Assail Page 32

  Buen gestured to the bay, now shrouded in dense mists. ‘It’s too foggy to set out. Can’t see a thing.’

  Jute nearly screamed his frustration. He drew the shortsword at his side – the first time he could recall ever doing so – and pointed it at his mate. ‘Get everyone over the side now! We’re leaving or we’re dead!’

  Buen raised his hands. ‘All right all right. What’s the big rush?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  The mate turned away. ‘You heard the cap’n. Over the side.’

  ‘But it’s muddy out there,’ someone complained. Dulat, perhaps.

  Jute leaned an arm against the slick planks and rested his head there in disbelief. He glanced across the flats: Lady Orosenn stood in the muck next to her launch, facing inland. Her oarsmen, stiff figures in rags, hardly stirred a muscle. Something about them made him jerk his gaze away to examine the Resolute. Tyvar was of course making far greater headway than he. His crew had jumped down and even now were crowding around the bows to push.

  We’re going to die, he told himself.

  Movement up the slope caught his eye. A lone figure, running, arms waving. It was a sailor by the rags he wore. ‘Take me!’ the man bellowed, his voice cracking. ‘By the merciful gods – take me with you!’

  Buen appeared in the muck at Jute’s side. He pointed. ‘Who in the green Abyss is that?’

  Jute glared, then shoved him to the planks. ‘Push, damn you!’ More of his crew came jumping reluctantly into the clinging mud. ‘Push, all of you! Push!’

  ‘Please take me wi—’ Something choked off the man’s call and Jute turned to look.

  Coils of mist enmeshed the sailor. As Jute watched, those ropes and scarves lifted the man up into the air where he struggled in eerie silence. Then the ribbons of shifting gossamer fog about his middle yanked tight. The man vomited – but not the normal stomach contents. The very organs themselves came bursting from his mouth in a rain of escaping fluids to slap to the ground as a mess of pulped viscera. Jute fought his own gorge. The corpse, nearly cut in half now, a blood-red organ dangling from its mouth, jerked as the banners of mist yanked each limb clean off, one after the other, the arms first and then the legs.

  One of Jute’s crew gagged and vomited.

  The tendrils then lashed like whips and Jute ducked as the dismembered parts of the corpse came flying at the Dawn to bang against the hull. The torso thumped wetly to the deck.

  ‘Fucking Abyss!’ Buen yelled, ducking.

  ‘I told you to push,’ Jute observed. He was surprised by how calm he sounded.

  The crew dashed themselves against the hull. Feet dug and slid frantically in the muck. Someone was whimpering and Jute couldn’t blame him.

  A strange sort of pressure brushed against him then and he turned. Lady Orosenn had her arms out, as if pushing. Jute glanced about: the mist was rolling backwards as though in a stiff wind. Though no true wind ruffled any of them. It lashed and whipped on all sides yet was driven back – if only a short distance.

  Two great bellows of rage sounded from the obscuring banks of fog. Jute’s head sank once again. Do these foreign gods never tire of their jokes? Two enormous shadowed silhouettes came lumbering down the slope.

  As if this new threat were the key, the bows of the Dawn lurched backwards. The sailors followed, heaving. Water kicked up about them as they pushed into the weak surf. The hull lifted free of the flats. Jute could’ve kissed every one of the damned crew as those few left on board now reached down to help lift them up and in. He clung to the top rail, his feet dangling in the surf, and peered back. Lady Orosenn still had her arms outstretched yet even from this distance Jute could see them shuddering with effort. All about, in a clear semicircle around the ships, whips and tatters of fog lashed and writhed.

  We are clear – but what of her? Jute wondered, horrified. How will she …

  As he watched, the sorceress took one shaky step backwards into the launch then tumbled the rest of the way as if thrown. The stiff upright oarsmen started rowing; the launch surged out into the surf. The scarves of mist came unravelling down the slope just as the brothers, Anger and Wrath, emerged like two fiends out of myth. The brothers stopped on the shore and shook their fists, bellowing their rage. The mist, however, did not halt. It came on, brushing sinuously over the waves like a horde of sea-snakes, straight for him – or so it seemed.

  ‘Pull me up, damn you all!’ he roared.

  Hands yanked at him, heaved him up. On deck he straightened to peer at everyone gaping at the shore, then turned as something crashed into the waves just short of the bow. It sent up a towering burst of spray that splashed everyone.

  On shore, Anger stooped for another boulder.

  Jute turned to his astonished crew. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Man the sweeps!’

  The spell of fascination was broken; the crew scrambled for the oars.

  Jute returned to studying the shore. Anger had a boulder raised over his head that wouldn’t shame any siege onager. This he heaved at the Dawn in a mighty throw. The rock came whistling down to splash to the port side. Spray from the impact doused the oarsmen.

  A distant crash of timber snatched Jute’s attention to the Resolute. A boulder thrown by Wrath had struck the tall bow-stem, snapping it off. Their oarsmen kept heaving and the vessel kept its headway so Jute surmised the keel remained true.

  As for Lady Orosenn; her silent crew pulled her out to the waiting Supplicant with breathtaking speed. They climbed rope ladders up the side.

  All along the receding shore, the bank of fog thickened to a near opaque wall. It was as if Mist were sealing off her realm in an impenetrable barrier of cloud. Only the giant brothers remained: blurred twin shadows, roaring their namesake ire and heaving rocks that now fell short in tall towers of spray and haze.

  Jute went to the stern. ‘Swing us round,’ he ordered Lurjen.

  ‘Heading?’ the man enquired, his gaze fixed on the rippling fist-waving shadows.

  ‘East. There’s a channel there or I’m a Letherii philanthropist.’

  ‘Hit it off with the locals?’ Ieleen enquired dryly, her hands resting on her walking stick and her chin atop them.

  ‘The usual miscommunication, dearest.’

  ‘The channel may be impassable,’ she pointed out.

  ‘We’ll take our time.’

  ‘We’re too low on supplies.’

  ‘Then we’ll send out launches to fish or hunt – there may be seals.’

  ‘You’re determined, then,’ she sighed.

  Jute turned to her. ‘Why, of course. After all this?’

  She pensively tapped her stick to the decking. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps we’ve gone about as far as we should. All things considered …’

  He squatted next to her. Sensing his nearness, she gave him a smile, but it was a wistful one. ‘I’m worried, luv,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve about pushed our luck as far as we ought.’

  ‘We’re about,’ Lurjen said.

  ‘Ahead slow,’ he answered without turning from his wife. ‘Find open water.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Ahead slow, Buen,’ Lurjen shouted.

  ‘Aye,’ the first mate answered. ‘Get a man up that mast! Two at the bows! With poles!’

  ‘We’ve a sorceress with us, lass,’ Jute said. ‘And a mercenary army.’

  She shook her head. ‘Leave it to them. Who are we? Just common people. We don’t belong in this land of ogres and powers. It’ll be the end of us. I feel it.’ He pressed a hand to her shoulder and she took it, squeezing tightly. ‘Not much farther, yes?’

  ‘All right, lass. I swear. If it looks too rough. Not much farther.

  ‘Too rough!’ She laughed. ‘Luv – what is it now, pray tell?’

  ‘We escaped.’

  ‘You may not the next time.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, love.’

  ‘See that you are,’ she snapped, then sighed and gave his hand a squeeze.

  ‘Ic
e ahead, captain,’ Buen called from amidships.

  Jute straightened. ‘Very well.’ He faced the bows, squinted ahead where the light held a bluish glow from the thickening flow of great ice slabs. ‘More men on poles. And let’s have a touch more sail.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  *

  Neither Storval nor any of the hired swordsmen would admit it, but Reuth’s navigation saw the Lady’s Luck south through the Wreckers’ Coast. Only his uncle offered any acknowledgement of the feat, and this with mere cuffs across Reuth’s shoulder. Meagre fare, but more affection than the coarse, bluff fellow generally granted.

  Reuth kept apart from the band of fighters Storval had gathered about himself: the sneering Stormguard and other disaffected swordsman from Fist. The Mare sailors generally avoided the fighting men as well, siding now with his uncle in any discussion regarding strategy or ship’s business.

  It was, he knew, a very dangerous situation for the future of their venture – and for the future of his uncle, for that matter. Not to mention himself, he slowly began to understand. Navigator or no, the swordsmen in no way hid their contempt and dislike of him.

  Again he wished Whiteblade were still with them. He would’ve sided with his uncle, he was certain. But then, who knew? Had the champion revealed himself these Stormguard might have attacked him immediately, as they had every reason to loathe and hate him for the loss of their Lady.

  In any case, there was no way to know now.

  Under Reuth’s constant guidance, the Lady’s Luck successfully rounded the tip of the Bone Peninsula and reached the mouth of the narrows. Here they found a great flotilla of vessels from seafaring cities and states from all four corners of the world. All at anchor while their pilots and steersmen studied the maze of jagged spars and stone teeth that were the Guardian Rocks.

  Tulan ordered them to drop anchor here as well, and the Lady’s Luck joined the informal queue of vessels all awaiting some change in the currents, or a fellow navigator’s brash attempt to dare the rocks. Reuth had no doubt that everyone carefully watched how well these ventures fared: what course to follow, what turns to avoid.

  For the rest of that day and the next he watched as well. They witnessed two attempts to thread the maze, both at high tide. One in the evening and one at the next dawn. Four ships set out in the evening. None survived the twisting, foaming course, though one nimble galley nearly made it through.

  The wreckage of broken timbers and tangled rigging came washing out to pass between the anchored vessels. Few of the sailors waving their arms and begging amid the flotsam were picked up; most coursed onward past the flotilla to bob out into the grey waters of the Sea of Hate, where, Reuth was certain, all would eventually drown or be consumed by sharks.

  At one point in the day Storval came ambling up to where Tulan and Reuth stood close to the bow. ‘Well, captain?’ the mate asked. These days the man said ‘captain’ in a strange tone, as if he were winking, or worse. It came to Reuth that now that they’d arrived, the mate and his gang must think themselves close to free of them. He knew that they had a long way to travel as yet, but he also knew there was no way Storval would listen to him.

  ‘We’ll see,’ his uncle answered.

  The first mate just nodded, rather insolently, and ambled off.

  ‘Can you get us through there, lad?’ Tulan whispered to Reuth as they faced out over the waters, away from the crew.

  ‘I think so,’ he said, with far more certainty than he felt.

  ‘Well,’ his uncle answered in an almost apologetic sigh, ‘seems we’ve no choice in the matter now. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.’

  ‘So we might as well.’

  His uncle didn’t speak for a time and Reuth glanced over; he found the older man eyeing him with something like surprise. Tulan grinned then, and cuffed him, far harder than usual. ‘There you are, lad!’ he exclaimed. ‘This voyage will make a man out of you yet.’

  Reuth rubbed his shoulder. ‘If I live long enough …’ he muttered.

  Tulan jerked a thumb out towards the narrows. ‘What do you think?’

  Reuth just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. The crew won’t follow my commands.’

  ‘They’ll bloody well follow mine. ’Least till they throw me overboard.’ He leaned down to rest his thick forearms on the railing. ‘These fools are such asses that all you have to do is give me the commands and I’ll shout ’em out.’

  ‘Would that really work?’

  ‘Sadly so, lad. Sadly so.’

  Reuth shook his head in disbelief. Seemed he truly was learning a lot on this trip regarding the nature of men. He returned to studying the mouth of the narrows.

  An angry hiss from his uncle brought his attention round to the stern. Three vessels were coming up from the south, all alike in cut and banners: three fat merchant ships specially altered for fighting, with archers’ castles fore and aft.

  ‘Where do they come from?’ his uncle asked.

  Reuth frowned as he ransacked his memory of the sheets of ships’ sigils and heraldry he’d scanned. Plain dark blue field, a black chair or throne, with horizontal bars of gold beneath. Then he had it. ‘Lether.’

  His uncle grunted. ‘Hunh. No competition at sea from them then.’

  Reuth agreed with his uncle’s assessment. Not known for their seamanship, those Letherii merchants.

  The gathered Stormguard suddenly raised a great ruckus, cursing and raising their spears at a ship now hugging the side of the Lady. It dropped anchor not very far from them.

  Reuth saw immediately why: it was an obvious pirate vessel, a long low galley.

  ‘Bastard chisellers!’ Storval yelled. ‘Ready to ride our wake in, the scum. I’d like to swing over and clear their boards.’

  Reuth studied the figures crowding the deck: a large contingent of warriors. Most in metal armour, banded or mail, with shields. All in similar dark tabards. Quite grim-looking, too. Serious and watchful. Reuth wasn’t sure that the Korelri swordsmen would have an easy time of it.

  He returned to watching the eddies and churning currents. If these pirates – if that was what they were – wanted to try to follow them in then they were welcome to do so. Personally, he didn’t think they’d have any chance.

  Finally, he decided on his course. He told Tulan to ready for a dawn run.

  His uncle pulled on his greying beard and nodded sagely. ‘We’ll show these outlanders just what a Mare galley can do, hey? Join me at the stern.’

  ‘The stern? Must I?’

  ‘Aye, next to Gren.’ Gren was their best tillerman. Reuth nodded, though unhappily. He hated being at the stern where Storval and the Stormguard held court. Yet it made sense.

  Tulan reached out but this time gently squeezed Reuth’s shoulder in his big paw. ‘High tide, then.’ Reuth nodded. ‘Good. Get some sleep till then, won’t you? Rest, hey?’ Reuth nodded again, and slid down the side to sit with his back to the timbers.

  He wrapped himself in a blanket and tucked his hands under his armpits. His uncle might be eager to show off to everyone the superiority of a Mare galley, but what he wanted to do was wipe the superior sneers off the faces of these Korelri soldiers with a clear demonstration of his skill and worth.

  He just hoped to all those false foreign gods that he didn’t mess it up.

  His uncle’s barked orders woke him before dawn. He had the crew readying for the run: stowing gear, preparing the sails for quick deploying, drawing out every pole and oar on board. Reuth made his way to the stern deck. Gren was already at the tiller, his broad arms hanging over the wooden arm. The veteran Mare sailor gave Reuth a wary nod. Other than Gren, Reuth and Tulan, the stern was empty; Tulan had everyone, the Stormguard included, manning the oars, or ready to step in. Storval paced the main walkway, overseeing the oarsmen. He would pass along Tulan’s orders.

  Reuth already had a shaded eye on the waterline of the foremost rocks where the honey glow of the false dawn shone across the narrows. He was al
armed; the waters were rising faster than he’d anticipated. He caught his uncle’s gaze. Tulan raised a brow in an unspoken question. Reuth nodded. Tulan leaned against the stern railing, shouted: ‘Lower oars! Full speed.’

  Storval echoed the orders.

  The oars slapped the waves to either side of the narrow galley and they shot ahead with such power that Reuth had to take a backward step. Gren shot him a grin, but not a superior one; the man was actually grinning with a kind of savage anticipation. Reuth was fascinated to see him wrapping one of his arms in a rope attached to the tiller.

  ‘Better tie yourself off there, lad,’ the veteran warned.

  Reuth started, surprised, then peered around: he found a line and wrapped it about his waist, then secured himself to the side.

  ‘Going to see us through, hey, lad?’ Gren observed.

  Reuth felt his cheeks heat.

  Gren drew a bone-handled knife from his side and slammed it into the tiller close to the rope.

  ‘No – Tulan’s in charge. What’s the knife for?’

  ‘In case we capsize, lad, an’ I have to cut m’self free. Now, none of this talk of your uncle. We’re Mare sailors, you ’n’ I. These Korelri Chosen, what do they know of Ruse? Nothing. In pointa fact, they hate the sea. But between you ’n’ me – you have the Ruse-sense, lad. I seen it.’

  Reuth blinked at the burly fellow. ‘You’ve seen it?’

  Gren winked. ‘Oh, aye. When they look out over the water they scowl and glance away. They’re frightened. But when you watch the sea, you smile. That’s why they don’t like you, lad … you’re not scared of the sea.’

  Reuth stared, speechless. Such an idea had never occurred to him.

  ‘Full speed I said, damn you!’ Tulan shouted again. He glanced back to Reuth then glared past him, his face darkening. ‘Damned shadows sneaking in after us!’

  Reuth glanced back: numerous ships were under way, all sweeping into line along their wake. The first was the local pirate vessel. He thought them foolish to come chasing in – their galley had far too little freeboard for the manoeuvring that would be needed here.

  ‘Over ten ships, lad!’ Gren laughed. ‘There’s a compliment. They know we’re Mare sailors, and this is a Mare vessel. If any sailor can thread this needle, it’s us!’