Whisper of Blood

by James Dale

  “You have about…oh, three hours to figure it out,” Tarsus nodded. “Better get him to lay of the wine as well. Probably not the best idea to fight Danos half drunk.”

  Jack watched the pair curiously. He only caught a few of the words but obviously, Dorad hadn’t liked whatever Tarsus had said last. He knew sarcasm when he heard it. Even in a strange language. Tarsus stood up and smiled. “Chaidaem caeraid,” he said, patting Jack on the shoulder.

  “Three hours,” he reminded Dorad. “I’m going to find Belizet and a few others and let them know what’s going on.”

  "Thagan," Dorad said standing, as Tarsus left. He collected Braedan’s gear and his sword and handed them to him. “Thagan,” he repeated inclining his head toward the door.

  Jack followed the young man back out on deck. The crew of the ship were busy doing what crews do, working rigging and unfurling sails and all manner of other duties that were necessary to get a three masted ship underway. Eyes followed him as he made his way across the deck, most curious but again there was the unmistakable look of threats from some of them. A red-haired sailor with a jagged scar on his left cheek glared at him with such malice that Jack’s unconsciously tensed his shoulders as he walked by, half expecting the man to sink a knife in his back. Curiosity, he could understand. He was curious about them as well. But hostility? Maybe they were transferring the blame for the deaths of Tarsus and Dorad’s companions in the forest on him? No doubt the story of how he’d helped them would be told, but would it be believed?

  They soon arrived at the forecastle, and Dorad opened the door for him, showing him in. It was similar to the quarters where they’d dined but he quickly assumed this one belonged to Dorad when he threw his weapon on one of the bunks and began rummaging through a chest at its foot. Finding what he was looking for, he held up a white cotton shirt and a pair of tan trousers. ‘’Choi seo fraegha?” he asked, as he offered them to Braedan.

  Jack couldn’t understand the words but the intent was clear enough. He and Dorad were of similar height and build. His shirt and pants were both torn and bloodstained from yesterday's battle in the forest. He laid his sword and kit on the other bunk, and accepted the clothes with a nod of thanks. As Braedan began to strip out of his old clothes, Dorad went back to his bunk and pulled another chest from beneath the bed, which he unlocked with a key on a chain around his neck.

  The clothes fit well enough if not perfectly. Except for his Rocky brand hiking boots, he could have passed for one of the Seawolf’s crew. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Was that Tarsus and Dorad’s intent after all? Were they doing more than just offering him a friendly lift to…Brimcohn …or by accepting their offer had the pair assumed he’d agreed to join them on the Seawolf as more than a passenger? It was a complicated question to ask with his poor, extremely limited knowledge of their language, but before he could think of a way to ask, Dorad removed an item from the locked trunk and offered it to him as well.

  “Dhusta, Jack Braydaon,” he smiled.

  It was a shirt of scale mail. Even in the dim light of the cabin it shimmered like silver bathed in the glow of a full moon. Braedan was far from an expert on such things, but even his untrained eyes could see the shirt was not simply for protection, but a work of art. It was cool to the touch and felt…like steel woven from silk.

  “Dorad, I can’t take this,” he whispered, and tried to hand it back.

  “Dhusta, Jack Braydaon,” he insisted, holding up his hands in refusal. He turned to the trunk again and brought out another item. It was wrapped in soft cloth and about three feet in length. Even as Dorad began to unite the cord securing it, Braedan knew what it was. Dorad held out a slim, double edged sword. Unlike his katana, the blade was straight and tapered to a point. There were some sort of…runes…lettering perhaps, finely etched in the blade. The cross hilt was shaped to resemble a horseshoe obviously, and the grip was white leather, wrapped in wire. The sword’s pommel was the head of a horse, crafted with such striking detail you could almost make out individual hairs of the mane. The horse’s eyes were small white stones that sparkled when they caught the light. It was the most beautiful weapon he’d ever seen.

  “Dorad…”

  “Is mise Chaidaem bhrathair, Jack Braydaon,” Dorad interrupted, and held the sword out to him. “Caeraid nesta, bhrathair,” he said, placing his hand over his heart as Jack took the sword.

  Bhrathair. The word was sounded so similar to brother, with his gesture, how could it mean anything else? He was saying that they were not chaideam caeraid, not sword companions, but sword… brothers? How could he refuse?

  “Thank you Dorad,” Jack said, “I don’t know what else to say. Thank you.” Braedan bowed slightly, hoping his actions served as a translation.

  Dorad smiled broadly, obviously pleased.

  “Dorad, I have a question, but I have no idea where to begin,” Jack said, laying the sword on the bed next to his katana. He thought for a moment while Dorad waited patiently. “You,” he said, pointing at him at his…sword brother, “You and Tarsus…Mara Maedha?” he clasped his hands together.

  “Tha,” Dorad said. “Tarsus. Dorad. Mara Maedha,” he nodded. “Tarsus du siobaer.”

  “Siobaer?” asked Jack.

  “Siobaer,” Dorad nodded. “Siobaer du Mara Maedha.” Dorad clenched his first and placed it over his heart. He it again for emphasis. “Siobaer.” He raised his hand above his head. “An deidh Cullibranos a morde du Norgarthans. Tarsus du Siobaer du Mara Maedha. Tarsus.” He emphasized, then lowered his hand a few inches. “Dorad du oifigaer.”

  Dorad repeated the entire process and Jack began to work it out. He knew Cullibranos was one of the men killed in the forest by the Norgarthans. He’d heard the name several times in the last two days. By Dorad’s actions, it was clear Siobaer meant the highest…so Cullibranos had been… captain of the Seawolf? With his death, Tarsus was, or would be…captain…now? Dorad was a little lower. Second in command? The word oifigaer sounded so much like officer it could hardly mean anything else.

  “Chaidaem braithair, Jack Braydaon, oifigaer du Mara Maedha?” He lowered his hand a few inches more and Braedan suddenly understood. Tarsus and Dorad were not only offering him a ride, they were offering him a place on the Seawolf. Not just a place on the crew, but Dorad wanted to recruit him as an officer!

  His immediate reaction was to figure out some way to say “thanks, but no thanks.” He was no sailor. Other than accompanying his team on the occasional charter fishing excursion, the only time he’d ever set foot on real ship was a brief, two hour stay on the USS Ronald Reagan. He and his men had been extracted by chopper to the aircraft carrier after a high-altitude parachute insert into Yemen where they’d whacked some Houthi warlord. He’d seen nothing of the ship but the flight deck and a secure holding room while they waited to be flown back to Italy for debrief. He had no sailing skills to offer. He was a grunt. He was a highly trained and exceptionally lethal grunt to be sure but just a…then it struck him. The Recon Marines on the Ronald Reagan didn’t know anything about sailing. They were the navy’s grunts. They were the hammer whenever the ship’s captain needed to pound a nail.

  The Seawolf had lost…almost twenty men in their fight in the forest. Braedan had counted bodies after it was over. It was something he’d done without conscious thought. The military called it BDA. Battle Damage Assessment. Tarsus and Dorad had lost twenty. There had been twice as many scarlet clad Norgarthans. Jack had killed….now that he thought about it, he had killed ten of them himself. A quarter of the Norgarthans. Dorad and Tarsus were obviously grateful he had aided them…saved them even, and they quickly recognized him as someone who could hammer nails.

  Could he really blame Dorad? If the positions were reversed, he would likely have had the same thought. He’d been recruited by Delta because someone had recognized his talent. He’d recruited other soldiers to Group when recognizing valuable skills that would enhance the teams. Braedan had followed a monster into som
e sort of…portal, his only thought to kill the beast and ends his nightmares, but instead found himself in violent world where…hammers…were valuable. Where he would be valuable again.

  “This is crazy!” a voice inside his head argued. “You don’t belong here. You have to get back home! You have to get back to the real world!”

  Braedan almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. He had actually been considering Dorad’s offer. Wherever here was, he certainly didn’t belong. He had to get back home. He had to get back to…what did he really have to get back to? The laugh suddenly died in his throat. What had he left behind that was so great? In his world, he had been “Crazy Jack Braedan,” a man his own government had put on trial for murder and sentenced to life in a DoD nuthouse. In the real world, Jack had been tortured with electro shock and psychotic drugs in a secret, illegal government program until he could hear the thoughts of animals. In the real world, he was free only because Harry Reese and his lawyer had threatened to reveal his torture and how the government wanted to exploit his new “gift.” In the real world, he lived beneath a secret plea bargain that had wiped away all record of Jack Braedan and hidden him behind an alias and made up identity. The real world consisted of splitting firewood, tending a small garden and wandering the forested mountains surrounding his cabin. The real world consisted of one hour a week at the youth center teaching kids kenjutsu, monthly court ordered sessions with a shrink, and a congressman father who could not even acknowledge he was alive.

  Screw the real world, he decided.

  “I’ll be your hammer, Dorad,” Jack nodded. “But I have to warn, you I’m probably crazy.”

  “Cray-zee?” the young man asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

  “Crazy as a bed beg,” Jack smiled and offered him his hand. “My mind is probably shattered beyond repair. I’m probably dreaming all this. But we are Chaidaem braithair, Dorad Ellgereth,” he replied. “So, Crazy Jack Braedan will be an oifigaer on the Mara Bloody Maedha and sail away with you to Never Never Land.”

  Dorad grinned with pleasure, and clapped him on the shoulder. Then his mood just as quickly grew serious again. “Feumaidh Jack Braydaeon, sabaid a bhith na oifigear,” he said, and pointed at his swords.

  “I don’t understand,” Jack replied.

  “Sabaid,” Dorad repeated. He walked over and picked up the katana and handed it to Braedan. “Sabaid,” he said again. He picked up his own sword and took up the en garde position.

  “Fight?” asked Jack. “I’m going to have to sabaid…to be an officer? Oifigaer. Who? You?” he asked pointing at Dorad.

  “Nay, nay,” he replied shaking his head. “Cha bhith du sabaid ach Danos. Danos,” Dorad said, and taking his index finger, he made a slash on the left side of his face from the bridge of his nose across his cheek. “Nay sabaid chan e Dorad, Jack Braydaon. Sabaid ri Danos airson dreuchd oifigaer adhaert du Mara Maedha.”

  “Tarsus du Siobaer du Mara Maedha,” Dorad said slowly. “Dorad du oifigaer du Mara Maedha. Danos,” He made the slash with his finger again across his cheek. “Nesta oifigaer. Jack Braydaon, chaidaem braithair. Jack Braydaon, oifigaer du Mara Maedha.”

  Braedan slowly began to understand. Tarsus and Dorad wanted him to be “oifigaer” but he was expected to fight to someone for that honor! Jack suddenly remembered the scar faced man who looked at him with such a murderous glare. That was Danos? Had the man marked him as a rival the moment he’d stepped on the ship? He was well read. It was a passion of his from his youth, carried over to adulthood and his time in the service. There was more to learning war than time spent on the firing range and Jack had consumed volumes mastering his craft. He knew many cultures, ancient and otherwise, valued fighting skill. Might apparently ruled on the Mara Maedha as well, and he had just promised Dorad he would be an officer with barely any hesitation!

  Was it too late to take it back? Did he even want to take it back? Once again it occurred to him that he had no “real” world to go back to. If the world he found himself in now required him to fight for a place in it, was that really so different from his old “civilized” life? It was certainly more honorable than screwing over your co-worker for a larger share of the profits or the corner office. Braedan made his decision. He wouldn’t take it back. But he needed to know the rules if he was going to do this.

  “Sabaid?” He asked Dorad. “With chaidaem?”

  Dorad nodded, relief on his face that he understood.

  “Danos?” he continued.

  “Danos,” Dorad nodded again. “Is e cù agus mac cù a th 'ann an Danos,” he snarled, then spat on the floor.

  “So, you don’t like him much, huh?” Jack didn’t need to speak this language fluently to get the gist of that. There was one more thing, one critically important detail he needed to know. “Morde?” He asked. Was he going to have to fight this Danos to the death? Was he going to have to kill the scar faced man to be an officer?

  “Chan e, chan e,” Dorad replied quickly. “Sabaid ris a bhas. Nesta morde.”

  “Chan e morde?” Jack pressed. “Not death?”

  Dorad hesitated, then slowly shrugged.

  “Maybe, maybe not?” Jack sighed. “Jeez, you guys play rough. Doesn’t mean your bad or immoral, just…You didn’t understand a word I just said, did you Dorad?”

  Dorad smiled and shrugged again.

  “This language barrier is going to get me killed,” Jack muttered. “We’re going to have to learn from each other quickly if I’m going to be stay on the Seawolf and be an officer.”

  “Jack Braydaon, oifigaer du Mara Maedha?” Dorad replied.

  “Yeah,” Braedan nodded. “Yes, I’ll be an officer. I’ll fight Danos. Sabaid Danos. But I’ll not kill him if I can help it. Chan e morde Danos?”

  “Chaidaem braithair. Bidh thu caert,” Dorad smiled, and patted his sword arm reassuringly.

  “So, you think I’m better than Danos, huh?” Jack sighed. He was doing that a lot he realized. “Well, that’s something, I guess. When? When is our fight?”

  “Sabaid,” Dorad nodded.

  “I got that,” Jack nodded. “When?” He tossed his katana back on the bed and tapped his wrist watch. “When?”

  Dorad looked at him quizzically, and Braedan realized the simple gesture was lost on him. Although he and the young man were learning, albeit slowly, to communicate, the gulf between them was vast. How was he going to survive in this place…here in the immediate future on the Seawolf…never mind beyond and wherever it might take him…if he could not even explain the elementary concept of time to his new companions? Instead of becoming despondent, Jack decided to try another approach. Time? There was no time like the present, right? He shrugged and picked up his katana. “Okay then,” he nodded, “Let’s get to it then. Thugar.”

  “Chen e!” Dorad said, alarmed as Braedan headed for the door. He grabbed his arm to stop him. “Chen e, Jack Braydaon!”

  “When?” Jack insisted. “When do I fight Danos?”

  “Feithaemh aseo,” Dorad insisted, moving between Jack and the door, he placed a hand on his chest. “Suidhe!” he said, and pointed toward the bunk. Braedan could hear the frustration in his voice though he didn’t understand the words.

  “Suidhe?” Braedan asked.

  “Suidhe!” Dorad replied, and walked over to pat the bunk. He sat down. “Suidhe,” he repeated. Stood up. Then sat back down. “Suidhe.”

  “Sit?”

  Dorad patted the bunk again. “Suidhe.”

  Jack went over to the bunk and sat down. “Suidhe. Now what?”

  “Feithaemh aseo, Jack Braydaon,” Dorad replied, and held up a hand, palm facing him.

  Wait? Be patient? Stay?

  “Suidhe, Jack,” Dorad insisted. “Sabaid Danos,” and he tapped his wrist, mimicking the gesture from earlier. “Feumaidh mi bruidhinn ri Tarsus. Fuirich an seo.” Dorad held up his hand again. “Suidhe. Feithaemh aseo.”

  “Okay, I’ll sit. Suidhe,” Braedan nodded.

  �
�Thuill mi cho luath,” Dorad said, heading for the door. He opened it then turned back to Braedan, holding up his hand once more.

  “Suidhe,” Jack nodded. “I’ll sit here until you get back.”

  Dorad nodded, closing the door behind him.

  “Judas bloody hell,” Braedan sighed, and fell back on the bunk. “What did you and that old man get me into, Jennifer Hurst?”

  Dorad looked around desperately as he closed the door. He spotted Jorah Kaen, who had been on the Seawolf from the day he and Tarsus and joined the crew. He was a decent fellow, not the brightest man the kingdom of Amorhad had ever birthed, but he had never loved Cullibranos as captain and he was a good fighter. That was enough for now. “Ho! Jorah! Come here man!” Dorad called.

  Jorah dropped the rope he’d been coiling, and walked over.

  “I need you to stay here and watch the door,” Dorad instructed him.

  “What fer?” Jorah asked. “That elf feller a prisoner or something? All I have is my boot knife.”

  “No, he’s not a prisoner,” Dorad replied. “But he doesn’t need to be wandering around on deck until the vote tonight.”

  “Naw, it aint safe for him,” Jorah grinned. He’d seen the way Danos looked at the man.

  “It’s not safe for them,” Dorad said, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “I don’t want him killing anyone before it’s time.”

  Jorah paled. All he had was a boot knife.

  “Just watch the door,” Dorad nodded, “Don’t let anyone in. You can handle that, right?”

  “But…but what if he, wants out?” Jorah asked shakily. All he had was a boot knife!

  “If he opens the door, just smile politely and ask him to sit,” Dorad replied. “I will not be long.”

  Jorah swallowed hard and Dorad smiled to himself as he turned away. Kaen was a good man, and he felt bad about deceiving him, but he needed him scared. If anyone got curious about Jack Braydaon before he returned, now they would hear from Jorah there was an Ailfar assassin in the mate’s quarters. Damn it all, but there just might be! Dorad laughed quietly. If Danos did not grow a brain between now and seven bells, the red idiot might be dead before the night was over. Good riddance! He had been a Cullibranos man through and through. If he ended up dead, it would be one less worry for Tarsus as he assumed command of the Seawolf.