by Rj Barker
“How long do you think until they find us?”
Berhof shrugged.
“Meas and Coughlin headed down the island, to turn circles about it. If we are lucky they will be found first and they will lead whoever finds them a merry dance,” he said. “If we are really lucky they will not be found and she will light her fire and that will draw them all away.”
“And if not?”
“Then the shipwife may wish we had attacked them on the beach.”
“Well, let us wish for luck then,” said Joron.
“The Hag seldom grants wishes, and the Maiden loves a trick,” replied Berhof. “I have stationed people around us as lookouts. If they see the enemy in ones or twos they will kill them. If they see more they will alert us.”
“So now we must wait.” said Joron.
“Aye,” said Berhof, “though if you will allow me, Deckkeeper, I will have the deckchilder and my seaguard keep looking for good gion. It will keep them busy and a few sharpened spikes in the ground around us would not go amiss.”
“A good idea, Seaguard. Set them to it.”
Berhof brought his hand to his breast in salute and went to work.
After that, just as Berhof had said, all was waiting. Joron walked, his feet displacing the mud, leaving furrows in the oozing brown floor to show where he had been. He stooped at the edge of the clearing, far enough away that the windspire’s song did not overwhelm him completely, and he watched as his footsteps behind him filled with water. Almost as if something was displacing the water within the island, pushing it out. He thought of how Aelerin had described the island as a sponge.
“I hope it is not our blood it soaks up,” he said to himself. Then he settled in to listen for any enemy, separating out the many sounds around him: the dripping of the dying plants. The chirp of insects. The screeches and growls and cries of the birds, and the song within him. He wondered if there were firash, angry and dangerous. He had always feared the fierce birds when he was younger, but no longer. He knew there were far more dangerous things – tunir, for one, and a shudder ran through him at the thought of them. If one came then he could not sing himself safe as he had before. Had that even happened? It felt like a dream, and no one had asked him of it, or even mentioned it. He put the thought aside and concentrated, as he knew far worse than imagined tunir lurked in the forest – the enemy. He had learned there was nothing more dangerous than his own kind. And nothing more likely to want to kill him. Even the myriad toothed and tentacled creatures of the sea’s hatred were not as bad. At least their anger made a kind sense to him, for women and men invaded their domain, or pulled them from it, and killed them to eat, or just because they could. He took off his hat and ran a hand over the sweaty braids of his hair. Glanced at Skearith’s Eye, beginning to sink behind the crest of the hill. If anything was to happen, he thought, best it happen now. To fight in the dark was the worst kind of fight. As easy to kill your own as to kill the enemy. He put his hat back on.
Sometimes it all seemed so pointless. The killing, for what?
For their people.
For Meas.
He knew that.
In the end, the politics, the ideas, they were not what fired him, what drove him. Peace sounded like a wonderful dream, and right enough he longed for it, mostly. Though this place and what they did here felt far from it. On a lonely island, ready to die in a desperate bid to find their people. But that desperation did not matter. He would weather it for Meas. Because he believed in her, and she had believed in him, even when she should not have. And if he died here? Then he died and he would go to join his father at the Sea Hag’s bonefire and he would enjoy telling his father stories of his time as a fleet officer. Of his time with Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding.
“Hoy!” The call came from the forest. Joron stood, turned toward the wall of dripping leaves and stalks and the darkness between them. The call came again. “Hoy! They come!”
“Positions!” shouted Joron and he was still not used to that voice, the harsh croak that came from his mouth. Loud, right enough, but he sounded more like Black Orris than himself. “Take your positions!” he shouted again and the lookouts were breaking from the forest, running for the defences. Joron leaped over the gion and ran to the windspire, the song growing once more within him. The gullaime still lay within it, inert. Joron turned just as Meas broke from the forest, followed by her crew. He could not tell if any had been lost. Behind Meas came the enemy, and he did not need to count Meas’s troops or add in his own to know that they were heavily outnumbered. He glanced once more over his shoulder at the windspire.
“Gullaime,” he said under his breath, “now would be a good time to wake.”
But the windtalker did not, and then he had no time to think about anything but the familiar weight of the curnow in his hand.
37
What Berhof Did
Berhof felt it was good to fight on land once more. He understood this, it had a rhythm to it, an ebb and flow like waves – and Hag curse him, if he had not been with that ship too long. Now he thought in terms of the sea, in terms of the water and the cold and the damp that never left you once you had stepped on board the ship.
How he hated that ship.
This was honest fighting. Face to face. You saw your opponent, knew them. If they took your life then you could take them by the hand at the Hag’s bonefire and talk of that fight. Or vice versa, and as Coughlin’s second there were many that Berhof would talk to when he finally fell, many who he had hated in life, and many who he owed an apology to, who he had killed badly. But all was forgotten in the heat of the flame.
None of that on the ship. Just the knowing that, at any moment, you could be plucked from the deck by a bolt. The hours of manoeuvring and waves and nausea and water and a death that would never be seen, and the slowly tightening, slowly ratcheting tension. How could a man fight a ship? How could a shield stop a gallowbow bolt?
How he hated the ship.
The first battle of the windspire had passed and he still stood. It was easier on land. Oh, the deckchilder strutted about and cat-called the enemy like they had won a victory but Berhof knew different. On a ship there was only one battle; one terrible, all-or-nothing, no-quarter, screaming battle. And by the time you were in it, by the time you were coming in on them with your ship – the other sitting low in the water, spinebroke, maybe burning, blood running down the white sides – all that filled you was hate. Hate for the women and men who had been throwing bolts at you, hate for the officers on board who had orchestrated it. Hate for the ship that had hurt you and yours. By the time you were going aboard, swinging from ropes, mouth dry, voice hoarse with screaming, you knew inside that the battle was already won. That the other ship was wrecked, the crew broken. Which only made the fight all the more desperate and all the more vicious. Those left had nowhere to retreat to, had only hate for the damage done to them to fall back on. And those fights were like no other. They had a viciousness to them, a lack of order that Berhof hated. No battle lines, no real uniforms. You never knew if the woman or man by your side was yours or not. It was blind, like fighting in a rout, like the moment your troops broke and you ran from the battle and the enemy was amongst you, and you watched your brother hacked down but the fear was on you and you ran anyway. It was like visiting that moment again and again and again.
How he hated the ship.
They came again. He estimated their numbers at maybe a hundred, but he knew more would be coming. There was an officer among them – a deckkeeper, and he had seen a shipwife on the beach but could not see them here. Berhof glanced over his shoulder at the gullaime in the windspire. No sign of movement. No help there. But a warrior could not look to magic for help, or those creatures, those strange and alien beasts. All his life Berhof had depended on the blade in his hand and it had never failed him, though he had failed it, and others that had depended on his strength to hold them safe.
But not here, not now.
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“Hold! Hold!”
They came forward, a ragged line, deckkeeper and a deckholder now standing at the midpoint of it. Berhof looked over at Coughlin. They had set pairs of seaguard down the line among the deckchilder. Like rocks to hold the line, and he thought of the deckchilder as sand, as something malleable, but Coughlin’s seaguard would not move, and the sand would gather around them.
Even here, he thought in terms of the sea.
Hag’s guts, he hated the ship.
He caught Coughlin’s eye, nodded at him, and pointed at the enemy deckholder. Coughlin grinned back. Take down the leaders first. Always do that.
And the enemy came on, feral, like firash.
“Ready yourselves!
Meas’s voice. Harsh and loud and clear, and his muscles tensed then he let them relax as he watched her. Smaller than almost all of her crew and yet larger too, fearless. That straightsword held aloft, reflecting the dying light, and he didn’t know how much of the blade’s colour was from the last of Skearith’s Eye blinking red on it, or the blood running down it. She had tricked Coughlin into staying aboard that Hagcurse ship, tricked him with lies. They had got drunk and he had told Berhof all about it. Coughlin would have killed for that once. But in tricking him she had somehow freed him, he said. Berhof did not really understand it.
Then they were fighting again and there was only what was in front of him, his shield held up, curnows biting into the hard edge as the enemy swung at him. Berhof’s curnow still on his hip – not the place for it, this sort of fight. He used his bone knife. Holding back, waiting for his moment. Relying on Kenrin to protect his landward side, fighting how he had been trained. Oh, he screamed and he swore and cursed them in Hassith’s name. In the Hag’s name. In the Mother’s name. In the Maiden’s name. But inside he was cold. Inside he was calculating.
Gion chipped from his shield.
Duck to landward, see a gap.
Thrust.
Hit something, feel the give of parting flesh.
Feet slipping on the mud.
Feel the hot blood flow over his hand.
Not a scream in return but a sigh.
A sigh like disappointment. Like acknowledgement. He saw the face of the woman he had killed and she looked into his eyes. He looked into hers. They shared a moment. I will see you by the fire. And she fell backwards to be replaced by another, screaming, hacking, fighting. Blood and filth. Stink and spit. Anguish and triumph. Then the enemy are withdrawing again. The fight is tidal. Their enemy crashing against the rock of their defence and drawing back, leaving a line of broken bodies strewn across the ground.
All life gone from them.
Limbs at unnatural angles.
Dark zigzags of blood on the ground.
Down the line Meas’s crew still stood, untouched by the enemy’s blades so far. It would not last, he knew that. So far it had only been probing – testing the line, testing the defences.
“Shields!” That from Coughlin. Berhof, by instinct, crouched and lifted his shield to protect his head. Felt the impact of the arrows against it before he heard them. A cry from their lines where someone had not been quick enough and he looked – sudden fear. No, Meas still stood, as hard and sharp as the beak of her ship.
Oh, he hated that ship.
“Here they come!”
38
The Last Push
Joron was bloodied. A glancing blow to his forearm had opened it up and now Farys, dear Farys, was working with needle and thread to bind the wound. Arrows were coming, but in the dusky gloom they were badly aimed, falling randomly. Meas brought torches, lit them and threw them out on the ground before their defences to confuse the archers’ aim further.
“How is the arm, Joron?” said Meas. She had blood on her face. Not her blood.
“Well, Farys will never be a tailor but she does the job.”
“Sorry, D’keeper,” said Farys.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Farys,” said Joron. “I’ll take quick over pretty.” And he would – his heart beat fast and he longed to return to the fray, for the enemy to come at them once more. To pay back the cut to his arm many times over. Farys finished, biting the twine off and he pushed his way to the edge of the defences, staring out at the forest where it seemed a thousand torches burned.
“They light far more torches than there are deckchilder,” said Meas. She raised her voice. “They wish to frighten us. But are we frightened?” A rousing shout of “No!” in return. Meas nodded in the dark, then leaned in close to Joron and spoke quietly. “They have nearly all of those we saw at the beach up here now, Joron. We can hold maybe one, two more attacks before they overrun us. How is the gullaime?”
“It still sleeps.”
She nodded. “They will come at us with their full strength next. It will be a struggle to hold them but if we do then you must find some way to wake the gullaime before they come again.”
“I do not know how, Shipwife.”
“I did not ask for excuses.” She glanced away as a roar from the enemy filled the air. “Unhook your blade, Joron, this will be a hard one.”
It was a hard one, a vicious one. A screaming, crying, cutting one. The pain in his arm forgotten as he slashed, struggling to hold on to his small shield as a man grabbed it. Fighting to pull it away from him and let the woman by him in with her blade. Would have died had not Cwell saved him. Would have died had not Farys saved him. Would have died had not Tirof saved him. Would have died would have died would have died so many times. But his was a fleet ship’s crew, and they acted as one, fought as one. Came together to plug the holes in the hull of their defences. Screamed in the faces of their attackers. Fought and fought and fought and in the firelight women and men became monsters.
He saw a face among the enemy in the flickering light, recognised it.
Saw a blade, knew it.
His blade.
Then moving through the fight, pushing through waves of violence down the line to reach the enemy shipwife. Shouting words only for them to be lost in the fray.
“That is my sword! My sword!” He saw it lifted, trailing a stream of blood and saw the face of the man who wielded it turn to him. “Barnt! That is my sword!” Then he was blocked by a man with a shield. A screaming face before him. A boarding axe swinging at him and he was fighting for his life.
Then fighting nothing.
The enemy had withdrawn once more. Joron’s legs threatened to collapse. He was weak. Struggling for breath as the adrenaline drained from his system. Being moved back from the front line and into the clearing behind so fresher bodies could take his place.
“Joron.” Meas striding over as arrows fell around them. “We have lost ten so far. They seek to tire us and wear us down with these short attacks and it is working. We need the gullaime and if you cannot wake it then we must make a break for the cave soon no matter what.” He nodded. “When they come again we will hold them while we can, then draw back to the secondary defences around the spire to concentrate our line.”
“Very well.” He looked around for the two windshorn. Found them, stood together on the edge of the battle lines. Shorn’s robe wet with blood. Madorra’s feathers soaked in it. Even they had joined the fight. “You two, come, we must wake the gullaime somehow.” Madorra nodded and Shorn jumped up and down on the spot, screeching and yarking before running over to Joron.
“Not wake! Not wake!”
“We must,” said Joron. He strode toward the windspire, Shorn fluttering in front of him, holding out the wings beneath its cloak. “We will all die otherwise, Shorn.”
“Make sick! Make sick!” it screeched. Then Madorra was in front of it, chirping something in the gullaime’s own language and Shorn slowly lowered its wings, nodded its head. Cwell strode past him, her blade drawn and he grabbed her by the arm.
“You can help me more by holding the enemy at our defences than you can by being here.” She stared at him, eyes full of defiance. Then gritted her teeth,
turned around and walked back to where Meas stood with Narza, watching him.
“What did you say to Shorn?” said Joron to Madorra.
“Better sick than slave,” replied Madorra, and it led them on, over the meagre lines of the secondary defence and to the windspire. As Joron knelt before the gullaime he heard the roar of the enemy advance, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the windspire’s music in his head. Knew it would not be long before Meas withdrew. Within the windspire he hoped for movement but the gullaime only slept, curled up on itself. He turned to Shorn and Madorra.
“You can wake it?” Shorn hung back, but Madorra bobbed its head in acknowledgment.
“Sing awake,” it said. “Not good. But can.”
“Do it,” said Joron. He glanced back. Saw the shine of blades in the firelight. Heard the screams of rage, of pain, of death.
“May not work,” said Shorn, the creature sounded desperate. “May not—”
“Magic stop,” said Madorra. “Wake early. Sometime no magic. Lazy gullaime. Bad gullaime. Minds weak.”
“Do it anyway,” said Joron. “And quick.” Shorn bobbed its head in assent, then the two windshorn lowered their heads, lifted their wings and began to sing to the gullaime. This was not the song Joron was used to from the creatures – this was a strange, almost painful, discordant song. The windshorn did not harmonise, instead they sang across each other and within the discord Joron also heard the song of the island that had been a constant clawing in his mind. The gullaime, lying curled into a ball within the cave of the windspire, batted at the air with a wingclaw. Shorn glanced over at Joron. Was there some guilt in its body language as it opened its mouth once more to sing? Or was he imagining it? He could not tell. The song continued.
The gullaime’s head moved.
“Hold them!” This call from Meas. Joron heard the furious roar as the attackers battered at the defences. He wanted to run toward the fight. To become a part of that fury and anger, but he could not. That was not his task. He turned back. The windshorn still singing.
