Salt, Sand, and Blood

by MarQuese Liddle

  Another spasm stabbed at her abdomen, and Leonhardt clenched her teeth to keep from doubling over. She knew she needed to hide her pain. The difference it would make if they saw her weakened was the difference between success and failure. Since the race from the gates of Ward Aureus, her fellow aspirants looked bemused with disbelief, like she was some foreign animal. The names, “Sway-Back” and “Ox-Arms” stole into her mind. She had to fight the temptation to push them out. They were better than if they saw her as a helpless maiden. Yet still, they were painful. She wished her father was here to cheer her on, but there were only the judges, and only one seemed to take her seriously.

  Captain Trey had glanced at her several times since their exchange during the second trial. Jael wasn’t sure what that meant. He’d been amiable in their conversation, though that did not mean he thought anything of her. He’s a knight, of course he acts chivalrously, Leonhardt convinced herself. Why would he pick me when he could have Harpe or Diamont or Blackheart? They were sons of knights and nobles and wealthy merchants. She was a farmer’s daughter, trained with sticks in a field of barley.

  “Aspirants!” shouted Captain Gildmane. Jael snapped back to the present—another spasm—Trey continued, “You have a quarter hour. Anyone insufficiently horsed, armed, and armoured before the second blast will be invalidated. In the melee, lose your horse, your helm, or your sword, the same is true. Begin on my mark!” He raised an arm high and started toward the gatehouse. A moment passed, and he glanced at Jael, then again at the gate. His arm fell.

  Brr-UMM!

  The five remaining aspirants bolted apart, Sylvertre, Leonhardt, and Diamont for the armoury while Harpe and Blackheart darted for the horses. If one of the two were to mount the wild destrier, she hoped it would be Brandon. He reminded her of what a knight should be, kind and tall and fair-haired with ginger eyes—skinny perhaps, but a thousand times more gallant than Harold of Duskhall. A brute, she thought of his heavy brow and fat cheeks, his sweaty narrow forehead, and his eyes, deep and droopy. Though at least he was a man. The aspirants racing her to the armour cart made a queer pair of children. She knew little of what to make of Alexander who to her looked half a man, half a boy, and half a maiden in his flamboyant clothes. But Ogdon, she thought, was undoubtably the worse of them. Shameless. It was obvious to everyone that his lord father had made arrangements for the Struggle. Sylvertre’s hauberk did not look so heavy as the others’, and his answer to the second trial he’d memorized—meaning he’d been told what to study in advance. And he had the gull to offer her help. She wished now that her refusal had not been so gentle.

  She’d have her chance, she thought, her hands sorting through the haphazard piles of linen and iron. Sylvertre would be the first one she’d take out—if he qualified. She watched as he tossed aside bit after bit of rusty armour, always looking for a better fit, never satisfied. And Diamont was much the same, like a lady at the tailor. Jael rolled her eyes and pulled on the smallest gambeson she could find. Over that went a maille shirt rusted away at the waist, then an old leather cuirass and a helm with an open face.

  The others were still fiddling with their spaulders and gauntlets when Leonhardt stole for the stables. Half way there, however, she saw that one of the aspirants was already gone and that he who remained was fighting to rein in the wild destrier. The whole stable became a Hell-house. There was kicking and snapping and panic from the animals—one was even screaming on the ground, its leg broken. Jael turned for the weapons instead. She found Brandon Harpe departing as she arrived, riding a pony with an extra lance gripped his shield hand. It hadn’t occurred to her to take a spare. Tourney lances were made to break, so carrying a second would grant some advantage, if only I had the strength.

  Now Leonhardt was armed, though it was all backwards—her sword arm with a shield, her shield arm with a lance, and a wooden blade tucked underarm as she ran for the stables. They were nearly empty, just a few beasts left, the rest taken or loosed or injured by the destrier—yet that the mad horse was gone did nothing but relieve Leonhardt as she entered. She picked out a mount that reminded her of Troy, a dusty brown mule slightly shorter and more docile than her father’s draught horse. He responded well as she pressed in with her heels. He turned quickly and obediently, gained speed in the field, and gave Jael a confidence in spite of prior feelings. She was smiling, she realized as a strange knight approached wearing the enameled plate of the Saint’s Cross.

  “Greetings, my lady,” spoke stranger through the visor of his helm as he rode alongside Leonhardt on his towering, white charger. He had a lance in his hand and a fervor in his voice. “I pray that God blesses you on the field today.”

  Jael started at him, confused.

  “What is it, my lady? Is something amiss?” Then suddenly the knight realized something, and a grunt of laughter erupted from his helm. “Gildmane forgot to tell you, didn’t he? It’s a tradition that at least one paladin joins the melee. Heh, heh,” he laughed as the other aspirants rode closer.

  Jael’s heart sank. She shouted, “Get back!”

  Brr-UMM!

  Their time was up. The melee had begun.

  Leonhardt tore away from the enameled knight as fast as she could, shouting to the others, but they would not hear her. They were two busy battling to see the stranger rounding the field, straightening out by the stables where Alexander and Ogdon were failing to land their lances. The stranger had no such trouble. He caught Diamont unaware, striking from the blind spots of the merchant’s son’s great helm. Ash splinters scattered through the air. The aspirant tumbled to the ground, and there he stayed.

  “Leonhardt!” Jael heard from across the field. She turned to see Harold Blackheart charging on the back of the chestnut destrier. Brandon rode behind him, lance forward, but his pony couldn’t keep pace with the enormous warhorse. Neither could Jael maneuver her mule in time, so rather than evade the strike, she let her lance fall and brought her shield to bear, braced in her stirrups, and felt the impact glide across the surface of the steel. Blackheart galloped passed, cursing, while Harpe turned up his lance and reined in beside her. Jael offered him her thanks, but his focus was given to the paladin rounding the racks to retrieve a fresh weapon.

  Ogdon would be next, thought Leonhardt. He was the most vulnerable—unable to control his panicked animal and hanging helplessly around its neck. Yet the enameled knight decided differently. He set his spurs for the wild destrier, and Harold dared to meet his attack. For a moment, Jael imagined this was what it must feel like to attend a tourney—her heart paused, waiting on the tilt, as she watched two men sharpen their skills against one another.

  “Come on!” Commanded Harpe. He handed her his spare lance and spurred his pony to a trot. This would be their opportunity, she saw, while the knight of the Cross was distracted with Blackheart. Jael leveled the twelve-foot shaft aside the head of her mount. She watched the rounded tip waver, felt her forearm burn like a smoldering torch. Leave it, she chose, drawing out her wooden sword and letting go of a second lance. At a gallop, she caught up with Brandon’s charge.

  Just then, the knight and Harold clashed together. It was loud as thunder, the two lances shattering on the paladin’s shield and Blackheart’s breastplate—and the impact was lightning. Like a finger of God, it crumpled the steel and lifted the aspirant out of his saddle. His horse ran on, and his body went limp as a fallen ragdoll.

  He could be dead, Jael thought, but they were too far to turn back. The paladin had already drawn his sparring sword and was charging the two of them. And he was laughing; she could hear it even through pounding of hooves and the visor of his helm. They’d cross weapons any moment now—any second and Brandon would reach him first, his lance so much longer than the sword. Yet as he thrust, his point hit the corner of knight’s shield and slid into the air. Then it was Jael’s turn to face down the enameled horseman. But her instincts were all wrong. Her right hand moved awkwardly, and she missed her mark. Yet the knight did not m
iss his. She felt the whip of her neck as the wooden sword took her helm, flipped it into the air; and like her dreams, she tumbled, crashed to the ground.

  Ninth Verse

  The ocean roiled bleakly that morning, grim and frothed like a veined abyss; seeming to go on forever, Adam thought while he watched the sun rise white on the horizon. Yet the new day shone brighter than expected. He looked away soon as he realized—turned his gaze from the light toward his feet dangling dangerously over the side of the ship. I could just fall in, he considered. His hands felt differently. They had the old carrack balustrade locked in a death-grip. And his heart was in agreement. Its beat meant more now than it ever had. Every pulse, a pain—both his and not his own.

  Briefly, his fingers brushed the scabs on the back of his neck. The brand of a slave. Ba’al had done it personally the day before they left the port south of Pareo. A strange symbol below and behind the right ear, out of sight but ever a reminder every time he moved his head. He was scarred now, just like his father, but he would never live up to David’s honour. Am I even a man? Adam asked himself often. He considered jumping again, but the other pain stopped him. Her pain.

  Her name was Magdalynn. She was a girl of eleven, strawberry blonde, pale as the wind, and freckled. The tips of her toes and fingers, even her nose, were raw-pink from exposure, and knobby knees, wrists, and elbows all spoke to her forlorn conditions. She was three years sold into Venicci’s service, the worst of which was the first. It was torture, truly. The jaundiced creature had used her as he had Adam until at last he grew bored. Magdalynn had hoped she’d be sold to another ship after that—anything to escape Venicci’s grasp—yet the captain had kept her on as a cup-bearer. The pastor’s son shuttered at the thought.

  They’d been on the sea more than a week, and still, every time Adam caught glimpse of the smuggler his whole body began to shake. His eyes and nose poured, and he tore with his nails into the skin along his ribcage. It was sinful mutilation, but nothing short would stop the tremors. He was weak, weaker than a little girl who, despite all she’d been through, never once bent to the temptation.

  “My family’s waiting for me,” she’d confided in him one stormy night when the captain was too seasick to continue his binge. She had been taken, stolen away one church day morning from her quiet harbor town south of the Wild Isle. There had been others with her, all pretty young girls with light hair and bright eyes—lazuli like hers, or turquoise, or tourmaline. None of them remained once they’d arrived on the Pearl Sea. The others were shipped off to some distant land while she was left behind as payment for the transaction. That’s what Venicci said to her the first night she’d been brought to his cabin. She had no reason to doubt it. He’d never lied about what his plans were for her. “But I’ll make it back home, to my Mama and Papa and my brother, Bernard, even if it takes twenty years.”

  Those had been the words of a little girl spoken to Adam who lay curled in a corner below deck, shivering in sweat from the latest night terror, whimpering and weeping no less than the storm outside. The pastor’s son only wished he could muster such courage. For in that very moment, this stranger—this Magdalynn—came to be his entire will to life. He had no family waiting for him; no amount of time would resurrect his father. But, the Messah thought, If everything that happened to me was to bring us together so that we would meet and I might be a part of returning her to her family. If this—if I am truly part of God’s plan. Then maybe I can go on, he had faith to cling onto in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.

  Adam sat up straighter and looked again from his feet to the horizon. The white-gold sun was nearly in bloom, and he could not deny that even the ocean-tomb seemed full of life, of beauty. Then footfalls rapped the deck from behind. They were hesitant steps, and they stopped as soon as the pastor’s son started to stand and turn.

  “Adnihilo.” It was the first time Adam had spoken to his friend since the incident. “What are you doing out here so early? It’s cold. You’ll catch a chill.”

  The half-blood stayed silent for a moment. He looked a wild thing: dirty matted curls and stringy hairs on his lip. And the brand. The same scar Ba’al had left on him showed clear and white on Adnihilo’s bronze skin: a four-sided diamond from which a trident fork arose coiled as by a serpent, all in crude silhouette. The half-blood held a hand over the mark as he answered, “I overheard some of the crew talking last night. They said they’ve seen you out here a couple of times.” Adnihilo paused and sighed through his nostrils. “They were placing bets on when you would jump.”

  “Adnihilo—”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” he cut the Messah off. “You were thinking about it, weren’t you. Gods, Adam, you were just going to leave me alone with these monsters? You’re all I have left. Cain is gone, and Jez, and Eemah, and everything.”

  Adam stepped away from the balustrade. “It wasn’t just you. I was there too, remember? And I lost just as much: my home, my father. The church.”

  “Then why?” the half-blood cried, holding back his tears. He stole a step closer.

  At once, the pastor’s son was returned to Venicci’s cabin. It was in his mind, of course: the salt-rusted iron hooks on the wall above the cot, the well-worn ropes, a rank bowl of fat and drippings, and a dirty cloth bundle soaked in rum. And Jezebel—she was there as well—bound in chains and bawling. Those sounds would never leave him. He would never forget that night of torture, not even in his sleep—no, the dreams were worse. But what could he say to Adnihilo to make him understand? The Messah didn’t know, so he stared deep into his friend, digging his fingers through the thin linen of his tunic, into his skin, searching for answers to hold whole his soul.

  “Adam!” shouted the half-blood, but a clamorous pair of footsteps interrupted.

  “Oi, Skivvy! What in Hell are you do’n? The bishop’s look’n for you, and here I find you ruin’n the merchandise!” It was Venicci’s first mate, Luigi, a long and lanky man with thinning black hair and fewer rotten teeth—the wooden ones he wore always on the verge of slipping between his flapping gums. He squinted in the sun with beady eyes at Adam’s wounds. “You best not keep that up. I’ve seen a few of the captain’s used muffs get thrown over cause they marked themselves just like that. Hell, I’ve seen em tossed for less. Surprised we still have the girl on board—bad luck, and the whole crew knows it. We got enough to worry about with all the privateers and the patrols and the rumors.” He stopped a moment and adjusted his crotch, snorted and spit, then he wiped a finger under his nose. “That was before we took up the bishop—the things gibbered in the ports o’ Mephisto, I tell you. Everybody was blather’n about some slant-eyed pirates spotted around God’s Grasp. They say the captain’s a woman with three arms and a golden cock. Fuck’n rag-hats will believe anything—but what in Hell am I tell’n you for? Just get your pretty ass up to the bishop.” He spit again onto the deck of the ship then smiled wide, his false teeth askew. “He’s in the captain’s quarters. I’m sure you know the way.”

  The first mate didn’t wait for a response, and for that Adam was glad. It was enough to be reminded of the place and time in night terrors, by his friends, by his enemies; but to be made to return there—to bear sight of the old ropes and the rusted hooks, and to breathe the vapors of rum which fogged the room—he felt as though it would do him in. “I can’t go back,” escaped his lips.

  Luigi had already turned and was jaunting away when the pastor’s son uttered the words. At once the vice-smuggler stopped and, chuckling, tilted his face toward the sky as he spoke, “The bishop thought you might say that, and he said to let you know that him and your girl will be lonely getting along without you.”

  “He’s got Mags with him?”

  “Aye,” shouted the smuggler, resuming his jaunt. “And you best hurry, or they’ll have all the fun without you!” And with that, he laughed his way to the other end of the carrack and disappeared below deck where the rest of the crew could be heard stirring.
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br />   Adam looked to the half-blood. There was a reticence in his eyes. He had been quiet the entire time since the first mate arrived, never meeting Luigi’s face or even glancing higher than his feet. The same proved true when it came to Adam, yet somewhere among the Messah’s toes—between the filth and the blisters—he rediscovered his voice, albeit steeped in disbelief.

  “What he said to you just now, what in Hell did that mean?”

  “You know what it meant,” said Adam, taking another step further from the balustrade and toward the aftcastle—the captain’s cabin where the demon bishop waited.

  He passed under three masts in crossing the carrack, from starboard bow to the soaring stern, each step of the way stumbling with the waves. His journey seemed longer than the ship’s length warranted. And that was fine by him. As much as Adam was desperate to attest to Magdalynn’s safety, he was in no hurry to return to the cabin. Instead, he took his time weaving around wound ropes and sails and the occasional sailor. He listened to their half-drunken stories: tales of fish-maids luring men to their doom, and of a young Tsaazaari mystic wandering under the nose of the Black Beast—a legend of the east, though the sailors believed it to be true.