'I couldn't ask for a better man at my back,' Byren said with a smile, 'in ten years time.'
'I wish I was ten years older now!' Leif muttered.
'And I wish I was well. If wishes were fishes we'd never go hungry!' Byren sheathed the sword. How was he going to defeat the overlord, when Palatyne held Rolenhold and his army rode across the valley terrorising the farmers?
He needed allies. He needed the support of warlords from the five spars. True, they had sworn fealty to his father only this midwinter just passed, but he couldn't appear before them weak from an injury and alone. They respected strength. It was his father's strength that had kept them in line.
He needed time to heal and gather loyal valley men. Then Overlord Palatyne would regret he had ever set foot in Rolencia.
The second time Fyn woke it was to the deep roll of the open sea and unremitting nausea. The hatch above him was open and he could see the silhouette of a small man against the cold blue light of the winter sky.
'He's moving. Lift him outta there, Jaku,' the man said in the trading dialect of Ostron Isle. A large arm reached in, caught Fyn by his tied hands, hauled him out and set him on his feet on the deck as if he weighed no more than a puppy.
Fyn's staggered a few steps before recovering his balance. His head spun. It was mid-morning and the sun was blindingly bright, sparkling off the sea. He stood between two masts. Great sails rose high above him, their horizontal ribs of fine, flexible wood creaking as the wind buffeted them petulantly.
He could invoke Halcyon's blessing and ask to be returned to port, but that would only work if this was a Rolencian ship, and he feared they were Ostronites. He squinted up at the mast, high above, to identify the ship.
It flew no flag and his skin went cold.
He studied the sailors. They wore a variety of clothes from the attire of a poor fisherman, through spar warrior, to Ostronite. He was out of luck. They were mercenary scum. Little better than the Utland raiders they resembled. Desperate, vicious men, they had committed crimes that had led to their banishment from the civilised lands of Rolencia, Merofynia and Ostron Isle. Calling the Utlands home, they roamed the sea flying false flags to get near their prey, honest merchant ships.
How had he ended up on this vessel? He remembered fighting that Power-worker and failing.
It made no sense.
Fyn searched the horizon. He could see the snow-capped peaks of a distant land, though whether it was one of the Utlands, the tip of a warlord's spar or the mainland of Rolencia, he could not tell.
The ship's timbers creaked as the vessel rode the troughs and peaks of the waves. The deck moved under his feet. Fyn failed to compensate. He fell to one knee, jarring his body and making his head ache.
'A fish outta water, Bantam.' The one who had man-handled him so easily grinned. He spoke the Ostronite trading dialect with the accent of a Merofynian.
'Empty your guts on the deck and you'll have to clean it up,' Bantam warned, then grabbed Fyn's bound hands and undid the knots with a practised flick of his strong, thin hands. Sailor's knots. 'You understand?' he asked in Ostronite, then switched to Rolencian. 'Or do I have to speak the tongue you sucked from your mother's tit?'
'I understand.' Fyn spoke Ostronite. His mother had made sure he was conversant in the languages of the three great powers. He rubbed his wrists. The ship slid into another trough. His stomach recoiled. With a groan, he staggered past Bantam to the side and leaned over to throw up.
The big one laughed, not unkindly.
Eyes watering, Fyn wiped his face and turned around to confront the older man. Now that he had a closer look, Bantam was not old, just worn by a sailor's hard life. A faded scar puckered the corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent half-grin, but his eyes were cool and calculating.
All the while, Bantam used the tip of a wicked little dagger to clean under the nails of his left hand. Despite his casual air, he watched Fyn closely. As he put the knife away his jerkin gaped open and Fyn saw a small tattoo amid the scars over his heart.
A butterfly... no, an abeille. Relief hit him, for this was the symbol of Ostron Isle. Part bird, part butterfly with beautiful double wings, this Affinity beast was as industrious as a bee, which was why the busy merchants of Ostron Isle had adopted it.
Fyn felt his knees tremble with relief. He might not be amongst friends but at least he was not amongst enemies. They were not lawless men at all, but daring sea-hounds. Sworn enemies of the Utland raiders, they hired themselves out to defend merchant convoys. And, on occasion, they formed fleets to hunt down the raiders. In this case, the booty they took remained their property. They had to be brilliant sailors, every bit as tough as the Utland raiders they hunted.
Unless... the tattoo dated from a time before this cocky little man was banished from Ostron Isle.
Fyn studied Bantam and took a gamble. 'If you're from Ostron Isle, what does the Merofynian Power-worker have to do with you?'
'I wouldn't know anything about a Power-worker. We're sea-hounds serving under Cap'n Nefysto, aboard the Wyvern's Whelp. Count yourself lucky, lad. You could have been press-ganged by the Merofynian navy and made to serve their king,' Bantam told him. 'Little Jakulos here ran off. Show the monk the way King Merofyn paid for your loyalty, Jaku.'
The giant slipped the shirt off his massive shoulders revealing a tattoo of a jakulos on his chest. These Affinity beasts were elegant, winged sea-snakes. Clearly, this was not the big man's real name, no more than Bantam was the other's. Although, the little man suited his assumed name better, reminding Fyn of a sprightly rooster as he strutted about the deck.
Jakulos turned. This time he revealed multiple scars, some older than others, crisscrossing the muscles of his broad back.
Fyn blinked. He knew life at sea was hard, but knowing it and seeing the evidence were two different things.
'As a Merofynian mariner you'd get a copper a week and a whipping for objecting. As a sea-hound you get a share of the booty and tipped overboard for objecting,' Bantam grinned, amused by his own wit. 'We lost some men after a disagreement with an Utland raider, so there's a place for you with us. What'll it be, monk?'
Fyn looked into Bantam's hard eyes and knew the man would have no compunction tipping him overboard.
It could be worse, at least he wasn't dead. It seemed Halcyon had been watching over him last night. The Power-worker must have dumped Fyn down by the wharfs, where he'd been picked up by the sea-hounds. Press-ganging unlucky men and boys to serve on ships was common practice. The only part Fyn did not understand was why the Power-worker had not turned him over to Palatyne, but he put that puzzle aside for now, grateful to be alive.
The ship dipped and Fyn's head swam. He gave a heart-felt groan.
'You'll get your sea legs in a day or so,' Jakulos told him, cheerfully, his deep voice rumbling. He gestured to a bucket of slops. 'Now, make yourself useful and be sure to throw downwind.' He laughed.
Despite his stomach's revolt and the thudding in his head, Fyn made no move to pick up the bucket. He had to return to Rolencia. Byren needed him. He had been a fool to go after the overlord alone.
Clearly he was not an assassin, but he could still help his brother. He might even risk using the Fate to find Byren, since it seemed the noble Power-worker, although not an ally, was not his enemy. 'I must return to Rolencia.'
'Is the little monk giving trouble, Bantam?' a newcomer asked, speaking Ostronian with a cultured accent.
'Nothing I can't handle, cap'n.'
Fyn turned. Captain Nefysto was not much older than Lence. Tall and spare, his skin was browned by the sun. Long black hair was pulled back and threaded with onyxes that winked in the sunlight. Three silver wyvern earrings dangled from his right ear. Sailors were notoriously superstitious, and it was said that silver wyverns, worn through the ear or around the neck, would protect one from attack.
A viridian, padded silk coat fringed with black lace stretched across Captain Nefysto's shoulders. Its hem
brushed his knees, meeting knee-high boots. As he strode towards them the coat flapped open, revealing tight leggings. He might look like an Ostronite abeille but his hard thigh muscles told another story. Fyn would not make the mistake of underestimating him.
He guessed he was probably a younger son of one of the five princely merchant families of Ostron Isle, out to make his fortune. This gave Fyn hope.
He bowed to the captain, as befitted his rank. 'I am from Halcyon Abbey. As one man of learning to another, I ask that you return me to Port Marchand.'
Nefysto's lips twitched. His men gathered around to watch and a bad feeling settled in the pit of Fyn's stomach. While sea-hounds might be the sworn enemies of Utland raiders, they were not like his father's men-at-arms.
The captain stepped closer to inspect Fyn's scalp tattoos. 'What is a monk of Halcyon doing dressed as a fisherman? Spying on Overlord Palatyne?'
Since this was close to the truth Fyn could only shrug. His head throbbed every time he moved and his stomach heaved. He did not feel ready to confront this hard-eyed, young captain. He must not reveal who he really was, or that he could lead them to Byren. Nefysto's assumption would do. 'Overlord Palatyne lured the warriors of Halcyon Abbey into an ambush. He murdered the remaining boys and old men. I am sworn to avenge his treachery.'
'You might be, but the internal politics of kingdoms mean nothing to sea-hounds like us. We're kings in our own right, kings of the sea.' Nefysto gave Fyn a thoughtful look. 'You saw this attack happen?'
Fyn nodded.
'Get these lazy sea-snakes back to work, Jaku,' the captain said. He caught Fyn's eye. 'You may yet prove useful. Bring him to my cabin, Bantam.'
Fyn held his tongue as Captain Nefysto led him to the cabin under the high rear deck. A bank of windows ran across the bow of the ship, books sat behind glass-fronted shelves. Rolled maps were tucked into neat little niches. Everything was finished in polished wood, gleaming brass and glass.
From behind a screen came one bird song after another. Surely a dozen birds could not be caged in so small a space? Fyn identified a smell that reminded him of Piro's foenix and he made the connection. Could they be rare pica birds?
Ostron Isle was renowned for taming and breeding these Affinity beasts in captivity. Pica birds were natural mimics, and could be taught to mimic human speech in a sing-song way. They mated for life and the female could find her way back to the male no matter how far they were separated. Through judicious use of pica birds, the elector of Ostron Isle kept himself informed of developments across the known world.
It seemed Nefysto was more than just a sea-hound out to line his pockets. Fyn returned his attention to the captain, who dropped into the chair by the desk and propped his booted feet on the polished wooden top. He steepled his fingers, watching Fyn thoughtfully.
'How fresh is your news, little monk?'
'Seven - no, eight days, maybe nine. Overlord Palatyne has taken Rolenhold, though I don't know how he breached their defences.'
The door opened behind Fyn and he turned to see Bantam.
'What else can you tell me about Rolencia?' the captain asked. 'What is the fate of the royal family?'
'Rolencia is full of rumour.' Which was true enough. 'Merofynian soldiers roam the valley hunting for Byren Kingson. As for the rest of the royal family, people say they are dead.'
'Put him to work, Bantam.' Nefysto swung his boots off the desk. He grinned with gallows humour. 'We've had all kinds on the Wyvern's Whelp, but never a monk. We should be honoured.'
The captain dipped a quill in the ink and began writing. Fyn tilted his head, trying to catch the name the captain wrote with a flourish across the top of the page.
'It's code, boy.' Bantam clipped him over the ear. 'The captain writes in code. Back to work.'
Fyn hurried to obey, his ear still burning from the blow. He did not need to read the name to guess who the captain reported to. For all he knew, Nefysto was a younger son of the elector's own family. Hounding Utland raiders was considered an honourable, if dangerous, line of work, for someone from Ostron Isle. Rolencia and Merofynia encouraged the sea-hounds, because they helped keep the sea-lanes free of plunderers.
Once on deck, Bantam turned to Fyn. Despite being smaller than him, the little sea-hound exuded an air of menace. 'I'm quartermaster of this ship, which means my word is as good as the captain's. Now listen, lad, I'm not impressed by your fancy heathen tattoos. Behave yourself or you go overboard.'
Fyn shuddered. He could swim, but in the open sea, at this time of year, he would be dead of cold before the wyverns crunched his bones.
Bantam set him to work beside Jakulos, who was the ship's boatswain, in charge of the anchors, cordage and rigging. Jaku put him alongside a youth about his own age. Fyn did his best to keep up as they lowered the sails, now that the wind was rising. Fyn didn't understand why the captain wanted to slow their pace, but he'd learnt at the abbey to keep his head down and watch, so this was what he did.
The light wooden slats running horizontal across the sail had a concertina effect. Fyn was glad he had a good head for heights, if only the deck would stop swaying.
Hanging over the cross beam he saw a black and white bird fly up from the captain's cabin windows at the rear of the ship and disappear to the east. He guessed it was on its way to Ostron Isle.
What his father would have given for some pica Affinity beasts. But the electors of Ostron Isle kept the breeding and training of their messenger birds a closely guarded secret.
Fyn climbed down and returned to Jaku.
'Does the ruler of Ostron pay well for information?' Fyn asked Jakulos.
The big man laughed. 'The elector is dying. The nobles eat and drink and watch, waiting like vultures for him to drop so they can bicker over the electorship!'
Fyn frowned. If that was so, then who was Nefysto reporting to? There had to be a power behind the elector.
It did not concern Fyn. He would bide his time and obey Bantam on the Wyvern's Whelp until they put into Ostron Isle, where he would jump ship and barter a berth back to Port Marchand.
Piro found it hard to say goodbye to Rolencia. She bit her bottom lip as she stood on the ship's deck, watching Port Marchand recede. True, they had yet to cross the bay and sail through the headlands, where Sylion Abbey perched high on the cliff, but it was symbolic, seeing the grand houses of Port Marchand fade in the distance.
High above her the sails, with their ribs of fine wood, caught the wind, creaking with the strain. If it hadn't meant leaving her homeland behind, she would have been excited. Her mother had told her so many stories about Merofynia, she felt as if she knew the palace already.
As it was, she couldn't help thrilling to the sight of their vessel sailing in formation with seven other fat-bellied merchant ships, all heavy with Rolencian booty, laden with warriors to fight off raiders. As well as this, four sea-hounds - fleet shallow-draught vessels, race-horses to the merchant plough-horses - kept pace with them, offering a further deterrent.
As long as she kept out of the overlord's way, she'd be safe. But that was hardly a plan. Until she could free her essence from the amber pendant, she dared not run away from Lord Dunstany. Frustration ate at her.
Dunstany's servant, Soterro, joined her at the rail. 'His lordship wants you.'
She took a step back. 'How long will it take to reach Port Mero?'
'Five days with a good wind, never if we meet up with pirates.'
He sounded so lugubrious, she laughed.
'Don't mock me. Our holds are crammed with Rolencian treasure, the perfect lure -'
'And hundreds of warriors, plus four shiploads of sea-hounds. That should be enough to keep us safe!'
Byren sat by their smokeless fire that night, pleased to see Florin happy. Nan hadn't been harmed, but the Merofynians continued to scour the foothills, searching for the missing kingson. It made Byren suspect one of the brigands had escaped the ulfr pack and carried word of his near-capture back to the in
vaders.
'We can't go down into the valley to go back the way we came. We cannot risk walking into a band of Merofynian warriors, eager to win favour with their overlord.' Orrade looked grim. 'We'll have to trek across country, over the high foothills, and it will take days to pick our way through the ravines back to the camp.'
'I can guide you. Pa is a valley-man, but Ma was high-country bred. There are paths known only to hill-people,' Florin revealed. 'Hidden signs for those who know.'
Byren snorted. He had long suspected as much.
'Good. We leave in a couple of days,' Orrade announced.
'We leave tomorrow,' Byren corrected. 'I've had one day's rest and I can't bear to sit still any longer. As long as we go slow, I'll build up my strength. How long will it take?'
Florin shrugged. 'It would have been quicker to skate the canals. Through the ravines... five days, maybe more.'
Five days before he faced the survivors of Dovecote estate. Five days to make his plans and gather his strength. So much depended on him, the second son, the spare heir, now the only survivor of King Rolen's kin.
Sorrow and bitterness sat heavy in his belly like indigestible green fruit.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Piro clutched the rail, enjoying the rise and fall of the ship, and the feel of the wind in her face. Unlike Grysha, she did not suffer from sea-sickness. Today, for the first time, the boy was up and about, which was ironic, since they would make port tomorrow.
And they'd made it so far without incident. True, they'd sighted sails that kept pace with them at a distance, but the size of the convoy and the added threat of the sea-hounds must have convinced the Utland raiders the booty was not worth the risk. They'd be cursing themselves if only they knew how richly laden the ships were.
Grysha joined her at the rail. Physically he was a pale imitation of himself. The sea-sickness seemed to have distilled his essence, so that the nastiness, which had been hidden before under a boyish demeanour, was closer to the surface. 'The master wants you.'
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