The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  Fire streaking through the night as Tide Child loosed its great bows and its underdeck bows in one devastating volley into the smaller ship. All was fire then. No more need for lamps. Boats let down from Tide Child, and more black ships coming through the harbour mouth. A grappling hook chinked against the stone of the pier as a smaller black ship came to a stop and then Deere was up, running for the town as fast as she could. She was hurt, not bleeding but bruised. Forced to run at a limp. Aware that behind her more grappling hooks would be coming. The ship would be pulled up next to the pier. Pirates would swarm ashore.

  How quickly the world changed. A few minutes ago it was as cold and crisp and dull as every other night. Now it was a nightmare, firelight turning her world into a crackling, screaming landscape of jumping shadows.

  The sound of feet. People running. Hers or theirs? She threw herself between two buildings as a group of deckchilder ran past. Hers? Or theirs? She did not know. She ran for the main square, where any defences would be found. Had Shipwife Halda been on Maiden’s Loss? She hoped not, for Shipwife Halda was the only officer on the island with any experience of war; if defence was left to Shipwife Griffa, who had never commanded anything more fleet than a loading crane, they were lost already.

  Running. Running. Running.

  Into the square, fighting everywhere. If there had been order it was lost. Bodies on the ground, peppered with crossbow bolts. Almost getting tangled up in her own sword as she drew it. Striking out at the vague shapes around her. Aware she did not know who they were. Hers or theirs? Breathing hard, frightened. She did not know. Too frightened to care.

  Strike. Cut. Blood. Scream. Shout.

  She wanted to live. It was all she cared about. In among the heaving bodies. The running bodies. The panicked women and men. She wanted to live.

  Found herself in a space. Fire from the burning ship painting the buildings orange, changing their shape, making everything alien. Strange, screaming, fierce faces looming out of the night. She slashed at a figure. Felt resistance as her blade was met. Staggered back. Face to face with a small woman, pinch-faced, mean eyes.

  “Come to Cwell, lass,” said the woman.

  The fear was liquid within her. This was the Black Pirate’s shadow. Deere lunged. The shadow parried, twisted her blade, pulled it from her hand; then, with a hard push, sent her sprawling back onto the dirt.

  “Don’t kill me!” Those frail arms of hers coming up once more.

  “Officer is it?” said the shadow.

  “Deckkeeper,” and she cursed herself for stuttering with fear over her rank.

  “Well, he’ll want to speak to you then.” And the shadow swung the weighted end of her curnow and all was darkness.

  Waking. Tasting blood in her mouth. The warmth of Skearith’s Eye on her face. The sound of skeers on the air. The sound of women and men on the ground. Crying and begging and laughing. The burn of ropes around her wrists and ankles. She opened her eyes. Lying on her side above the beach. Black ships filling the harbour. Lines of women, men and children kneeling on the beach. All tied.

  She tried to move. Groaned.

  “Another one awake.” A voice from behind her.

  “Bring her along then, quicker it’s over with quicker we can leave. I heard Brekir saying fleet boneships were near.” A sudden spike of hope in her chest. She rolled over. Saw the gallows. Four bodies hanging from it. A fifth, Shipwife Griffa she was sure, stood atop a barrel with a rope around her neck. The Black Pirate before her. He took a step back, raised his bone spur foot and kicked the barrel away. Shipwife Griffa fell, her drop abruptly stopped by the rope and she swung like a pendulum as the noose tightened, her legs kicking as she gasped for air. Then Deere was picked up, the rope between her ankles cut and her legs almost gave way beneath her. But the deckchilder did not care. They dragged her along the dock, past the jeering crews of the black ships. At the end she managed to find her feet, to stand as they threw a rope over the cross bar of the makeshift gallows. Placed the noose around her neck. Placed a barrel and lifted her onto it. Pulled on the rope until she had to balance on tip-toe to breathe.

  Only then did the Black Pirate approach.

  He was well named. Not only was what skin she could see dark, but his clothes also. Black boots, black trews, black tunic and coat. Black scarf swathed around his face so only his eyes showed. Eyes full of darkness.

  “What is your name and rank?” he said. The voice, when speaking, surprisingly musical.

  “Vara Deere. I am deckkeeper of the Maiden’s Loss.”

  “Well, Vara Deere,” he said. “I am afraid your ship is gone and your rank is meaningless to me.”

  “You hide your face,” she said, finding the imminence of death made her braver than she had ever thought she could be. “Is it because you are ashamed of what you are? Ashamed that you betray the Hundred Isles? Kill its good people and loyal crews?”

  He stared, brown eyes appraising her.

  “I cover my face for my own reasons, and it is not shame,” he said, and it surprised her, as she had not expected an answer. “And as for betrayal, that is all the Hundred Isles have ever shown me, do you wonder that I pay it back?”

  “You were an officer,” she said, and when he replied there was venom there.

  “I was a condemned man, Vara Deere, never anything else. I was sent to die and in death found purpose.” He stepped closer. He smelled wrong, overly sweet, like he had bathed in some sickly unguent. “Now, I have answered your question. Will you answer mine?” He did not wait for a reply, only hissed words at her. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Shipwife Meas Gilbryn, Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding. I know Thirteenbern Gilbryn has her, where is she?”

  “I…” She wondered if he was mad, that he expected some lowly deckkeeper from a poorly kept-up two-ribber at the rump end of the Hundred Isles to know such things. “I do not know.”

  He stepped back and she braced herself. But he was not finished.

  “Will you serve me, Vara Deere? I have all the officers I need,” he said. “But I always need deckchilder.”

  She stared at him, and found, in those deep brown eyes, something that she did not understand. Almost as if he were imploring her to say yes. To join him in the pillaging and destruction of the Hundred Isles that the Black Pirate had indulged in for the last year, that had set every boneship they had searching for him to end his reign of terror.

  She stood a little straighter on the barrel.

  “They will find you, and you will hang, then,” she said. “So to join you is only to postpone my death a little.” She put her shoulders back. Made her voice as loud as she could. “You and your deckchilder are murderous animals. And I am fleet. I will not join you.” He stared at her. Nodded.

  “Well,” he said. “I expect you are right enough about death, Deckkeeper Deere. And I admire your loyalty. I will toast gladly with you at the Hag’s bonefire.” Then he kicked away the barrel and the rope bit and all she was became concentrated on one thing, a desperate need for air.

  Then darkness.

  All was darkness.

  3

  The Black Pirate

  He had thought to meet in the largest bothy in Windhearth, an old building, held together as much by vines as by clever stonework. But in the end he had decided it better to meet in the familiar confines of Tide Child’s great cabin. Above he heard the thud of feet on the deck as his officers – Farys his deckholder, Barlay his oarturner, Jennil, called his second – shouted orders and the ship went about its business. By him stood Aelerin his courser and behind him stood Cwell, his shadow. Few looked upon her without some worry, for she was a woman who radiated violence, and enjoyed and gloried in it.

  But she was not alone in that. Shipwife Coult of the Sharp Sither raided with great joy, as did Turrimore of the Bloodskeer and Adrantchi of Beakwyrm’s Glee, and Twiner made no attempt to hold them back. Other, less severe shipwives also joined him: Breki
r of the Snarltooth stood at his side, always loyal, and Chiver of the Last Light and Tussan of Skearith’s Beak. Six black ships in the harbour, and that in itself worried Joron Twiner. That would be the first thing he addressed.

  “Welcome, shipwives. Windhearth is ours.”

  “Those who would join us are being taken to the ships,” said Coult. “Those who will not are being dealt with.”

  “He means they will be taken to the Gaunt Islands, Deckkeeper Twiner,” said Brekir.

  “If we have room,” said Coult, but not loudly, not to the room. He let the words out to be heard, to test them.

  “I am sure we can find room,” said Joron. “But first, charts. Six ships in one place is too many so I would tell you what to be about. Aelerin, if you would.” The courser stepped forward, their robes bright white among the black of Twiner’s shipwives. They spread a chart over the table.

  “We are here,” they said, soft voice filling the room. “Windhearth. The majority of the Hundred Isles fleet has drawn back to be nearer Shipshulme Island so they can protect Bernshulme from incursions now we have weakened their fleet so. Though there are still many patrols, and a couple of big ships out looking for us.”

  “So it is important we are not trapped here. Coult,” said Joron, “I would like you to take Bloodskeer and Beakwyrm’s Glee and head here.” He pointed at an island. “It is another store island and should be no more well defended than this place.” He looked up, Coult nodded. “Go now. The less time we are here the less likely we are to be trapped.”

  “And if I see Hundred Isle ships, Deckkeeper Twiner?”

  “If they are small and you can catch them, destroy them. But take their officers and question them first. Be wary of being led into a trap.”

  “And I would be nothing else.”

  “Of course,” said Joron. Then turned from him. “Brekir, take Snarltooth, Shipwife Tussan and Skearith’s Beak and head for here,” he tapped the map, “Taffinbur. We are told there is some sort of message post. I would have it destroyed, and if you can take the messages and someone who understands the codes then all the better.”

  “Ey, I shall do that.”

  “Good. I will take Tide Child and, accompanied by Shipwife Chiver with the Last Light, head back to the Gaunt Islands to speak to Tenbern Aileen and see what she plans for us. We have wreaked enough havoc and weakened the Hundred Isles in a thousand ways. She must be ready to assault Bernshulme now.” Nods and smiles met his words. “Then be about it, I will not have us caught here.” He touched Brekir on the arm.

  “I would speak with you alone a moment,” he said. She nodded and smiled, it had become a habit of his that he indulged when he could, to talk with her after a meeting. They waited as the other shipwives left the cabin. Then Brekir took a step nearer; he smelled her perfume, a mixture of salt long soaked into clothes and the earthy smell of the gossle that she burned in her cabin, to chase away the pains of long years on the sea and the many wounds and aches it had brought her.

  “Meas may not be in Bernshulme, Joron,” said Brekir.

  “She must be,” he said.

  “It has been a year, Joron. And no one has heard a thing about her.” She touched his arm, gentle, comradely. “Maybe it is time you stopped calling yourself deckkeeper and took on the two-tail…”

  “No,” he said and knew the word came out harsher than Brekir deserved. “When all avenues are exhausted, when every island has been searched and nothing found. Then, maybe then, I will call myself shipwife, but she is Lucky Meas, Brekir.” Was he begging her, was that the tone in his voice, the catch in his throat? “She is the one the prophecy of the Tide Child speaks of. She will bring the people together in peace. She cannot be dead. Cannot. And if I were to take on the two-tail, what message does that send to the crew, to all the crews? That I have given up hope.” Brekir nodded. Took her hand from his arm.

  “It is a lonely thing, command, Joron Twiner.”

  “Ey, well, I do not dispute that.” Behind Brekir sat the great cabin’s desk, as comfortable in its place there as he was not. And behind the desk sat Meas’s chair and from the upright of the chair hung her two-tailed hat, the symbol of a shipwife’s command.

  “Well,” said Brekir, stepping back, “do not forget, Joron Twiner, you have friends among those you command.”

  “Ey,” he laughed. “And rivals.”

  “There is always that.”

  “And worse.”

  “That is partly why I would ask you again to put on the two-tail, Joron.”

  “Wearing a shipwife’s hat will not make me any more legitimate in the eyes of Chiver and Sarring, Brekir.”

  “No,” she said, “they are fleet through and through and will never truly accept one of the Berncast in command over them, you are right. But just wearing that hat will make you harder to undermine.”

  “Among the officers, maybe,” he said. “But among the deckchilder?” He stared into Brekir’s eyes. “No. I made a vow. They will never respect me if I go back on it. They will see me as unlucky and to lose the deckchilder is to lose our fleet, Brekir. Let Chiver and Sarring complain, as long as I have the deckchilder by me they can do nothing.” She nodded.

  “How hard it is, to command a boneship, to juggle all these duties and loyalties so the thing will fly,” said Brekir. “I think few are aware of it. Even fewer how hard it is to command a fleet of them.” Now it was Joron’s turn to nod. “Just so you know, they mean to call you out at the next meeting of shipwives.”

  A settling within him, cold still water. He had always known this would come.

  “A duel?”

  “No, they cannot duel you; to fight a one-legged shipwife, and a man at that, would be beneath them. They will say we fight for nothing.” Joron turned and took the seat behind the desk which sat so comfortably in its position, motioned Brekir to take the one opposite him and she did. Folding her tall, long-limbed frame up in thought, her skin even darker than his, her face gifted by nature a constant look of sorrow.

  “Maybe they are right, Brekir. Meas had a plan no doubt, for ending war. I have no such thing. Sometimes I wonder if it is that which drives me to find her, not loyalty.” He took a bottle of anhir from the drawers of the desk and poured two cups, passed one over to Brekir.

  “Do not doubt yourself,” she said. “You have served us well this long. They will argue for carving out a berndom of our own, that we have enough ships to do it.” Joron turned away, so as not to expose the ruined skin beneath the wrapped scarf he used as a mask as he sipped the anhir, let the liquid add to the constant burn in his damaged throat. Pulled down the soft black material and turned back.

  “Well, maybe that is one way to stop the war. I can think of few things that would bind together the Hundred and Gaunt Islands quicker than someone stealing their land for a new Berndom.”

  Brekir leaned forward.

  “Just to play Hag’s lawyer on this, Joron,” she said. “We could hold our own, we have a mighty weapon, in you.”

  That cold ocean within him became ice. His words emerged as cold and sharp as the frozen islands that would slice a boneship open from beak to rump.

  “We do not talk of that.”

  “I think we must, Joron, you can raise keysh—”

  He cut her off, his voice quiet but stern and brooking no further argument. “And the moment I act, raise a sea dragon, Meas is dead, you know that. They have her because of what they believe she can do. If they know she cannot do it, then they have no reason to keep her alive.”

  “The keyshans are rising anyway, Joron. Small ones are being seen all the time, fifteen at the last count.”

  “If I break another island and one person escapes to tell of it, Brekir, she is dead. I will not do it.” Brekir nodded, sipped her drink.

  “I knew you would say that, and you are right of course, but it may come to it, Joron, one day, that you have to choose. Our fleet or her.” He took a drink and Brekir leaned forward. “Some friendly advice,
” she said.

  “Always welcome from you, Brekir.”

  “Chiver is the more forceful of the two personalities. You should have Cwell pay them a visit in the night. Then all of your problems are over and you can either advance their deckkeeeper, who will owe you, or put your own woman in. Sarring will not speak out without Chiver to back them up, most likely Sarring will slink back to the Hundred Isles with news of us and hope for a pardon.”

  “I am no murderer, Brekir.”

  She did not reply, only stared over his shoulder and out of the great windows in the rump of the ship. Joron turned to do the same, saw the bodies hanging from the gallows, the bodies strewn across the docks.

  “They are the enemy,” he said, “and would do the same to us.”

  “True,” she said.

  “Do you disapprove?” As he spoke he watched the first of his black ships begin to glide out of the harbour, Coult’s Sharp Sither. Behind it the others were readying themselves. Smoke was rising from the small port.

  “I understand,” she replied.

  “That is not approval.” He turned back to her. “We cannot leave our enemies behind us.” Brekir stood.

  “I should return to Snarltooth. As you say, there are patrols searching for us, and it would not do to be trapped here.”

  “Yes.” She turned to leave, paused in the doorway.

  “The deckchilder, they love the destruction we leave in our wake, Joron. But, and I know I did not serve as closely with Meas as you did, I cannot help wondering whether she would approve of the bloody swath we cut across the sea.”

  “She was hard, Brekir,” he said, and his own voice was full of that same hardness.

  “She let you live,” said Brekir, and then turned and vanished into the darkness of the underdeck, leaving him with unwelcome thoughts.