by C. L. Werner
Drumark nodded to Brokrin as he ambled over to the rail, gave a half-hearted wave of his hand in greeting to Mortrimm. Brokrin’s grumble of annoyance as he shifted aside to make room for him appeared to remind Drumark that there was such a thing as courtesy. He sketched a hasty, but not quite slovenly, salute before staring out across the broad vista of hills and valleys the ironclad was passing.
‘The manlings look eager to trade,’ he observed, stabbing a thumb at the distant beacon. Drumark started to say more, but the words evaporated in a glottal belch.
‘The Chuitsek,’ said Brokrin. ‘I saw their totems built up around the fire.’
Drumark nodded. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Would have been a really bad run if it was just one of the beggar tribes down there. At least the Chuitsek have some good stuff most times. We should make a decent bit from them.’
‘The Chuitsek always have good pelts,’ Mortrimm agreed.
‘If somebody else hasn’t been here first,’ Brokrin reminded them.
A snort of laughter spilled down the black beard. Drumark thrust a finger under his belt and leaned back against the rail. ‘As my mother used to say, sky-sharks don’t hunt every day. Things will turn about.’ He pointed again at the beacon. ‘They must have something to sell, otherwise they wouldn’t be signalling.’
Mortrimm nodded. ‘I was just trying to explain the same to the captain…’
Brokrin would not be so easily stirred from his brooding humour. ‘For all I know they are calling us down just to see if we will tell them if we have spotted any herds or if we will go and put in a good word for them with their sky-gods.’
Drumark laughed again. ‘Just as long as they don’t expect us to bring back an answer. It’s hard to keep a straight face listening to Skaggi spew so many lies at once. If his tongue was any glibber it’d uproot itself and try to cut its own deals.’
The sergeant’s derisive comments about the logisticator Skaggi forced even Brokrin to smile. He clapped a hand on Drumark’s shoulder. ‘What odds would you give that the manlings will have anything worth the journey? Enough to share between ourselves and the other ships in the fleet?’
Drumark covered his mouth and tried to stifle another burp. ‘I never make odds. Gambling’s too dicey.’ His gaze strayed to the few frigates following behind the ironclad.
Brokrin followed the sergeant’s gaze, watching as the frigates reacted to the beacon. It was an informal fleet, an arrangement for mutual protection and convenience. ‘The other captains know about the hoodoo they say hangs over the Iron Dragon. The only reason they are following my lead now is because their own ventures didn’t pan out.’ He looked at Mortrimm. ‘They probably figure their own luck can’t get any worse.’
‘The Iron Dragon is a good ship,’ Mortrimm declared. ‘She’s carried us both through many a scrape and we’re still walking her decks.’
Frowning, Brokrin looked across his ship’s deck. ‘Too many new faces. Most of the arkanauts have only been on a few voyages with me. Gotramm and his company shipped out with me only because no other vessel had open berths.’
Drumark snorted at the statement. ‘Gotramm’s a young pup. Fresh from the Academy and eager to make his fortune. Cocksure of the inevitability of his own success.’ He pointed to Mortrimm. ‘Despite what this old star-spotter says, I’ll take a good dose of realistic pessimism over the blind optimism of inexperience.’
‘Gotramm lacks perspective,’ Brokrin agreed. ‘So if he fails to prosper on this voyage he is apt to blame it on the jinx. Another mouth to spread the story. To tell everybody about Ghazul’s curse.’ He turned and cast his gaze towards the ship’s stern.
Brokrin’s gaze settled on the great skyhook bolted down on the deck. In many ways it was a symbol of what he regarded as his downfall. He’d spent no small amount on the weapon – one of the finest of its kind developed by the Harpooners’ Society. The spears flung by the aetheric launcher had obsidian heads so keen that the gunners had to wear gloves coated in diamond dust to handle them. The triangular head was contrived to grip a target more efficiently than a standard harpoon, leaving a wound that wouldn’t close should the target manage to rip itself free. The chains fitted to each skyhook were wrought from dirgesteel excavated by the grave-robbing zaaraki from the drowned cities in the swamps of Journ, so strong that even a megalofin couldn’t bite through it.
Ghazul’s Bane, the skyhook was called, for that was its intended purpose. To bring down the beast that had upended Brokrin’s fortunes. A ship only had so much luck to draw on and escaping that monster had emptied that allotted to the Iron Dragon. Her captain was convinced the only way to break the curse was to kill the beast, the horror the sages of Isomir called the Great Northern Terrorfang.
‘There’s a touch of madness about you, captain,’ Drumark stated, noticing where Brokrin was looking. ‘Anybody else would be grateful to escape a beastie like Ghazul with his skin in one piece. You, though, you go out looking for the blighted thing.’
‘Hoping, maybe, but not looking,’ Brokrin said, shaking his head. ‘Though I’ll be damn sure ready if it crosses my path again.’
Mortrimm waved his hand towards the skyhook’s crew. ‘Don’t tell that to Arrik and his lads. They didn’t sign on just for the shares. They’re expecting a crack at that monster.’
‘They’ve killed just about anything else that ever took wing,’ Brokrin agreed.
He studied Arrik as the gunner made one of his semi-daily inspections of Ghazul’s Bane. The duardin’s helm was crafted in the semblance of a snarling hound, the mouth open on the left to leave his face exposed and let his beard spill down his chest. The right side, however, was pinched closed, concealing a mass of grotesque scars. Even Arrik’s followers did not know what had disfigured their leader. It was a subject he ignored. Even Drumark, at his most brusque drunkenness, had failed to provoke a response from Arrik about what had happened to him.
There was one thing Brokrin did know about Arrik. The hunter wasn’t on board the ironclad simply hoping to run into Ghazul again. He expected it. He felt that the monster had left its mark on the ship, that it had claimed her for its own. Some day, somewhere, the beast would find the Iron Dragon and finish their interrupted battle. Such was Arrik’s conviction.
Brokrin decided that little bit of information was something he didn’t need to share with his crew. They grumbled enough about the jinx.
Drumark was complaining about a different matter. The warrior had turned back to look down towards the beacon. Patches of snow lay in the shadows of the great grey boulders that littered the plain below the summit. A few stands of gnarled trees thrust up from the russet soil. They could see the hide tents of the Chuitsek clustered around the trees, the smaller cook fires and the packs of enormous dogs the tribe used to transport their possessions. Beyond the tents was a wooden palisade where the nomads kept the great herd of horses that gave them the mobility to range across the plains and hunt the largest of game. ‘You don’t think they’re going to make us drink that greasy chai of theirs again, do you? By Grungni’s anvil, I swear that sludge gave me piles last time.’
Brokrin gave the sergeant a sombre look. ‘It’s a religious thing. A way of proving to them we’re not in league with daemons. They believe the drink will poison anyone with impure intentions.’
‘I’ve some impure intentions for whatever sadist brews that muck,’ Drumark grunted. Suddenly he spun around and faced his captain, a bright gleam in his eyes. ‘How about we just bomb them until they’re convinced we’re friends? It’d save a lot of time.’
‘And how would I justify the cost of the bombs to Skaggi?’ Brokrin laughed.
An amused light shone in Drumark’s eyes. ‘Easy. Just have the beardy git take a mouthful of that chai.’
Primitive banners fashioned from animal hides stained with ochre and blood hung from the totems that surrounded the nomad encampme
nt, simple pictoglyphs recording the saga of each leader and the fortunes of the tribe while under their rule; skin-clad hunters stirring forth to fell mastodons and slay gargants, brave warriors making war against marauding orruks and blood reavers. A standing testament to the strength and glory of the Chuitsek tribe.
The chiefs of the Chuitsek gathered in a circle around Brokrin’s delegation. As humans went, the nomads were a hardy stock, powerfully built with broad features and coppery complexions. Their elders sported colourful tattoos commemorating their individual contributions to the tribe. The younger warriors were arrayed in feathered capes and had braided scalp locks that hung across the side of their faces. Man and woman alike, each warrior had a bronze blade hanging from a loop woven into their kilt while the most prosperous among them had weapons of cold iron or steel tied to their belt.
Only the masked shaman and his assistants remained standing while the chiefs and warriors seated themselves on the ground around the visiting duardin. The priest, arrayed in the hide of an icewolf, prowled among the congregants, muttering a ritualistic song that would fend off the attentions of malignant spirits. His assistants bore great clay pots, steam rising from the hot chai inside them. Brokrin noted with a twinge of humour that Drumark was the first of the duardin the Chuitsek expected to imbibe.
The larger size of – and consequent expense of operating – the Iron Dragon gave Brokrin primacy among the captains. It was a heavy responsibility as well as a great honour. ‘Strange how the same thing can be both privilege and burden,’ he commented to Mortrimm.
The navigator nodded and accepted a pot of chai from one of the nomads. ‘Negotiations with the tribe are part of being expedition leader. Nothing gives a manling more incentive for hard bargaining than a lack of solidarity among his customers.’
‘Fêted if I can wheedle a healthy profit, berated if I don’t,’ Brokrin said. He gave Mortrimm a hard look. ‘I could take that if I didn’t know what a bad deal will mean. There are those who will take it as more evidence that there’s a curse hanging over me and my ship.’ He raised his eyes, looking skywards towards the frigates. ‘I can just about feel them watching me through their glasses.’
‘You may be thankful for their caution,’ Mortrimm opined. ‘There’s an air of wariness about the Chuitsek. We’ve traded with them in the past and I’ve never sensed them being on edge like this.’ He nudged Brokrin, drawing his attention to the anxious glances some of the nomads were casting their way. The instant the humans saw that the duardin had noticed them, they hastily averted their eyes.
‘Something is going on,’ Brokrin agreed. ‘Don’t think we’re the only ones to notice. I spotted Drumark shifting his pistol around so he can draw it fast with either hand. Gotramm has been staring at their high chief Kero so intently I’m surprised his eyes haven’t fallen out.’ A grim laugh rose from deep in his chest. ‘You’ve been fidgeting with the balance-arm of the aetheric-scale since we sat down, and don’t tell me that is as innocent as you make it look. It’d make a capable bludgeon if it had to.’
Mortrimm set down the long metal rod. ‘An ill wind is better than no wind,’ he said. ‘But only if it gets you to better skies.’
Brokrin stroked his beard, pondering the old parable. ‘I always hate it when you quote philosophy. Brain-problems for duardin without enough work to do.’
‘You’d prefer I was more industrious?’ Mortrimm asked. ‘Maybe fixate on my duties the way Skaggi does with his?’
Among the dozen duardin that had disembarked from the Iron Dragon, only Skaggi remained unperturbed. The logisticator was focused entirely upon his work, scrutinising the pelts and hides the nomads had brought to the circle, calculating their value on the abacus-rings on his left glove and matching them against the expenditures he tallied with the rings fitted to his right glove.
‘If Skaggi thought it would cost him so much as a copper coin, he wouldn’t notice if his beard was on fire,’ Brokrin said.
Mortrimm was of a different opinion. ‘Skaggi knows there is tension here, it just doesn’t upset that avaricious streak running through him. Where money is concerned, his brain is a one-piston engine.’
Skaggi flipped the jeweller’s eye up onto a silver headband that circled his brow as he finished inspecting the pelt of a snowlion. He turned a grave face towards Brokrin. Even at his most cheerful, the logisticator had the expression of a hungry vulture. Now he looked positively famished. He glanced aside at the chief who’d brought the pelt, all nods and smiles as he returned it to the tribesman. ‘A word with you, cap’n,’ Skaggi said.
‘It is nothing good, is it?’ Brokrin muttered when the logisticator drew close to confer with him.
Skaggi kept his voice low. They employed a patois called barterspeak in dealing with the human tribes, though a few of the nomads were clever enough to have picked up a smattering of duardin words. Enough to make him cautious as he spoke with the captain. ‘Third-tier stuff,’ he declared. ‘Nothing I have seen so far looks worthwhile. That last pelt is infested with shiver-mites. Delousing it will bleed most of the colour out, leave it looking like a badly bleached deerskin. Everything I have looked at has been bad.’ He scowled, knowing Brokrin wasn’t going to like what he had to say. ‘Someone must have been here and taken all the good stuff.’
A nauseous feeling grew in Brokrin’s belly. He glanced over at the smoking remains of the beacon. ‘Why did they bother lighting the fire then?’ he spat.
The murmur that swept through the assembled chiefs told him that his ire didn’t escape the Chuitsek. At the moment, he didn’t much care if they took umbrage.
‘No ivory, no scrimshaw, no gemstones, no cragbull oil,’ Skaggi said. ‘Just a handful of hides I do not think anybody would want.’ The logisticator removed the gloves he’d used when examining the pelts, dropping them on the ground. ‘Won’t pay for the grog, much less our other expenses. It will be a bad time when we make port and the lads see what their shares come out to.’ There was an understandable note of anxiety in Skaggi’s voice. After the captain, it was the voyage’s logisticator who would be blamed for the shortfall.
Brokrin was contemplating more immediate concerns. He turned to Mortrimm. ‘If the Chuitsek already sold off their best goods, why did they bother to light the beacon?’
‘The first time we made contact with them, they saw a demonstration of our artillery,’ Mortrimm said. ‘Bombarded an orruk warband into a stain on the ground. The nomads are not such fools as to deliberately provoke us.’
‘What are they up to?’ Brokrin wondered. ‘What is their game?’
Looking at Chief Kero, Brokrin could see the uneasiness in the man’s expression. He was watching his own people as closely as he was the duardin. Brokrin got the impression Kero was waiting for one of them to make some move, some overture that he felt would bring trouble. All the dickering over ragged hides was just a preamble, a stall until one of the tribesmen worked up the nerve to tell the duardin what they really wanted.
Brokrin decided to force the issue. He stepped away from the other duardin and faced Kero directly. ‘No deal,’ he addressed the chief. ‘Pelts bad. No trade.’ Even in barterspeak, the statement was curt and abrupt, the kind of unrefined bluntness Drumark might adopt but hardly befitting the ship’s captain. Brokrin continued to watch Kero, waiting for the chief’s reaction.
Kero held up his hand. ‘Wait, cloudwalker,’ he implored. He motioned to some of his tribesmen. They unravelled rolls of mastodon-hide to reveal an array of metallic objects of duardin manufacture. A few exclamations of shock escaped the watching Kharadron. They felt there was no fair way the nomads could have come by such items. Allegations of theft and worse rose from Drumark and a few of the others.
‘Let the cap’n sort it out,’ Mortrimm advised the crewmen.
Brokrin turned to his own followers to stifle the angry snarls that quickly followed after their initial surprise.
He appreciated their feelings. His own blood ran hot as he looked down at the assortment of items the Chuitsek had brought forwards. The dented helm of an arkanaut. A set of endrinrigger’s goggles. Valves from an aetheric pressure gauge. Metal-soled boots far too wide and far too short for human feet. An assortment of oddments but all of distinctly duardin manufacture.
‘Ask them how they got these,’ Brokrin told Skaggi. Barterspeak patois was not going to be enough to get an explanation and the logisticator was the only one among his crew with any aptitude for the Chuitsek language. ‘Tell them to bring out everything – even the pieces they were going to keep for themselves.’
While Skaggi addressed Kero, Brokrin and the others started taking a closer look at the duardin goods. Endrinmaster Horgarr brought attention to a spanner that had a manufacturer’s rune impressed upon its side. ‘Barak-Urbaz’, Brokrin observed. When the Chuitsek started to bring out more items from their tents it became clear that all of the items had originated at that sky-port.
Drumark had a ready grip on his pistol. ‘Waylaid the last lot that came down to trade with ’em,’ he growled, glaring at the nomads. ‘They’ve another think coming if they think they’ll pick my bones!’
‘Ease down a might,’ Mortrimm said. ‘They don’t look eager to fight.’ The navigator waved his hand at the tribesmen. The truth of his words was obvious even to those duardin in the company with limited experience of humans. The Chuitsek weren’t making any signs of aggression; if anything their reaction was just the opposite. Many of them acted ashamed, averting their eyes and trying not to face the duardin. It was a curious display for a bold warrior culture to make.
