by Rj Barker
“Treacherous lowborn scum,” said Barnt, and he slashed at her. She caught the blade on her curnow and drove her bone knife into his chest. Then stepped back, bringing her curnow round in an arc and striking him on the side of the head with the flat of it, felling him.
“Cease!” shouted Meas, struggling to her feet. “The shipwife is beaten! The ship is mine! Cease!” All down the deck the gullaime carried on their attacks. Joron’s ten rowers, down to seven now, had been forced to stand behind Madorra and Tide Child’s Gullaime, who protected them. “Gullaime,” shouted Meas. “Stop this now!” But no matter how much the Gullaime shouted and squawked, or how much Madorra joined in, their people’s fury could not be contained and it continued until only Meas, Joron and his seven remained standing.
A quiet fell.
The gullaime stood around as if confused, their white robes and feathers spattered with blood. Meas stared out over the rail toward the rest of the Hundred Isles fleet.
“We need to get out of here,” she said.
“Ey,” said Joron.
“We’ll take this ship, I think,” she said.
“With only nine of us?” he asked. She grinned, and again he saw the woman he knew so well, the shipwife he had missed so much.
“Nine from Tide Child,” she said, then pointed at the flock of gullaime on the deck and grinned more broadly, “but now we have nearly a hundred new crewmembers. It should not be too much of a challenge.”
41
The Escape
As he pulled on a rope and tied it off Joron thought of how far he had come. Once, he would not have believed that nine women and men and a gaggle of gullaime with no training could get something as massive as a boneship moving, would have thought such a feat needed a full crew, a hundred or more pulling on ropes and furling wings.
Of course, now he knew different, had known it even when he had been surprised that Meas intended to take the ship rather than simply row back to Brekir in the flukeboat. Joron was not even sure they had enough people in their fleet to crew another fighting ship, but there was ever the pirate within the soul of Meas and besides, he found a strange joy in her rapaciousness. The problem they had with Wyrm Sither was not in getting the ship moving – getting a boneship moving was the easy part, especially with a fresh breeze and nearly a hundred willing gullaime. No, the crew were needed for the subtleties of the ship, for steering, and tacking and, most importantly, for stopping. As the tiny crew worked to get the ship ready Meas stood upon the rump, staring at the far horizon, watching the Hundred Isles fleet.
“Do they give chase?” asked Joron. She shook her head.
“No, we have enough distance that they cannot see what happens here. When we move away, well, then we may see some action from them.” She grinned, rubbed the bandage that covered her missing eye. “Though they are too far away to catch us, this ship is ours now.”
“Are we sure taking the ship is a good idea, Meas?” he said. She stiffened a little, then relaxed.
“Why, Deckkeeper?”
“I fear we do not have enough deckchilder spare in our fleet to crew him.” He touched the rearspine. “Magnificent as he is.” Meas looked up at the corpselights bobbing above the ship.
“When I first came onto the black ships, Joron,” she said, “I thought of them as relics, dead things.” She took a breath, squinted up into the wings. “But now, I see those lights, and see the real relics, the real dead things that we should have left behind as a people so long ago. We kill our children and for what, pretty lights?” She stared down the deck at the gaggle of gullaime, picking their way through the bodies of the slain, occasionally pecking curiously at them. “We blind and enslave those who should be our allies. I have had plenty of time to think about this, Joron.” She tapped her bandaged eye. “About what we do, what we think is right.” She stepped forward and took up an axe from where it had fallen on the deck. Blood still marked the blade and the haft. She walked to the rear of the ship, where the rope of the seastay moved gently in the groove worn in the rail. “I see more clearly than ever, it all has to change, Joron; what we value must change if we are to survive.” She lifted the axe and brought it down on the rope holding the ship at his seastay, half severing it.
“We will need the seastay, shipwife, to bring over at least some crew if you want this ship.” She shook her head. Brought the axe down again with a grunt. Still not cut through.
“I don’t want this ship for our fleet,” she said. The axe fell again. “I want it to send a signal.” She looked up at the unfurled wings, white as sweet cloud. “Take the steering oar, Joron,” she said and grinned at him. “I think us ready to fly.” Then she brought the axe down for a final time and the entire ship shuddered as it was freed from the seastay and began to move forward. “Solemn Muffaz!” shouted Meas. “Raise a flag so Brekir does not think we come to attack her.” She stood on the rump, nodding to herself, then turned to Joron. “They’ll see we are leaving soon enough,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Should we bring the cargo and stores up?” said Joron.
“Why?” said Meas.
“We are sore pressed, Shipwife,” he said. “Our fleet will need whatever it can get.” She stared into the distance. Then slowly shook her head.
“I want nothing of theirs,” she said quietly. “Nothing, do you hear me?” Then she raised her voice. “What are all these bodies doing lying about my deck?” she said. “Get them over the side.” Her crew sprang to action, gathering the dead and throwing them over. Meas watched, as if hungry, as hungry as the longthresh the corpses were sure to bring. She reminded him of the Mother then, full of grace and love for those who did her bidding, implacable in her judgement on those who stood against her will. As her deckchilder worked their way up the deck Joron stared at the gullaime gathered at the beak of the ship, gathered around his gullaime.
Though she was dressed in her finery, her colourful robes adorned with trinkets and feathers, she looked small, beaten. Like Meas had looked when he first found her in the cell, and he wanted to go to his friend, but for the first time, after seeing them in action, he felt afraid of the gullaime. Maybe he would not have, but for the fact that Madorra stood to one side of the group, his one eye unerringly locked on Joron and he knew, more than ever before, that for reasons beyond both of them the two were set against each other. I will deal with you, he thought, though there was no comfort in that, for without question the one-eyed windshorn thought the same of him.
“Shipwife.” Joron turned at the call – it was Zafir speaking, one of the crew who had never known Meas and she was shy of the woman on the rump, seeing her only through the lens of stories that made her more than human.
“Ey, deckchilder?” said Meas.
“This one still lives,” said Zafir. Meas stared at the officer she pointed at. Joron did too. It was Barnt.
“There is one here too that lives,” said Leman from further down the deck and Joron saw he had Tassar. Truly, the Maiden still played tricks on them. “One here,” said another voice, they at least had a simple seaguard.
“Bind them and bring any of those who still live up to me,” said Meas. They were brought, and none too gently, to the rump of the ship to join Barnt. They were few, and they were sorely wounded, but not with wounds that Joron recognised, not spear thrusts, not curnow slashes, not knife slices. These unfamiliar wounds were equally terrible: wounds from hooked beaks, from curved and razor-sharp claws, from needle teeth. Two died as they were dragged up the ship, and joined the trail of bodies that Wyrm Sither left behind, it dissolving into a slick of dark water as the longthresh ripped them apart. Barnt woke as he was lain against the spine of the ship and Tassar awoke when Meas unceremoniously tipped a bucket of water over him. Both fought their bonds, but only for a moment. Barnt looked up at Meas, who stood over him, squinting when the shipwife moved to let the light of Skearith’s Eye fall on the man.
“Well played, Meas,” said Barnt weakly. He looked d
own the deck, then looked away as another body went over. “Seems everything they said about you was true.” He glanced at Tassar, who let out a groan, blood from hundreds of cuts tainted the pool of water around the man. “I am luckier than Tassar, by the sight of it.”
“His gut has been opened,” said Meas.
“Well, he is finished then. A pity, he was a good-looking man.” He spat on the deck. “So many fell to gullaime,” he said. “Never thought they were worth anything,” he tried to smile through his pain. “Regret how many we put over the side now I know they can fight. Could have used them.”
“May be wise to mind what you say about the gullaime, with so many on the ship,” said Meas. Barnt moved, trying to find a comfortable place against the spine. He used his feet to push against the deck so he sat more upright.
“We know how this works now, Meas,” he said, “my family are rich. Choose yourself an envoy and send it to the fleet. Name your price, they will pay it.”
“Did I ever ask a price, for those I took?” said Joron, his words full of ire, his body fizzing with anger, but Meas cooled him with a glance.
“You did not,” said Barnt, though he did not look at him. “You simply murdered them. But you are a pirate, a Berncast man promoted to a position beyond your place. No one would have paid you. If they had, those taken by you would have died of shame if they had returned.” Joron took a step toward him but Meas held up a hand, stopped him before he got close enough to Barnt to hurt him.
“We are alike, that is what you say, Barnt?” said Meas. The Hundred Isles shipwife nodded, his hair tangling in the pitch around the spine.
“We are fleet, are we not? We would stop to take those of the enemy we can from the water. We have a code of honour, we follow a higher path that it is difficult for the lowborn to understand.” Meas squatted down, rubbing her bandaged eye and grunting with pain as her joints complained.
“I do not know exactly how long I was away. Do you, Joron?”
“Over a year and a half, Shipwife,” he said.
“So long,” she repeated quietly. “I have been afraid to ask, if I am truthful, Barnt.” Her voice rose a little. “At least once every week I met with Karrad’s hagpriest. I was ministered to by her. Sometimes she healed what harm she had caused. Sometimes she undid her healing.” Meas’s voice was wavering, as if she barely held in check what was within her. “Where was this code then, Barnt? Where was this honour then? Where were your fleet ways then?” Joron had never heard Meas speak with such venom. “They were not there, because they are a fiction, only brought up when they are useful to those such as you. Well, I intend to bring about a change, a resounding change.” She stood, turned away from the man.
“And what of me?” shouted Barnt. “Am I to remain your prisoner?” Meas shook her head.
“No, you are dead to me, Barnt. You hear me? You are dead.” She turned away, walked to the rear rail of the ship so none could see her face. “And you have seen what I do with the dead on this ship, they go over the side.”
“No!” shouted Barnt. “No! You cannot—”
“Cwell!” shouted Meas. “I gave an order.” Joron’s shadow walked up to Barnt and looked down on him.
“Said I’d make sure of you this time.” She picked him up, throwing his bound body over her shoulder. Then strode to the side of the ship and threw him over, quickly coming back for Tassar, who barely even moved, and repeating the action. Meas remained at the rail, watching the trail of bodies behind the ship and Joron wondered if she found pleasure in the screams of Barnt as the longthresh found him, for he did not. When the screams had finished he joined her at the rail.
“Shipwife,” he said.
“If you have come to tell me that was badly done, then I know it,” she said.
“I have flown that course, the one of vengeance,” he said. “Found my destination is always on the horizon, the journey never to be over.” Meas nodded. He reached into his coat. “I picked up my jacket on Tide Child,” he said, “this was in it. I have been looking after it.” He handed over her nearglass. She did not say anything. Just took it, ran a hand over the bone casement and then brought it to her good eye to look at the horizon.
“Our course may be over sooner than you think,” she said. “I count over forty ships now. That must be almost the entire Hundred Isles fleet.”
“I do not think we are finished, no matter how many ships they bring against us.”
“And why is that, Deckkeeper?” she said.
“Because you are Lucky Meas,” he said. “The witch of Keelhulme Sounding, and the greatest shipwife who ever lived.”
She did not look at him. She was staring at the slick of blood and body parts that trailed Wyrm Sither.
“Am I?” She closed the nearglass. “In truth, I am not so sure.” She tried to smile and failed, then glanced behind him. “I think Cwell has something for you,” she said. He turned to find his shadow behind him, holding out his sword.
“Try not to lose it again,” she said. “It’s the Hag’s arse to get back.”
“Thank you, Cwell,” he said, and when he turned back to where Meas had been she was gone. Walking down the deck of the ship, her every step a testament to the pain she had been put through, and her unwillingness to give in to it.
42
The Desperate
It took three days for Wyrm Sither and Tide Child to catch up with their fleet, and Joron and Meas stayed on the Hundred Isles ship for that time. Meas did not want to slow even for as long as it took to change ships, knowing a fleet could never keep up with two ships. Now Wyrm Sither burned and, somewhere, back over the horizon Joron knew a fleet of white ships would be making all the speed they could for the pillar of smoke.
Meas stood on the rump of Tide Child with four of her shipwives. There was Coult of the Sharp Sither, fearsome, looking older than Joron remembered, more tired. Adrantchi of the Beakwyrm’s Glee, looking more worn than ever; a scar marred his face and his uniform, so colourful once, was worn, faded and much mended. The loss of his deckkeeper, Black Ani, sat like a weight upon him. Turrimore of the Bloodskeer, tall and dark and fierce, but missing teeth in her top jaw now, as well as all those from the bottom, and there was something of the hunted in her eyes. Her skin, that had been as dark and smooth as a calm sea in the middle of the night, was now nicked and rutted with scar tissue. Lastly there was Brekir of the Snarltooth, mournful as ever, unchanging and steadfast. They stood and watched the burning ship and did they seem a little disappointed in the woman he had brought back, this ragged, pained figure?
“We should have taken its stores,” said Coult to Joron, his voice gruff, barely more than a growl. Then he glanced toward Meas, her eye bandaged, her damaged hands bent into claws, her posture slightly stooped, “But I understand why she may want nothing to do with it.” Joron said nothing, despite that Coult echoed his own thoughts. “Animals,” said Coult. “We deal enough death without dirtying our hands with torture.” Joron tried not to show his surprise – of all the shipwives he had thought Coult the most likely to use torture, his nature was one of viciousness.
“My cabin,” said Meas. “Let me tell you what I have planned.” She turned and headed down the hatch to her great cabin, followed by Joron and the shipwives. Once there, they sat around her desk, pulled out into its table form. No food. The entire fleet was short on provisions but Joron was sure, if Mevans had been here, there would have been food. Farys probably would have provided it but Meas had taken one look at her, at the swell of her belly, and coldly said, “I will deal with you later,” before confining her to her quarters.
So they sat without food or drink and waited for Meas to speak.
“First,” she said, “I thank you all for keeping my fleet together while I was…” Her voice faded a little. She coughed. Spoke once more, strong and loud: “Away.”
“Thank the deckkeeper for bringing you back,” said Adrantchi, little good cheer or jollity in the voice of a man once famed for it
. “He planned, he kept us going. Never let us give up hope.”
“We have had little rest or respite and times have been hard,” said Turrimore, “but we knew that when we signed on.”
“Well,” said Meas, “I thank you all, and I apologise that I have not fed or watered you upon visiting my ship. But time is of the essence.” She looked around at those gathered. “You all know by now that Karrad has betrayed us. More, he has taken the Hundred Isles for himself.”
“Will he not take us back, then? It was the Thirteenbern we fought, we have served his cause,” said Adrantchi.
“Karrad’s cause,” said Meas quietly, “is Karrad. I have had plenty of time to learn that. He used us.”
“We should give him a bloody nose,” said Coult.
“I would like nothing more,” said Meas, “that and to give him a bloody stump for a neck, but he outnumbers us. He has drawn the whole of the remaining fleet to him. Near forty ships to our fourteen. And they are not held back by brownbones full of stonebound to protect, we cannot outrun them without leaving our people behind.”
“Ey,” said Adrantchi, “that is true, but now you are back the deckkeeper no longer has to keep himself in check. We can call the keyshans to our aid.”
“Oh to be on Karrad’s flagship when he sees them coming for him,” said Turrimore. “I would laugh, even as I went into the jaws of the beast.”
“If the deckkeeper’s powers were so accurate I would do it in a moment,” said Meas, looking around the table, “but they are not. Those who were at McLean’s Rock know what happened. The keyshan woke, ey, but it cared not a jot for us. If we had gone down with the island then I doubt it would have noticed.”
“Do they not want to be woken from their slumber? Are they not thankful?” said Brekir.
