A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  And Kade cried out.

  Azak wheeled his mule even before Inos had hauled hers to a stop. She dropped the reins and scrambled off its back, suddenly aware of stiffness and stabbing aches. And she was not a quarter of Kade’s age! How could she have been so thoughtless as to drag the old lady up here without any decent respite? Keeping her up all night …

  By the time she had limped back to the fourth mule and her aunt, Azak was dismounting a short way farther back, and Kade was full of apologies. She had dropped her breviary, was all.

  Well, if she could attempt to read and ride a mule at the same time, she was in not too bad a shape.

  “We must take a break, though,” Inos said.

  Azak nodded agreement as he returned with the missing book, leading his mule. Although his mule was larger than any of the others, in the light of day he seemed absurdly huge alongside it, like a man walking a dog.

  The sky was blue, the sun hot, and sunward the land tumbled away in scrawny ridges to the hazy immensity of the desert. Inos had a sudden heady sensation of being a bird. The view was breathtaking. She was amazed at the height they reached already, at the vastness of the world spread out before her.

  Somewhere down there in that jumble of rock was the Oasis of Tall Cranes, full of enraged brigands and a very angry sorcerer. Doubtless the local men knew of this road and would follow as soon as they had recovered their livestock, but so far the sorcerer had not reacted. He had not called the fugitives back to him. He might have lost them, or they might be beyond his range already.

  But a rest, and hot tea, and food …

  “Which God?” Azak murmured politely, thumbing through Kade’s breviary. “Travelers?”

  “Humility,” said Kade.

  Without hesitation, he expertly flipped the pages and found the place, but as he handed back the book, he raised one copper-red eyebrow. “And why should you choose to invoke Them, ma’am?”

  Normally Kade deferred to Azak as thoroughly as any Zarkian woman would. This time she met his mocking gaze with a royal confidence of her own. On muleback, she was almost at his eye level, which no doubt helped, and perhaps she no longer wished to play the Mistress Phattas role, for there was no deference in her ice-blue eyes as she replied. “Because I am convinced we have made a terrible error, your Majesty.”

  He flushed. “I trust that you are mistaken!”

  “I hope I am. I pray that I may live to apologize.”

  Azak’s red eyes flashed anger, and he turned away, yanking his mule’s reins.

  6

  Someone slapped Rap’s face to get his attention. He was still bound, crammed in on top of some angular sacks and under a bench. He could not feel his feet at all, and his hands were only more anonymous lumps twisted underneath him. Day and night were a blur, as if he had been lying there for weeks, unwanted baggage on Blood Wave. Even in the taiga, he had never felt so cold. His head throbbed from the effects of the blow that had felled him as he boarded, although he had detected the ambush in time to dodge and avoid some of the impact. Gathmor had not been so lucky, and he remained an inanimate bundle jammed in beside Rap.

  The storm roared unabated. Kalkor had set sail into the middle of it, with brazen insanity, and Blood Wave had been whirling around like a feather ever since—standing on her bow or her stern or her beam ends, never still. She groaned and creaked under the battering, but an orca ship was as near to indestructible as a jotunn raider himself. Even in the dark. Rap had been able to see the waves, and from his low vantage they had been green mountains, taller than the mast. They were still coming.

  “Water!” he croaked. The only water he had tasted had been the rain on his face mingled with the salt spray that drenched him and everything else aboard every few minutes.

  Then he recognized the hairy giant kneeling over him.

  “What’s it worth. Stupid?” His sibilant growl was familiar, too. That voice came with the nightmares.

  “Water!”

  Darad thumped a fist on Rap’s right eye. Cold and numb as he was, the pain was unexpectedly overwhelming. For a moment it blocked out the whole world, crushing, deadening, nauseating. Lights blazed around in his head.

  When his mind cleared a little, the jotunn was grinning his wolf grin, the big canines emphasized by the missing front teeth, top and bottom. “Andor told you he’d find a way to get you off that stupid little tub. Well, we did, didn’t we? I did!”

  “Friend of yours, is he?” Rap croaked. “Kalkor an old friend?”

  Darad nodded, leering. He was ugly as a troll, and almost as big. With any other of the sequential five it was possible to argue, but Darad was too witless to be distracted.

  “And he was willing to do me a favor!”

  “How’d you meet up with him?”

  “Luck, Stupid. Just luck. My word makes me lucky, see? Yours doesn’t! You’re mine now, faun. A gift from Kalkor! You’re going to tell me your word.”

  “I don’t know—” The other eye was thumped now, harder.

  Oh, Gods! That was worse.

  “Thinal thinks you do. That’s good enough for me.” Darad raised a thick finger and stroked his goblin tattoos. “You’ll talk.”

  Rap had recognized Darad among the raiders. That was the main reason he had rushed forward like a maniac to denounce Kalkor—he had known then why the jotnar had come to Durthing. But some of his madness had been the remains of his own killer anger. Without that he might just have run away, and he would have escaped, unless he had lingered to help the women and children. He had been within seconds of beating Ogi; now he was getting what he deserved for losing his temper.

  And for being so stupid! He had known that Darad would always be a danger—Darad and Andor and the rest of the five—but he had thought he could shelter in Durthing, guarded by a few hundred jotnar. Had he used the wits he was born with, he’d have guessed that Darad might enlist some jotnar of his own. So Rap had brought down the full horrors of a Nordland thane on the settlement, and for that evil he deserved more punishment than even the Gods could decree.

  Whining was not going to help, and telling his word would mean instant drowning. He wasn’t ready for that yet, not quite.

  So he gave Darad a very obscene instruction he had learned from Gathmor. The resulting punches knocked him out for a while, and that was an improvement.

  Piety nor wit:

  The moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

  Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

  Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

  Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

  Fitzgerald, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (§71,1879)

  THREE

  Where are you roaming?

  1

  “Nod if you’re awake,” said a whisper in his ear.

  Only pain was convincing Rap that he was even alive, but he nodded slightly.

  “Can you get free?” Gathmor really didn’t need to whisper when the storm still howled in the rigging and every rope and spar and strake on Blood Wave was screaming in the torment of the monstrous waves. In any case, the raiders had apparently forgotten their captives altogether.

  Rap shook his head. Seawater blew in his face.

  “How long’ve we been here?”

  “About two days, by the stubble on your chin.”

  Gathmor was deathly pale, his hair matted with old blood. The crazy look in his eye might have worried Rap had there been anything left in the world that could worry Rap.

  “Did they fight?”

  Rap nodded. He’d heard snippets of the bragging; he’d seen the bloodstained axes being cleaned and resharpened. He’d even recognized some items among the pitiful handfuls of loot that had been thrown aboard and now lay scattered around in the bilge: brooches and trinkets.

  Gathmor let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. He’d doted on his three sons, and he’d shown his wife as much affection in public as a jotunn ever did. His beloved Stormdancer would be a heap of ashes on the b
each by now.

  “I think they’re leaving us here to die,” Rap croaked.

  The sailor shook his head. “Just softening us up.”

  Rap fell silent, frightened he might start to sob. He was so weak! Courage or stubbornness were easier to fake when a man had his strength, but days and nights in bonds, thirst, hunger, cold, pain—he could feel them sapping his will. A man had far more trouble being strong in spirit when his body had been so badly damaged. And uncertainty helped, too. Call that fear.

  Farsight made the ordeal worse. Every roll to port and his ribs were ground against a lumpy sack—but those lumps were stoneware flagons of wine. He could even read the labels. Rolls to starboard brought a heavy keg thumping against his knee—and he knew it contained salt beef. Most of the baggage on Blood Wave was loot: gold and jewels and finery, stuffed in bags and jammed into odd corners, much of it broken or ruined already; but within his reach, were he not bound, there was food and drink aplenty.

  He could also watch every mouthful as the raiders feasted and drank. They ate well. Even at the height of the storm, when he expected Blood Wave to founder at any minute, the mariners went calmly about their business and pleasure. To display fear or even reasonable doubts would be unjotunnish and probably a capital offense on this ship.

  If softening him up was what Kalkor intended, then Rap thought he would make a very fine feather mattress already.

  Dark and cold … Splash after splash after splash of salt water … Rain, sometimes, which helped.

  Being rolled to and fro on a rock pile until half his bones felt raw.

  Thirst, monstrous torments of thirst.

  A boot in the ribs if he called out.

  You volunteered for this voyage, Pea-brain! Did you expect the luxury cabin?

  Hunger. Cold. Thirst.

  Fouling his own clothes.

  Thirst. Cold. Cramps like hot coals.

  Gathmor, whispering: “Why’d you interfere? If you knew it was Kalkor, why not just get the Evil out of there?”

  “I knew he’d come to Durthing to find me.”

  “And you thought he might be satisfied? Spare the town?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Feeling guilty for bringing bad luck?”

  “Maybe. And you? Your reason?”

  “The same.”

  Thirst. Splash. Roll. Cold. Dark …

  A punch or two whenever Darad went by. Testing for softness.

  Gathmor again: “So Kalkor has a seer now. You’ll be his eyes?”

  “No!”

  Truly, Master Rap? Suppose he made you an offer right now, Master Rap? Pilot for an orca—easy work for a seer. Just guide the death and rape up the river by night, Master Rap. Outflank the guards. Locate the hidden treasures: gold below the bricks, virgins in the attic. Good pay—all the booty you can carry, all the women you can catch. Will you accept that offer, or stay where you are, Master Rap?

  Take all the time you need to think about it.

  Kill yourself, Master Rap? You’re not man enough. Do it later, when you feel better?

  Cold. Thirst. Delirium starting. Inos on a horse. Darad and Inos. Andor. Bright Water the mad witch.

  They’re eating again. Drinking again.

  Splash after splash …

  Blood Wave was a lower, longer, sleeker vessel than Stormdancer and yet she was still only an open boat, for there were no unnecessary luxuries like cabins on an orca longship. One small triangle of deck at the stern supported the helmsmen—the steering oar needed two men or more in this weather, and if the wind ever caught Blood Wave broadside she would be on her beam ends instantly. Below that tiny deck was the only relatively sheltered spot on board. There Thane Kalkor hung his hammock. He had a chair there, also, a throne, and when awake he sat in bored glory, rarely speaking to anyone, waiting for better killing weather.

  The sailors bailed, prepared food, tended weapons, but mostly they just lounged about, being idle. The storm would take them somewhere and they had no say in where; rowing was impossible in weather like this. There might be rocks dead ahead, but jotnar would never admit to fear.

  Despite the howling wind and thrashing rain, few wore more clothing than leather breeches. Their beards and hair flew wild in the breeze, or clung in soaked tangles of silver or gold or even copper. There was a manic, ruthless quality in their appearance, an animal ferocity that would have persuaded Rap to believe their reputation even without the evidence of the cargo. Their conversations were ravings of nightmare. He would accept any story told of such men. They competed in cruelty and sought to outdo each other in atrocities. To them compassion would be worse than cowardice. Brutality was their creed and their ambition.

  He had no doubt that they had killed everyone they had managed to catch in Durthing—women, children, even the harmless little gnomes, for he had overheard jokes about the problem of cleaning gnome off an ax.

  And it worked! Kalkor had lost only one man in Durthing, the one Brual had taken, yet there had been more than enough able fighters in the settlement to put up a resistance. They could have driven the raiders off with rocks, or at least have made them pay for their sport; but instead they had crumpled before the orca reputation and thus themselves become part of the legend. Atrocity fed on itself.

  But who was Rap to judge? Only Kalkor’s arrival had stopped him from beating Ogi to a pulp—squat Ogi, who had probably truly believed he was doing a friend a favor by setting up a match for him, while at the same time enriching himself by backing a dark horse. Typical imp! Rap had not lost control of his temper since he was thirteen, the time he broke Gith’s jaw, but the madness was still there underneath. He had been going to maim Ogi, and only chance had stopped him. Kalkor felt that way more often, perhaps, but Rap was of the same jotunn blood.

  He was in the same boat.

  And now maybe one of the crew.

  2

  Strong hands dragged Rap out of his cramped corner and untied his bonds. He was so numb that he could not clasp the beaker he was offered, so it was held to his lips by a fleece-bearded blond giant who looked no older than himself, and who so much resembled Rap’s old friend Kratharkran that at first he thought he was hallucinating. But Kratharkran must be safely home in Krasnegar, earning an honest living; this young jotunn was a killer, and his attitude to the foul and stinking captive was one of understandable dislike.

  Fortunately there was still no shortage of fresh air, although the storm was waning. The sky had brightened, and Rap could have seen with his eyes almost as well now as he could without them, except that both his eyes were swollen mostly shut, thanks to Darad’s little chats. The waves had not subsided, though, and might not do so for days. Fresh air and rain, and cold. He was almost too weak to shiver.

  “Thane wants you,” said the young colossus, with the same unexpectedly high-pitched voice as Kratharkran. “Can you walk?”

  Rap shook his head, and even that was an effort. The water had added nausea to his pains; he should have drunk more slowly. Apparently he was not going to be fed yet, but he didn’t care overmuch at the moment.

  The sailor rose, took hold of Rap’s feet, and headed aft, dragging him along the narrow central gangway between the rowers’ benches. Unfortunately the oars were stored there when not in use, and the narrow walk space remaining was wide enough for a boot, but not a man’s shoulders. He bounced on blades and counterweights. The first half of the journey was downhill, the second half up, as Blood Wave continued her trek over the gray-green ranges of the Summer Seas. Arriving at the stern, the gangling raider dropped Rap’s feet, hauled him up by the shoulders, and adjusted him so he was half kneeling, half sitting on the planks.

  “Thanks, Vurjuk,” Kalkor said. “Be sure and wash your hands now.”

  “Aye, sir!” The young raider grinned and stalked away, swaying in easy balance as the ship tilted its bow to the sky again.

  Rap could not even control his whirling, reeling mind, let alone his despicably useless body. He slumped o
n the planks before the thane’s bare feet like a dog, or a heap of refuse. He wanted to stand up like a man, and his contemptible muscles refused to obey his commands. They would do nothing but shiver. His hands were starting to throb painfully.

  Lording above him on his throne, Kalkor reached out one horny foot and nudged Rap’s head up, so he could study the ruins.

  “Darad?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “It’s enough to spoil a man’s lunch.” Kalkor pushed the offending face down again, still using his foot.

  The thane’s private kennel was crammed with sacks and bales, which Rap had long since inspected and judged to contain the choicest loot. The overhead deck was too low for a man of any of the large races to stand upright; indeed it had not even been high enough for Thane Kalkor’s chair.

  Once that chair must have belonged to a king, or perhaps a bishop. It was big and intricately carved, inset with jewels and enamels and filigree of gold. It was padded in fine scarlet velvet. But the tall back had been shortened with an ax to fit under the low headroom, and now half the jewels were gone and the velvet was stained and rotted by salt water. Even the legs were splintered where the chair had been spiked to the deck to stop it sliding around.

  Now the throne belonged to a half-naked jotunn pirate, who was lounging back in it and regarding with wry amusement the wretched near-corpse that had just been dumped at his feet. He was exactly as Rap had seen him in the magic casement: big and young, powerful in every way imaginable. His hair was the color of white gold, hanging heavily like plate; his eyebrows were white seagulls’ wings of irony on his bronzed face, a face of hard, angular beauty and diabolic cruelty. Unlike the rest of the men aboard, he wore no tattoos.