This man, though, held himself with surprising strength, given where Raz must have found him. His black eyes, set in a worn face framed by a heavily-silvered beard, gazed over the ocean beyond Syrah and Raz’s shoulders, watching the shrinking sails of the fleeing ship. He was nearly as much of a mess as the atherian, his threadbare shirt and shorts blotched with red splotches of crimson over old dirt and grime, his right eye rapidly swelling shut above a bloody lip. In one hand he gripped a shortbow likely salvaged from some dead pirate, the wood cracked and dented like he’d used the weapon as a club when he’d run out of whatever arrows he’d managed to scavenge. Behind him, five or six of the other slaves stood silently in similar states of reddened filthiness, shifting uncomfortably and looking nervously about, as though unsure if they were allowed to stand at all.
The rest of their number were scattered across the deck, kneeling and shaking over the mangled bodies of those who hadn't survived the fight.
“There were many more of our kind aboard that vessel,” the Percian was saying in a low, rough voice, still watching the retreating sails. “It is a terrible thing, to see it sail free…”
Raz nodded wearily. “I know. I’m sorry. I—” He staggered, and Syrah barely managed to catch and steady him before he fell to one knee. “I’m all right,” he told her gently, finding his balance. “Just a little tired.” His golden eyes fell back on the slave. “I’m sorry, Akelo. I would have liked the opportunity to free them of their chains as well. Believe that of me.”
Realizing what they were talking about, Syrah glared at the Percian. “Look at him,” she said angrily, holding tight to Raz’s arm to make sure he didn’t keel over. “He can barely stand. You think he would have survived taking on another crew on his own?”
The man—Akelo, Raz had called him—started and looked around at her in surprise, his swollen eye twisting half of his face into an involuntary grimace. He seemed to take her in, as though noticing her presence for the first time, black irises flitting over the pair of them as Syrah continued to support Raz. Akelo's expression was almost confused, like the sight of them—the atherian leaning into her, half-dead from exhaustion—had a meaning he hadn't even begun to consider.
Then the bow fell from his grasp, clattering against the wood of the deck, and Akelo’s whole body began to shake violently as he brought his bloody hands up to look at them.
“I… My… My apologies. No. Of course not.” His voice quavered, and he appeared unable to see anything more than the scars about his wrists. “It has been… has been many years since I have not felt the weight of iron on these arms. It’s not… It’s not real.”
“It’s not real for any of us,” one of the men behind him, a short West Isler, echoed quietly, his eyes on his own banded marks.
Syrah felt her anger dissolve. Helping Raz find the boat rail to lean on, she quietly asked him if he could stand on his own. When the atherian nodded, Syrah gave his arm one last squeeze, then stepped carefully toward the Percian. He flinched at her approach, like a dog accustomed only to beatings, but did not move away. His shaking became more pronounced, however, more violent, as she slowly reached up, hesitating before she could touch him. She wanted to, wanted to take his hands in her own and comfort him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. All the same, the motion caused her sleeve to slip up her arm, revealing the grey-red ring of knotted flesh around her wrist.
The man gaped at it, inhaling like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“It will be real,” she promised him, lifting her other arm to reveal the same ring. “In time, it will be real. For months you will wake up each morning terrified, convinced that your deliverance was nothing more than a cruel fabrication of dream. That will fade. You will find your place, your purpose. You will learn to live life again.”
“Live,” Akelo repeated shallowly, speaking like it was a foreign concept to him. “I… I-I don’t know if any of us know the meaning of that word anymore…”
Syrah smiled up at him, ducking her head so that he was forced to meet her eye again.
“You will,” she said encouragingly. “Trust me on that.”
The Percian nodded.
“Where are you from, Akelo?” Raz asked from his place leaning against the boat behind Syrah, and the Percian blinked before lifting his eyes to him. Around them, the shouting and cheering of the crew was dying down, replaced moment by moment with the moans and screams of the dead and dying.
“The heartlands, to the south,” Akelo answered slowly. “But that was a long time ago…”
“Do you want to see it again?”
“Raz…” Syrah said warningly, dropping the Percian’s hands and stepping aside as the atherian pushed himself off the rail with a grunt of effort and moved to stand beside her, leaning heavily on Ahna. “Maybe this isn’t the time…”
“Do you want to see it again?” Raz repeated, ignoring her as he stared at the slave intently.
Whereas most would have quailed under that gaze, it seemed only to invigorate Akelo.
“More than anything,” he said firmly, and Syrah felt a thrill as she saw something shine in the onyx depths of the man’s eyes. Light returned to him, a brief glow of life, like the first sparks of a fire catching hold.
“Then you know how to live,” Raz told him. “You have a reason. Hold onto that. Fiercely. With desire comes purpose. The rest… that will come with time, as Syrah said.”
The Percian’s face tightened, but it wasn’t in pain, or misery. Rather, he looked instead to be a man fighting to contain the overwhelming rush of a hundred different emotions as he realized, for the first time in what might well have been the better part of his existence, that he wasn’t living for the purposes of another anymore.
Indeed, as they watched, a single wet line traced down the old man’s wrinkled cheek, trailing from his blackened eye to cling to the coarse, silvering hair of his beard. Slowly, in twitching attempts that made it clear he hadn't managed such a thing in a very long time., Akelo smiled.
Then he fell to his knees and began to laugh, staring at his hands once again as more tears fell to pattern the bloody scars that marked both the end and beginning of his life as a free man.
CHAPTER 30
In the aftermath of the battle at sea, there was much to do. Fires required putting out, and the damage to the Sylgid’s hull and structure had to be accounted for and addressed. Blood needed to be scrubbed from the deck, and the wounded were carried down to the crew quarters where they were laid out in any cot, atop every table, and along any spare space of the compartment floor that could be cleared. Syrah spent the afternoon hurrying from patient to patient, treating what injuries she could with spellwork, but more often assisting in suturing lacerations or bandaging glistening burns that smelled of cooked meat. On several occasions she was called on to help in even more gruesome businesses, such as removing two arms and a leg that had been maimed beyond saving, or removing an arrow from the skull of a Southerner who miraculously still breathed. By the time most of the injured had been attended to, Syrah was in a grislier state than she’d ever been during the fight. She had traded her robes for a simpler tunic, but the state of her shirt and wool pants was so morbid she doubted the clothes could be saved. The edges of her rolled-up sleeves, once the worn paleness of undyed cloth, were so red they were almost black, and the front of her shirt and pants looked more like she had spent the last hours slaughtering livestock than rushing about the makeshift sickbay. Even as she weaved her magics to help the last of the wounded fall into a dreamless sleep, it took every ounce of her constitution not to crawl into the nearest corner of the cabin and hug herself while she fought to keep at bay the keening screams and sobs of pain and misery that lingered in her ears.
As evening fell, the dead were given to the sea. The Moalas—Akelo Aseni had given them the name of the captured vessel while staring up at its grey and maroon sales in loathing—remained tethered along the portside, and spare sheets from the pirat
e ship were used to wrap the bodies of the Sylgid’s fallen, as well as the seven slain slaves. In all, the still forms lining the starboard side of the deck numbered eighteen, the mismatched colors of their cloth coffins glowing a dim orange and red in the sunset. Argoan, scrubbed clean and in fresh clothes—though he sported a new scar across his left cheek—stood over the dead and said a few words. His wet eyes threated to ruin the newly applied war-paint across his face, but his voice was strong as he spoke, praising the bravery and sacrifice of the men and women before him. When he stepped away, Lysa shouted for a salute, and as one the survivors snapped to attention over the swaddled forms. Finally, the bodies were given to the waves.
The corpses of the Moalas’ crew, along with the rest of the slain pirates, Argoan had ordered be thrown into the Dramion without ceremony or fanfare.
After that, the entirety of the Sylgid’s company ate together atop the main deck. It was a celebration the likes of which Syrah didn’t know if she would ever be able to replicate, a simultaneous marking of their victory and a commemoration of the lives lost to win it. Argoan pulled out all the stops, opening up his small store of private rations for all, and the cooks had managed to prepare a decent stew of salted pork, softened hardtack, cheese, potatoes, and dried fruit flavored with various herbs and spices. Three full caskets of ale and mead were brought up from the hatch—Syrah hoped they wouldn’t be missed by whoever they’d been intended for—and within an hour or two a vast majority of the ship’s company was roaring drunk beneath the glow of a dozen torches and lanterns, alternating between singing bawdy tales and exchanging stories about the sailors who had passed on this day.
This time, Syrah stayed away from the alcohol.
Feeling much refreshed in a loose leather vest and clean cotton shorts she’d manage to borrow from Lysa, she sat with the first mate in the loudest corner of the frigate, at the base of the stern stairs. Several steps above them, Argoan was roaring like a madman, swinging his tankard aloft and bellowing along with the songs as his free arm hung playfully about the neck of one of the female sailors. He appeared about as inebriated as the rest of the crew, but Syrah had a feeling it was much an act for the sake of his men. Not once had she seen the captain get up to refill his cups, or relieve himself over the edge of the ship, and she frequently caught him gazing sadly at the moonlit water over the starboard bow, where the shrouded bodies had faded into the depths not so many hours ago. When he noticed her watching him, the captain just winked roguishly and returned to his singing, clearly intent on keeping up appearances.
All around them, some fifteen sailors sat on stools and coils of ropes they’d dragged up from below deck, or else leaned against the cabin walls and railings as they laughed and talked and occasionally burst out into random bouts of cheering or fighting. A few of the freed slaves, including Akelo and the West Isler Syrah had heard speak briefly earlier in the afternoon, lingered among them, scrubbed clean now. They were dressed in borrowed clothes and armor they’d pilfered from the dead pirates before the corpses had been heaved overboard, and now sat with wide eyes and stiff bodies as they attempted to weather the onslaught of sensations that was the celebration. The others, Syrah was pleased to see, were dispersed among the smaller parties of men and women about the ship, sticking together in quiet groups of threes and fours, but all looking as though they were at least attempting to have a good time. It warmed her heart in a curious way to see them like that. As strained as many of the men seemed, as much as they flinched from the touch of the sailors and clung to their bowls of stew like they were afraid the food would be ripped away from their hands at any moment, Syrah found her spirits lift as she watched them try.
The only person distinctly not having a good time, in fact, was the figure sitting on the deck at her feet, leaning back against her knees.
As the evening stretched on she had tried several times to drag Raz into conversation, but with little success. Sometimes Lysa—who was getting progressively redder in the face as the moon rose above them—would attempt to help her, punching the atherian in the shoulder and insisting he recount some particularly gruesome aspect of the battle, or demanding to know how many drinks he was in. He answered each time with feigned enthusiasm, but—similar to the captain seated above them—always returned to his somber silence, never attempting to engage any of the others around him as they talked and laughed. Syrah didn’t press him too hard. It had taken the help of several of the crew to lug enough water up from the sea to wash Raz’s scaled skin of blood, even after they’d removed his armor. She thought, perhaps, that the man was simply lost in his own consciousness, or maybe dwelling on the fact that he’d allowed the second vessel—the Red Turor, Akelo had called it—to escape unscathed with its hull full of slaves.
Her worry grew, though, when several hours into the festivities Raz abruptly stood and left their ring of celebrators, stepping through the group into the less-crowded space of the ship's deck.
No one else seemed to notice him leave. Lysa was deep in her own conversation, slurring her words as she flirted with a handsome seaman she’d pulled down to sit beside her some time before, and Argoan was once again staring out at sea with sad eyes, his female companion dozing against his shoulder and hiccupping pleasantly. Raz managed to slip through without anyone calling him to come back, or hailing him once more as the hero of the battle, and Syrah let him go, wanting to give him his moment of peace. For a time he stood at the ship’s edge, staring at the reflection of the moon and stars in the water, and she wondered if he, too, was thinking about the souls that had passed on this day. She couldn’t blame him. She was struggling with the deaths herself, still fighting to come to terms with this new understanding of the Lifegiver that her eyes were slowly being opened to. Still, she watched him, wondering what it was that he was tormenting himself with now.
And then, like a shifting of the light, Raz slipped across the Sylgid, sliding through the shadows like he was made of them.
Syrah’s eyes narrowed as she watched him deftly avoid the scattered pockets of other men and women drinking and enjoying themselves in the torchlight. She thought, for a moment, that he might simply be heading for their guest quarters, desiring to retire undisturbed. He made no move for the door of the cabin, though, and in the end she followed his dark outline toward the port rail.
Then, quiet as death, Raz stole across the gangplank that still spanned the gap between the Sylgid and Moalas, disappearing into the darkness of the night onto the captured ship.
“Excuse me,” she said at once, getting up so quickly she nearly spilled Lysa’s drink as she bumped into the woman’s elbow. She moved gingerly through the group, doing her best not to draw too much attention, but as she managed to push herself clear of the ring of sailors she thought she saw Akelo watching her, the former slave’s good eye following her across the ship.
She didn’t glance back to see if she was right.
Syrah discovered quickly that she wasn’t nearly as adept as Raz when it came to maneuvering undisturbed through the celebrations. On three different occasions men and woman caught sight of her and attempted to drag her into their merrymaking, requiring her to bow out politely and wave away offered mugs of frothing mead. By the time she made it to the end of the gangplank, Syrah knew at least a few people were watching her curiously, but she ignored them. Hauling herself up onto the makeshift wooden bridge, she was positive that no one would want to follow her onto the deck of the Moalas. The bodies Raz and Lysa’s group had cut down had been cleared, tossed into the sea to feed the bottom feeders along the ocean floor.
No one, though, had wanted to waste more time on cleaning the rest of the deck.
Syrah found herself pressing a hand over her nose and mouth as she dropped off the gangplank onto the pirate vessel, the hard heels of her leather boots clomping onto the old wood. The air was sour about her, almost rancid, and she could taste iron in her mouth as she looked about for a sign of Raz. The blood had dried in the hours since
the fight, patterning what she could make out of the deck in shapes and splatters and slashes of black beneath the moonlight. Flies buzzed even in the night, and though the Sylgid wasn’t more than ten feet behind her Syrah felt as though the sounds of the crew’s festivities were distant here, like the cheer of the other ship was dulled by the distinct aura of death that hung over the Moalas. She felt a chill as she took in the outline of the boat against the shimmering water beyond it, the utter stillness of the place bringing to mind stories the others had told her of ghost ships that sailed the seas, steered only by the dead.
Making matters worse, the atherian was nowhere to be found.
“Raz?” Syrah called out softly, hands clenched in fists by her side as she tried to swallow her fear. “Raz, where are you?”
No answer.
Taking a shaking breath, she stepped further onto the deck, feeling the boards creak ominously beneath her feet, still casting about for signs of the man. The twin masts towered above her, sails lifted and strapped so that the booms and riggings looked like giant skeletons leering down at her. Rats skittered along the rails, making her jump, and there was a groan as the boat swayed, the helm to her left spinning slowly back and forth with the current.
As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4) Page 33