Nameless: Bones of the Earth I-III

by J. C. Hendee

  Karras watch suspicion flood the shirvêsh’s features.

  “We have always stood by Malourné and its people, and they with us,” Gän’gehtin said. “Do not fiddle about with this! Malourné in turn is allied to Witeny.”

  Fiáh’our spat on the dock, and Karras wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Those two nations are not as friendly as you think,” the thänæ countered. “That will not improve if some favor debt is paid, especially to Maksœín mercenaries serving Witenon merchants. These longboaters have other customs where deeds of favor are concerned….”

  Karras waited anxiously, but the old thänæ was silent for too long.

  “What are you up to?” Gän’gehtin asked quietly.

  Fiáh’our chuckled. “Even a bit of cattle thievery, amid favor barter, is not unknown among their land-bound clans.”

  Gän’gehtin shook his head with an exhausted sigh.

  Karras did not understand any of this, but as he peered down the long dock, he wondered about this human pulled from the ocean who was the focus of so much trouble. He had stepped—no, been bullied—from failure with Skirra into the grip of a madman. Now it appeared he would be dragged into a political disaster of the bulky braggart’s making. And he peeked over the dock’s edge at the dark water between two tied-off skiffs.

  Would it be any worse to step off and sink? He could clamber along the bottom and reach the shore well before he drowned. But he did not do so, and not because he feared he would not make it.

  Suddenly, Karras did not care for the shame of it, when he came out of that water. He was sick of the thänæ’s insults, and besides, whatever happened here would all be on Fiáh’our’s head.

  6. Prank in the Making

  Fiáh’our stalked the dock’s planks with his makeshift squad in tow, knowing that only Gän’gehtin would be worth a wit if it came to a fight. Yes, there were clan warriors at hand, but should battle break out, the dock’s end would allow few if any to close in. He could not let that happen, not for the most part.

  He might have to politely thump a Maksœ’ín or two, but that was just the way among warriors. Bumps and bruises were the same as a good shouting match in a telling duel or the “bear” peoples’ wager of boasts over too much ale.

  Then there was Karras.

  If the young one thought Fiáh’our had not noticed that long glance off the dock’s side… well, it appeared the kitten found getting wet less appealing than what waited ahead. They had rescuing to do, and though Karras was no warrior, he would do for what Fiáh’our had in mind.

  Maybe the young one would even get a thump or two. That might stiffen his spine, not that Fiáh’our would let any real harm come of it. Then he spotted one familiar acquaintance ahead.

  Ruddy-faced Lêt’vöulsat stood near the aft end of a fat bellied, two-masted ship docked along the way. His auburn beard was properly full, though it puffed up around his face like wooly moss, and he had a nose reminiscent of a shovel’s backside. Fully girded in a scaled mail shirt and iron-banded helmet, he had his oak spear in hand.

  Lêt’vöulsat could knock a tankard out of a grip at fifty paces. Better than that, he was clan-kin and had trekked with Fiáh’our more than once. All it took was an exchange of nods, including one from Gän’gehtin, and Lêt’vöulsat fell in behind the watch. At this, the young one glanced back.

  Before Karras opened his mouth, Fiáh’our silenced him with a warning glare, and then he began searching along the dock. When his gaze caught on what he needed, he swung out his arm to hold the young one and the others in place.

  On a crate between two watchful clan warriors was a good coil of rope. It was thick and strong, with a three-pronged iron grappling hook, the kind used to pull in drifting skiffs or help dock a smaller vessel.

  Fiáh’our grabbed up the rope and hook before resuming down the dock.

  “What is that for?” Gän’gehtin asked.

  “Peace of mind,” he answered. “Or to haul me out, should I end up going for a cold bath.”

  The shirvêsh took a deep breath, holding it with pursed lips, and Fiáh’our grinned. He would not share everything, for that was no way to play a prank. It would take something sudden and shocking but simple to get the prisoner out of this. Especially without a favor debt or payment in exchange.

  Fiáh’our glanced down at his other side to find Karras peering warily ahead, his features taut as he eyed the longboat. At least he was not looking for another way to flee, and Fiáh’our looked ahead as well.

  Indeed, the longboat was huge, likely six or more strides across the midpoint. The useful part, for what he had in mind, was that it was too big to be hewn from one tree and had been framed and planked like a ship. Eight steel embossed oaken shields were mounted on the near side, so indeed sixteen oars for the vessel. That the shields were still mounted to defend rowers, or anyone in waiting on board, was both bad and good. It meant those aboard were wary but had not pulled the shields to ready for a fight.

  Both narrow masts were bare, with their large square sails rolled up to the crossbeams. The near end of the closest beam hung out over the dock’s end, way up high. And those aboard the longboat watched the approach with several oil lanterns hung or set about the vessel.

  One massive man stood with a much shorter companion at the longboat’s midpoint. He was two yards high, maybe more, or perhaps the short one made it appear so. His sandy colored beard and long hair of multiple braids looked dull even under the whale’s oil lamp hung on the nearest mast. Watchful but relaxed and poised, even a child could have guessed him the leader.

  Maksœ’ín valued might as well as courage, but it was worse than that. Their kind clothed themselves and kin in skins and hides from their hunts. Under the lantern’s yellowish glow, the leader’s cloak was a huge pelt of nearly white fur. It was made from the hide of a massive ice bear.

  Fiáh’our would not have willingly chosen to face such a beast.

  He studied the rest of the crew and noticed something odder still: there were only thirteen. At least eighteen would have been best: sixteen to row, one steersman, and then the leader. Either they were shorthanded or some were in hiding, though he could not see how. Not even a makeshift tent was rigged on the longboat.

  Most of the Maksœ’ín were in the vessel’s rear half. Only two stood the other way a little beyond the leader and his short companion. One of those stared off into the dark toward the bow, where there was no lantern at all, while the other fidgeted too much behind the first. Neither looked Fiáh’our’s way as he closed on the dock’s end, but he confirmed one thing and learned another.

  The prisoner was still low in the bow below the tall curling sprit. And the crew was afraid to get near him again, so likely he was alone.

  Much as Gän’gehtin claimed no catching illness was involved, coastal Maksœ’ín did not scare this easily. Fiáh’our could only hope that his friend was right as he stopped a few paces short of the dock’s end.

  Karras took an extra step and quickly shuffled back into place, bumping into one of the watch following too close behind.

  Fiáh’our glanced back at the left watchman and whispered, “What language did they use with you?”

  “Their own and a bit of ours,” the watchman answered. “It took some fuss to understand them, but how they knew… the name I let slip…” And he shrugged.

  Fiáh’our turned back to find the Maksœ’ín leader watching only him.

  “Start in Numanese,” he whispered to Gän’gehtin. “I want to test something. Do not let them know we understand their tongue.”

  “They already spoke with the watch,” Gän’gehtin countered.

  “Even so, they do not know what languages you and I understand. We will throw them off a bit.”

  Gän’gehtin nodded and took a step forward before calling out, “Alívednez béat-stap’n ant hwerfan?”

  “You understand that?” Fiáh’our whispered to Karras.

  “Of course,” the y
oung one grumbled. “My family has done business with Numan cultures for three generations.”

  That accounted for much of Karras’s problem with Skirra—too much dealing in Numan or general human ways and not enough of his own people’s. At Gän’gehtin’s request to approach and barter, Fiáh’our quickly scanned all aboard the longboat.

  The leader frowned deeply, cocked his head a bit, and looked to his smaller companion. That scrawny one, dressed in motley pelts, shook his head in confusion, and another nearer the stern called out. The leader turned, and at their exchange, it was clear that even that other one did not fully understand what had been asked.

  Fiáh’our had what he needed.

  It all explained why these Maksœ’ín had not learned the prisoner’s identity before coming here. They did not know enough of the right language to speak with him. These longboaters had to be from far up north, something Fiáh’our already suspected by the leader’s cloak. This deepened the mystery of why they were this far south, and even farther, in tow with Witenon cargo hulks.

  It also meant Fiáh’our had a way to communicate with Gän’gehtin. When the moment came, their adversaries would not understand quickly enough.

  As the leader barked a command, the scrawny one called out, “I no Numan word’es. You speak you word’es. Come.”

  Gän’gehtin stepped onward to the dock’s end. Fiáh’our followed a little behind, holding the young one back. The Maksœ’ín leader’s gaze shifted to the rope and grappling hook in his hand.

  “We need to see your prisoner,” Gän’gehtin demanded. “If he is ill, he must have attention while we barter.”

  The scrawny one hesitated, perhaps not catching every word. Before he turned to the leader, Fiáh’our gestured to his own eyes, then to Gän’gehtin, and finally toward the longboat’s bow.

  At the little one’s prattle, the leader looked from Fiáh’our to the shirvêsh and then toward the pair to his left nearer the bow. The steadier of that pair whispered something, and the fidgeting one shook his head.

  Fiáh’our understood their language well enough, though he had not caught what was said. All that mattered was if the leader would cow his underlings into getting near a “plague” victim again. And the big Maksœín whispered a few words to the little one.

  “You come… no weapon’es,” the scrawny one called out to the shirvêsh.

  A pair of Maksœín from the stern hurried in to remove two shields and make an entrance. Gän’gehtin took the lantern from the trio of the watch and then pulled his iron-shod cudgel to crouch and lay it on the dock’s end.

  “Go with him and do as he says,” Fiáh’our whispered to Karras.

  “What?”

  “Shut your maw and move!”

  He grabbed the shoulder of Karras’s vestment, jerked the young one forward, and shoved him out as the shirvêsh rose. The leader swatted aside his bearskin cloak and reached for a heavy sword on his hip. Gän’gehtin turned his back on the longboat and frowned at the sight of a panicked Karras.

  “Take the healer with you,” Fiáh’our commanded the shirvêsh, and then he eyed the leader. “Care first, barter later!”

  The tall Maksœ’ín still gripped his sword as the scrawny one translated. Gän’gehtin reluctantly faced the longboat.

  “Healer… curer… medicine,” he rambled, pointing from Karras to the longboat’s bow.

  At that, Karras’s mouth gaped.

  Perhaps his plain panic helped, for the leader grunted with a sneer, jutting his chin toward the bow as he waved his men off. Gän’gehtin did not look back, and as Fiáh’our watched, his friend stepped up heavily upon the longboat’s tall edge.

  The vessel rocked under a rughìr’s sudden great weight.

  Fiáh’our’s snorted in satisfaction, but as Gän’gehtin stepped down into the longboat and called out bitterly “come with me… healer,” Fiáh’our knew he had not heard the last of this from his friend. That would wait and, as Karras still stalled…

  Fiáh’our reached out and shoved the young one after the shirvêsh.

  7. Doubts about a Doubt

  Karras stumbled forward as Gän’gehtin’s first step came off the longboat’s edge. Big as the longboat was, it rocked visibly, and the littlest barbarian shouted at the shirvêsh.

  “Not hard walk, big rock!”

  Both that one and the leader quickly widened their stances to keep their balance. Guttural curses carried among the others toward the stern as the shirvêsh stood waiting.

  Karras bit his tongue and stepped more carefully on the longboat’s thick edge. It rocked less this time. Being on water was something he knew well. It was a little surprising that the shirvêsh had been so careless.

  When he stepped in before Gän’gehtin, he did not look back at Fiáh’our. He was too busy eyeing all of these filthy barbarians eyeing him, especially the one in the dingy, white fur cloak.

  Scars ran up and down the big human’s tanned forearm, right above that hairy hand gripping the sword’s hilt. By the sheath’s width, the blade within it was broad and heavy enough for a clan warrior, though perhaps a bit long.

  Karras jumped slightly when Gän’gehtin backhanded him across the shoulder to get his attention. The shirvêsh frowned, eyes intense, as he pointed sharply towards the bow. Karras did not budge. He would not be the first to approach a plague victim, no matter what ruse into which he had been shoved.

  Gän’gehtin shook his head in disgust and headed off toward the bow.

  Karras began to dislike the thänæ’s self-righteous companion almost as much as the old boar, but he followed three steps behind. The two barbarians toward the bow shifted away to let the shirvêsh pass. Karras kept his eyes on the back of Gän’gehtin’s white vestment so as not to look at either of those big humans. Nonetheless, the hairs on the back of his necked prickled when that last pair was behind him and beyond sight.

  Gän’gehtin raised the lantern high, lighting the way, and Karras spotted someone ahead in the bow curled up beneath a large black-furred hide. At least these barbarians had covered the man up, whoever he was, after pulling him out of the ocean. But Karras slowed even more, hanging back, for the closer they got to that huddled form, he saw…

  The man’s eyes were open.

  Even in the shirvêsh’s quiet approach, those eyes did not turn. With the man’s head lying sideways against a stuffed canvas sack, he merely stared at the hull’s sidewall. Nor did he blink as the shirvêsh stopped above him; he only choked, as if breathing was difficult. A slightly hooked but long narrow nose centered his equally long features framed by hair that was still half-wet. But Karras stared mostly at the man’s strange eyes.

  Their color was almost too bright for lantern’s light and like nothing he had ever seen in human irises. For an instant he could not even find a way to describe them. Perhaps they were most like a phosphorescent glow from a jellyfish deep beneath storm-churned seawater. And the man was so pale, his narrow face still covered with drops of the ocean, including one clinging just above his…

  Karras saw three dark thin lines running across the side of the man’s throat, right below the man’s sharp jawline. Were those bruises? He could think of nothing that might cause such perfectly thin and parallel marks.

  “What is wrong with him?” he asked.

  Gän’gehtin crouched, setting the lantern aside. With one hand, he ever so gently turned the man’s face toward himself. Only then did the prisoner appear to see him.

  The man’s thin and pale lips parted no more than for a tongue-tip, but all that came out was a gagging sound. The shirvêsh leaned in, carefully wiping droplets from the man’s face with his other hand, and he whispered too softly.

  Karras grew horrified at the strange sickness that he saw, but he inched closer, trying to hear what the shirvêsh said.

  “…and soon. Do you understand me… Highness?”

  At those words in Numanese, Karras turned stiff and cold. Pieces of what he had heard this night came tog
ether as he stared at those strangely colored irises.

  A man had been found adrift in the ocean beyond the great bay to the main port of Malourné. His family was searching for him, which meant by ship, perhaps more than one. It was all wrapped up in alliances and their potential through a misspoken name that drove these barbarians to greed after rescuing or capturing him.

  And Karras remembered hearing of such eyes.

  “reskynna?” he whispered.

  Gän’gehtin’s head whipped around as he hissed in Numanese, “Silence! They will hear you.”

  Karras’s mouth snapped closed.

  There were few who had not heard at least once of the royals of Malourné and their strange eyes. Amid fright and dealing with the thänæ, he had not thought of this. What those eyes meant, no one knew, and this man was far too young to be King Leofwin. He must be one of the two princes among the three heirs, either… what were their names?

  What was a prince of Malourné doing out alone at sea, if he had been alone?

  “Do not say anymore,” Gän’gehtin whispered, again in Numanese. “For what Fiáh’our may have in mind, we need the Maksœ’ín to doubt this man’s identity.”

  Karras was all the more confused, though he carefully answered in the same tongue.

  “But the watch told them—”

  “All the worse,” Gän’gehtin warned, “so do not confirm it!”

  Karras hesitantly peered over his shoulder. Back near the longboat’s midpoint, the nearest two barbarians were still watching. Beyond them, so was the big one in the white fur cloak.

  “Well, is he alive or not?”

  Karras spun fully around at Fiáh’our’s bellow in their own tongue. The old thänæ had his fists on his hips where he stood on the dock’s end before the cowering trio of the watch and the one other warrior.

  “Yes, barely,” Gän’gehtin called back. “But I do not think he is who they say he is.”

  “What?” the thänæ snapped in irritation. “How could you not…”

  Fiáh’our turned an angry glare on the biggest barbarian.