By noon, Deglan was in bed with the guild masters and a ship was being outfitted for his use. Fafnir would have less than a day's lead.
On the pier, minutes before departing, Tsura had insisted on going with him. Milosh forbade it, but the girl invoked some Tsigani taboo of family and honor that Deglan did not understand, causing her father to relent. She marched up and made her intentions known. Deglan, looking beyond her, caught sight of her father's despair and quickly squashed the girl's designs.
“You will stay where you are!” he snapped. He threw an outstretched arm at the ship and the rough looking crew behind him. “No sense having a lass on board stirring up these lusty brigands. I have enough to worry about without having to save you from a gang of rapers every night. If we come back from this at all, you'll have some fish-reeking wrecker's bastard in your belly. There will be no bear on this boat to protect you, girl. And I do not intend to save Flyn's life only to have him cut my head off when he discovers I brought you into danger. You are not welcome on my ship. Now get back to your father!”
The hateful look in Tsura's eyes could have knocked down the walls of the Roost, but Deglan did not waver. Eventually, she did as he bid. His words were harsh, but he had no need for the gypsy girl to love him. What he needed was her fear to eclipse her love for Flyn and that was no small feat.
The suire returned as promised and informed Deglan that Fafnir's longship did indeed sail directly for Middangeard, bearing northeast at speed.
Now, nearly two days later, they were still in pursuit, not once having caught sight of their quarry.
“The men don't fancy this race across open water,” Hakeswaith said bitterly, looking to use his perceived intimidation of Deglan to his advantage. “Should have made eastward, hugged the shores of the Leek Men, then headed northward 'round the Horn of Cimbria.”
Deglan cursed inwardly. It was not the first time he had heard this complaint. “Those we chase have no fear of being out of sight of land,” he said. “So neither will we.”
“S'fuckin' unwise,” Hakeswaith spat. “That dwarf of yours employs fjordmen sea dogs. Middangearders have strange ways. They's can navigate a true course with nought but seein' a whale's spray and a flight of gulls. Tisn't natural. Foolish to follow, stunty.”
“Thankfully,” Deglan pointed out airily, “your masters disagreed when they gave me the means to follow whoever I damn well please.”
Hakeswaith's reply held a sneer. “They didn't give you nothing, stunty.”
Deglan ignored that, though he knew the man was right. The ship had a captain, of course, a man whose name Deglan forgot the instant he learned it. He had command of the men and the management of the vessel, but her course was entirely Deglan's to direct. Hakeswaith, the captain and the entire crew could hate him and more than likely did, but they yearned for the coin of the guild masters and feared their displeasure. For now, the acquiring of the first and the avoidance of the second hinged on Deglan getting what he desired. And what he desired was the return of his comrades. He cared not one bit for the crew's feelings about their voyage. Let them worry. The Middangearders may have uncanny prowess on the water, but Deglan was not without his own advantages.
As if bidden by his thoughts, a trio of suire appeared alongside the ship, their tails and rippling backs cresting out of the water as they kept pace. Deglan could hear the men behind him cursing in disgust and alarm at the sudden presence of the suire. It did not matter how many times they arrived to give report, the sailors reacted with scorn. Hakeswaith breathed an oath and snapped his harpoon up, readying to throw.
“Stay your hand!” Deglan barked, looking over at the man for the first time. “Unless you want this whole ship drug to the bottom by a damned kraken, you witless barnacle.”
The whaler gave him a look dripping with disdain, but lowered his arm. Deglan would have to tread carefully. Hakeswaith was just the sort to let a thirst for petty vengeance overcome any desire for coin or fear of reprisal from the guild masters. He would deal with that when it came, for now he had no use for the man and returned his attention to the suire.
One of them had caught hold of the ship's hull and began climbing, hauling himself up with ease, using nothing but his bulging arms and the long nails at the ends of his strong fingers. Deglan thought it was the same individual he spoke with at the Gipeswic pier, but he was far from certain. With the exception of the genders, he found it difficult to tell one suire from another. Likely they thought the same of gnomes.
The suire reached the railing of the ship and pulled himself up, resting his arms on the rail, allowing his tail to hang out over the water. His black eyes locked on Hakeswaith and he displayed his pointed teeth.
“Get you gone, slayer of whales!”
Hakeswaith returned the stare with one of equal loathing before skulking off.
Deglan bowed his head to the suire. “What news?”
“The other ship continues along its course,” the suire told him. “The men on board row tirelessly, never ceasing. And they have the wind. You are not gaining.”
“Buggery and shit,” Deglan swore under his breath, not wanting the men to know. “How long before they reach land?”
“Difficult to determine, since we do not know where they mean to make port. Soon they will reach the Jutland Sea between Middangeard and Cimbria. Once there, there are many places they might go.”
Deglan clenched his teeth in frustration. He knew from maps that Cimbria was a sizable peninsula, thrusting out from the north of Outborders, almost stabbing into Middangeard and separated from that land only by the Jutland Sea. He did not believe Cimbria was Fafnir's destination. Likely he would sail around the Horn and land somewhere in Middangeard, but Deglan had no proof of that theory beyond his gut. In truth, it did not matter where Fafnir landed. Once off ship, Flyn and Crane would be lost. Deglan had no friends in Middangeard, no allies to call upon. The Fae held no sway in those frozen lands. No, he must catch the dwarf on the open water while he still had time.
Deglan ran a hand down his whiskers, making up his mind. “I need the sylphs.”
“You cannot call the Wind Elementals without Earth beneath your feet, gnome,” the suire intoned.
“But the undine can,” Deglan told him. “Here upon the ocean, they can entreat the sylphs. I beg you, go to your masters. Tell them of my plight and ask that they converse, Water to Wind.”
“On behalf of Earth,” the suire mused. “I will try. But I remind you, even if my masters will do this thing, there is no certainty the sylphs will listen. The tamers of Wind are fickle.”
“As you say,” Deglan agreed. “But I must try.”
The suire only blinked once, then let go of the railing, pushing itself away from the ship. It turned adroitly as it fell, twisting to enter the water arms first and disappeared beneath the waves with barely a splash. Again. Deglan could do nothing but wait.
The suire spoke true, the sylphs were a fickle lot. But these days, in absence of the Seelie Court, the same could be said of all the Elemental Guardians. Even Deglan's own people, once so redoubtable, had fallen into corrupted idleness. Irial Ulvyeh's long, slow withdrawal from the world had not benefited his subjects. The Elf King had an influence over the Fae that could not be matched. Though in the elder days, Deglan remembered rarely agreeing with the direction he chose to wield that influence. But king or no, Irial, like any father, was unalterably affected by the death of his daughter. Aillila's destruction at the hands of the Gaunt Prince robbed the Fae of a true victory at the end of the Rebellion and made mockery of the Restoration. Irial was returned to the throne, but his line and his heart were sundered into fragments of hopelessness. The Elementals soon began to govern themselves without his guidance. The old alliances were now tenuous, at best.
Deglan had one of the crew inform the captain to hold his course and fly every sail. He hoped it would not be a wasted effort. The sylphs were just as likely to rob them of the Wind as bestow its power. Hours passed an
d the day grew old. The Wyvern's Jest continued along at much the same speed she had managed since the voyage began. Deglan remained at the foredeck as the sky bathed the clouds in lurid shades of orange and purple, vainly enticing the retreating sun to remain aloft. The stars had not yet showed themselves when Hakeswaith returned to the rail.
“Captain says we are putting in once we reach Skagen,” he jeered. “Dwarf ship or not.”
Deglan grimaced. Skagen was a notorious refuge for seamen that clung to the very tip of Cimbria's Horn. Deglan had never been there, but even in distant Airlann tales were told of the place.
“No,” he said gruffly. “Unless the longship has docked there, we will sail past.”
“Captain says no,” Hakeswaith insisted sullenly. “He says that you can talk to your filthy fish friends there if you like. Depending on what lies they tell you, he'll decide whether we's to press on or make for home.”
“If this tub returns to Gipeswic without my friends the deal is forfeit,” Deglan said through clenched teeth.
The whaler shook his head gleefully, his bent jaw twisting further into a hideous smile. “Nah! I don't see that. Captain says your deal with the guild masters was just for the Jest and the men to crew her. Run down the longship, if it were possible.” Hakeswaith shifted his harpoon to the crook of his arm and clasped his hands together, shaking them and bending at the knee in a mummery of begging. He pitched his voice high. “Please, please grant me a ship, for I must finds me friends and I promise to become your stunty pet doctor once I'm back!” Hakeswaith straightened, laughing at his own mocking display. He pointed a scabby finger at Deglan, his voice returning to normal. “Guild masters couldn't guarantee you'd find yer mates and neither could you. Not a deal they woulda made. No, just the means to search is all you got. And the Captain has hisself a deal too, stunty! Ensure that you come back, and I reckon that deal's more important to the Anglers when all's done. So, we'll get our money for a job well done, while you'll have to stand before the big merchants and whine that we done you wrong. Even if they side with you, let you go out again, your dwarf's ship will be good and gone and your friends made thralls to some fjordman jarl or the like. No matter what, you'll be back in Gipeswic soon enough, lancing the boils on the guild masters' fat asses and dragging their ugly brats out of the cunnys of their fat wives!”
Hakeswaith rewarded himself with a good chortle after his little speech.
“You belong to the Anglers too, Hakeswaith,” Deglan said, fixing the man with a knowing smile.
“Aye. I do.”
“The bargain has me treating all guild members,” Deglan informed the man, turning to face him. “Not just the masters. For the next fifty years. Were I you, I would make damn sure you never fall ill or suffer injury during that time, which I might add, will be the rest of your miserable life. Because I promise you, you stinking, broke-mouth son of a dockside whore, you will not recover from anything which brings you under my care.”
Hakeswaith's chuckling ceased and he suddenly became very still. He regarded Deglan with a blank stare, his stretched lips quivering around his blackened teeth. When next he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.
“So you mean to kill me then, eh stunty?”
“It is no worse than your designs for me.”
“Well then,” the whaler hissed, moving his harpoon back into his hand. “Nothing could be clearer. When two bastards hanker for the other's blood, the only course is for one to strike first.”
“Your masters want me for a pet,” Deglan pointed out. “Your words. Kill me and you will get nothing.”
“Some things are worth more than coin.”
Deglan flicked an eye across the main deck, careful not to move. The sailors went about their business, unable to hear the deadly turn in the conversation over the roar of the Jest plowing through the waves. Toad shit! Too late Deglan realized he should have spent more time winning a few friends. Hakeswaith was about to make his move, curse his pride! Deglan swallowed hard and hoped he could hold the whaler off long enough for someone to take notice. Surely some of the crew wanted their payment and would step in.
Laughter tickled through the air. It was light, a giggle as from a girl, but somehow it presided over the cacophony of the ship. Deglan thought maybe he had imagined it, but he saw Hakeswaith wearing a confused expression, his face upturned, eyes searching the rigging. More laughter followed, deeper, yet still full of frivolity, joining with the girlish giggle. The main sail snapped to fullness, straining against the ropes. The crew cast about, every man searching for the source of the laughter. More voices joined in, male and female, all young, lusty and unrestrained. Squeals of delight and playful, wordless taunts mixed with the exhalations of amusement. The sail began to ripple, but not from a slackening of the wind. Deglan saw it stretch and run, as if someone swiped their fingers along it at speed from behind the cloth. He looked closer as the laughter intensified and could see other shapes, familiar shapes, begin to press against the sail. Impressions of faces, hands, well-formed limbs and shapely bodies.
The Wyvern's Jest began to crash through the sea as it picked up speed, the keel rising and falling, slamming into the water, sending sprays of foam over the rails to drench the deck. The crew scrambled about, trying to wrest the vessel back under control while keeping their eyes fixed to the main sail where the sylphs frolicked with abandon. Moans of pleasure filled Deglan's ears, pierced with the occasional shriek of delight. The sail had transformed into an ever shifting menagerie of nubile forms, fluidly intertwined.
As the sylphs cavorted, the ship continued to gain speed, pitching so violently that the sailors had trouble keeping their feet. Deglan watched as they spilled onto the deck, their mouths open, emitting screams and curses unheard over the gaiety of the Wind's children. Next to him, Hakeswaith slipped, the harpoon tumbling from his hand as he collided with the rail before taking a hard tumble to the deck. Amazingly, Deglan kept his own legs beneath him. Then he felt it, a gentle pressure of hands, made of the very air, holding him upright, steadying him against the harsh jolting of the ship.
Hakeswaith scrambled away, joining the line of sailors hastening below decks. Deglan was left alone, standing in the prow of the speeding ship. Sheets of water exploded on either side of him each time the keel hammered down. His vision became an alternating vista of endless stars and surging ocean, accompanied by a chorus of reckless merriment. He was terrified. He began to laugh.
The night sped by in a dreadful, glorious mirage. The sylphs were gone with the rising sun, departing with a final, satisfied sigh. Ahead, the blood bright orb blazed, showing Deglan the ship now faced due east. Distant shores lay to the south off the Jest's starboard side, but both land and sun held no importance for Deglan. He had eyes only for the longship, now visible just ahead.
The crew was making its way back onto the deck, every man shaken from the night's events. Seeing the captain emerge, Deglan called him over and pointed at the longship, close enough to see the sweep of her oars.
“Can you catch her?” Deglan demanded.
The captain squinted at the other vessel and the terror of the night fell from his weathered face. “Aye,” he growled. “We can catch her!”
The Wyvern's Jest was a larger, bulkier craft, but the captain knew his trade, using his broader sails to deprive the longship of wind. After an hour's dance, they were no closer to their prey, for the men in the longship bent their backs to the oars, keeping the vessel ahead. The Jest had no oars and soon they settled into a stagnant chase, neither ship gaining or losing distance.
Finally, by midday, inch by painstaking inch they drew nearer the low, sleek length of the longship. Deglan looked down from his vantage on the deck. He could easily make out the giant, Hafr, standing tall in the stern. His sword was drawn and he beckoned the Jest to come onward with the blade, bellowing a challenge. There was no sign of Fafnir, nor of Flyn or Crane. Deglan's heart sank. Had he been duped? Had the dwarf changed ships? Surely the
suire would have noticed. And then he saw it. A small canvas was erected near the prow, no doubt to shelter the prone forms of the chronicler and the coburn.
The captain appeared at Deglan's side, his face grim.
“We only outnumber them by ten men,” the man said. “And with that giant on their side, the odds are still greatly against us if we try to board. I do not know how much longer we can keep up with them. Should the wind fail, they will again pull ahead and we may not catch them a second time. They are within bow shot. I say we give them a few volleys.”
“My friends are on board that ship,” Deglan said, scowling up at the captain. “A stray arrow and all this is could be for nothing.”
“It will thin out their oarsmen,” the captain urged. “Decrease their speed. They may give up the chase.”
Deglan glared back at the longboat, hating his options. Just then, from beneath the canvas, Fafnir emerged, walking down the aisle of the ship between the oar benches. He was hunched as he moved, clasping his cloak tight about his neck. He stopped in the center of the longship and turned to face the Jest, pushing his hood away from his head. Across the watery expanse separating the ships, he and Deglan locked eyes.
“Give the order,” Deglan told the captain. “But tell your men to keep their aim clear of the prow.”
The captain nodded and hurried across the deck barking commands. In quick order, half the wreckers had bows in hand, gathering on the port side of the foredeck and along the rail. At the captain's word they drew their strings back, angling their bows high and let loose. The shafts sped away, arcing high over the water. Deglan watched their descent, as did Fafnir, but the arrows fell short. The wreckers adjusted quickly and let loose another volley. Again the shafts flew and Deglan held his breath, knowing that this time they had the distance. Fafnir watched them come, a shower of broadheads about to rain on he and his men. And then the shafts began breaking mid-flight, or flew suddenly off the mark. They snapped or spun away, flung aside by some unseen force. Not one found their target.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 26
