by Rj Barker
And he needed his breath to run.
Coult’s words filled his mind. “Keep going uphill. Don’t stop ’cause they’ll be after us. If you can’t find your fellows, keep going. If you think you’re lost, keep going. If the deckchild by you dies, keep going. Get to the lamyard and we’ll deal with whatever we need to when we need to.” Then they were running, each of them carrying a curnow and a small round shield. The jungle around them alive with noise, but not animal noise. In the dying season the birds vanished into burrows to hibernate, flew away to cliffs to sleep and it was hard not to think they left to avoid the stink and the rot. Behind them, the fire that Brekir had set burned, and further behind that ships burned and it was as if that fire filled those chasing them. The dying forest was full of their noise. Shouting, whooping. Feet drumming. Voices cursing as they slipped on rot.
All was chaos in the dark. Joron saw vague shapes. Was it gion, was it a woman? Was it varisk, was it a man? Was it a sword, was it a branch? Was it? Was it? Was it?
Keep. Going.
With him ran Farys and Anzir and the two gullaime, though Tide Child’s gullaime would not speak to him, not now, as he had forced it to roll in the stinking forest floor, the better to cover its colourful robe, the white parts of which had glowed like a beacon fire in the darkness. The windshorn, ever eager to please, had immediately done what Joron asked, gladly rolling around and becoming filthy – but this only served to increase their gullaime’s stubbornness.
“Not want! Not like! Not servant!” Screeched at the top of its voice, and only when that attracted a crossbow bolt did the gullaime dive to the floor, more to avoid the shot than to obey. Then there was fighting, hard fighting, their ten against an unknown number and Coult shouting. “No time for this, get away. Break! Break!” And they did, into the night, going different ways and whether the gullaime would roll on the floor or not became a moot point. Now everyone was covered with the filth that splashed up and soaked into their clothes with every step.
They followed the gullaime. Joron could not help believing that it knew the way better than all of them, that somehow its people would call to it in the same way he sometimes felt the presence of the gullaime as a warmth within his chest, but even that belief did not stop their flight through the decaying jungle feeling aimless and panic-stricken.
Once they stopped in a clearing. In the centre of it a huge gion, towering above them – and at that moment, just as they entered, something in the gion gave and the trunk ruptured, the giant plant coming down before them in a cascade of brown fluid. They had to run around it as it crashed and splashed down into the forest, filling the air with choking brown droplets that coated your tongue with sickly sweet slime even if you covered your mouth. They ran, their feet no longer moving so quickly. Their chests filling up with the miasma. Before them the gullaime, shouting.
“Come! Come Joron Twiner! Not far now. Not far.”
On they ran. Up. Always going up. Struggling through knee-high, sopping, melting vegetation.
Fighting. Sudden and without warning. A squawk from the gullaime and then they were amongst women and men they did not recognise. Striking out, never stopping running. Not engaging. The enemy as surprised by Joron and his crew as they were by the enemy. On and ever on. Joron always aware that not only the enemy and the forest, but time was also against them. Brekir would wait as long as she could, but she would not risk her boats for him. Maybe she would stay a little longer than she should for the gullaime, but she would still go at the merest hint of being overrun. She was a careful one and that was why Meas had sent her.
Fighting again. Someone screaming. Someone dying. One of his? No. Not one of his. He still had all of his. Hag’s curse, his legs were tired. Slipping and sliding making his muscles ache.
You never ran this much on a slate deck.
Then they were there, breaking out of the mouldering forest into a quiet clearing full of cages, and in the cages were gullaime. Only two guards, all others pulled away to the remains of the town. There was something intrinsically ugly about this makeshift lamyard. The cages were great boxes of cured varisk, their bars made of woven rope that had been treated with oil to make it hard as rock and black as Skearith’s Spine. The cages rose to three times the height of a woman, and at the top the uprights curved over into vicious-looking hooks. Further down, where the bars of varisk intersected the cross-beams, wickedly barbed spikes stuck out to stop the gullaime climbing, for as Joron well knew, they were skilled climbers.
Within the makeshift lamyard about fifty gullaime huddled together in a circle, around them patrolled maybe twenty windshorn. Joron saw now why their own gullaime hated them so. The windshorn acted as guards within the cages; as he watched one chased a gullaime, with much squawking and posturing, back into the huddled circle at the behest of the two humans guarding the lamyard.
“Into them!” The words out of Joron’s mouth even before he had the breath to shout them. But it came, that officer’s voice, that fleet voice so practised at cutting through wind and hail and rain. It came. And his people obeyed. Running forward, curnows lifted. The guards barely had time to react before they were butchered, Anzir and Farys going about the business in as an efficient manner as ever. As the guards died the lamyard exploded into noise. Every gullaime within it crying out, screeching, screaming.
“Quiet them,” hissed Joron at his gullaime, but the windtalker simply looked at him, the blank eyes of the mask regarding him as closely as any true eye could. And of course, Joron was the only one that knew of the bright and shining eyes below those painted leaves. “If you do not quiet them, they will bring the whole island down on us.”
“Not tyrant, Joron Twiner,” said the gullaime. “Not windshorn, not leader. Not human.”
“Hag’s tits, Gullaime, now is not the time for games. If you cannot order then ask.”
“I order,” said their windshorn, and it set up its own screeching. Before it could finish the gullaime lashed out with its foot, smashing the windshorn to the floor and leaving a bright red smear of blood across its damp brown robe.
“Not want!”
But it was enough – the lamyard was abruptly quiet. Joron turned back to the gullaime.
“Can you ask them if they will leave with us?”
The gullaime opened and closed its beak, slowly, oh so slowly. “Ask, yes. Ask.”
It hopped forward, scaling the grid of varisk stalks that imprisoned the windtalkers within so it sat upon the curved lamyard cage-top like an insect on a web. Then it started to sing, to croon and cajole the gullaime within – and as they listened so did Joron. The song worked its way into his mind, down into the cracks of his consciousness and here, in the stinking and suppurating jungle, he had a clear-as-day image of standing in the beak of his father’s flukeboat. His father’s strong arms about him as they rode the waves at a speed that seemed impossible, on a day so clear the air felt like it cleaned his body with every breath, the salt water a shifting floor of diamonds, catching the light of Skearith’s Eye and reflecting it back at him in a million glinting lights. Then it was gone, though he still reckoned he could smell the scent of the sea from that glorious day above that of the dying plants around him.
“Here they come, D’keeper,” said Farys, and women and men broke from the forest. Furious, screaming, angry. Joron, Anzir and Farys made a wall – a pathetic, small wall of three – and the windshorn joined them, dancing and fluttering in a display of threat that might have worked on its people but, to the approaching deckchilder, must surely have seemed ridiculous.
“Eleven of us, three of you,” said the woman leading the deckchilder before them, drawing her curnow and swiping at the air. “Reckon we can have some fun afore we take you down to the harbour and give you to the shipwives, ey?”
Joron glanced over his shoulder, saw the gullaime was now working at the lamyard lock. He hissed to it. “Can you help us?”
“Big wind?”
“Yes.”
&nbs
p; “Need spire,” it said, and Joron cursed – they had used the last of its magic up in bringing the Maiden’s Bounty into the harbour.
“Get the key, from the dead guards.” It looked at him, then hopped over to the bodies, turning one with its foot. “See if any of your fellows can help us.”
“Need spire,” it said again but it sounded distracted. Its beak flashed down and it reappeared with a set of keys.
“What’s that beast doing free?” shouted one of the deckchilder, which brought Joron’s attention back to them.
“It came with us,” said Joron, “and if you don’t leave it will blow you all back down the hill into the fires burning below.”
The woman shook her head, smiled at Joron. “I don’t think so, do you?” She grinned, raised her sword. The order to charge forming on her lips.
“There are more of us, out in the jungle, on their way,” said Joron.
“A likely story,” she said. “I am not so foolish as to—”
But it was not as unlikely as she believed. Coult and his remaining deckchilder emerged at a run from the forest behind, cutting her down. Only four of them, but that was enough as they came, rushing from the melting gion, swinging their weapons at the backs of the deckchilder. Coult looking like some dark creature banished from the Hag’s bonefire, his clothes and face spattered with the brown detritus of the forest and the blood of those he had killed within it. As the enemy deckchilder turned to meet the threat, Joron ran forward, his own weapon raised, his bloodlust suddenly up and he was hacking and slashing, left and right, unaware he was shouting and cursing until it was over and Coult stood before him.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, lad,” he said, a longthresh smile on his face, “but I can see I were wrong about that.” He pointed forward. “Come on, let’s see how our bird is doing with those imprisoned. We can’t wait around here for long. Plenty more of them” – he pointed his blade at the corpses – “searching for us.”
The gullaime was in the lamyard now, surrounded by a circle of its fellows. They were bobbing and shaking their heads, singing and cooing in a back and forth call and response. Though Joron could not understand, he felt a wave of calmness coming upon him. One soon spoiled by Coult.
“We don’t have time for a sing-song, birds,” he said, swaggering across to the bars. “We need to get away now if we’re going to do it.” The sounds stopped, most of the gullaime backing away from Coult, pushing themselves against the bars and between the spikes on the other side of the lamyard. Joron’s gullaime was the only one not to move away – instead it turned, spreading its clawed wings slightly as it met Coult’s gaze.
“Need spire,” it said.
“You or all of them?” said Joron.
“Yes,” said the gullaime.
“Don’t have time for that, bird,” said Coult. “We get them to the ships, find a spire later.”
“No run. Hurt. Weak. Need spire.”
“Then they stay here,” said Coult. “More will be coming up from the town and we can’t fight them all off.” He turned away from the windtalker. “We tried, Joron, but it is not to be. Now, I like a fight as much as the next woman, but Brekir won’t wait forever. I’ll not endanger her boats any longer than I have to.”
“Need spire,” hissed the gullaime. “Fifth of sandglass all.”
“Can we hold it for a fifth of a turn, Coult?” said Joron. “Do you think?”
The older man glanced up the hill, towards where the windspire rose from behind the lamyard. “If they come in dribs and drabs, and they don’t have crossbows, maybe,” he said. “But the lives lost will be on you, Joron Twiner, you understand?”
Joron took a deep breath, nodded. Wondered how Coult had got his reputation as a man too eager for a fight when he seemed to be a man of sense. Maybe he had learnt his lesson, maybe he had been condemned for something beyond his control. Maybe none of that mattered.
“Will be safe,” said the gullaime. “Joron call.” Then it let out a crowing, a call that made the heads of every gullaime in the lamyard snap around, and they trooped out of the open gate. Only then did Joron notice that each one was shackled to the one behind it.
“Farys,” he said, “take the keys from our gullaime, and as these ones recharge at the windspire unlock their feet.” Only then did it sink in what the gullaime had said: “Joron call.” What could it mean by that? The last time it had said that he had sung with all his heart, and every woman and man on Tide Child had joined him and, just when he thought they were done, that they would be wrecked beneath the bows of the Hag’s Hunter, an arakeesian had come. The sea dragon they had called wakewyrm had smashed the enemy ship to pieces. But that was coincidence, is all. A man cannot call a monster to him, and even if he could, what use was that at the centre of an island? A spire of rock sticking out of the endless ocean?
None.
The gullaime made their way to the windspire, a curved, pale bone-like piece of rock that sang to Joron – the spires always sang, and it was a song Joron could always hear, a strange counterpoint to his own thoughts, a constant low hum on a scale alien to his own sense of harmony and of what was sharp and what was flat, but still full of beauty and yearning.
As they approached the windspire three women burst from the brush and engaged Anzir. She killed one, maimed another but the third escaped, despite Joron sending a bolt after her into the brush; he heard her feet thudding away as a counterpoint to the ever-present dripping of the decaying forest.
“They’ll be coming soon,” said Coult, “and plenty of ’em.” He looked around, saw a fallen, sodden gion trunk. “Drag that over, make us a barrier before the spire.” This spire was bigger than the last Joron had seen. It rose from a bone-white rounded base, easily big enough for all of the gullaime to fit inside. “We can protect ’em while they’re in there. Not sure how we will get ’em out of here.”
“Maybe they can bring us a gale,” said Farys as she unlocked the windtalker’s shackles, “Like the gullaime did at Arkannis Isle.”
“Tired,” squawked the gullaime. “So tired.”
“That’s a no then,” said Coult. “We form up. Get ready.” They made a line, a thin line.
Out of the forest came deckchilder, but none familiar, no arms banded in black. They came in ones and twos, then threes and fours, their numbers swiftly swelling.
“Too many,” whispered Anzir into Joron’s ear. “If it comes to it, get away, D’keeper. I will hold them off.”
Joron stared at those gathering at the edge of the clearing. At the curnows, the clubs, the spears, the wyrmpikes. Thought of all the ways they would pierce and cut and crush his body. Thought of his father, crushed between two hulls. Tightened his hand on the hilt of his curnow.
“It is not your place, to give me orders, Anzir,” he said. “I think I shall stay as long as I am needed.” The huge woman stared at him, then she grinned and shrugged.
“Apologies for my presumption, D’keeper,” she said, as more gathered at the edges of the forest, gathered and arrayed themselves, like they had no real need to hurry.
“How long, Gullaime?” said Joron, and he was surrounded by the scent of the desert, the touch of heat.
“Too long,” it said. It opened its beak, closed it, then let out a gentle cooing sound before it spoke again. “Call, Joron Twiner, call.”
“What?” A cold sweat slicked his body.
“Sing, Joron Twiner.”
He knew the song the gullaime meant, and it sprang into his mind. He had sung it before when everything had seemed hopeless. Had sung the day the arakeesian had come to save them from the Hag’s Hunter and he knew that there were those among the crew who believed he had brought it. But he did not. Coincidence was the word he had kept in his mind ever since. Though here and now, next to the windspire, with that alien song weaving through his subconscious, he was not so sure. The song – the moment he thought of it he heard it so much more clearly, powering through him: a harmony, a resonance, a s
et of strange notes that wrapped themselves around the shanties and songs he had grown up with and sung for his father, and here, near the windspire, the song was irresistible. The thought of it was too strong and he opened his mouth, let loose his rich tenor. The gullaime joined him in an eerie counterpoint, but he knew he did not need it. Did not need those around him joining in, though they did.
Saw a world of darkness, felt the pressure of stone, the pressure of eons, the pressure of time, of water, of death.
At the edge of the forest more enemy gathered, pulling together for a charge that would sweep them away like beach flotsam before the tide.
“Ready!” shouted Coult. “Be ready!” Bodies around Joron, the women and men singing with him even as they readied their weapons. Just as caught up in the song as him, notes whirling around them and it seemed, though surely it could not be, they were unaware they sang this strange and alien tune. The huddled gullaime calling out in fear, that fretful sound joining the song of the windspire, filling his mind and flooding from his mouth.
The enemy charged.
They faltered.
They fell.
They all fell.
The ground shaking beneath them, throwing them from their feet. The top of the windspire tipping back and forth like the spine on a ship caught in harsh seas. Then, with a sound like the greatest gallowbow the world had ever known, the ground between Joron, his deckchilder, and their enemy cracked. A great jagged line zigzagging across the top of the island, letting out a hiss of heat and steam and . . .
Light
Light
Light
Something rising. The noise, the smell, the suddenness of it such a shock that the song fled, all sound fled. The silence that fell upon him seemed eternal, dangerous. Then the gullaime’s beaked head was in his vision.
