by Bruce Blake
“Why d’you wanna find out who he is so bad, anyways?” Horace asked graspin’ the edge of the seat to keep his ass from flyin’ up in the air again. The road were rough enough to set his cheeks to hurtin’.
“He came out of the sea,” Birk replied, his voice holdin’ an excited tone. “Do you know what that might mean?”
“He’s a fisherman what fell outta his boat?”
“Well, yes. That might be the case.” Birk snapped the reins hard and the horse whinnied in protest. He and Horace provided load enough for the poor nag, and Dunal were near worth another two. “But if he is, he’s not from around these parts.”
“Where do you s’pose he’d be from, then?”
“I’m not sure. He seems too big to be a fisherman.”
“I didn’t know they was a certain size.”
“Nobody around here is that size. Maybe he’s from the Green.”
Horace guffawed, makin’ it sound just right. “The Green? Ain’t nothin’ good from the Green, and he don’t look like no Small God to me.”
“More than just the Small Gods live in the Green.”
The sailor shifted, uncomfortable on his seat, slidin’ his ass side-to-side and grippin’ the edge hard enough to make his knuckles go white.
“The Green’s too far for him to be from there anyways.” Horace’s gaze flickered toward Birk. “Right?”
“It’s not so far to be impossible, but you’re right.” He laughed. “He is awfully big, isn’t he?”
Horace chuckled along with his host, doin’ his best to keep his anxiety from showin’. Mentionin’ the Green made him jittery, and knowin’ it were close enough for Birk to consider Dunal might’ve come outta it weren’t no good tonic for Horace’s nerves.
Birk tapped a finger against his chin near a place where he’d nicked himself shavin'—a different one’n he’d cut before. Horace watched him, wonderin’ how to get himself outta this situation he inadvertently found himself in and damnin’ himself for bein’ so desperate for food and ale. Weren’t the first time a thirst for ale caused him trouble.
“Perhaps,” Birk said, raisin’ a finger in the air and facin’ his travel companion. His eyes glittered and his grin what had disappeared while he thought deep returned. “Perhaps he’s a man from across the sea.”
Horace frowned. “Ain’t no men from across the sea.”
“Really?” Birk raised a brow. “You seem to know a lot about the sea...Tailor.”
“Maybe I ain’t no tailor, but I ain’t no seaman, neither.” Horace diverted his gaze, glad to see a few hovels croppin’ up alongside the road—they’d be to the doc’s soon. “It don’t take no sailor to know there ain’t nothin’ across the sea. Nothin’ but death.”
“But how do we know? No one’s ever gone.”
“No ship what strayed from the coast ain’t never come back. No sailor what looked o’er the shoreward wale and saw nothin’ but sea ever lived to tell 'bout it.”
Horace’s words trailed off along with his thoughts, his mind recallin’ the empty feelin’ in his gut when he’d seen the land were gone. He should be happy he’d survived to draw breath. He should be dancin’ and drinkin’ and fuckin’ ev’ry day as if it might be his last, because none o’ them should’ve been his to live. Yet he sat beside a feller with too much nose for his likin’, the two o’ them haulin’ the one man what might tell the truth of Horace to the doc and prob’ly get him sent back to the sea.
Dancin’ and drinkin’ an fuckin’ all seemed better choices.
The wagon’s boards rattled, the horse’s tail flicked a fly what landed on its ass, and Horace wondered if the other man—the man he saw in the ocean before the God o’ the Deep came and ate the Devil—might’ve been a man from across the sea.
He didn’t say anythin’ to Birk of it, just glowered straight ahead at the road and let their trip go on in silence.
***
They unloaded Dunal outta the wagon onto a bed with big, wooden wheels on it what might’ve doubled for a wheelbarrow when no hurt people needed loadin’ in it. Whatever it were, Horace’d gladly thank whoever built it so he didn’t have to lug the simpleton’s fat ass all the way into the doc’s shack.
He and Birk stood off to the side while the doc—a man with long hair at the back and near none on the top o’ his head and what Birk called nothin’ but doc—poked and prodded the head swabbie of His Imperial Majesty’s Ship, The Devil o’ the Deep. Course, Birk and the doc had no way o’ knowin’ who he poked, ‘cause there ain’t been enough time passed for anyone to find out the ship were lost, and Dunal weren’t talkin’. Yet.
Weren’t no fuckin’ way Horace’d ever tell and get himself sent back out on a boat. If, when he died, they lashed his body to a rowboat and sent him driftin’ out to sea to appease the God o’ the Deep, as were the custom with dead sailors, it’d be too fuckin’ soon for ol’ Horace Seaman. Never’d be too fuckin’ soon.
“Where did you find him?” the doc asked without lookin’ up from peerin’ into Dunal’s ear as if he thought he might have a chance o’ findin’ somethin’ in there.
“On the beach. Not far from Juddah’s place.”
Now the doc looked up at Birk, one eye goin’ kinda squinty. “What were you doing all the way over there?”
Birk shrugged. “Walking. Thinking.”
“Well, don’t let Juddah find you been walking and thinking too near his place. He’ll have your beans off if he does.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you.”
His tone didn’t suggest he meant it, but Horace didn’t pay it much mind. The doc opened Dunal’s mouth to peek inside and screwed his face up at the simpleton’s reeky breath.
Some things don’t never change.
Next, he pried open first one o’ Dunal’s eyelids, then the other. He put his ear to the big feller’s chest and listened, touched his fingers to the swabbie’s wrist, knocked him in the knee with a wee hammer. Dunal’s foot kicked up into the air and Horace gasped, thinkin’ the tiny whack’d woken him up.
What’d Horace do if Dunal woke up?
But he didn’t. The doc took the hammer to Dunal’s other knee and got the same reaction, but the simpleton’s eyes stayed closed. He didn’t cry out nor laugh nor tell the doc to stop.
After more pokin’ and proddin’ 'round Dunal’s lower belly and too close to his tackle for Horace’s comfort, the doc stepped back and put his hands on his hips, starin’ at the swabbie like he expected him to sit up and start talkin’, but he didn’t know Dunal the way Horace did. He didn’t know Dunal weren’t none too good at conversin’ at the best o’ times.
“Odd,” the doc remarked.
“What is it?” Birk asked.
Horace looked from one to the other but didn’t get no hint what were goin’ on. The doc walked up to Birk, took him by the arm, peekin’ sideways at Horace all the while.
“Can I talk to you? Alone.”
Birk nodded to the doc, then faced Horace. “I’ll be right back.”
They left, shuttin’ the door behind them as though they figured Horace or Dunal or the both them might take off if they didn’t. Horace thought it didn’t sound a bad idea at all. He glanced down at his feet and the pair o’ boots Birk’d provided. They was too small and pinched his toes, but he’d be able to run in them if it came to it.
Horace turned his attention to a row of glass jars sittin’ on a shelf at eye level. A bunch held different plants and roots and stuff, all dried and crumblin’. A thick-lookin’ yellow liquid with things floatin’ in it filled others, things what Horace didn’t wanna find out 'bout. He picked one up what contained somethin’ small and purple bobbin’ inside—it looked as if it might’ve been the cock off a dog.
“Hory? Is it really you?”
The words startled Horace so bad, the jar slipped outta his grasp, hit the ground and shattered. He stared down at the mess it made and wondered if the doc heard, but the worry o’er spillin’ a dog’s cock di
sappeared right quick. Only one man in the world called him Hory.
“Dunal?”
He pivoted real slow, fingers claspin’ into fists beside his legs without him intendin’ them to. The simpleton still lay on the doc’s wheeled table, his head facin’ toward Horace and the dopey grin the sailor’d wanted to slap off him more times’n he remembered pullin’ up on his mouth’s corners.
“It’s me, Hory. Dunal.”
“You’re awake.”
“I been pretendin’.”
“You been pretendin’?”
“Uh hunh.”
Horace shook his head as if doin’ so might cause the simpleton to make sense. “Why?”
“Cuz I don’t know where I am or who they is.” His smile disappeared, replaced by a fearful expression. “What if they wanna put their things in my porth’le?”
“I don’t think they do.”
“Cain’t tell by the way he were touchin’ me, Hory. Look what he did.”
Dunal directed his eyes downward and Horace followed his gaze to the bulge in the big man’s breeches. Seein’ its size made the ol’ sailor sorry for goats and sheep ev’rywhere.
Horace’s mind raced. How long before the doc and Birk’d get back? Enough time to sneak out the door without bein’ seen?
“Get up. Let’s get outta here.”
“I cain’t. My legs ain’t workin’ yet.”
The ol’ sailor shook his head. “I guess we’ll stay a spell.”
“Cain’t do that, neither, Hory. What if they wanna keep us? What if they won’t let us go back to the boat?”
Dunal’s words tied Horace’s stomach into a knot what made him have to rest his hand upon the edge of the simpleton’s wheeled bed to keep his knees from givin’ out under him. It felt as though he were a first-time cabin boy, back on a lurchin’ deck, desperate to keep from bein’ thrown o’er the side, the way he were when Dunal’d smacked him.
“I ain’t goin’ back to no ship,” Horace grated.
Dunal’s eyes went wide like his shipmate told him the ocean were really the land and the land were the ocean. His mouth opened and closed twice before words found their way out.
“But, Hory. You gotta. It’s yer duty.”
Horace shook his head, which felt full up with more air’n it were supposed to hold. His spittle held the flavor o’ brine and he thought to spit it out, but Dunal grabbed his arm, distractin’ him. The simpleton’s grip were weak on his wrist, light as a fly landin’ on his skin.
“Don’t say that, Hory. You gotta go back.”
“I ain’t never.”
Dunal’s expression went grave and serious, least grave and serious as a simpleton’s mug can. His grip tightened on Horace’s arm, but still weren’t enough to match a young girl’s. He sat up of a fashion, gettin’ as close to his ol’ shipmate as his beat up body’d let him.
“You gotta, Hory. If you don’t I’ll tell ‘em where t’find ya.”
Horace bit hard enough on his teeth, he wouldn’t’ve been surprised if they shattered under the pressure. Weren’t no way in hell he’d be settin’ foot on a boat again. He’d give them his permission to fuck him in the hind porthole ev’ry day for the rest of his life if it meant not havin’ water beneath his feet. No one here knew he were a sailor, so no one here’d make him go back.
'Cept Dunal.
The ol’ sailor’s vision fogged up 'round the edges, like someone breathin’ on a piece of shiny metal, and before he realized it, his fingers found their way to Dunal’s throat. When he saw it happenin’, he didn’t do nothin’ to stop them.
A gurgle he prob’bly meant to be a cry for help, or a plea for mercy, escaped from between the simpleton’s lips. His hands pawed Horace’s arms without effect as the ol’ sailor leaned in, pressin’ his whole weight on Dunal’s windpipe, loop-de-loo thoughts chasin’ each other through his mind.
I ain’t goin’ back and you ain’t fuckin’ no more goats. No more ship for me, no more sheep for you.
Dunal’s cheeks went pink, then red, then darker. Horace leaned in hard, squeezin’ with ev’ry bit o’ his might, with ev’ry shred o’ hatred he held for the sea. The simpleton’s throat creaked beneath his grasp, then collapsed, and the gurglin’ from Dunal’s lips stopped; his little girl clawin’ ceased and his hands fell onto the wheeled bed’s thin straw-stuffed mattress.
Horace hung on longer, still pressin’ down with ev’rythin’ in him until the ache in his shoulders and the tops o’ his arms insisted he let go. He did and leaned away, his hands slippin’ from offa his shipmate’s throat, flexin’ his fingers to shake out cramps he hadn’t even known was formin’ in them.
He stumbled back a step, starin’ at what he done. A line of saliva ran outta the corner o’ Dunal’s mouth, along his cheek and into his ear. His face were pink, his lips sea blue, and he possessed an unnatural dent in the middle o’ his throat in the shape o’ Horace’s fingers. The mound o’ his erection still pushed the blanket outta shape.
Two thoughts jumped to the front o’ First Man Horace Seaman’s mind:
I killed the skipper’s wife’s cousin.
And:
I gotta get outta here.
Horace spun 'round and took one step toward the door stoppin’ when he saw his path blocked by Birk and the doc. They both stood in the doorway, mouths fallen open, expressions of disbelief in their eyes, and Horace wondered how long they’d been standin’ watchin’ him. Could he make up an excuse? Tell them Dunal’d gone and died on his own?
The way Birk fixed his gaze on the ol’ sailor, the accusation burnin’ in it convinced him it were too late for excuses.
“What—?” the man who’d bought him stew and ale, given him a place to sleep and a pair o’ boots began, but Horace weren’t stayin’ 'round to see what Birk might have to say 'bout what he done.
Horace exploded forward, catchin’ both men by surprise and knockin’ them out of his way bolton’ outta the doc’s house. He ran past Birk’s horse and wagon, the too-small boots he’d been given pinchin’ his toes while his feet hammered across the road and into the field.
Former First Man Horace Seaman lay his eyes on the forest ahead and didn’t bother lookin’ back to see if the men gave him chase.
XV Godsbane
The sun swung low toward the far horizon, but sweat streamed out from under Teryk’s shallow helm and soaked the shirt he wore beneath his chest plate. A blow he didn’t see coming bounced off his shield and Trenan growled at him.
“Concentrate,” he grunted, taking another swing that Teryk caught on his blade. “An adversary won’t go easy if your head is off playing in a field while your body joins the fight alone.”
The prince gave his head a shake to clear the muddle of thoughts, but how could he? He’d hidden his pack and already divined both his way out of the castle and the best route out of the inner city. Beyond the inner wall, he didn’t know what to expect, but he harbored no doubt he’d be up to the challenge—Trenan had been unwittingly training him for it and the prophecy proclaimed it. Now he had only one other task remaining that he’d decided to complete before stealing out on the adventure of his life.
Their swords clashed and Teryk’s grip slipped; his weapon thumped on the dry ground inside the training circle and Trenan held the point of his weapon to the prince’s throat. Teryk let his head sag forward and lowered his shield. It was the first time Trenan had bested him in more moons than he remembered, but it didn’t matter—neither his heart nor his head were into sparring.
Trenan raised a brow. “This is unlike you, Teryk. Where’s your fight today?”
“It’s the sword,” he said, waving his hand at the weapon lying in the dirt. “It needs sharpening.”
“It fell from your grip because it’s not sharp enough?”
Teryk shrugged and shuffled his feet, avoiding the master swordsman’s sarcastic glare.
“Its dullness distracted me from the fight. You know I fight better than this.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed.” Trenan bent and retrieved the prince’s sword from the dirt, offered it to him pommel first. “Perhaps you should have it sharpened before we continue.”
“I will.” Teryk squinted up at the sun. “It’s hot. Can we call it for today and resume tomorrow?”
Trenan took a moment to judge the time. “If your grace wishes.”
“I do.”
“Then we will resume on the morrow.”
Teryk removed the helm and wiped sweat from his forehead and eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, then unbuckled the chest plate and handed it to the squire waiting at the edge of the practice circle to take it from him. The lad hurried off to hang it and the prince turned back to his trainer.
“Am I a good swordsman, Trenan?”
“The only other than your father who’s beaten me.”
The prince wiped his face on his sleeve again and noticed the master swordsman wasn’t perspiring. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a drop of sweat on the man’s brow. Was lack of sweat a reward of being a master? If so, Teryk wondered why he perspired so when he bested Trenan most times. The squire returned a few seconds later, hands held out to take the prince’s sword, his presence distracting Teryk from his pondering.
“Don’t worry about this.”
“Highness?” the lad said.
“I’ll take it to the armory myself. It’s been a while since I visited. Perhaps another weapon might catch my fancy.”
The squire bowed his head and took his leave. Trenan stowed his own sword in its scabbard and gestured for the prince to lead the way out of the practice ring.
“I’ll come with you, Your Grace. That way I can tell you about the weapons, should you choose to select a new one.”
Teryk’s heart jumped into his throat. The last item he needed for his journey was in the armory. If Trenan accompanied him, his plan would be compromised. Worse—Danya might suspect his lie.
“No need, Trenan. I can take care of it. Besides, don’t you have a lesson with my sister first thing on the morrow? She told me last night she thinks she’s gotten good enough to best you.”
