‘We’re lucky that we’re on a flood tide, which means if we can find a suitable beach in the next couple of hours, we can hove down straight away,’ Varrisher said.

  ‘Hove down?’ Soren constantly felt like an idiot when he was on board ships. Sailors seemed to have a language all of their own.

  ‘A true mariner will never admit to intentionally running his vessel aground, so we just call it something different. Basically, we ground Typhon on a soft, sandy beach at high tide, take lines from the top of the mast, the halyards, secure them to some trees or rocks and winch them down so when the tide goes out, the damaged area of the hull is exposed and we can patch it up. I’ve sent men aloft to keep a look out for somewhere suitable and there are so many small islands hereabouts it won’t be too difficult to find one.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too complicated,’ Soren said.

  ‘Well that’s the condensed version, but we carry everything we need to do the repair on board, so long as it’s not too extensive.’

  ‘And how long?’ Soren said, trying to bring the subject back to his original question.

  ‘We’re at the mercy of the tide. We can only work on the damage while enough of the hull is exposed, which will be no more than three hours or so at a time. I really won’t know how many hours of work will be needed until I see just how bad it is. Two tides minimum though, which means we won’t be floating off until tomorrow morning at the earliest. That’s assuming we manage to find somewhere suitable before this tide turns. If we don’t, you can add at least another twelve hours,’ Varrisher said.

  ‘Lots of uncertainty then,’ Soren said, distracted by the dream he had been having, which still felt real to his groggy mind.

  ‘Yes,’ Varrisher said. ‘Such is the way of the sea. I’m as keen to get my hands on Rui as you are. Right now my future plans are entirely dependent on getting the bounty on his head. Rest assured that we’ll deal with this as quickly as we can.’

  Ferrata had watched the docks at Auracia each day since returning to the city. It was the same tactic that he employed in Voorn, and he was beginning to see that it was flawed. However, when someone moved about as much as Soren did there were few ways to keep track of them.

  One of the Honest Christophe’s sailors was less than guarded with his tongue after a few drinks, and Ferrata had been able to learn that Soren had been on the Honest Christophe, but had disembarked for the Shrouded Isles. The mention of the Shrouded Isles came as a surprise, and made Ferrata wonder if Soren had a death wish. Ferrata couldn’t help but wonder what it was that drew him there, but it didn’t matter.

  All that interested Ferrata was the fact that they were collecting Soren on their return to Auracia. Another trip across the Middle Sea and now he was loitering by the docks in Auracia waiting for a ship to come in. Again. At least the weather was better. Several days overdue, even taking into account their detour, and it looked as though the Honest Christophe wasn’t going to arrive.

  With all of the stories surrounding the Isles, it was possible that neither Soren, nor the Honest Christophe would ever be seen again. This would make it very difficult for Ferrata to collect the bounty. Failing to kill an ordinary man would also be bad for Ferrata’s reputation. Give me a duke and I’ll give you a corpse, he thought, but an ordinary man? It explained why the price on Soren’s head was so high at least, but it was frustrating.

  As though the involvement of cursed islands wasn’t enough, there was also talk of a ferocious storm that had swept down from the north and wrecked a number of ships, damaging several more. Ferrata was lucky that his ship had arrived in Auracia before it hit.

  There was a third story, and that one was far more interesting. Of the ships that had managed to make it back to Auracia after the storm, several of them had spoken of being chased by a pirate ship that was preying on vessels crippled by the bad weather. If it was true, Ferrata rather admired the captain’s initiative. It might also mean that Soren was headed for a pirate sanctuary in the Spice Isles, rather than providing food for fish, or whatever was on the Shrouded Isles.

  So much uncertainty, so much frustration. He would think twice before taking another high price contract on anyone but the aristocracy or merchant elite, people whose greed tied them to a particular place.

  Ferrata groaned. Another sea voyage was the last thing he wanted, but there was no rest for the wicked, and he most certainly was that.

  Chapter 32

  The Receding Tide

  It was an hour before the call rang out from aloft that land had been sighted. The pumps still clattered away, spewing water over the side, but they didn’t need to be worked nearly as hard as the one on the Honest Christophe.

  The clear sky and full moon meant visibility was good. He could see a stretch of white sand not far from where they were. The small waves breaking on its shore twinkled in the moonlight. It seemed Varrisher deemed this spot suitable for their purpose, as the Typhon lurched as he steered directly for it.

  The performance of the ship was noticeably worse since the holing. Varrisher had shortened sail to slow her speed so they took on less water, whilst still allowing them to make their way to a safe beach. She no longer felt as lively, lumbering each time her course was altered rather than pouncing as she had before.

  They shortened sail until the Typhon was moving at a snail’s pace, creeping ever closer to the shore. As the beach grew near, Varrisher called out for all hands to brace themselves. Soren was pitched forward as the ship made contact with the sand, but it was not nearly as abrupt or violent as he had been preparing himself for. Her momentum continued to drive her on until she came to a halt. It felt odd. Soren had become used to the gentle pitching of her deck but now she was held firmly in place by the sand.

  ‘Lower the jolly boat,’ Varrisher shouted.

  There were a couple feet of water still surrounding the Typhon. Long planks of wood had already been brought up from the hold and secured to the larboard bulwark, ready to be lowered to carry out the repairs. The crew lowered lines from the masthead into the jolly boat, to be rowed ashore and secured to whatever could be found. This done, they set about removing everything from the hold of the ship. There was only the food and water for the crew and whatever sail cloth, cordage and lumber were required to effect running repairs. Nonetheless, it was back breaking work. It took several trips and the ship had to be unloaded before she lost the support of the surrounding water and could be winched down onto one side. Once this was done, all that was left was to wait for the tide to go out and allow the real work to begin.

  The receding tide brought bad news. A neat rent had been sliced in the hull on the starboard side of the keel. It ran for several feet and had destroyed a number of the planks that curved toward the bow. Soren wasn’t sure how severe this was in the grand scheme of things, but from Varrisher’s expression he could see that this would not be a quick patch job. While Varrisher discussed the matter with the ship’s carpenter, Soren sloshed forward through the warm, ankle deep water to have a closer look at the damage.

  With the ship pulled down onto its larboard side, the hole in the hull was several feet above him. The boarding ladder had been laid over the side and Soren climbed up a few steps for a better view. Where the wood had been cut, there was a residue of a white shell-like material crushed into small pieces; the remains of the reef that had gouged the hole. He dropped back down into the ankle-deep water and made his way over to Varrisher.

  ‘It’s not good news,’ Varrisher said, ‘but that’s evident to anyone with eyes. The carpenter reckons he can have us up and running in three days, but that will be a patch that will only get us to the nearest dockyard. If we want something that’ll take us into a fight, he’d rather have a week to do it.’

  ‘If we just patch it and head to Caytown, we might still be able to catch Rui,’ Soren said.

  ‘Yes, but he’ll run as soon as he spots us and we won’t be able t
o follow. The best we could hope for is that we could take him to task while he and his crew are still in town. That raises all sorts of other problems. If we start a fight in the middle of Caytown, we’ll have the local militia to contend with. Pirate or pirate hunter, they won’t give a damn. If we start trouble there, they’ll be a problem for us. My plan was to identify if Rui was in the town and then wait for him to leave, preferably when his crew were too hung over and wenched out to put up much of a fight. With the type of wealth he has now, who knows how many island commissioners and militia commanders he has in his pocket. When we go for him, it’ll have to be in a place of our choosing,’ Varrisher said.

  ‘And why won’t the patch be enough for us to attack him?’ Soren said, with growing frustration.

  ‘Because it won’t let us get close to him. Do you see the way all of the other planks curve smoothly into the bow?’

  Soren nodded.

  ‘Each of those planks needs to be carefully bent and shaped to fit properly. That takes time. Otherwise, the Typhon won’t perform properly. We won’t be able to sail as quickly, or as close to the wind. That’ll give Rui too much of an advantage. I can’t ask my men to go against Rui with a ship like that,’ Varrisher said.

  ‘He’ll get away.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Varrisher said. ‘Rui and his crew have been cruising for several months now. Caytown will be their first call to a friendly port in all that time. Even with all the plunder that Rui has brought his crew, if he suggests leaving Caytown before they’ve had their fill of booze, dream seed and women, he’ll be face down in the mud with his throat cut before he knows what’s going on. He won’t do anything to interfere with his crew’s fun. From what I’ve heard, he’s as enthusiastic a participant as any of them. His crew won’t be thinking of leaving Caytown until they’ve spent a big chunk of their share of the plunder.’

  Soren couldn’t fault Varrisher’s logic. Rui didn’t know he was being chased, so had no reason to run. With a great run of luck behind them it was hard to see he and his crew not taking their time to enjoy themselves.

  ‘In terms of losing track of him, I’m not at all worried. My only concern is that the Conclave will have him assassinated at a card table or in a whore’s bed in Caytown before we can get to him.

  ‘I’m no happier about the delay than you are. I need the bounty on Rui. I spent all my capital trying to garner support for Ruripathia in the war. What money I’ve left has barely kept the Typhon running, and the men’ve not been paid for a month as it is. Each time I use some of my spares, all of which are top quality, I’ll not be able to pay to replace them. I need Rui’s head, and I need it soon.’

  Chapter 33

  Wooden Swords

  As it was evident that they were going to be stuck on the little island for more than just a couple of days, how to fill the hours became a relevant question. There were only so many men that could work on the damage at any one time, and Varrisher kept his ship in such an excellent condition generally that there were few other tasks that needed attending to.

  Soren saw it as a perfect opportunity to establish his worth with the crew. Varrisher had already mentioned that he wanted Soren to drill them with small arms before they caught up with Rui.

  He had Varrisher break out the arms and line the men up on the beach. Up until that point, Soren was only the passenger who’d nearly gone for a swim trying to get on board. Soren had very little contact with the other members of the crew. Most of them were Ruripathians and, being an Ostian, Soren had no idea how they would respond to him when having to deal with him on a regular basis. While lounging around in Varrisher’s stateroom, he was out of sight and out of mind. Training the men on a daily basis, he would not be so easily forgotten.

  They stood in their file, each holding a sword of some description, most of them being the short, broad-bladed cutlasses favoured on board ships. These would be fine for practicing guards, and to make sure they were comfortable and familiar with the weight of a real weapon, but Soren didn’t want them cleaving chunks out of one another in the name of training. Later in the day he intended to have them make a batch of wooden weapons to train with, as the carpenter and his team were too busy to do it for them.

  Varrisher left him to it and went to supervise the repairs. As soon as he turned his back on them, the men adopted a more relaxed pose.

  ‘The Captain’s asked me to take you through some weapons drills. I expect you all know who I am by now. I’m a banneret and I served in the Barbarian War.’

  ‘What about the Ruripathian War?’ one of the men said.

  ‘No. I might be Ostian, but plenty of Ostians are against that war and have had to flee as a result. I’m just as much a refugee as any of you.’

  There was a grumble, but no further comments.

  ‘First of all, attacks.’ Soren drew his sword and adopted a guard position. ‘Copy my movements.’

  The men did so, but with visible reluctance. He may have quieted them for the moment, but he was certain they resented him. It would be difficult to get past that but it wasn’t his aim to get them to like him.

  He took them through a number of attacks and guards, repeating the movements over and over until they gradually stencilled themselves into the men’s memories. The process had been called ‘doing the positions’ at the Academy and there was no better way to ingrain the basic movements of swordplay. He kept the men at this until the sun was high, marking out that it was mid-day, or near enough as made no difference. He let them rest and get something to eat, and instructed them to come back with a wooden practice sword similar to the proper cutlasses they’d been practicing with.

  While they went off to have their lunch and scrounge up some wood from which to make their practice swords, Soren lay on the beach watching the repair works proceed.

  The remains of the damaged planking were being cut away in preparation for the repair. As interesting as it was, carpentry and shipbuilding was not something that could hold Soren’s attention for long. He stared at the skin on the back of his hand, which was turning a dark golden shade of brown from the hot southern sun. He decided how to deal with the men’s animosity. When they returned, he would pick out the one the rest looked to; the smartest, largest or strongest and thrash him in a demonstration.

  When the men sat down to lunch, having cobbled together their practice weapons, Soren went and prepared his own.

  They returned to the line they had formed that morning, all clutching the swords they made over lunch, all looking excited in the knowledge that making wooden practice weapons could mean only one thing. Soren gave the weapons a brief inspection. As he expected, they were all superior to his own. There were few sailors that could not turn their hand to working a piece of wood in a competent fashion. Nonetheless, his own was functional and would suffice.

  He’d decided who his victim would be: he’d easily identified the member of the group that the rest deferred to and commanded him to step forward.

  ‘In a moment I’m going to put you in pairs to practice what we worked on this morning against an opponent. First I’m going to give you a demonstration of what I want you to do.’ Soren turned his attention to the sailor that he had pulled out from the group. ‘Attack me!’

  There was a chorus of cheers and encouragement from the crowd, and also one or two calls for acts of extreme violence, but Soren’s chosen opponent came at him much as Soren expected; like a man trying to chop down a tree in a fit of rage.

  He was a big man, by far the biggest on the ship, and Soren had seen him turn the anchor windlass on his own, a feat that was testimony to his strength. As seemed to be the case with all sailors he was nimble too. His attack was all rage and didn’t bear even a hint of the techniques they’d been practising that morning. It was all that Soren could do to suppress a smile as he stepped out of the way, putting a gentle tap on the sailor’s sword to help push him even farther off balance than he would have been anyway.

  He thundered th
rough the spot where Soren had just been, his weight too far ahead of his feet. Soren gave him a kick in the backside, which sent the sailor sprawling face first into the sand. One of the other sailors chuckled, but quickly stifled it under the glares of his comrades.

  The big sailor pushed himself to his feet and moved toward Soren again, more slowly. His face was caked with sand and he blinked repeatedly to try and get it out of his eyes. His attack was more measured, just a swipe back and forth through the air that Soren stepped away from. As the sailor was about to step forward again to close the distance, Soren lunged forward, driving the tip of his sword into the sailor’s sternum, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  He collapsed back onto his backside, clutching his chest and straining to draw a breath. The sailor was less of a challenge than Soren had expected, even without drawing on the Fount.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing at another one of the gathered sailors. ‘When your friend is back on his feet, join in and help him.’

  The sailor looked at the others but got no reaction. They all seemed surprised at the ease with which Soren had put down the big man.

  His pride clearly injured, the big sailor got back to his feet, drawing in air more easily now. His friend moved around behind Soren, and Soren could see in the big sailor’s eyes that a signal had been sent and understood. Soren spun on the spot in time to deflect a high to low slash aimed at his head, which even with a wooden weapon would have done damage, and knocked him senseless at least.