by Rj Barker
Ah, Mevans. The name almost a physical pain in his chest. He was so distracted that he failed to notice how the deckchilder were gathering, lining his path as he walked up the deck. When he did notice, he did not know how to react. Could not speak, found himself suddenly without words as his crew, this crew, the strongest, fiercest women and men he had ever known, removed their headwear and bowed their heads in respect. The click of his spur on the deck, the soft fall of his foot and no other sound, save the constant sounds of a ship at rest.
“Deckkeeper,” said Brekir with a nod.
“Shipwife,” he said, and nodded back.
“We received Cwell’s message. I’ve explained what is required to your flukeboat crew, and as much as I can to the Gullaime.”
“Thank you, Brekir.” Then he turned to Farys, about to speak but his words died in his mouth, for Farys’s belly had the unmistakeable swell of late pregnancy. Now the tension on the flukeboat, and Solemn Muffaz and Gavith’s unwillingness to meet his eye, made sense. Opposite sex relationships were against the Bernlaw, the rules of the sea. For a moment he stumbled, he had asked Solemn Muffaz to deal with Farys and Gavith. Anger at Muffaz swelled within him but he put it aside. This was not the time. Though he knew this was not something a commander could allow to pass, he needed his crew on side, for him, for Meas. Besides, he was no longer in charge of this ship, and such discipline was no longer his to mete out. It would be for the shipwife when she returned to deal with Farys and it cut Joron deep within that he knew that the only penalty available was death.
Farys’s scarred face twisted, glad that he had returned undoubtably, but misery was there too, for she knew she had done wrong by the ship. They exchanged a glance, an acknowledgement, but before the moment could be soured both Brekir and Farys were rudely pushed out of the way by a joyful riotously noisy creature of colour and feather.
“Joron Twiner! Joron Twiner!” The Gullaime croaked his name out, twirling and spinning around him. “Joron Twiner!” she said again as she came to a stop before him. Then she stood, with that utterly alien stillness her species were capable of. Behind her Madorra watched, his brown eye blinking. Joron felt a surge of sudden and irrational hate. Remembered he had his own plan to put into action before he left this place, even if he could not do anything about Madorra at this moment. “Where ship woman? Where? Where?” the Gullaime shrieked.
“She is on the other ship, Gullaime,” he said. The windtalker cocked her head to one side.
“Where bad woman?” she said more quietly.
“Cwell is on the other ship too.” The Gullaime let out a loud yark, whether in joy or disapproval he did not know. “We found Narza, and lost her also.” An intake of breath at that, he felt it. Knew it was a blow as the whole ship had believed her immortal, unkillable. A strange and almost magical being. Worse, he knew the confusion of Narza’s passing would be nothing to what he must say next. “And Mevans. We lost Mevans.”
There was nothing said then. No one spoke, for the crew had loved their hatkeep, depended on him. Joron knew the entire personality of Tide Child would change without him. He felt a warmth against his side as the Gullaime pushed herself against him.
“Sad,” she said, “all sad.”
“Yes, Gullaime,” he said. But no more as they were interrupted by a shout from above.
“Ship rising!” Joron’s misery fell away, and the same for the crew as that shout was one of action, and no thought was ever greater in the mind of a crew than to mind the ship. Brekir stood forward.
“What do you, see, Topboy?” she shouted.
“Flukeboat,” was shouted back, Joron recognised that voice – Alvit? He thought so. “He’s rigged for speed, looks like a messenger ship from the Hundred Isles fleet, headed for Wyrm Sither.”
“Well,” said Brekir, her face as mournful as ever, “that sounds like nothing good. I take it you and Meas are ready to act, Joron?”
“Ey,” said Joron, and he felt all sadness and pity and fear finally fall away, for it was inaction that was his enemy as much as it was those aboard Karrad’s fleet. “Ey, I need the deckchilder that are our best fighters. I need you, Gullaime,” he took a breath, “and I also need you, Madorra.”
“And Tide Child,” said Brekir, “do we ready him for war?”
“No,” said Joron, “simply be ready to leave, and in a hurry. Where is our fleet?”
“Over the horizon to the north-east,” she said.
“Good.” Then he grinned. “Have some crew ready to transfer across to Wyrm Sither.”
“You mean to take it?” said Brekir. “I see Meas has not changed.”
Joron did not know how to answer that, but was saved by a shout from the topboy above: “Messenger ship’s coming in fast, Shipwife!”
“I do not like that,” said Joron. “If Karrad sends a messenger I fear it can bring only ill news for us. Brekir, we need to be back on Wyrm Sither before that flukeboat.” Brekir nodded, grinned the grin of a predator.
“Then let us make sure that happens.” She raised her voice, “Ready the flukeboat!”
As they readied the boat, he looked about for Gavith, called him over and, though he would not meet Joron’s gaze, he came. Well you might look ashamed, he thought, but now was not the time for discipline.
“Gavith,” he whispered, “while Madorra is away, I have an important job for you,” and he barely had time to give him his task before the flukeboat was ready and he was back on board, the crew rowing hard as they could for Wyrm Sither, the Gullaime and Madorra crouched in the well of the boat. The two bigger ships had drifted a little at their seastays, allowing Joron to look past the white hull of Wyrm Sither and see the messenger flukeboat. It was under full wing, heeled over and catching all the wind it could. He saw the form of a gullaime crouched before the central mast.
“That boat is in a true hurry, Solemn Muffaz,” said Joron “Have them row harder, but I don’t want them to look too urgent about it. When we dock, be ready to board on my order, and show no quarter to those that stand against you.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” he said, and not a woman or man in the small boat seemed bothered in the least that they may end up facing the entire crew of a boneship. He felt the flukeboat pick up speed as the crew rowed harder. Then Joron spoke to Madorra and the Gullaime, making sure they knew what he needed from them when they boarded Wyrm Sither. That done he took his place in the beak of the boat and stared at the messenger flukeboat under wing, cursed a little as he knew enough of the sea and of ships to know it would be first to dock with Wyrm Sither. He looked back at Tide Child, watched it growing smaller. Then he turned away from the black ship, all he should concentrate on now was survival, that of him and those with him and his shipwife. He touched his jacket, felt the bone knife hidden within. Smiled at that, at the thought of putting it to the throat of Barnt as he took his sword back. Well, maybe that would come to pass and maybe it would not.
“Incoming boat is showing message flags, D’keeper,” said Solemn Muffaz. “Important message,” he added. “Priority boarding.”
“Carry on as normal, Solemn Muffaz,” he said.
“And if they try and stop us boarding?” he said.
“We’ve come this far, and our shipwife is waiting for us on their deck,” he said, nodding at Wyrm Sither. “We’ve lost too much to simply bob about on the surface waiting. We’ll force our way aboard if we have to.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Solemn Muffaz. “Like it right proper.” From the looks exchanged between the rowers they did too. Joron watched the messenger flukeboat glide up to the boneship until it was lost from view, even its spines hidden as Joron’s own flukeboat came up against the other side of Wyrm Sither.
“Well,” he said. “They have not stopped us.” A rope ladder was thrown over the side and Joron grabbed hold, steadied it. Looked around his boat. “Are you ready?” he said. Every human nodded while the two gullaime remained low in the well of the boat. “Gullaime, are you read
y, you know the part you must play?” They did not reply, but Joron had to presume they heard him, that all were prepared and he put both hands on the ladder. Took a deep breath, pulled himself up. Hand over hand, most of the weight taken by his arms as his bone spur could be treacherous on a rope ladder. He did not look down, did not stare at what was ahead only pulled himself up and over the bonerail. Stood on the deck.
Saw an entire crew, ready and prepared for him. Most with blades out, ready for an attack, officers with crossbows. Barnt, flanked by Cwell, Tassar and two seaguard. The shipwife held Meas by her arm and pointed a crossbow at her head. She looked weak, beaten, hanging like a ragdoll in his grip. Toward the beak of the ship the flock of gullaime milled about, sensing the nearness of violence. They made short, mournful chirping sounds. Barnt was smiling at Joron, a full, bloody, piratical smile.
“It amazes me, Twiner,” he said. “The strength of some people.”
“What do you mean?” he said. Took a step forward and Barnt let go of Meas. Joron watched as Tassar took hold of her arm. Barnt took a note from his jacket pocket. Joron stepped forward and crossbows were pointed at him. He stopped.
“I mean that she,” Barnt pointed at Meas, “went through so much pain, and still managed to lie to us.”
“I told no lies,” said Meas.
“No,” said Joron. “She spoke the truth; only the Gullaime and I together can raise the keyshans in the islands.” Barnt let out a laugh.
“Indeed? I am sure that is what you wish us to believe, what you even had Karrad believing, and he has shown himself a fool at the last, ey?” He turned to Meas. “What is it the bern say, ey? Never trust a man to do a woman’s job, Shipwife, right?”
“I do not understand,” said Joron.
“Four islands gone!” shouted Barnt, lifting the message parchment into the air. “Four islands and every woman and man and ship on them gone.” The look of confusion on Joron’s face was so honest, so real, that he thought it probably saved his life. That if he had not looked so confused Barnt would have had him shot down there and then. “You really do not know?” he said. Joron shook his head. “Well, Joron Twiner, if you do not know the keyshans are rising of their own accord, then I do not think it can be you that controls them, can it?” He laughed again, more to himself than anything else. “So, what use are you to us?”
“That cannot be,” said Joron, and as he did the Gullaime crawled over the rail to landward of him, grand in her fine robes and decorated mask. To seaward Madorra came, and as the windshorn crowned the rail he called out something harsh and hard in the gullaime language.
“All this travelling, running around for you,” said Barnt, “and it seems we need none of you.” He raised his crossbow and pointed it at Joron. “Karrad writes he still believes you have power.” Barnt stared at him. “He requests you and that gullaime of yours are taken alive.” He sighted along the weapon. “I think, power or not, we are all better off if you are dead.”
Tassar stayed Barnt’s hand. “He’s mine,” he said. “I want to hurt him for what he brought upon my Thirteenbern.” He pushed Meas over to Barnt, drew his curnow and walked toward Joron, leaving Meas in the company of his seaguard, Barnt and Cwell. Again, Madorra let out his scream – a shout, a song, a call.
“What is that racket?” shouted Barnt. Joron knew, but could not say. Knew that Madorra called out in its own language, telling the gathered gullaime that here was the Windseer, the windtalkers’ saviour, the creature that would free them from bondage. But what had been hoped for, that the gaggle of now unchained gullaime down the ship would react and fight for them, did not happen. They only milled around the deck, confused. Tassar approached, smiling at Joron, promising nothing but pain to come.
“This is the Windseer!” shouted Joron, pointing at his gullaime, and she stood on the rail, beautiful in robe and feather. “Your Windseer is here!” he shouted.
And all that came in reply was laughter. From Barnt. From Tassar making his way down the ship with his bared blade. The crew of the ship, nudging one another, grinning.
“Was this your plan?” said Barnt, laughing. “Was this it?” he shouted. “You hoped to stoke a flock of windtalkers to revolution?” He stared down the deck at Joron. “You are fools, both of you.” Then he raised his crossbow and pointed it at the Gullaime. “This all ends here. Tassar, kill Twiner, get it over with.”
The Gullaime, in answer, screamed. She opened her mouth and let out a roar the like of which Joron had never heard. At the same time, she ripped off her mask, showing those eyes, those bright and shining eyes with their spiral pupils and her call filled the air around them. Battering and buffeting ears like the fiercest gale, and with the sound came heat and following the heat came the wind. A great wall of it, a shock of it. It smashed Wyrm Sither backwards and into the messenger boat moored alongside, spars and spines breaking, the brittle hull no doubt holed and cracked by the weight of bone. The sudden movement throwing all those aboard Wyrm Sither to the slate deck. Joron heard shouts, heard fear, heard confusion and he pushed himself up and forward, toward the nearest of the seaguard masquerading as deckchilder and took up his dropped spear. Found his voice. Knew there was only one order, only one possibility as the wind howled around him, heeling over the warship.
“Into them!” he shouted. “Into them!” He ran forward, driving his spear into the side of a man trying to find his feet. He heard his boatcrew shouting as they came over the rail behind him with nothing but bone knives and fury. Madorra launched itself at the nearest seaguard and the Gullaime remained on the rail, still screaming up a ferocious wind. Up the deck he saw Meas wrestling with Barnt over his sword, behind her Cwell took on two seaguard and he knew he was needed there. But there were too many between him and his shipwife. Meas, poor, misused Meas, had not the strength she once had and was fighting a battle she was bound to lose. He glanced around the deck and saw that, despite the howling wind, the ship’s crew were coming together. Tassar, curse his name, pushing them into a line of sword and spear and small shield. Not a wonderful line, not one that Coughlin would have been proud of, it was ragged and poor, but enough to hold back Joron and his ten, despite the wind.
“I’ll end you, Twiner!” shouted Tassar.
And Joron knew he would, his seaguard would push Joron and his people back into the sea. Meas would fall to Barnt and even if he escaped with his people on the flukeboat, before they could get far enough away the bigger ship would have its bows untrussed and shoot them from the water.
Then the flock of gullaime woke.
Joron had been so distracted by the forming battle line he had taken his eyes from the gullaime further down the deck. Not seen the reaction of the windshorn when they saw the Gullaime’s eyes. Not seen the reaction of the windtalkers when the windshorn called out, telling the windtalkers what they saw in chirps and caws and creaks. Not been prepared for the utter fury that was unleashed. Beaks snapping, claws slashing, gullaime calling to one another to coordinate attacks. The windshorn leading, the windtalkers following, guided by the calls of those who had been their jailers. A volcano that had been waiting for generations to explode crashed into Wyrm Sither’s seaguard. Gullaime bit and slashed long past when those they attacked were dead, had to be bodily moved on by the windshorn who directed their fury.
“Meas,” shouted Joron, but she could not hear him, was still in a life-or-death struggle with Barnt, one she was losing. He tried to push forward but there, bloody sword held firmly in his hand, stood Tassar.
“Time to die, Twiner.” He lunged forward, pushing Joron back and Joron cursed. He could not beat the man, knew it. He was no great swordsman, never had been. Tassar had trained with a blade since he had been old enough to hold one. “Never liked you. I’ll make it slow, Twiner,” said Tassar with a grin. From behind he heard a cry he recognised, the shout of his Gullaime. He turned his head, hoping against hope not to see her hurt and there she stood, proud upon the bonerail, still calling. Joron knew himself
for a fool as he turned back, for only a fool turns their head from a swordsman like Tassar. The man was in mid-lunge, sword reaching for Joron’s stomach. A cruel killing blow that would end his life in slow agony.
A moment where time slowed.
He saw the mayhem around him.
The blood and the feathers and the noise. It all faded away. The end. Here it was. His spirit would be freed to find the Hag’s fire, to join his father there. To find peace beside the flames.
Tassar vanished.
Hit by three or four or more gullaime, all biting and clawing and furious as they dragged him to the deck. Joron saw his face, bent into agony, crying out “No! No!” and then all Joron saw was white feather and pink skin. And a path up the ship, as if it had been opened just for him.
Running up the ship. Dodging past fights. Cwell killed one of the seaguard, was fighting the other. Barnt pushed Meas to the floor. Raised his sword, Joron’s sword. And with no other option Joron roared, “No!” Distracted Barnt briefly, for just long enough. Meas rolled away and then Joron was near enough to be a threat. Barnt came at him, unleashing a flurry of sword strokes that he barely managed to block with the spear. He stepped back, and Barnt laughed at him. Behind him, Meas lay on the deck, struggling to catch her breath.
“I’ll kill you with your own blade,” said Barnt, and began to advance.
“No,” said Cwell, stepping between Joron and Brandt. Blood ran freely from a cut on her temple and a slash on her arm. She held a curnow in one hand and a bone knife on the other. She pointed her dagger at Barnt. “That sword,” she said, “is not yours and I will not leave my job undone this time.”
