by Clare Smith
Stesson looked them up and down. He knew the woman had to be Collia from the description Tingallent had once given him, but the man could have been anyone. In fact, by the arrogant look on his face and his air of command he could have been a Passonian. If that’s what he turned out to be then he would pay dearly for what the bastards had done to his settlement.
“What do you want?” Stesson demanded.
With the huntsmen armed and ready and the man in front looking as if he was about to explode, he had to be careful how he handled this. He took Collia’s lead. “My name is Captain Bassalin and my ship has been damaged fighting the Passonians, who I hate almost as much as you do.”
Stesson gave a cynical laugh. “I bet you don’t. So what is it you want from me?”
“I need your help so I can get my ship afloat again and carry on with the fight.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, mate. All we’ve got here is the remains of what was once a thriving community. There’s a couple of huts we’ve cobbled together and our hunting keeps us alive, but there’s nowt else apart from a cold forge and my bloody anvil which the bastard Passonians couldn’t cart away with them when they tried to wipe us out.”
“You’re a metal worker,” said Bassalin in surprise.
“I’m a blacksmith and what’s that to you?”
“I need a blacksmith’s skills to repair my ship.”
“Well you ain’t having mine. I know what your kind are like, all take and no give. It’s because of bastards like you that our homes got destroyed and we’re left here scratching a living so you can just bugger off.” He waved the waiting bowmen over. “Take them back into the forest and make sure they don’t come back again.”
Bassalin went to protest but the bowmen had already drawn their bows taut again with all their arrows pointing at him. Behind him he could hear his men muttering angrily and decided he’d better move before his crew did something stupid. He went to turn away but Collia stopped him and took a step forward so she stood directly in front of the blacksmith with her chest just about level with the metal worker’s eyes. The small man stared directly in front of him and took a long time before he looked up.
“Tingallent told me about you, Blacksmith Stesson, and how you wouldn’t leave your forge and let it fall into the hands of the Passonians. That was a very brave and noble thing to do, but now you need to think about how you are going to have your revenge on those who destroyed your settlement. If you stay here the Passonians will eventually return and wipe you out, but if you help us, Captain Bassalin will take you and your forge and anvil onto his ship, and you can be the one who does the wiping out.”
Stesson looked sceptical. “What about all the others? I can’t leave them here to fend for themselves.”
“Captain Bassalin will welcome anyone on board who wants to fight the Passonians, and that includes their families.”
Bassalin looked at her aghast. The last thing he needed was a crowd of women and children and forest dwellers on his ship and getting in his way. He would have told her so, only Stesson was staring at him with a strange look on his face.
“Is that so, Captain Bassalin?”
“Yes,” said Bassalin, trying to sound more enthusiastic about the idea than he felt.
“I don’t know,” said Stesson, “I ain’t never seen the sea.”
“I have,” said one of the bowmen behind him, “and we’d have a damned sight better chance of getting back at the Passonians on board a ship than stuck in this place.”
Stesson still wasn’t sure, but when he looked at the others they were nodding their agreement. He was the leader here, so he didn’t have to go along with what they wanted. “It’s my skills that you want, is it? Well that’s not going to do you much good as the thieving Passonians stole all my tools and a blacksmith’s no good without his hammers and tongs and things.”
Bassalin thought of Fellin’s tools lying abandoned in the sand. “I have tools aplenty, what I don’t have is a skilled man to use them.”
That did it. Even if there was just the slightest chance of lighting his forge once again he had to take it. “All right then, but you’ll have to help me shift my forge and anvil, I ain’t leaving them behind.”
“Of course,” said Collia brightly. “Get your things together and we’ll leave straight away.”
Stesson nodded and then ushered his people away to collect the few belongings they had, whilst Bassalin’s crew reluctantly followed behind, wondering how they were going to carry a forge and an anvil through the forest and back to the ship.
“There, didn’t I tell you I would find you a metal worker?” She smiled at Bassalin, looking very pleased with herself.
“Yes you did, but what is going to happen when they find out we’re not going to fight the Passonians, but are sailing home to Kallisan?”
“Don’t worry, I will explain it to them.” She would too if it came to it, but now she had a ship at her disposal, she had other plans.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Great Port
Alexandria
Banniff gasped in shock. This time it really was ice cold water which was being thrown over him, or sea water to be more precise. The sudden impact brought him back to consciousness with a start and a second dousing made him cough and splutter and pull himself into a sitting position with his back against the ship’s side. His head hurt as if someone had hit him with the butt end of a ship’s oar and he had a long scrape down one arm where he’d fallen beneath the bench.
Apart from that the only thing which was wrong with him was that he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up where he was. He blinked hard trying to clear his blurred vision and then looked up at the cordon of men who surrounded him. They didn’t look a bit pleased particularly the one in the middle with the three gold rings around his arm and the long sword in his hand. He looked around desperately trying to remember what had happened and saw Igson sprawled across the bench beside him with blood spreading from beneath his body.
Then it all came back to him in a rush. There had been pirates swarming over the side and he’d grabbed a sword; the one he still clutched in his hand and had charged into them. Igson had come to help but he wasn’t going to make it in time, and then there was a man and a woman around a camp fire. He shook his head in confusion knowing that couldn’t be right, not on a ship in the middle of a battle! If he had time he knew he could work it out, but Sigmonson had other ideas.
“Get him up and tie him to the mast until we have time to deal with the murdering bastard,” he snapped.
He went to protest but someone hit him hard making his head spin and two men grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to his feet. They hustled him across to the mast where they tied his hands behind him so tightly that it nearly pulled his shoulders from their sockets. The look of hatred they gave him made it clear what they would like to do to him if he made one wrong move. He could understand their feelings; Igson had been their friend and shipmate, and the Captain’s cousin.
There was just one thing wrong with that though; Igson had been his friend too, and he was certain that it wasn’t his sword which had killed him. So, if he didn’t kill Igson, then it had to be the pirates, only there was no sign of them, which left him wondering if he’d imagined them too. He knew he couldn’t have done, as there were four dead Northmen besides Igson and several missing, and there was no way he could have killed them all.
The dead warriors were lined up at the front of the ship beneath the dragon prow. At the back of the ship Tutacaraph was tending the wounded, most of whom had bloody wounds which his master was bandaging, although there was one who was propped up against the ships side who looked to be unconscious. For the moment everyone was too occupied to deal with him, but he knew that wouldn’t last and he was right.
Once Sigmonson had seen that his cousin was laid out next to his fallen comrades with his sword gripped firmly in his hand, and had spoken to each of the
wounded, he called the crew together around the mast to which he was tied. Tutacaraph joined them too, standing apart from the Northmen with a look of annoyance on his face.
When Sigmonson spoke it almost made him jump. “Before I sentence this man to death, is there any who wish to speak for him?”
Tutacaraph took a step forwards and for a second he felt a glimmer of hope that his master would save him. “The slave is my property and I will be out of pocket if you kill him.”
Sigmonson nodded and pulled a gold coin from out of his belt pouch which he flicked through the air to land at Tutacaraph’s feet. “The slave is my property now.”
Tutacaraph just shrugged and left the coin where it was.
“When the funeral pyre releases my cousin’s spirit so that it may fly to Thor’s halls and feast at his table, it will be only fitting that he has a slave to wait on him, so you will burn with him. So that his spirit will not be disturbed by your screams, I will remove your tongue, and I will pluck out your eyes so that you cannot look upon him with envy. The flesh I will peel from your body, so that all those gathered at Thor’s table can see your deceit, and your manhood will be cut from you, so they will know you for the coward you are.”
The Captain snarled out a command and two of the crew hurried forward and dragged Banniff’s head back against the mast so he couldn’t move whilst Sigmonson pulled his knife. He wanted to say that he hadn’t killed Igson and that the Northman had been his friend, but his fear choked the words in his throat. Sigmonson raised his knife so he could see the blade coming for his eyes and then there was a shout from the ship’s side and the blade stayed where it was whilst Sigmonson glanced behind him.
“Stop! Wait!” called the man who had been slumped against the ship’s side unconscious. He stumbled forwards clutching at the bloody wound on his head looking pale and barely able to stand. Two of the crew hurried back to catch him before he fell and helped him across to where the Captain stood.
“You mustn’t kill this man, he’s a demon sent by Loci and if you kill him we’ll all be damned.”
“What are you talking about? This bastard killed Igson and is going to pay dearly for his crime.”
“No he didn’t, I saw it all.” The warrior swayed unsteadily as if he was going to pass out again, and what little colour he had faded, so he looked deathly grey. Tutacaraph hurried over to him and ushered the men who were holding the man up across to the nearest rowing bench, so he could sit whilst someone went to fetch a pot of ale. Reluctantly Sigmonson sheathed his knife and went to stand over him until the man was feeling stronger.
“Igson and I were fighting side by side and holding the reavers back, when we heard this shout, and when we looked back we could see the mast of another ship and all these pirates swarming over the side. Banniff had a sword in his hand and was trying to hold them back, but we could see he wasn’t going to make it on his own, so Igson ran to help and I followed. We hadn’t quite reached him when he threw himself at the reavers like some sort of hero, and then he shimmered and disappeared.”
The warrior stopped there and looked from one disbelieving face to another. “It’s true, he went transparent like smoke from a fire, and I could see right through him. The pirates must have thought that the devil himself had come to fight on our side, as they all started shouting and screaming and piled back over the rail except for the last one who slashed out at Igson and cut him from shoulder to groin. I went to help him but then I tripped and fell and banged my head.”
Sigmonson shook his head in disbelief. “Your fall must have softened your mind, no man can disappear and reappear again.”
“He did,” said the warrior sulkily.
“Enough of this,” snapped the Captain. “We’re wasting time.”
He turned to go back to where his prisoner was tied to the mast but Tutacaraph was standing in front of him and blocking his way. “Don’t be so hasty, Sigmonson, your man may be telling the truth. My wife also said she saw the slave go transparent, and whilst she possesses many wondrous gifts an active imagination is not amongst them.” Sigmonson looked sceptical.
“There is also the puzzle of why the pirates abandoned a fight they were winning and left as fast as if a Roman war galley was after them.”
Sigmonson wasn’t convinced but he could see by the look of uncertainty on his crew’s faces that they were wavering. “If this slave is Loci’s creature, then it would be best if we ended his life now before he can do more mischief and other men die.”
Tutacaraph just shrugged. “That may be true, but just think how useful an invisible man could be to us. He could go into all those places which are heavily guarded and bring out enough of the treasures we seek so that you and your crew could return home wealthier than any Northman has ever been.”
The Captain thought about it, balancing the possibility of angering a god, against being able to return to his homeland laden with gold. Tutacaraph could almost read his thoughts, so he picked up the gold coin the Northman had tossed at him and held it out. Sigmonson took it, deciding that if he had nothing to do with Loci’s creature, then the god of tricks would have no reason to come looking for him.
“The slave is yours, but he stays where he is so that he can’t play havoc with my men or my ship.” He bent down and picked up an empty sack from beneath the rowing bench which had once held grain. “And he will wear this so he can’t tell Loci where we are.”
He handed the sack over and turned away, shouting out orders for his men to once again take up their oars. Tutacaraph watched him for a moment before walking back to the mast with the sack in his hand. “I regret that I must break my word to you as the rest of the journey is going to be unpleasant, but at least you will be alive.”
Banniff didn’t bother answering but let Tutacaraph pull the sack over his head. It was dark inside and unbearably hot, whilst the dust that had come from the oats stung his eyes and made him cough. Still, as his master had said, he was still alive and for that he was grateful, although he sincerely hoped that the remainder of the voyage would be short and swift.
*
As it turned out that the rest of the journey wasn’t as bad as it could have been. On the second day, the ship had been pulled ashore, and the bodies of the dead Northmen had been burned on the beach of a rocky cove. It was when they were pulling away again that Sigmonson had come to the conclusion he had insufficient rowers to make the speed he wanted and would have to hoist the sail. His men, who were as superstitious as all Northmen were, refused to go near the mast with Loci’s creature tied to it.
That left Sigmonson with a problem. He could either throw the creature into the sea and incur the god’s wrath, or keep him confined elsewhere and still have the advantage of using a man who could become invisible. It wasn’t a difficult decision, so much to Banniff’s relief he was untied from the mast and was placed beneath one of the rowing benches.
There he could lie down even if he couldn’t stretch out. The floor was hard and rough and rubbed him raw in places, but it was shady and cool for which he was grateful now the sun blazed down from a faultless sky and the temperature rose rapidly each morning. It also gave him long hours of solitude, so he had plenty of time to think about what had happened, but he still couldn’t make any sense of it.
Men just didn’t disappear unless they were possessed, and he didn’t think he was important enough for the gods to choose him for their games. The other possibility was that he had a sickness, which wouldn’t have surprised him after what he’d been through. In either case, he was going to have a problem when Tutacaraph asked him to disappear and he couldn’t. When that happened he guessed that his master would finally have had enough of him and would either sell him or cut his throat. Neither prospect was a happy one.
To prevent his grim thoughts going around in circles and sending him mad, he decided to concentrate on something more productive, and tried to learn the language the Northerners talked. It wasn’t that different from his own, and a lo
t easier to understand than the strange language Tutacaraph and his wife spoke. Even so he tried to learn a few words of that twisted tongue, never knowing when it might come in useful.
When he’d sat at the rowing bench Igson had taught him a few words, so he had a basic vocabulary to help him, but now he concentrated hard on what was being said. He tried to work out the meaning as well as practicing the words under his breath, but it was quite difficult. Most of the time all the rowers did was grunt, but at night whilst they rested, they would tell stories and sing and that helped a lot.
If he’d been able to ask the rower who sat on the bench above him what the words meant it would have made things easier. However he didn’t think it would help his situation if the superstitious Northman heard the demon talking to him in his own tongue and thought that Loci was trying to steal his soul. That could end up with him being thrown overboard or burnt alive, or some end equally as unpleasant.
Tutacaraph had been more helpful, and had actually been amused when he’d asked for more water in his strange language. Now when he came to feed him or walk him to the end of the ship to relieve himself, he would give him new phrases to learn, so he could now just about hold a simple conversation with his master. Of course Sigmonson hadn’t been happy about a demon uttering words he didn’t understand, but Tutacaraph had reassured him that it would help when they reached their destination, and he went to acquire the trading goods they sought.
The nature of those trading goods puzzled him. From the few times Tutacaraph had spoken about them, he knew the goods were valuable and well guarded, but that was all he knew. Being curious he’d asked his master about them, but all he would say was that they were valuable, which he already knew, they were artefacts, which was a word he didn’t understand, and they were in the ground.
