by Tom Stacey
“You would think that a military ship could keep better care of her woodwork,” the old warrior said grimly, voice hoary with effort.
“Maybe they were busy,” offered Loster warily.
Beccorban shook his head. “There’s always time for the proprieties. It’s a poor ship that can’t manage its own maintenance, but then these are exilarii, not true navy.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mercenaries, paid from the imperial coffers to serve the empire and bear her mark. They’re not Verians — not usually — but that doesn’t mean they fight any less well. I once fought alongside a squad of Threshian mercenaries we had paid to war against their own kind. They fought like cats at bathtime.”
Loster smiled and probed the tender flesh of his hands. “You beat them, didn’t you?”
“Who, lad?”
“The Threshians, during the Outcry.”
Beccorban nodded his head slowly and his eyes were distant. “Aye, I did. Though not alone. We lost a lot of good men to their blades.” He lifted his scrubbing stone in one huge hand and pointed it at Loster. The gesture reminded Loster of Aifayne wielding a chalk duster in the schoolroom, and he felt sadness swell in his throat. He swallowed quickly as Beccorban continued. “They are a strange people, if truth be told.”
“How so?” Loster found himself listening avidly. He realised that he had nothing to fear from the big warrior. He was tired of being afraid.
“Many ways. The men and women speak different languages, for one.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Loster.
Beccorban shook his head. “Not to you or me, perhaps, but to them it is as logical as night following day.”
“How do they talk to one another?” asked Loster incredulously.
“Oh, they both understand each other’s language, they just respond in their own one. A man will speak Threshian and his wife will respond in Threshiun. It sounds complicated but then I don’t speak either, so it all sounds like the bleating of sheep to me.”
“What else?” asked Loster, folding his legs under him.
“Hmmm. They do not have a king. Leastways they never used to have a king, before Illis’ dominance. Daegermundi would consider that strange, though I know those in the Southlands would be more open to the concept. Instead the Threshians have a council made up of the greatest warriors on the island. Every man who has twenty or more kills to his name may sit on the council and each man carries a vote that bears equal value to the others.”
“What if they disagree?” asked Loster.
Beccorban laughed. “They do, often, but if a majority cannot be reached then each side chooses a champion, and they fight.”
“Until one surrenders?”
“No, Loster. To the death. That is the way of the Threshians. They are a warrior race. A Threshian cohort is one of the most fearsome things you could ever have the misfortune to see.”
Loster tried to picture ranks of fearless warriors but his wandering mind took him back to the rows of tall, dark warriors, lining the hill above the beach. He shuddered. “Are they worse than the things that are chasing us?”
Beccorban bit his lip. “I don’t know, lad, but it’s a fight I would like to see.” He grinned and that distant look came into his eyes again. Abruptly he shook his head to clear it of memories and his face turned to stone. He cleared his throat. “Be thankful they’re on our side now.” He frowned. “That is, if they haven’t already been overrun.”
Loster bit his lip. “I’ve never really been in a fight. Not a proper one, anyway.”
“Fighting is not always something to boast of, lad.”
Loster twisted his mouth into a wry grin. “My father seemed to think it was. I couldn’t even kill an old man. He was suffering and…” Loster stopped as his voice choked in his throat. He turned away in shame.
“Who is your father?” asked Beccorban tactfully.
“Lord Gaston Malix.”
“Ah, Elk. I never met Lord Malix. Illis gave him that land, you know.”
“So I was told. I never did see him fight, though he liked to preen and prance in his armour. He used to organise tourneys and award a heavy purse to the strongest man, but he picked the fighting partners. He never made them equal. He always seemed to pit strength against weakness, as if he liked suffering.” Loster frowned. “He did like suffering,” he said quietly.
“Careful how many secrets you spill, little Loster,” warned Barde.
Loster forced himself to smile. “You’re not how I expected,” he said, immediately feeling foolish as Beccorban raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“The stories,” he spluttered, embarrassed. “About you. They say that you did awful things.”
Beccorban grunted. “Aye. Were that less of them were true.” Loster’s eyes grew wide at the admission but then Beccorban smiled again. “Don’t believe everything you hear, lad. Especially when it comes from a priest.”
Loster hung his head. “You’re so comfortable with death, you and Callistan. The way you dealt with those men…” he trailed off. He had meant to make it sound like an admonishment but it left his mouth as admiration. “I’m not like you,” he said, looking up.
“And that is a good thing, lad, but all men are equal in the end. I wasn’t made this way. At least I don’t think I was.” The big man sighed and looked up to the canvas above his head. “We sit beneath a great oilskin, bowed in the middle with the weight of the dark waters it holds, and we are nothing but sharp pins travelling upwards. If we are slow and careful, or lucky enough, we can move further upwards, pushing the oilskin up with us and keeping the waters at bay. But eventually every man, every peasant, every King, and even Empron will split the oilskin above him and Death will come pouring through.”
Loster breathed out slowly. “Your words?”
“No,” he shook his head.“They are the words of a man I knew once. Rother Garnet. We called him the Greathelm. Funny, but it sounded better when he said it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I got it wrong.”
Callistan appeared as if from nowhere, arms laden. He was carrying several blankets, what looked like a small pillow stuffed with straw, and a corked bottle of black spirit that sloshed as he walked.
“Where did you get those?” asked Beccorban.
Callistan looked up as if he had only just noticed the two of them. “I found them below decks.”
“You stole them?”
A shadow passed over Callistan’s face and he looked at Beccorban with a gaze that could have drawn blood. Then he shrugged. “Yes,” he said simply.
“Gods, man. We are guests here. Have you lost your wits?”
Callistan’s left eye twitched at the insult. “Not guests, greybeard. Paying customers. They would do well to remember it.”
“They would do well not to throw you overboard.”
“It matters not,” he said. “I can swim. I think.” He turned to Loster and winked, and Loster felt himself grinning, despite his fear of the blond horseman. Callistan was a law unto himself.
“Just make sure nobody finds you with their property,” said Beccorban sullenly and he went back to his scrubbing.
Callistan settled his bedding and then took the cork of the bottle between his teeth. It came out with a pop and he took a swig of the black liquid. Loster watched him with fascination. Before he could realise that he was staring, Callistan turned to him and offered out the bottle.
“Will I like it?” he asked.
“I doubt it.”
Loster frowned but took the proffered bottle and held the neck under his nose. The fumes were bitter and hot and made his eyes water. Callistan laughed at his reaction and Beccorban looked up. “Don’t drink that, boy. It muddles with your head.”
“Not a drinker, o bearded one?” teased Callistan.
“No, fourfinger, I am not.”
Callistan’s smile dropped from his face like a mask that had been ill-fitted and he snatched the
bottle back from Loster. Loster gasped and fell backwards and the tall blond horseman stepped over him, stalking away to some other portion of the ship.
Beccorban returned to his scrubbing and before long he was satisfied. He laid the stone back on the pile and rolled out his bedding alongside Callistan’s. Finally he laid down and stretched out, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. Loster continued scrubbing for a while but soon his hands began to weep with plasma and watery blood, so he placed his stone atop Beccorban’s and sat cross-legged on the deck, trying to look at the old warrior without it being obvious. Beccorban was completely silent, but something in his stillness told Loster that the hammer-wielding warrior who had saved him was not asleep. “I think you upset him,” he said and the sleeping giant flicked one eye open.
“Who? The horse master? Ha!” he grunted. “I’m sure he’s heard worse. He doesn’t strike me as a vain man, not the way he is dressed.”
Loster had to admit that Callistan was a mess. He wore a threadbare tunic that was coated in stains and slicks of mud and grease. Once, perhaps, it had been white but it clearly hadn’t been washed in some time and was blackened and charred here and there by the scars that only flames could make. His hair was filthy and matted in places and his skin was ingrained with dirt. On his cheeks he had several small blisters, and one eyebrow had been more or less erased, singed to brittle ashes by the fury of a fire. Yet for all of this there was a pauper’s nobility about the man, some regal bearing that suggested there was more to him than the eye could see.
“Why did you say I was your son?” he asked abruptly.
“Because it was an easier explanation. Faster.”
“Do you know what Droswain wants with us?”
“Agh!” Beccorban sat up and threw his hands skywards in despair. “Questions, boy! Always questions. You’re like Riella. No, that’s not fair. She’s a lot prettier than you.” He laughed then and his laugh was a great booming chortle that fought the very waves for dominance. Loster could not help but be swept up in it and he laughed too.
“Sails!” came the cry and Beccorban sprang to his feet.
“Best to go below, Loster.”
Loster clambered to his feet, trying to match the roll and sway of the ship. He looked around, scanning the horizon for the tell-tale shape of another ship, but there was only sea and sky. Beccorban lifted his great hammer from his rolled cloak and Loster wondered how many men had died beneath its weight. “The man who told you those words — Greathelm — where is he now?”
“Dead. I stabbed him in the belly because I thought he had wronged me.”
Loster swallowed. “And had he?”
Beccorban shrugged. “I never cared to find out.”
“It’s a black sail, Captain!” The distant figure of the lookout, high up in the crow’s nest, called down a warning.
A cold feeling grew in Loster’s stomach and he stepped in under the flimsy shelter of the wheelhouse as the main deck became a frenzy of activity. Colourfully dressed sailors rushed back and forth, boiling out of hatches, tugging on lines and hauling on rigging. Loster had never known there were so many aboard. He grabbed Beccorban’s arm. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, lad, but it doesn’t look good.” He looked down and his eyes were full of concern. “Go below. Find Riella, or Droswain, even. The wind’s picking up and things will be busy up here.” With that he walked away to the stern rail, careful to hug the gunwale and thus avoid any passing sailors. Loster hesitated and followed him, weaving in and out of the busy crew.
The mainsail suddenly snapped rigid with a great thunder-crack as the ship came around to meet the wind directly. It drove them off their heading but it gave them all of the speed they could muster and clearly the Captain had speed at the forefront of his mind. The colourful, jolly character was standing just behind the helmsman, calling out orders in a voice made tinny by the bronze cone he used to amplify it. His eyes were everywhere. Loster thought that no one man could keep track of so many things but the Captain’s face was calmness itself. Only once in a while did he turn to peer over his shoulder, his eyes lingering too long on the horizon.
“Another sail!” came the cry from above and, though Loster would not have thought it possible, the busy sailors seemed to double their speed, responding to new orders at the run with no less skill or care than before.
“Is it black, Loppo? Tell me, is it black?”
“Yes, mulco. Also black.”
The Captain cursed. “Thank you, Loppo, and ‘Captain’ if you please, we are in action.”
The lookout yelled down an apology and Loster watched in fascination at the hive of activity around them. He looked over the stern rail, past Beccorban, towards the wobbly line where grey sky met greyer sea. He could not be sure but it seemed to him as though two tiny points, like distant island mountains, were growing upwards from the depths.
“They’re gaining on us,” he said.
“No fear, lad,” said Beccorban but Loster knew it was best to say nothing lest his voice betray him. It would waken Barde.
They sped northwards at a dizzying pace, crashing through waves too sluggish to get out of the way. The sharp prow of the ship cut each wave in half, making them explode in great blooms of foam and spume that looped over the deck and fell back down like rainwater. The Lussido was hurled up on to the watery peaks of great grey-green leviathans, then cast downwards into depths so dark Loster could swear he was peering into Hel.
He staggered as the ship bucked under him and Beccorban grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, hauling him upright. The big man tried to say something but the wind snatched his voice away. Something slammed nearby and a dishevelled, green-tinged Droswain emerged from the bowels of the ship.
“Go, go with the priest!” Beccorban pushed him towards Droswain who stood awkwardly, half of his body still inside the ship, the other half braving the elements. The remnants of a wave came down like a shelf of rock on to Loster, soaking him in icy water and knocking him to his knees. The deck rocked as the ship rode a swell. Loster fell sideways but Droswain reached out like a predatory insect and caught him by the arm, dragging him towards the open hatch with surprising strength.
“We need to go below! It’s safer there!” Droswain called above the howling wind.
Loster nodded and turned to look after Beccorban but the big man had returned to the rail and was facing out towards the sea, riding the angry motion of the ship on experienced feet.
A whoop of joy cut through the wind and Loster turned to see Callistan, arms outstretched and hair blowing all around him like flames of pale gold.
The young acolyte thought they must be getting away, but when he looked he saw that the ships with the black sails were closer than ever, one near enough to make out the tall figures that pranced along its length. Droswain pulled him into the semi-darkness of the lower deck and slammed the hatch shut. The wind became a muted roar and once again Loster could hear the creaks of rope and tortured wood.
“Come, Loster. Let us go to my cabin. We can dry you up there. You’re far too important to get washed overboard.”
“But the others…” he began. “I think Callistan has gone mad. They’re getting closer and he’s enjoying himself!”
“No, Loster, not getting closer.” Droswain frowned and ushered him along the narrow corridor. “They’ve already caught us.”
XXIV
Callistan threw his head back into the wind and his heart soared as it stole his breath. This was living! This was the most alive he had felt in weeks. Cold spray stung him on the cheek and sent a jolt of energy down into his bones. A great cheer sounded and Callistan looked to the back of the ship where the big hammerman stood like a misplaced figurehead, swaying with the roll of every wave. There, no more than a few bowshots’ distance away, the closest enemy ship stalked ever closer like some deep sea predator.
“She flounders!” a dark-skinned sailor cried and Callistan turned to follow an
outstretched arm that pointed past the first ship to the second, still some distance behind and shrouded in the thin mist that was beginning to form. Its main yardarm had snapped in two, casting the black sail into the water and threatening to drag the whole ship under the waves. Nature, the great equaliser, Callistan thought. On land the tall men were stronger, faster, better equipped. Out here in the Scoldsee they were all at the mercy of the Blue God of the Temple Main. “Smile, man,” said the sailor in his thick Sturmon brogue. “The gods are with us!”
Callistan did as he was told and grinned from ear to ear. Even from far away he could see the thin, lanky shapes of the enemy sailors swarming over the fallen rigging, labouring to cut it loose. He threw his head back and howled at the elements, and the man next to him laughed and clapped him meatily on the back. He moved to the stern, walking quickly over to Beccorban’s side. The big man was not cheering with the others. Instead he had removed his heavy bearskin cloak, folded it neatly and placed it out of the way near the wheelhouse. His face was grim. “Ready yourself, horseman. We haven’t got long.” The old warrior unhooked his hammer from the thongs on his back and gripped it tightly. A few nearby cast wary glances at him but he simply turned to face back out towards the enemy.
The closest ship was now closer still, making unnatural progress against the wind. The mist was thickening, curling around its bow like smoke in the breeze. Its black hull was very low in the water, and Callistan could picture dozens of freakishly tall soldiers erupting from every hatch. Some of them were already gathering near the raised quarterdeck, wearing that uncomfortably familiar armour that only seemed to accentuate their odd stature. Other, slightly less tall soldiers were in loose-fitting robes that seemed wholly impractical for sea travel. A boarding party. Callistan could hear orders being barked out in a strange tongue, could hear the stamp of feet that did not belong to men, and the creak of salt-stained canvas and tarred rope that had seen stranger shores than he could imagine. The big man was right.
