The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  “Not full teams, Shipwife,” he said, “only two.”

  She sniffed at him, unimpressed.”And their names?”

  Names? He had none to give to her, then, with a rush he realised he did know two names, though nothing of the men in question. He hoped they would serve him well.

  “Farys and Hilan.”

  “Well, Deckkeeper Twiner, let us hope they know their craft. I will pick some others once we have spoken.”

  He joined her soon enough, after a quick whispered conversation with Hilan and Farys, eyes widening as he told what he had said of them; eyes narrowing, smiles appearing at this little shared subterfuge.

  “Shot me a gallowbow aboard the High Riding Wyrm, I did,” said Hilan. “Never aimed the team but I know enough.” He nodded to himself. “Oh I know enough.”

  “And I loaded on two ships,” said Farys, “before . . .” And her voice faded away at the memory of her disfigurement.

  “Well, you are my aimers now. Lead your teams and we will do as best we can for Meas, right?” They nodded. “Stand firm, my crew,” he said, and they rewarded him with smiles.

  In the great cabin the smiles were gone. Meas sat at her desk, the courser to one side, head bowed, hands behind their back while Meas stared at her book, open on the desk before her. She gave them just long enough for the nerves to build before she spoke.

  “So you are Joron’s bowsells, ey?” Farys and Hilan nodded, voices stolen by the presence of a woman such as Meas Gilbryn. “Your names?”

  “Hilan, Shipwife.”

  “Farys, Shipwife.”

  Meas nodded.

  “I wanted to see you, to know you before we fight today.” A shock went through Joron at that, though he had known it was coming, must be coming. If the same shock went through Hilan or Farys he could not tell. “And we will fight today, so tell your crews to ready themselves. And if you know others who can work a gallowbow then pick two more teams and do it in the deckkeeper’s name, right?” They nodded. “Very well. Go to your work.”

  They bowed their heads and quickly left the cabin, Joron almost feeling their relief at them doing so. Meas let silence fall in the cabin, left him standing there until he cleared his throat.

  “You did not say where, or why, we fight,” he said.

  “You are not of the fleet, Deckkeeper” – she did not look up from her book – “so you will not know that I do not need to. Deckchilder are there to fight, why and where only concerns them if it will affect their tactics. Otherwise I point them, they loose bolts, they stab and kill. That is their place aboard a ship – to do and to die. Especially aboard a ship like this.”

  “And a deckkeeper’s place?” he said. It felt almost a brave thing, to question her. She looked up from her book.

  “Well, you must know a little more, so I will tell you where and why. And then point you to loose or stab or kill, and do or die, ey?” He did not speak, had no reply and could not stop a rush of fear, for if he were to loose or stab or kill and do or die, then others would be coming to do the same to him. She sat back in her chair. Raised her hands above her head and stretched out some ache, then shrugged her shoulders and relaxed. “Each year at the hot bonetide the isle of Corfynhulme has a festival of the children. It is a dull thing meant for the stonebound, for farmers and fishers.” Did he bristle a little at having his father’s profession lumped in with those of the land? “They parade their children around the isle and dance and feast and do the things the stonebound do.” She stared at him as if waiting for a challenge and when none came carried on. “It used to be that the festival was raided regularly, not by the Gaunt Islanders – Corfynhulme is too close to Bernshulme for them to risk a ship on that – but by raiders, the dregs of the sea. For nigh on a decade now the festival has been safe, but the Hundred Isles has seen reverses – our fleet has had losses and we do not patrol as often as we once did.”

  Something went cold in him at that. He had, ever since his youth, taken it for granted that the inner isles were safe – the great fleet kept it so – and to hear that this was no longer the case felt almost like Meas spoke treason. But she did not look shocked or like she imparted some great and terrible secret. If anything, she simply looked tired.

  “At the moment the majority of our fleet is drawn south. The Gaunt Islanders have been massing on their side of Skearith’s Spine, and the Bern and Kept are sure they plan action of some kind. And, though you may not know it if you have not been paying attention to Skearith’s Bones, today is the hot bonetide. The water will rise; Skearith’s Eye will burn, and the children of Corfynhulme will walk their island. But it has come to me that they will not be safe this year. Raiders have been growing in strength in the warm seas of the western isles, and they are finally strong enough to attack. Corfynhulme is an easy target. They have no walls, no gallowbows to guard their harbour and few soldiers. From what I hear their barracks are on the point of falling down.”

  Another shock. Joron’s picture of the Hundred Isles came from his father’s stories. They were a string of island fortresses, walled and armed against the rapacious appetites of the Gaunt Islanders, a people whose whole culture was that of the raider, a people who had forced the Hundred Isles to become hard. “So Joron, we fly fast, and when those raiders, so brave in the face of the defenceless, turn up they will find themselves facing Tide Child.”

  He wanted to tell her that Tide Child was not ready, to expose the lie of his gallowbow teams, to tell her this was foolhardy, but when he spoke those were not the words that fell from his mouth. “I have never been in a battle,” he said.

  She stood.

  “And you may not be today. If we arrive in good time, then it is likely the sight of a fleet ship, even a black one” – she paused, sighed – “especially a black one, will be enough to make them think twice.”

  “And if we are not in good time?”

  “If we arrive after the raid has started we will fight. There is only one way in and out of the harbour bay, so the raiders will have to come through us to leave.” She smiled at him but there was little happiness there. “They will be in flukeboats. A few decent gallowbow shots will finish them. It will be no great battle.” He should have said it then – that they would be lucky to get even one decent gallowbow shot from Tide Child. He did not. “If we arrive too late, Joron Twiner, the raiders will have the children, and they will sell them and get rich. The Gaunt Islanders will buy them and sacrifice our children for corpselights instead of their own, and they will get stronger and the Hundred Isles will get weaker. So it is important we are not late.” He nodded. “So rig the ship, make us fly, Joron Twiner. Make Tide Child fly, and then sharpen that curnow on your hip.” As he turned she spoke again. “If it comes to a fight, Twiner,” she said softly, “it is a chaotic thing to fight on a ship. Stay by me and keep your own crew at your back.”

  “And that is all there is to it?” he said.

  She laughed.

  “No, that is more complicated than it really is. Kill the enemy and stay alive is the crux of it. That will be the only thought in your mind in your first battle.”

  “I thought you were a tactician, Shipwife Meas,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Oh, I am, Deckkeeper, I very much am. But that is because I have seen many battles, too many maybe.”

  “My father made battles sound like glorious things.”

  “That is for stories,” she said quietly. “We fight in the hope that others will not have to, and we fight to keep those we have come to care about safe. We fight even for those who do not deserve it. There is no honour or greatness in what we do, except among fools. I fight, in the end, because I have no other choice” – she held his gaze with hers – “and neither do you. So remember this, if you hear tales of bravery and greatness, they are nearly always told by people who have only watched battle from afar. Those of us who have suffered through it know such stories as a skin over the horror of what is true. No sane woman or man wishes for
war, and those that do never would if they thought it would leave paint on their doorsteps.” He was shocked by how bitter she sounded, and what she said cheapened the memory of his father, made something dark rise within him.

  “My father fought. And he wanted me to go into the fleet. He was no fool.”

  “No, I do not say he was. But he was poor, Joron Twiner, and what other route do the poor have to any riches in the Hundred Isles, ey? They fight or they are nothing. Now go. Ready my ship for me.” And she returned to her desk, sat and stared at her book, leaving him wondering who she was, this warrior who spoke like she hated war.

  Was that why she was here?

  He did not know, and he dared not ask.

  The winds treated them kindly if not keenly. Tide Child danced across a sea that barely swelled and the beakwyrms twirled and danced before them. Meas Gilbryn paced the rump of the boneship, twice sending Joron with some crew into the hold of the ship to re-stow the supplies in the hope of altering the balance of the black ship and squeezing a little more speed out of him. But no matter how much they sweated and swore as they dragged the stores about in the dark heat of the hold, it seemed to make little difference. The ship had found a speed he was comfortable with, and the deckchilder, though competent, were never quite efficient enough to wring the last drops of speed from the wind.

  So Meas paced, and Joron felt like he was somehow letting her down and stewed in his own anger – at her for making him feel this way and at himself for caring about it.

  As Skearith’s blazing Eye rose to its midpoint, chasing away what little cloud there had been and turning the sea into a hundred thousand mirrored shards, bright enough to hurt the eye, a cry went up from the top of the mainspine.

  “Islands rising to landward!”

  Half the crew ran to the landward side of the ship, and Joron felt it list as Meas’s voice bit through the hot air.

  “Back to work! You’ll see these isles soon enough! What business is it of yours what is seen by the topboys, ey?” Meas left the rump and hoisted herself up on to the rail, one hand on a rope, the other holding her nearglass to an eye, long grey hair shot through with red and blue streaming behind her as the women and men returned to their work like guilty children. “Calferries Mount. We steer to landward of it, into the channel,” she shouted so Barlay at the oar could hear. “From here ’tis no more than eight turns of the sand or so to Corfynhulme.” She glanced back. “Deckkeeper, break out curnows and pikes from the armoury and arm every woman and man. Then a tot of anhir for all. Have the gallowbow teams ready! My crew, my crew,” she shouted, her eyes wild, “ready yourself, for today we fight,” and she punched the air with the hand holding her nearglass. She received a cheer in return, and Joron found himself wondering, If you hate battle so much, Meas, why do you look so full of joy at the thought of it?

  Barlay leaned into the oar, and Joron felt the ship alter course and had an inkling of what Tide Child could be if he had a crew that worked him correctly – something light over the waves, able to dance over the sea and around his enemies. But he was not that, not yet, and might never be. How could he?

  The beak of the ship came to point to landward of Calferries Mount, which rose from the sea, its grey spine ringed with green vegetation and surrounded by flocks of skeers, always crying out to the wind with their keening calls. His father had told him that they were the spirits of sailors who had been marooned and starved to death on barren rocks just like Calferries Mount.

  Past Calferries, a line of islands, gradually growing in size and clothed in the familiar pinks, blues and purples of gion and varisk, rose out of the sea like broken teeth in a jaw. A wheel of birds turned above the island they headed for, marking it for miles around as a place to find food. Joron wondered if there was more food than usual, if they were too late and it was now a place of carrion strewn with the dead. Part of him, a small part he did not like but could not deny, hoped they were too late; the thought of those who wanted to kill him and having to kill in return filled him with fear like he had never known. But another part, the one raised on the tales and stories of his father, hoped they were in time, thought of how he would be a hero, flying in on a black ship to save the children of Corfynhulme. It was the sort of thing women and men sang about. Certainly the mood on the ship was a good one, and it was not just due to the barrel of anhir that had come up and was being ladled out into waiting cups.

  Strangely, Joron found he had no wish to drink.

  When the armoury was opened and the weapons brought out, the crew brightened further; it was as if the curnows and shields and spears and gaffhooks brought not only the ability to take life but also some sense of worth to the owner – a thing Joron did not understand. To him a blade was a tool, and the thought of the cutting and grinding made him think of his father’s strong body ripped apart by the spines of the bone-ship’s hull.

  Not so for the crew; there had been haggling for favoured weapons, women and men making practice swipes at the air, hefting and weighing curnows and then swapping them, even coming close to blows over certain weapons that Joron guessed must carry some favour or story. He had thought about taking out the blade he wore at his own hip, taking some practice swings and seeing if he could discern some special quality to the weapon. But he did not. He felt it was not seemly for a deckkeeper to walk around swinging his curnow, and besides, apart from the standard fighting skills his father had taught him, which all learned, he had little experience of blades and did not think he would know a bad one from a good one. He even feared finding out too much about his sword. He had been given the curnow when he boarded the ship for the first time. “For the shipwife,” they had said, and he had been foolish and innocent enough to think they did him some honour.

  He doubted they had.

  “Untruss the bows,” shouted Meas, and Joron watched as Farys and Hilan, each with three deckchilder, and Cwell and Kanvey with crews of their own, started to loose the ropes that immobilised the bows and stopped them swinging free in bad weather. Freeing the great gallowbows caused the excitement to notch up another level on Tide Child, and when Cwell opened the box at the base of her bow that held the cords and kept them dry he expected a shout of joy. But instead, there was only anger from the shipwife.

  “Hold there, woman! We do not string them and set them till battle is sure.” Joron wondered if Meas saw the evil look Cwell gave her for reprimanding her before the entire crew – a promise of revenge later. If she did she ignored it and turned her back, staring out over the rail.

  Joron could make out Corfynhulme now, the last of this run of islands and the largest, at the head a huge stack of stone. From there the island curved away from them like a woman laying down to sleep in the cold, but unlike a woman the island had no curves, only a long straight taper lost to a riot of gion and varisk sweeping down to meet the sea. As they approached he fancied he heard the calls of the birds wheeling above. Only when they got nearer, and he could make out the small dots of those rowing flukeboats did he realise it was the screams of people, not birds, he heard.

  On the rump of the ship Meas leaned forward, as if she could lend the ship a little more speed by doing so.

  “Ready the bows,” she said, but she paid little attention to the action on deck, her focus on where they were heading. “And wet your hands in paint, spatter it on the spines for the Hag.”

  As they came around the headland the boats of the attackers became clearer, and the wind dropped slightly in the lee of the land.

  “Furl topwings,” she shouted. “We need all the wind we can catch, but I don’t want to run aground either.”

  There were many more raiders than Joron had expected. There must have been thirty flukeboats, mostly small, but there were at least four double-sailed boats, brightly coloured, painted with silhouettes of the Sea Hag’s fearsome skull. The women and men who crewed the boats had stripped and painted themselves red and white to resemble meat marbled with fat, as if the skin had been flayed
from their bodies.

  “Hag’s breath!” shouted Meas. “I said string those bows!”

  Joron turned. Farys and Hilan were doing a reasonable job of running the cord between the bow arms and the firing mechanism, but they were doing it slowly. Cwell had managed to get her cord hopelessly tangled in the mechanism of the bow and was shouting at one of the women working with her. The final bowteam under Kanvey were all looking dumbly at the cord, as if it were an entirely new thing to them.

  There was a good chance it was.

  “Maiden save us.” Meas ran across, took one look at Cwell’s bow and shook her head. “Tie it down and go join the fighting teams.” Cwell shot her a look of pure hatred and her crew started to secure the bow. Meas ignored them and leaped across to the next bow, taking the cord and threading it in an easy practised motion that had it in place in moments. She glanced across at Farys and Hilan, who now had their bows strung, and then looked forward. “Deckkeeper!” she shouted. “Are you just standing there like a fool? Take in more wing or we’ll run aground!”

  A shudder ran through Joron. It was true. He had been so transfixed by the mess at the gallowbows and the sheer number of boats they faced that he had stopped concentrating, and Tide Child was carrying far too much wing.

  “Bring down forewings and mainwings,” he shouted. “Leave only topwings. Steer us seaward, Barlay!” he shouted, then Meas was striding past him.

  “Quiet that order, Oarturner. Steer landward so we can bring the bows to bear.”

  “But Shipwife—” began Joron.

  “No buts, Deckkeeper. I already have topwings furled. What is wrong with you? We steer landward – we are here to fight.” She turned away. “Spin the bows!”