by Ellyn, Court
Angrev scurried off, relaying the order across the deck.
Kneeling next to a fallen sailor, Rehaan unsheathed his cutlass and cut a strip of fabric from the sweat-soiled canvas shirt. However tight he made the tourniquet, the blood kept seeping from the wound. The loss of it was already making him nauseous and lightheaded. From overhead, Athna called to him. She seemed to be peering straight down at him. The Bane was drifting too close but she didn’t seem to notice, the daft woman. But look at that face; even when she was angry at him, what a beauty. He was this close to convincing her to sail to the Islands with him when this tiresome war ended. Impossible now.
He held onto the rail that overlook the main deck, watching the crew climb into the jollies. Though the deck leaned at an increasing slant, they weren’t panicked yet, not with help so close. Rygg was laughing with them, congratulating them on a battle well fought, as he ushered them one at a time down the ladder. Some said to hell with it and leapt over the rail into the billows. A pair of ladders rolled down the Bane’s side, and men shimmied up.
Angrev climbed up through the hatch, carrying a chest. Inside were the log books and pay. Rehaan nodded approval and waved him off to the jollies, but his mate paused, frowning up at him. “Cap’n? You all right?”
“My brig, Angrev. I’m angry as hell.” The blood flowed hot down his right leg. It squished under his toes.
“We’ll get us another, no worries, Cap’n. And with that gold you took from the Mastiff, she’ll be a beauty.” With that, he trudged up the leaning deck and bailed down the ladder.
“Rygg!” Rehaan called. The boatswain eased toward him, holding onto the rail to keep from slipping. “You’re my man, right?”
Climbing to the quarterdeck, his furry black eyebrows pinched in a puzzled way, Rygg said, “Aye, sir. You’d best come along now. We haven’t got much time.”
“You’ll follow my orders, no matter what?”
“Well, short o’ treason.”
Hooking an arm through the wheel, Rehaan unbuttoned his coat and slipped it off. Rygg’s eyes fixed on his bloody fingers, started looking for the wound, found the blood-soaked tourniquet. Rehaan waved the coat at him. “Give it to Athna. Tell her she’ll look beautiful in red.”
“No!” Rygg cried. “Come give it to her yourself. We’ll get you to the surgeon.”
“I know this injury, Rygg. They can’t do a thing. Take it and go. Before I get delirious.” He shoved it into Rygg’s barrel of a chest. His mouth and fingers tingled from the blood loss. He should have asked Athna what it was like, going down. Would the sea be as cold as he feared, and as dark?
All too slowly Rygg clutched the coat in his big hand. “An honor, sir, sailing the Big Water with ya.”
~~~~
Athna watched the last jolly carry the brig’s officers across the few feet of black water. Empty now, the little boats lined up against the Bane’s side, like chicks huddling under a hen’s breast. A hundred men were safe on board; the wounded made their way below to the orlop, where the surgeon would extricate the bolts and bind their bruises. But Rehaan lingered. Rygg would go back for him, surely, unless the pirate wanted to get wet. “What are you waiting for?” she shouted. “You’ll get another brig!”
Farther out from shore, the Shadow’s Scion tried to vanish into the night, but she limped. The Suncrest and the Tyrant swarmed her like sharks after blood. In the distance, two of the Fieran galleons tacked hurriedly south, likely to report the battle and the dwarves’ offloading point, while Pa’ella’s Pearl rested tight against the sixth galleon. The clashing of swords and the shouting of men had gone still. The White Falcon’s banner slowly lowered from the masts to make way for Leania’s setting sun. The glory would be theirs this night.
“Rehaan!” Was her captain’s bellow suddenly as soft as a rat’s squeak, or was he ignoring her? He just stood there near the wheel, while the deck tilted under him. “Let go!”
The last jolly emptied. Even Rygg abandoned the oars and climbed the ladder to board the Bane.
“You’ve forgotten your captain, Rygg!” she said, jabbing a finger toward the Aurion.
The great man looked sick behind his wild black moustache. Angrev, too, accosted the boatswain, hammering a fist into his chest. “Pull him outta there, ferrymaster, or I will. Move!”
Rygg took the abuse meekly, raised an arm, and Athna saw the red coat clutched in his fist. “Cap’n’s orders.” He climbed the steps until he loomed over Athna and tried to press the coat into her hands.
“Bloody fool,” she said, backing away. “He doesn’t have to go down with his ship. Go get him, Rygg.”
“They got him, lady.” The bass of a voice was oddly stifled.
Angrev had ventured close enough to hear. He dropped the chest from under his arm, leaned on the rail and shouted, “Captain! The surgeons are here! Jump ship, you thrice-cursed eejit!”
Rygg rounded on him. “He’s dying! He wants to die on his own bloody boat, damn ya. Leave him be!”
Angrev leapt for Rygg’s throat. Three Hellbenders restrained him and all he could do was roar. They might loathe the sight of one another, Angrev and Athna, but she shared his love of that man. “Rehaan!” she cried. “Swim to me! Swim to me now.”
“Lady,” said Rygg, leaning close, a big hand squeezing her shoulder. “It’s hard enough, what he’s got to do. Help him do it well.”
Throwing a hand over her mouth, she stifled a desperate urge to scream across the water. Picking his way along the leaning deck, Rehaan cut two lengths of rope and bound himself to the mainmast, one rope about his chest, one about his hips. How white his face. A ghost, he seemed, aboard his dying brig. His mouth was moving. What was he saying? Tattered scraps of wind hurled a few words past Athna’s ears.
He in her golden hair she bound…
Roll on! roll on, restful wave…
The Sailor’s Song? Pirate or naval officer, it seemed every man of the sea knew it. For a moment, Rehaan glanced high up the Bane’s side, met Athna’s eye. Her hand reached for him, drew back, gripped the rail so hard she felt it bruising her fingers. The tautness of pain and fear slowly ebbed from his face. His eyes closed, and his arms and head drooped heavily, following the descent of the bow into the sea.
Athna clenched her teeth, straightened her shoulders. Don’t cry in front of all these men, don’t you dare. Nearby, Wyllan turned his back on the wreckage, unable to look upon it. Doubtless he had worried something like this might happen, that his captain’s heart would be broken because of that merciless pirate. Now she had to be strong and prove him wrong, when he was so very right.
The slow-rolling billows bubbled and foamed through the Aurion’s portals. The foremast laid against the sea, resisted it, then crumpled. Jibs and sails shaped tents upon the waves before releasing their last taste of wind and surged down, down out of sight. The rest slipped, gurgling and gasping, into the last dark lane, stealing Rehaan away with it.
~~~~
72
Thorn saw no reason to burden Kelyn with the full report. The dwarves, most of them, were well on their way toward Brynduvh, keeping first to alleys, then dark hedgerows and vineyards. All Kelyn needed to know was that the dwarves acted well ahead of schedule and he would have to push his host hard if he meant to take Brynduvh alongside them. He doubted the White Falcon and his warlord would be so cooperative.
He waited until gray light seeped along the eastern horizon and the sergeants began rousing their men. What would it accomplish to learn of it sooner but deprive Kelyn of much needed sleep? By the time Thorn forced himself away from the warm embers of his fire, squires and infantrymen were dismantling tents, dousing smoldering ashes, and packing up breakfast things. Lady Genna’s cavalry was mounting up under the white tower of Lunélion, with a massive jingle of harness and the excited whicker of hundreds of spotted gray horses.
Thorn had to admit, the sight of it quickened his blood, and for a moment he felt eager to see what this day would bring. Bu
t then he remembered the cries and stink and mess of the hospital tent, and his excitement withered.
Among the hurried, grumbling press, he heard a boy call his name. Eliad raced between deflating tents, dodged a line of pikemen gathering into formation. Fear crouched in his hazel eyes. Had the rágazeth come? Had it waited for him to give in to sleep and attacked someone? The king? Kelyn?
Reaching Thorn, Eliad grabbed his sleeve. “Please hurry! He won’t let us arm him or take down the pavilion. He’s just sitting there. He might be sick. A Falcon said Kelyn’s scared. He isn’t, is he?”
Thorn followed the squire to the only tent left standing. A rising south wind ruffled the bright blue silk, fingered the silver tassels. King Rhorek and Laral stood outside the flaps. The Black Falcon paced, fists doubled on his hips. Seeing Thorn’s approach, he stopped and raised his hands in a helpless gesture. Laral ran to him and whispered, “You have to talk to him.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Laral insisted. “This came out of nowhere.”
“He’s got brilliant timing,” Rhorek remarked heatedly.
Laying a reassuring hand on Laral’s shoulder, Thorn said, “Get his horse and things ready. Mine, too.”
Both squires darted off.
“His men are saying he’s lost his nerve,” Rhorek said, eyebrows high, mouth tight with repressed anger. Knights wearing the sword and falcon gathered. So did an odd assortment of archers, rough riders, and squires. Thorn did not envy Kelyn the weight of all those judging eyes.
“That can’t be the case, sire.” He might be willing to think the worst of his brother, but not cowardice, not on the field. But what if it was true? Who would lead all these soldiers? They were defeated before they marched. Thorn ducked through the flaps.
Kelyn sat on the edge of his fur-lined cot, half-dressed and staring at the trodden earth between his boots. “I wondered how long it would take them to convince you to come.”
Thorn bit his tongue and prayed: don’t let this nonsense be about the grudge between them. “Your host is waiting for you, Commander.”
“What I won’t do for my brother’s attention.”
Ah, Goddess. “There’s no need for this, Kelyn.”
Troubled blue eyes peered up at him. “Isn’t there?”
Thorn spied the little stuffed puppy dog lying on the cot near Kelyn’s right hand. Ah.
“You saw him?”
Joyful innocence playing in the sunlight, unaware of the pain he caused. Thorn nodded.
Kelyn squirmed, but tried to hide it. “What’s he like?”
Thorn wanted to shout at him, tell him his past wasn’t worth delaying thousands of fighting men and perhaps handing their enemy some advantage. Then he remembered. Isn’t this what he wanted from Kelyn most? That he live up to the responsibilities that involved only one child, one woman, rather than thousands of people? Realizing that Kelyn might well be on the cusp of such a decision didn’t ease the terrible ache in Thorn’s chest. Somehow it made it worse. Steeling himself, he said, “He’s beautiful. Gold hair like his mother. Your eyes, curse you.” Baby blue yet, but the tawny starbursts already brightened them.
“You were that close?”
“He didn’t know I was there. He sat on the nursery floor, playing with something, I can’t remember what. Then the nurse came and took him away.”
“Is he … like you?”
That Kelyn avoided the word heated Thorn’s blood. “Would it make a difference?”
Kelyn rose, as if he were the one offended. “No.”
“He’s not avedra.”
“And … Rhoslyn? Did you see her? Was she well?” How brave, to look Thorn in the eye as he asked that of all things.
Thorn forced his fists to relax at his sides and tucked them deep inside the sleeves of his robe. Goddess, how I hate you. “Confident. She seemed confident. I hadn’t expected that. Though at the time she was trying to look distasteful for a suitor. It didn’t work.”
“Suitor?” Was that panic on the edge of Kelyn’s voice?
“Why not? Some people tend to think a boy needs a father.”
“Well, you love her, you marry her.”
Thorn’s teeth ground audibly, and the fire threatened to burst from his skin. “Careless, Commander.”
Kelyn tried to defend himself, feebly. “She loves you.”
“But she chose you!” Balance, keep the balance.
Thorn’s struggle must’ve been obvious, for Kelyn sank, wide-eyed, onto a camp chair. His shield was well within arm’s reach.
“Your … life is your own,” Thorn concluded. “I won’t choose for you.”
He started back through the flaps, but Kelyn’s question followed him, sharp as shattered glass, “Your forgiveness?”
Thorn shook his head and continued on his way. Maybe he should have lied. The current problem involved countless men and women who had begun to fear their commander had abandoned them. If Kelyn sank into despair, he might hide in his tent until the White Falcon and his warlord were upon them.
Nearly half the Falcon Guard had come to surround their king in preparation to depart, and with them, Captain Lissah held the reins of Rhorek’s black stallion. Her glance was cool as it slid over Thorn. She was no lackwit. She knew what troubled the War Commander, whether she’d overheard their conversation or not, and she seemed to wish him as much torment over it as Thorn did. Pity for his brother tried to surface; quashing it left a burning ache in his gut.
Nearby, the four Leanian royal guards in their orange coats and shiny helms kept Prince Nathryk company. Apparently the prince had decided to keep his own mouth shut rather than suffer the gag. Still, his hands were bound to the saddle of a squire’s racer. Somehow he managed to protest the bonds without moving a muscle, his arms and spine stiff, his head turned aside with his nose propped into the air. Thorn sympathized completely. He didn’t want to be here either, a tool to be used to an army’s best advantage.
Eliad arrived with Sarvana and held the stirrup while Thorn mounted up. His hazel eyes harbored a dozen questions, none of which he dared ask. Laral, too, brought a dappled gray stallion who wore Chaya’s saddle. “M’ lord,” he called through the flaps.
Kelyn’s voice mumbled back, and Laral waved for Eliad. The two squires ducked into the pavilion trying not to look hopeful.
Ulna of Blue Mountain peered up at Thorn. “Is it true? Kelyn’s turned gutless?”
Beside her, Leshan crossed his arms, affronted. “The hell he has.”
“Then where is he?”
Rhorek raised his arms, gathering their attention, and he called over their heads, “You would doubt him so easily? The War Commander is no more daunted today than he was yesterday. He is grieved by other matters. Give him a little more time before you jump to conclusions.”
Glancing at Thorn, Rhorek’s eyes narrowed. If he proves me a liar—
He won’t. Thorn placed the words gently in the king’s head, but still Rhorek had to blink away the dizziness.
He retorted, Look who’s so quick to defend him.
Thorn’s thoughts stuttered at that. It’s my pride, too, on the line, sire.
Rhorek snorted in disgust and turned away to mount up. He seemed as disappointed in Thorn as the rest were in their commander. Thorn didn’t appreciate the Black Falcon trying to make him feel unjustified in his anger toward Kelyn or in his expectations of him.
“We should get everyone moving,” Rhorek said to Lady Ulna. “Ilswythe’s knights will lead us out.”
Just as Ulna saluted, the pavilion flaps swept aside for Laral and Eliad. The older squire carried Kelyn’s shield on his back and took the gray warhorse by the bridle. Moments later, the War Commander himself emerged, fully armed and fitting his hands into snug black gloves. He cast a glance skyward and smiled at the sight of the cloudless morning, as if he’d never been troubled by anything more tragic than rain on a day he preferred sunny. “Helmet.” Eliad extended the red-plumed black
helm, and Kelyn hitched it to his sword belt. At last, he seemed to notice the crowd that had collected. “Am I late?” he asked with a grin.
Knights and Falcons rumbled with chuckles. As he had in another life, Thorn found himself marveling at his brother’s skill to charm and win back wayward hearts.
“I had a long talk with the Mother-Father,” Kelyn added. “She wanted me to tell you: On this day, you will have the victory!”
Thorn wondered if Lord Goryth inspired his troops with similar lies, though he suspected the warlord preferred a steel gauntlet to pretty words. Regardless, the knights and commanders raised a cheer, willing to believe, and clouds of starlings burst from the hedges.
Mounting up, Kelyn urged his warhorse closer to Thorn. “I need you to stay in sight today,” he whispered.
Thorn bowed his head. “Whatever His Lordship commands.”
“And don’t be a sarcastic pain in the arse.” With a touch of the spurs, he and his warhorse raced off. Riding through the ranks of cavalry, infantry, and archers, he called out more pretty words. Hundreds of mouths cheered and whooped in his wake, and suddenly the entire host was on the move. Thorn found himself swept along, riding at the king’s side and laughing that his brother refused to be daunted by him.
~~~~
One of Kelyn’s scouts raced back along the highway. The gray racer’s hooves threw up clouds of white dust. The War Commander, Thorn, and the king veered off the roadway to receive him, while the great clanking, bristling snake of the army kept slithering south. The highway cut between more frequent hills, higher hills, that marked the beginnings of the Shadow Mounds. Thorn had read stories of ogres inhabiting those deep valleys and forests, making the Mounds seem almost as intimidating as Avidan Wood and the Gloamheath. Now, knowing what he knew, he searched the shadows under branches and along hedgerows and streambeds for the murky lifelights of naenion. More, the orchards, farms, and villages along this stretch of highway were unscarred by fighting. When the townspeople heard the enemy was coming, most had fled to Goddess knew where. Plenty of places inside boarded-up shops and thatched cottages for a shadow to hide.
