by D Murray
“Clobber,” Kalfinar said, affording a slight laugh. “A bit cumbersome. What do you prefer?”
“I’ll stick with Cookie for now. I reckon a name’s only something we wear for a while anyways. No doubt there’s one that’ll come along and replace Cookie before I’m done. Funny thing is, I’m a better cobbler than I am a cook.”
“Hate to see your shoes in that case,” Jukster mumbled as he scraped a whetstone along the length of a knife, glinting in the moonlight.
“Aye,” Murtagh laughed from where she lay beside Jukster. “Mind you, Cookie’s food tastes about as good as an old boot. So there’s a certain symmetry to it.”
“A what?” Jukster asked, his beady eyes narrowing in confusion.
She shoved him in the leg. “Back to sharpening your knife. Sharpest thing about you.”
Cookie grinned and turned back to tending his pots and pans, boiling up potatoes and frying up some thick-cut sides of bacon and black bread.
Kalfinar stood and moved back from the fire. He sat slightly apart from the troops, along with Broden and Valus. “You warm enough?” Kalfinar asked Valus.
“Yes, thanks,” she replied. “Still close enough to get the heat of the fire.”
Kalfinar shrugged off his cloak and offered it to her. “I’m warm enough.”
She laughed and turned to Broden. “He forgets I’m from the Lihedan Isles. I’m more used to the chill than you.” She waved the cloak away, thanking him all the same. “I think I’ll see if Cookie needs a hand.” Valus stood and headed the short distance over to the circle by the fire, where Cookie still worked about his pots and pans.
Suddenly, the smell of the bacon hit Kalfinar’s nose and roused a hunger in him he didn’t even know he had until that moment. He was glad for the distraction, and indulged in it. “Come. Let’s get some food.” He stood up, followed by the others, and made his way across to the circle by the fire. He looked at the faces of his companions, the names of most of them still unknown to him. Hells, he struggled to remember even the names of the fighters who'd been in the same boat as him. A few faces looked up as he approached. Some appeared pleasant, even good-humoured, whilst others, notably Jukster’s, looked like their smile had been crushed in with the heel of a boot. Kalfinar wasn’t even sure Jukster was smiling. It could well have been a violence-filled scowl for all he knew. Kalfinar sat down, and looked across at where Cookie worked. “How’s the supper coming along?” he asked.
“Well enough, boss. Last of the bacon to come.” The stocky man looked up from where he moved the thick-cut bacon about the pan with a two-pronged fork, and a toothy grin split his silver-shot beard. “Get your mess tins ready, one at a time now. Don’t want any bloody stampedes here.”
There was a scramble as the troop got to their feet, grabbing at their thin metal mess tins and rushing Cookie.
“Bastards!” Cookie said, stepping back from the fire. “Wow! Steady on now!”
Kalfinar afforded himself a small smile. Some things never change. He waited until everyone else had received their portion before he approached Cookie. As the universe dictated, there were only the withered and twisted bits of bacon left, with mushy potatoes and the heel of the black bread.
Cookie shot him an apologetic look, his smile lopsided. “Sorry, boss.”
Kalfinar waved the apology away and happily took the food on offer. He moved back to his space by the fire and sat down on the now slightly warmer shingle. He looked about the troop as he started to eat. Full mouths talking, cracking jokes, jabbing ribs. Laugher flitted up around the circle. It warmed him to see that even through all the hell and blood of the last few weeks, there was still some joy to be had.
His heart sank as the smell of her flooded his memory. He saw her blue eyes in his mind, and the sound of her laughter rang about his ears. The softness of her touch, her kiss, the warmth of her skin. His jaw clenched hard and he felt his fist balling about the spoon in his hand. Then he heard female laughter. He looked across to the other side of the fire and saw Murtagh bent over laughing at something Jukster had said. Laughing so hard her plate tipped and her dinner went spilling onto the beach. The laughter spread to the men next to them, causing one man to spit out a shower of part-chewed potato into the fire with a hiss. Kalfinar forgot about his fury for a moment, and instead enjoyed the small moment of light in the swirling smoke and dark of the night.
Fifteen
Grantvik's Bay
For the next two days they travelled quickly up the Valeswater, passing the second, smaller lake, and into the last stretch of the river before it ran to the sea.
Kalfinar pulled the oilcloth tighter over his head and shoulders, trying to keep the rain from soaking into his cloak. He looked up ahead and saw the two other boats had taken the lead, their sails billowing and making short work of the river as it flowed northward.
“Should be at the coast soon,” the man at the tiller said. He was a city guard called Lendal. He was tall, about the same height as Kalfinar. His head was shaved right up the sides, where the skin met with a thick sweep of black hair. A wide moustache grew from his upper lip and stretched out, almost touching the bottom of his ears.
“Sky don’t look so promising,” Cookie added, pointing up ahead with one hand while the other held steady the sail. “Looks like shit.”
Jukster sat beside him, still sharpening his knife.
“Reckon if that knife’s not sharp now, Jukster, it’ll never be,” Kalfinar said.
Jukster looked up, his unfriendly little eyes locking on Kalfinar’s for a moment. The big man finally turned the blade and pressed his thumb to the edge. A small line of bright red blood welled from the cut and he smiled before licking his yellow-stained tongue against it. “Very sharp.” He sheathed the knife, then added, “Boss.”
Kalfinar turned away from the big Pathfinder, wondering if the nagging feeling in his guts was Jukster, or the general worry of the last few weeks. He looked up at the sky and saw tall, black clouds in the distance.
“Stormy out at sea,” Broden grumbled. “Not going to be a pleasant journey, I don’t reckon.”
“Not likely.”
It took another hour to make it to the port at the mouth of the Valeswater. The small fishing town, largely abandoned in the winter months, was called Grantvik’s Bay. Even in the cold of winter, it stank of fish and whale oils. The town was comprised largely of small, flat wooden buildings, low enough to keep out of the worst of the wind. Several taller buildings lined the water, mostly dry docks and warehouses for processing catches or drawing out the oils. The town sloped up gently towards a low ridgeline, then disappeared off behind it to the south. On top of the ridgeline, a herd of several dozen white-haired deer grazed on what little growth could be found among the gravelly soil. The land around Grantvik’s Bay was sparsely vegetated, with mosses, waxy grasses and low shrubs spreading where they could between green lichen-covered rocks.
They followed the other two boats out of the wide mouth of the Valeswater and turned to starboard. A broad wooden jetty stretched out from a large, rust-red-painted building; the only building, as it happened, that appeared to have any light coming from its windows. A thin line of white-grey smoke stretched from a single chimney to the rear of the building. Alongside the jetty were berthed several ships, a mix of barges for the Valeswater, larger inshore fishing vessels, and three two-masted ships with metal-plated bows.
“One of those will have to be our passage,” Broden said sourly, peering over the gunwale toward the jetty as they approached.
Kalfinar didn’t respond. He looked at the town about them and wondered where all the smoke was. No smoke, no people. No people, no crew. A knot formed in his stomach.
They pulled up alongside the jetty as the occupants of the first two boats made their way up onto it. Kalfinar tossed the rope to Murtagh. She caught it and tied the rope off around the mooring point. She moved towards the gunwale of the boat and bent down, offering her hand to Kalfinar. He accepted,
and she hauled him up and onto the salt-crusted wood of the jetty.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it, boss.” She smiled, her face crinkling where old scars ran. She had several teeth missing from the side of her smile, by the looks of it; Kalfinar figured they had been knocked out in a fight of some kind. Although he'd not had much conversation with her, he knew that to make it as a Pathfinder as a woman, and to hold her own with the likes of Jukster, meant she had a strong character. He liked her.
“Get me the shitting hells off this bastarding boat,” Broden rumbled, and Kalfinar turned to see the big man scrambling up from where he had been hiding for the entire period they had been on the water.
Kalfinar and Murtagh leaned over and grabbed a heavy arm each, pulling Broden to the jetty.
“Thank Dajda for that. Couldn’t have found a smaller bastarding boat, could we?” Broden stretched down, touching his toes. His back cracked as he bent over. He stood up and stretched out his shoulders, causing the joints to pop. “Bastard of a boat.” He twisted his torso from one side to the other and released a long sigh. “Argh. A man of my size shouldn’t have to be all hunched up like that.”
“A man of your size shouldn’t be cowering from river water,” Murtagh said out of the side of her mouth as she hauled Cookie from the boat.
Broden cast her a sidelong glance, then back to Kalfinar.
Kalfinar shrugged his shoulders. “She’s right.”
Broden waved the comment away and grabbed Jukster’s wrist, hauling him to the jetty. “You know,” Broden added, “that was probably the single worst experience of my life.”
“What?” Kalfinar said, reaching for the pack handed out by one of the guardsmen, Corporal Pretus. “Worse than having that mountain wolf tear up your sides?”
“Aye, worse than that,” Broden grumbled, grabbing at another pack lofted out of the boat by the young guardsman.
“Boss.” A voice sounded behind Kalfinar. He turned to see one of the infantrymen, Werlan, approaching him. The man’s bald head was covered by an oilcloth hat he had made along the journey. His hook nose protruded from beneath the makeshift hat, causing him to look like some kind of vulture. “There’s a port master asking for who’s in charge.”
“Thanks, Werlan,” Kalfinar said, following the man. He walked past the two other ships, where the rest of the troop were unloading the packs of materials and weapons onto the jetty. Spots of rain started to fall. Coupled with the foam and spray blown in from the sea on the cold wind, it was shaping up to be a miserable day. Kalfinar’s mood worsened when he saw the hunched old man in the doorway of the large rust-red building. The words ‘Grantvik’s Bay Port House’ stretched tall above the old man’s head in flaking black paint. The old man’s head was topped with a cloud of curly white hair. He wore a broad white beard, stained brownish by the yellow smoke that puffed from the pipe protruding from between his lips. The old man had a squint in one eye, causing the other to look oddly bulging as he appraised Kalfinar.
“You in charge? What do you want?” the old port master asked in a high, ragged voice.
Werlan stopped a few paces back and waited as Kalfinar approached the man.
“Aye, I’m in charge.” Kalfinar came to a stop and offered a hand to the man.
The port master stared at the hand with his good eye, and puffed a plume of yellow smoke up into the space between them. “What you want me to do with that?”
Kalfinar withdrew his hand, feeling tension knot in his stomach. He sighed and looked hard at the man. “We need a ship and a crew, if you have them.”
The port master withdrew his pipe and looked Kalfinar up and down. “Soldier?”
“Aye.”
“Soldiering driven you mad?” The old man placed the pipe back into his mouth with a clack against his teeth. “Not really the season for passage.”
“I know. It’s a necessity, I’m afraid.”
“Aye, well, you should be afraid.” The old man chuckled at his own joke, and stepped into the port house. “Come with me, and bring your people. It's shit out there.”
Kalfinar turned and motioned for the troop to follow him in. The weather was worsening as the black clouds moved landward, bringing the storm with them. Kalfinar coughed, brought up some phlegm, and spat it onto the jetty. “Shitting weather.” He followed the old man into the port house.
Through the door, Kalfinar found the room to be of a considerable size, about one-third the entire size of the port house itself. The room was made of wood from floor to ceiling, with the walls painted white, and the floor a rich red that Kalfinar assumed was once the colour of the outer walls. A large black stove burned at the south-facing gable wall, far from the battering seaward-facing wall. Lounging chairs filled the space by the fire, and there were cooking pots and work surfaces filled with jars along both walls either side of the stove. A broad desk, dark-stained and covered with ledgers and papers, was placed in the east-facing corner. To the west stood a small bed, thick with blankets, and a small dresser and large chest, half open and with clothes spilling out of it. Candles lined the white wood walls, lighting the spaces in the walls between a multitude of age-stained sea charts.
“Get in, dry off, and take a seat,” the old man instructed, puffing once more on his pipe. No smoke rose from it, and he removed it. He brought the pipe right up to his good eye and peered into it. “Hell’s catch. Bastarding thing’s out again.” He ambled over to the stove and opened it with a creak. He stretched in a taper, allowing it to light, then withdrew it and brought it up to his pipe. He sucked once, drawing the flame into the bowl and puffing free a plume of the yellowish smoke. “Yes,” he said, tossing the taper into a copper bowl of dried seaweed stalks by the stove.
“This is a matter of great urgency,” Kalfinar said. “I am Kalfinar, chief marshal of the Free Provinces, son of the late Governor Harruld.”
“And I’m the Solansian king reborn!” the old man chuckled, sweeping into an awkward bow.
“Shouldn’t really joke about that,” Broden mumbled, standing with arms folded and dripping onto the floorboards.
“He speaks the truth.” Valus stepped forward, shaking the rain and spray from the oilcloth she wore over her cloak.
“Who in the hell’s catch are you?” he asked as he eyed her up and down.
“My name is Valus. I’m of the Lihedan Isles of Noehmia. Have you heard of them?”
“Aye. Fished them waters before, for white whales.”
“Then you’ll know we are a truthful people.”
“Said a Lihedan can’t tell a lie.”
“And so it is.” She reached out and took the man’s hand. His eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, pipe dropping free of his mouth and spilling its smouldering contents onto the floor. Valus shut her eyes also and her lips moved gently as she mouthed silent words.
Kalfinar stepped forward and stood on the smouldering tabac. As he stepped back, the port master’s eyes flicked open and he took a couple of shaky steps backwards.
“What in the hells has happened? Carte!” The port master turned and walked with uneasy steps towards the worktop to the right of the stove. He fumbled for an enamelled cup as his other hand sought a glazed clay bottle. He worked at the cork with age-swollen hands and freed it with a pop. The tremors in his hand betrayed his shock. A golden liquid poured into the mug, some spilling over onto the stained wooden surface. The cup travelled up to the old man's mouth, and he tipped it backwards, swallowing loudly as golden beads ran down his beard.
“What did you do to him?” Kalfinar asked Valus.
“Time is not in such abundance as to allow us to dally. I showed him what has passed these last few weeks,” she replied, still watching the port master.
Kalfinar scrutinised Valus. She spoke with a confidence that some might mistake for arrogance. He considered her words for a moment. “How could you show him what you yourself have not seen?”
“They were not through my eyes that t
hese sights were seen,” she replied. “They were through yours.”
Her words brought little comfort to him. What of mine remains my own? Have you looked into all of me, and seen it all? He watched her as he thought. She did not show any signs of acknowledging his thoughts and instead approached the old man and led him to a chair.
“Forgive me,” the port master said, his good eye looking up at Kalfinar. “Don’t get much word out here this time of year. Didn’t know nothing was happening.”
Kalfinar picked up the pipe and carried it towards the old man, offering it to him.
“Thanks to you, my lord.”
“Call me Kalfinar, please.” The man nodded, his shaggy white hair bobbing with the motion. “What’s your name?” Kalfinar asked him.
“Rolof Crene. Everyone just calls me Crene.”
“Crene it is,” Kalfinar said, fetching a small pouch of tabac that sat open on the work surface. “Here.” He handed it over. “I’ll fetch a taper.”
Crene stuffed his pipe, and gratefully sucked the flame to the bowl when it was presented. He nodded in thanks and puffed out a plume of the dirty smoke. “I’ve got ships you can use. But not much in the way of crew. The whalers and fishermen tend to be gone back down the Valeswater to Night Town at this time of year. Apart from those who live here, it’s only really a skeleton crew to keep the station and town running, you know?”
“Aye,” Kalfinar replied.
“King Grunnxe is really back?” Crene asked. “And taken up with a devil?”
“He is,” Kalfinar replied. “And he has.”
“Hell’s catch.” Crene made a sign of benediction.
“What crew have you?” Broden stepped up towards the man. He encouraged the rest of the troop up towards the area by the stove to warm up.
