“They are not… damaged permanently.” The witch approached Camilla and ran a finger down the girl’s forearm where a slim trickle of blood oozed from beneath the golden shackle. “They will awaken wondering why their heads hurt. That is all.” She brought the wetted finger to her mouth and licked it clean.
Camilla edged away, too exhausted to put up any real resistance. She’d spent the entire night chained to the foot of Bloodwind’s bed, forced to endure the spectacle of the pirate and two of his recently successful captains being entertained by a few of the local whores. She’d been unable to sleep, barely able to relieve the strain on her legs by propping herself onto the footboard of the bed. Even facing Hydra, Camilla’s only thoughts were of sleep… sleep and food.
“I did not give you leave to touch her, Hydra!” Bloodwind barked, snapping Camilla out of a half-dream, a fleeting vision of the creature feeding on her, sucking her life away gulp after gory gulp. The blade of a cutlass flashed between her face and Hydra’s, the edge coming to rest against the witch’s throat.
“Her blood is sweet, my captain,” the monster in woman form said, her languid tongue dabbing at a bit of blood from her lip. “You have used her to her end. Let me have what is left, and I will bring you the Flaxal girl without a fight.”
“Don’t spew your lies to me, witch. I’ll have the Flaxal girl and her ships with or without your help. You’ve told me what you came here for, now be gone before I decide I need you less than a good night’s sleep!”
“Very well, my captain.” Hydra smiled sweetly and withdrew, flowing out of the room as smoothly as she had entered.
Camilla’s eyes fluttered closed and she sagged against the chains, wishing only for sleep, but a strong arm encircled her, and the chains rattled above her head. Her arms dropped in a searing jolt, shocking her awake. As her eyes flew open, she saw Bloodwind’s face a finger’s breadth before hers. She could not even make herself recoil from him; she was simply too tired… tired from the agony, tired of her subsistence as his slave… more tired than she had ever been in her life. She sagged against his chest, weeping openly.
“Please. Please just let me sleep.” She experienced a flash of déjà vu: torment, then kindness, a pattern she’d experienced many times. But never before had she felt this utter exhaustion, this complete hopelessness.
“Here, my dear. Drink this.”
He pressed a mug to her lips, and she drank. The sweet juice burned with rum, but her thirst overwhelmed her distaste. She drained the mug in one long draught. Next, he held a slice of roast pork for her to eat from his hand, and she did, bite by luscious bite.
“More?” she asked in a whisper, barely hoping for a real meal, not knowing how far to stretch his kindness. The feeling began to return to her arms and hands in waves of fiery tingles, but it meant nothing next to the prospect of food.
“Yes, Camilla, but you must rest, so you mustn’t overeat. Here, let me help you.” He lifted her in his arms like a bit of fluff and placed her on his bed. The silky sheets smelled musky, but the featherbed was wonderfully soft. She drifted for a moment on that cloud of comfort as the tingling in her hands eased. Then he lifted her again, but only to sit up. Another mug of juice and rum pressed against her lips: a swallow, then another bit of meat. She ate more slowly, less ravenous.
“There you are, my Camilla. You’ll be as good as new on the morrow, won’t you?”
“Please,” she whispered. Never before had she pleaded to him. She had always found a core of strength that allowed her to keep her tongue quiet and her pride intact. She knew her mind wasn’t working properly, but could not make herself care. Her defenses had finally been exhausted, and she only wanted an answer to the question that had burned in her mind for more years than she could remember.
“Please, tell me why?”
“Why what, my dear?” Bloodwind moved back from her, his eyes questioning. He offered another bite of meat and she took it, despite her stomach’s complaints at the sudden overfilling. She’d eaten more than she usually had for two days’ fare.
“Why not take me? Why even keep me alive?” She chewed another bite and swallowed forcefully. “You could lie and still keep your spy in Southaven. Why do you keep me?”
The pirate’s answering smile flashed a warning into her mind. A sudden triumph lurked there. She’d seen the like only when he’d won a contest or a large wager. But what did he think he had won with her?
“Why, my dear Camilla, I thought you knew.”
Bloodwind offered another bite, which she again took, chewing slowly to savor the spicy taste and tender texture of the meat.
“I love you.”
“You… what?” The food Camilla had eaten clenched in her stomach and almost came up, but she swallowed and forced it down while those words burned her mind like a branding iron.
“I intend to make you my wife, Camilla. All you need do is say yes, truly say yes to me, and all the chains, all the punishments, will go away. I will dress you in the finest silks and satins, and you will feast on all the food and wine you desire.”
Camilla stared at him in shock, her sleep-deprived mind whirling in a morass of questions and lies. Could he really mean it? Could he honestly be offering what he said? Could he be trusted? Did she want to be his wife, even if it meant an end to his torments?
“How can I trust you?” she asked finally, unsure if the question might provoke him. Meeting that icy blue stare, she saw in his eyes… for just a moment… a flash of hope.
“Loyalty, my dear. What you give, you will receive.” He took her tingling fingers in his hand and kissed them. “All you have to say is ‘yes’.”
She fought against pulling away, wondering if this would be her only chance at salvation after so many years. If he wanted loyalty, even if that was all he wanted, could she give it?
Her mind rushed with the possibilities of a free life; an existence without torment. All she had to say was yes. One little word and the chains would come off, the torments would stop; the pain would end.
All she had to say was…
“Yes.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven
Shakedown
“I should be back by nightfall, Marta, but don’t wait dinner.” Cynthia accepted Brolan’s hand and climbed into the carriage, settling onto the hard seat. “You should be able to see from the tower well enough.” She waved as Brolan lashed the reins, barely able to keep a foolish grin from her face.
Today’s the day! she thought for perhaps the hundredth time since waking some two hours before dawn. She had not slept well, anticipation of this event overpowering her fatigue. In fact, she had not slept well for days with this event looming on the horizon. Plenty of time for sleep after. Today, my ships sail!
The ride down to Southaven town seemed to take an eternity. She fidgeted in the seat, looked at the scenery, twiddled her thumbs and tried not to tell Brolan to use the whip.
The two weeks since Orin’s Pride and Hippotrin first touched water had been nerve wracking, to be sure, but they had also been some of the most fulfilling and satisfying days Cynthia could remember. The stepping of the masts had nearly undone her. After one glimpse of the one-ton spear of milled timber poised over Hippotrin, held aloft only by a few stout lines and a flimsy looking derrick, she left the shipyard and went home.
The rest of the rigging had gone well, each vessel taking on an individuality that reflected the unique skills and tastes of the boatswains who were in charge of tuning every block, line, stay and shroud. During this process, stores, cordage and sails were taken aboard, stowed and rigged.
The last item to be loaded arrived in a small wagon driven by the crotchety old lightkeeper. Cynthia met him on the quay with Captains Ulbattaer and Troilen at her sides, their first mates flanking them, all as serious as stone. The lightkeeper laughed at their dour faces and rattled off a long assurance of how his “gifts” were perfectly safe. None of the sailors liked this idea, but Cynthia would not be swayed. Two cr
ates were loaded onto the ships, unpacked, and their contents installed securely in the captains’ cabins. Only the captains, mates and boatswains knew exactly what the contents were and how to use them if the unthinkable should happen.
Just a precaution, Cynthia told herself, shaking off the recurrent dread of her ships being taken by pirates. More than one nightmare had plagued her infrequent sleep—dreams of fire sweeping through her ships, exploding up through the hatches, and men and women screaming as they burned. Just a precaution…
All her worries fled like leaves on the wind as Brolen pulled the carriage to a stop on the Southaven quay. Resting beside the pier stood the ships—her ships. On deck, the crews stood in precision lines, awaiting her arrival.
Cynthia stepped down from the carriage, Mouse hopping up and down on her shoulder in unbridled glee. Today, her dreams would sail.
*
First Hippotrin, then Orin’s Pride, eased away from the dock, each with a dancer’s grace. Cynthia, Koybur and Ghelfan were aboard Hippotrin, while Keelson stood on the deck of Orin’s Pride. This division made sense, but had met with some resistance from Feldrin Brelak. Cynthia wanted Ghelfan’s opinion of the vessels’ performance, and Ghelfan felt that Troilen’s broader experience with varied hull and sail designs would give him the best assessment.
Hippotrin’s mainsail jibed with a crack of canvas, and Mouse squealed half an inch from Cynthia’s ear. She poked him, which earned her another squeal as he fluttered crookedly aloft. Even in the harbor, the ship heeled under the wind and picked up speed.
“Set the forestays’l!” Troilen ordered, his words immediately echoed by Vulta at her station amidships. Canvas exploded up from the forestaysail boom and filled, pulling the bow downwind. The helmsman corrected, and the ship accelerated toward the harbor mouth, cutting through the water at an easy six knots.
“She’s moving well,” Ghelfan commented, gauging the set of the sails and nodding. “Your boatswain knows her business.”
“We’ll see once we get outside,” Cynthia said, biting back the first twinges of nausea as the ship slid down the swells at the breakwater. Although the trade winds were mercifully moderate today, no more than twenty knots, the swells peaked at eight to ten feet. Though Troilen had offered her a weak brew of his medicinal tea, she had refused; she was not going to sleep through this experience.
Cynthia looked back to Orin’s Pride, only half a dozen lengths behind and already setting her jib. Brelak’s booming voice rose over the rush of wind and water, bringing a smile to her lips. This sea trial would very likely turn into an all-out race, and everyone knew it.
They cleared the breakwater, and the first full swell of the Southern Ocean lifted Hippotrin high, and then dropped her to plunge deeply into a trough. Cynthia’s stomach dropped with the ship and settled somewhere around her ankles as they rose up the next swell. The game was up; the sea had them and there was no letting go.
“We’re in it now, lassie!” Koybur brayed in her ear, grasping a shroud with his good hand and grinning horribly as the first splash of spray wetted the foredeck.
“Aye!” Cynthia agreed, gripping the lee rail with white knuckles. Wind and sea grasped the ship and Hippotrin responded like a thoroughbred, leaping forward to strain at her reins.
“Can you feel it, Ghelfan?” She watched the foam flying past and couldn’t help but grin, her nausea easing with the rush of adrenalin. “She’s flying!”
“Log!” Troilen yelled. A sailor tossed the log line overboard and let it run out through his fingers until his mate called the time.
“Ten and a half knots!”
“She is moving very well, Miss Cynthia,” Ghelfan said, “but I think she is a little light in the bilges. She’s heeling more than I would have expected with this press of canvas.”
“Cargo will help,” she said, stifling a yelp of alarm and glee as spray dashed the deck from a white-capped swell. The ship’s low profile would mean wet decks and wet sailors, but the increase in speed would be worth the price. Mouse fluttered madly against the wind and landed back on her shoulder, panting and laughing shrilly.
They sailed south for some time, the wind directly abeam. They would not put the ships through their paces until they were in deeper water and out of the land’s intensifying effect on wind and wave. The time was not spent idly, however, for Troilen ordered many changes in sail configuration and Vulta paced from the foredeck to the wheel, then forward again, ceaselessly relaying the captain’s orders and throwing in a few of her own. Finthie raced around the deck, tuning and tweaking every block, sheet and halyard. They were gaining a feel for the ship with every mile they logged.
As land sank below the horizon behind them, Borell the cook came on deck bearing a tray laden with several tin cups. He moved easily despite his precariously balanced tray and the ship’s pronounced heel, his bare feet slapping the planks as he advanced on the group and smiled at Cynthia’s excitement.
“Great idea gimbaling the stove, Mistress Flaxal. With this heel, it’d be near impossible to keep a kettle in place otherwise.” He lifted a cup for her. “Some ginger tea, just to settle things a bit.”
She took the tea with one hand, her other firmly grasping the railing, amazed that he could stand without support and balance the tray. He offered a cup to Ghelfan, another to Koybur and finally one to his captain. She sipped the tea, surprised at the strong ginger flavor. Her stomach eased even more, despite the brisk action of the ship. This was more like sailing Koybur’s little smack than the slow rolling motion of a galleon. The excitement, the unusual motion and the tea all had her feeling relatively well, and set a flicker of hope in her heart.
“It would appear, Captain, that Orin’s Pride is gaining on us.” Borell nodded aft with a smile.
They looked back to see that the other ship had closed the gap by half, her jibs smartly set, drawing her bowsprit through the swells and sending spray flying with every wave.
“We will see about that, Borell.” Troilen finished his tea and handed back his cup, then turned to Ghelfan and Cynthia. “With your permission, I’d like to see what she’ll do, Mistress Cynthia.”
“By all means, Captain, but I’d suggest having a look at her mast step before you push her much harder. The wedges are dry and if one should slip under this strain, well, I wouldn’t want to break a spar today.”
“Point taken, Mistress. Vulta! Please have a look at her mast steps and report back. Finthie, put the tops’ls on her. Helmsman, two points to windward!”
Cynthia opened her mouth to protest the change in course, but reconsidered. This was, after all, Troilen’s ship now.
*
“She’s making more sail!” Feldrin lowered his glass and took another breath to suggest a course change, just as his captain’s voice filled his ears.
“Tops’l please, Master Brelak, and send a man below to check the mast steps. Helmsman, put our bowsprit one point upwind of her transom and don’t deviate.”
“Aye, sir!” Feldrin grinned as he turned and barked orders. Karek leapt to, adding orders of his own and diving below to check the steps himself. Feldrin stood tall, barely suppressing a broad grin. The ship and crew responded like veterans, her topsails cracking in the fresh breeze. A sidelong glance confirmed that Rafen Ulbattaer echoed his thoughts; proud of his crew, and his ship. They would both shape up nicely with a little seasoning.
When the sails were set and all the seamen back on station, he ordered, “The log please, Mister Karek.”
“Fifteen and a half!” A whoop of triumph rose from the deck. This was faster than most of them had sailed in a lifetime of plying the seas.
“How many points to the wind, Brelak?”
Feldrin took a quick sighting, estimating the true wind angle, and placed a small protractor on the compass card. He blinked at the indicator, took another sighting and got the same number.
“Fifty degrees, Captain.” That was ten degrees closer than any galleon could manage.
“She’s griping a bit,” the helmsman said, leaning hard on the wheel to keep the ship’s bow in line. “Wants to come about.”
“Too much heads’l?” Brelak offered, squinting up at the bar-taut jib sheets.
They topped a large swell and plunged into the trough, the leeward rail awash as they heeled over.
“Not enough ballast,” Keelson suggested. “She’s runnin’ light.”
“Aye, indeed.” the captain agreed, looking to the telltales on the mainsail. “She’s not working her mains’l like she should, but the jibs are drawing. Shifts the balance forward.” He looked around the deck. “Shift some weight. Make sure all the water casks are low and amidships. Helmsman, let her have half a point, but watch your main luff.”
“Mister Karek!” Brelak bellowed, relaying the captain’s orders. The boatswain vanished below with another stout crewman, yelling for Rowland to lend a hand. “You plannin’ on stealin’ her wind, Capt’n?”
Rafen Ulbattaer grinned beneath his dark mustaches, white teeth gleaming. “Would I do such a thing, Master Brelak?”
“Aye sir, I think you would.” Brelak grinned back.
“Well, you’d be mistaken. I’m simply seeing how close she’ll sail to windward.”
“O’ course, Capt’n. I didn’t mean to suggest any other thing.”
“Good. Now keep an eye on Hippotrin’s masthead pennant and tell me when it starts to flutter. We’ll bear off and take the wind from her sails like a cutpurse nippin’ a money pouch.”
“O’ course, Capt’n.” Brelak grinned again, shouting for all idle seamen to move to the windward rail.
“Half a point, Capt’n!” the helmsman announced, drawing everyone’s eyes aloft. The sails were still drawing well with no signs of luffing. “The helm’s eased a bit.”
“She’s found her tack, Capt’n!”
“Aye, Master Brelak, and we’re gaining on Hippotrin.”
Scimitar Moon Page 27
