by J. W. Webb
On the third day out from Kashorn, they lost sight of land. All around stretched open water. “We have made good progress,” announced Barin to his guests. “We should make Crenna on the eve of tomorrow.”
“What’s that?” Corin’s eyes were on the ocean ahead. He pointed out to sea, slightly off to starboard. Dark jagged shapes could be seen jutting out of the water; they resembled the broken teeth of some ancient leviathan.
“Those are the Teeth of Croagon,” replied Barin. “We will pass them shortly. They are a harbor for seals and seafowl.”
“That is no seal,” said the sharp-eyed Bleyne, pointing to the furthest rock. A figure stood there silhouetted against the sky. Soon they all saw him, an old man bent and stooping, shrouded by cloak and hood. On his left shoulder a large black bird perched silent. Corin cursed under his breath.
The Huntsman again.
He exchanged a worried glance with Ariane. Neither spoke.
They passed the rocky eyelets to port, their eyes fixed ahead, avoiding he who stood watching them in silence. The crew took to oar with grim faces, eager to be away.
Above, sails flapped, filled with sudden wind. It felt much colder. Racks of lowering cloud had swallowed the sun. Corin alone watched as they cleared the strange rocks and their silent witness dwindled to stern.
What is it you want with me, old man?
A sharp cry shattered his thoughts. Corin looked up, shielding his eyes with his right hand. He saw Fassof waving his arms about amid the blanket of sail.
“West away!” the mate yelled from his perch. “Dark sail on the horizon!”
“Friend or foe, I wonder,” muttered Roman, who stood at Corin’s right. Together they saw the square shape of a sail emerge above the waves. Barin stared hard at the sail for several minutes, his craggy face tense. It was coming straight toward them, swelling in size. Barin, at last recognizing the banner, swore a succession of colorful expletives. He knew that emblem well. He had good cause to. It was a golden boar snarling from a crimson background.
“Who is it, Captain Barin?” Ariane’s pale face was taught with anxiety.
“It is the ship of my enemy,” replied Barin. “See you. It bears the emblems of Leeth, of King Haal the Filthy.” Barin spat over the gunwale.
“May he rot in the churning pits of Uffarn!” Barin looked closer at the vessel and his scowl deepened. “It’s Daan Redhand himself, the King’s firstborn and my sworn enemy. He is sailing directly toward us!”
“Will he attack?” Cale squeaked from somewhere behind. The boy’s bravado was fading fast as he valiantly struggled with a necessary trip to the head below. He’d wedged himself between Roman and the Queen and scratched his ear nervously.
Cale had heard all about Leeth, heard what they did to their enemies in that horrible country. Kelthara wasn’t far from the border, and there were many stories. The twins had told him that they ate babies in that land and waged war starkers, even the women. He tried to hold his teeth together as he watched the square bulk of the ugly vessel pitch angry toward them.
“It is unlikely, boy.” Barin relaxed his gaze, seeing the worry in Cale’s eyes. “The men of Leeth prefer to fight on solid ground. They lack the maritime skills possessed by those of Valkador.”
Barin tugged his beard, pulling off a sizeable chunk. “I do wonder though,” he continued in a voice meant for all of them. “What would bring Redhand this far from his homeland? He was never one to roam far from the coast of Leeth, not like his brothers.”
They watched the ship approach. It was huge and bulky, sitting high on the water like an ungainly, swaying tower. Corin suspected it would be slower than the brig; it appeared unwieldy, arrogant in its construction, roughly square in shape, sporting four wooden turrets like a floating castle.
Corin had never imagined such a monstrosity. Later, Barin told him the craft was nothing more than a giant raft, the huge single sail dragging it across the ocean as though it were on skies.
Barin didn’t rate the construction, but then he didn’t rate anything about Leeth. It was gaudy, the timbers striped in yellow and red. They sprouted oars with haphazard abandon.
In silence they watched the monstrous vessel loom toward them, a menacing hulk pushing against waves and trailing foam in its wake. Shaggy men swamped the single deck, brandishing spears and axes, shouting and chewing their dirty beards. Corin exchanged a worried glance with Roman–not an encouraging sight.
They looked to be a grubby lot, their long hair stiff and spiky or else tied in wagging pleats. Cale’s eyes bulged; he pictured this lot seated round a campfire farting and cavorting whilst cooking their parents. A part of him wondered whether he should have stayed with Hagan, then he looked up at the Queen and set his jaw. Cale would not let her down.
The hulk loomed nearer, threatening to engulf them. At the last moment it passed to starboard, scarce thirty feet away, its broad beam awash with jeering tattooed faces. Corin was relieved to see no archers on board. Rather, they sported long spears and heavy bladed axes.
Below, waves churned and eddied in the narrow gap between the ships. Fassof held steady at the helm. In minutes the ships would pass each other’s wake and the danger would be gone. In the meantime, they must needs keep their heads.
A huge man shouldered his way through the throng. He was yelling at and punching anyone who didn’t move fast enough. This must Barin’s buddy, Corin thought.
Daan Redhand, warrior Prince of Leeth. He was huge, was Daan, towering over his men, who were also very big. The Prince was garbed in silver fur, his bare sinewy arms snaked with golden bands and rings. A gold circlet held his greying shaggy mane in place.
He looked arrogant and cruel. He alone of the company wore no tattoos. He grinned across the waves, sneering at them with massive arms folded and relaxed.
“So that’s the infamous Daan Redhand.” Ariane’s jet orbs sparked defiance. “This encounter should prove interesting.”
The Prince pulled back his rich fur cloak, revealing a long golden-hilted sword belted to his waist, together with a great twisted horn of some unspeakable beast. Gold hoops adorned the horn. He rested his ringed fingers on the rail and yelled across.
“Oi, Barin!” Daan’s voice was crow-raw, guttural and harsh. “The hour draws near when we meet in battle. My sword, Icefang, longs for your neck!”
“Why not now, Redhand, you piece of shite!” countered Barin with a shout. He hefted his huge axe, his face flushed in anger. “Wyrmfang is hungry!”
Prince Redhand laughed cruelly at his enemy’s defiant gesture. “I would sorely love to, as would my men!” Behind him his warriors roared and spat in agreement with their Prince. A few cast spears, which sank several feet short of the trader.
“Stop that, you morons.” Redhand’s eyes flashed with sudden anger, then he smiled again. Cale thought of a cat dismembering a mouse with a pair of small tongs. He was heartily glad the ship was already passing them astern.
“Unfortunately, I am somewhat pressed for time,” shouted the Prince. “My father, the King, and my brothers have recently departed Grimhold to invade Morwella and Kelthaine’s eastern borders.” He laughed at the horrified looks on their faces.
“I can see this is fresh news. I so like being the bearer of joyful tidings. In the coming weeks, the Boar banner of Leeth shall crown the parapet of Point Keep. Car Carranis will follow this winter.”
Redhand spread his brawny arms wide in a sweeping gesture. “I must hurry to join them for the slaughter whilst there is still plunder to be had and soft southern woman to be ploughed!” He made an obscene gesture with his fingers.
“You’re a fucking liar!” Ariane couldn’t contain her fury any longer. “Lord Halfdan holds Point Keep with his renowned Wolves; he will never surrender the city to shite like you!”
The Prince turned his attention on Ariane. He looked both surprised and amused to see her there. “I marvel at you, Barin, permitting a woman board your ship and letting her speak out
of turn!”
Ariane, livid, was about to shout back, but Roman clutched her arm. “Careful, my Queen,” he urged. “We don’t want your identity revealed to this bastard. You’d best remain silent.” Ariane nodded, but her look could have filleted the laughing Prince into edible chunks.
Redhand was still laughing, but he was further from them, standing haughty at the stern of his ship.
“When the last city in Kelthaine is reduced to ashes, I will come seeking you, Barin an Valkador,” he shouted through cupped hands. “Be patient until that day. It will not be long in arriving!” Redhand’s shouts faded from earshot. He raised the golden horn to his lips and blew three long blasts.
“Farewell, Barin!” Prince Redhand called after them. “We will meet again soon, and I shall drink from your skull!”
“Piss off!” Ariane yelled back, making the Prince roar with laughter.
“She’s a feisty bitch, Barin. You all taking turns?” Barin, lost for words, was chewing his beard and snarling.
Corin watched the vessel slip astern. Beside him, Bleyne notched an arrow to his bowstring.
“Leave it, Bleyne, not this time,” he told the archer. “This feud is a matter of honor between Barin and that barbarian shite. We dare not interfere.” Bleyne shrugged as if the concept of honor was a thing both alien and absurd. He stored the arrow and unstrung his bow.
“Anything to keep the peace,” Bleyne answered, then returned to his perch at the prow as if nothing untoward had occurred. Corin rolled his eyes. Bleyne wasn’t easy company.
Corin watched Redhand’s ship shrink with distance. Close by, the Queen and her champion were locked in deep debate. Redhand’s news had caused a deal of alarm. Corin found it hard to swallow. He recalled those halcyon days in the Wolves serving under Lord Halfdan. The Queen was right; that one would never let Point Keep fall into the hands of its enemies.
“It cannot be true!” Ariane was saying as Corin joined the debate now unfolding. “We heard no news from the east before I left Wynais. Point Keep is the second greatest castle in the Four Kingdoms, well able to withstand a long siege. Even from those bastards.”
“Do not believe that blackheart,” said Barin, whose face had almost returned to its normal color. “I doubt there was any truth in his words.” Ariane responded with a bleak smile. She then accompanied the ship’s master below decks. Cale followed, grinning with relief. Once below, they were joined by Galed, who still sported a greenish hue, evidently feeling the ill effects of the rolling waves.
Corin remained on deck for a time. He needed to think, and seeing the Huntsman again had unnerved him.
“I wonder what is really occurring back in the Four Kingdoms,” he pondered out loud. High above, the great Sea Eagle of Valkador swelled and billowed on the flapping lower main.
“I suspect we will know soon enough,” came a gravelly voice. Corin turned. Roman stood beside him. “Those devils have surely come from Crenna.”
“Think you the King of Leeth has formed alliance with Rael Hakkenon?” Corin’s eyes probed Roman. If so, then things were rapidly getting out of hand.
“We must assume so.” Roman looked despondent. Far behind, the tiny speck that was Redhand’s ship faded into sky and water. Once again they were alone on the ocean.
“What is it, my friend. Does something ail you?” Corin looked hard at Roman, concerned by his pensive expression. He was usually the one that moped. Roman had proved a good-natured robust companion. Corin liked him greatly, but there was something about the way he looked that troubled him.
Roman shook his head slowly before replying. “I don’t like being on this ship,” he owned. “It gives a man too much time to think, especially fighting men like us.” Corin nodded in agreement. “Something bothers me beyond the words of that bragging Prince. Something deeper, more profound.”
Roman stared hard at Corin; his bearded face lined with worry. “I think we are being used in some vast cosmic game, played out by gods whose dark purpose lies far beyond our comprehension. I fear that we are pawns to their whim.”
“You mean the Huntsman?”
“He is certainly part of it.” Roman paused before saying something very odd. “I will die on Crenna, Corin. I have dreamt it.”
Before Corin could think of a suitable reply, Roman left him to join the others below deck. Apart from Bleyne’s solitary shadow, curt Fassof at the wheel, and a few terse crewmen, Corin was alone on deck. He braced his legs against the rolling motion of the ship, letting it null his emptiness.
Corin felt gaunt, trapped by his emotions and helpless as a deer cornered by an unknown hunter. He didn’t like the feeling. Roman’s last words had alarmed him. He worried for his friend, hoping that it was just a mood brought on by their journey, a part of Roman he hadn’t seen before. He watched from the deck, his own mood dark as the mass of cumulus trawling the skies. Corin felt remote and lost, out of his depth. He thought of Ariane, of Crenna ahead, and of Finnehalle, lost in cloud and distance behind. What will be will be.
We are all pawns in a cosmic game…
Throughout that day the swell picked up. The oars had long since been racked and stowed, no longer needed, for there was plenty of wind. With so little to do, the companions brooded away the hours. Cale cheated at dice, and green-faced Galed cuffed him often, to scant avail. Barin talked at length with the Queen, whilst Roman avoided Corin’s eye, embarrassed by their earlier discussion.
Fassof minded the helm and yelled at his duty crew. Other crewmen diced and slept amongst coiled ropes and well-oiled cleats. Serene and silent as ever, Bleyne scanned the horizon from his perch on the bowsprit. Toward dusk the wind strengthened to gale. Waves mustered, formed ranks, and reared up high before them.
“Looks like storm coming,” said Ariane, observing their gloomy faces. Galed’s resembled pea soup. “Well at least it will shake off this melancholy mood that’s descended on all of us,” she added, frowning at Roman and Galed. “You two miseries are getting on my nerves.”
Barin was oblivious of the evident gloom resonating from his cabin. His craggy face loomed, grinning from the hatch above
“We’re nearing Crenna,” he beamed. The Queen nodded, smiling faintly. Everyone else ignored him. “With morning’s light we should raise the island’s snow-clad mountains,” added Barin, infused. “We have done well! Get what sleep you can. This night may prove a rough one.”
“Marvelous, that’s just bloody marvelous!” Galed grumbled. “I cannot sleep on board this churning bucket anyway!” He felt like he’d been turned inside out, his head thundered, and his stomach heaved in outrage and rebellion.
“I thought this already rough,” he complained to Cale, who appeared, much to Galed’s disgust, immune from any effect of the swell. The boy just grinned at him in that oh-so-annoying, spoilt-puppy way.
Little shite.
That night, nobody slept. The wind roared like a wounded beast. Towering waves crashed against the hull, immersing decks, battering and drenching the struggling crew as they wrestled with sheet and sail.
“Master Fassof, take a firm hand on that wheel, old chap!” roared Barin. “Steer her into the wind —there’s a good fellow. This breeze will have us in Crenna in no time!”
“I’m already fucking doing it!!” responded the fiery redhead, swinging on the helm like a demented monkey.
“Thank you!” Barin smiled. “He gets a bit stressed now and then,” Barin explained, though none were currently in earshot. Corin staggered across the cabin, cursing as an overripe melon bounced free of its precarious perch in a net and exploded pink in his face. Cale, watching from a corner, laughed at that. The boy covered his mouth when Corin glared across at him.
Beneath the table, Galed vomited furiously into a copper bowl. Both Ariane and Roman looked pale and unwell. The master’s cabin was awash with misery. Corin rolled his eyes in disgust.
He ventured out, gasping as a solid wall of salt water rammed into his face like an iron fist, dr
enching him in icy brine. He lost his balance then, tumbling back into the storm-tossed cabin below. Galed glanced up from his bowl, and Cale sniggered into his hands.
“Don’t say anything!” Corin glowered at the boy. He nursed a bruised head to accompany his wounded pride. Ariane, glancing up, managed a wan smile in his direction, evidently finding humor in his predicament. Enough. With a great yank, Corin heaved his bruised, soaking bulk onto the deck.
Barin shouted orders. Sails were reefed and the wheel lashed to port rail. Crewmen toiled aloft with curses whilst their fellows, with more curses, labored at oars, struggling valiantly to weather the storm.
Voice ragged from barking commands, Barin took hold of the wheel, freeing it from its lash. Skillfully he steered a course into the raging night. Timber creaked and groaned. Cold salt-laden wind lashed faces raw, colder water soaked their straining muscles, sapping their strength.
High above, Bleyne, having stowed his bow, was helping with the sails, cheerfully immune to the deluge. Corin seized an oar, waging his own private war with the storm. It was very dark. Spray and spume flew about, washing decks. Ropes came loose, were retied only to work loose again, and the great Sea Eagle of Valkador flapped wildly in the giddy blackness high above.
Toward dawn Corin joined Barin at the helm. Laughing, he took a turn on the wheel. His grin was unhinged, fuelled by adrenaline, wildly exhilarated by the storms wrath. It didn’t matter that icy rain pummeled his face blue. The storm raged through that long exhausting night, only abating with the onset of dawn.
Chapter 22: The Island of Thieves
Morning’s light revealed a calmer sea. Clouds thinned, and both timbers and voyagers groaned with relief. Sensuata, that notoriously capricious sea god, had wearied of His game and let them be. Barin’s men slumped motionless over their oars. Most were already asleep with exhaustion.
Corin was cold and tired. He managed a grin as his companions surfaced, all of them bleary eyed and shivering, except the boy, who looked like he’d enjoyed the rough and tumble night.