The Kings Man

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Garzik had seen Captain Blackwing do the same thing with his men. Sometimes they needed a thump to keep them in line.

  The big Utlander met Garzik’s eyes, then swung the door shut, leaving him there on the floor in a pool of vomit and blood.

  For five heartbeats he did not move as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Then he gave up and crawled over to Rishardt, but the surgeon was already dead. Judging by the wound, nothing could have saved him.

  His burning ear drove Garzik to stand. He didn’t know why he still lived, but he needed to bind his head. Methodically, he washed the wound, wincing when the watered wine stung, then placed a pad over where his ear had been and wound a bandage around it.

  He could still hear out of the other ear. From above he heard the occasional shout, striding feet and dragging sounds. But now the shouts didn’t hold threat, they sounded like men going about their job. He even heard laughter.

  Footsteps came along the passage. Garzik straightened. The door swung inward and Trafyn stumbled in. He tripped over the surgeon’s body, falling on his hands and knees in the vomit and blood with a cry of distaste.

  An Utlander followed him, carrying someone over his shoulder. He tipped the body onto the bench. Isfyl groaned but did not wake. Garzik could see no wound on him. Must be a head blow. He knew how that felt.

  Even as he thought this, the Utlander grabbed Rishardt’s legs and began to drag him out the door.

  ‘What’re you doing with him?’ Garzik asked. His voice sounded funny, everything sounded strange.

  The Utlander said something derogatory by the tone, but the words were in the strange Utland tongue. The Utlander swung Rishardt’s body over his shoulder and closed the door.

  For a moment Garzik considered checking the door to see if it was locked, but the Utlanders obviously had the run of the ship, so escaping the cabin made no difference.

  ‘Disgusting.’ Trafyn muttered in Merofynian, as he came to his feet and tried to wipe his hands and knees clean of blood and vomit. Noticing Garzik, he switched to Rolencian, gesturing to the floor. ‘You, clean this up.’

  Garzik ignored him. Going over to where Isfyl lay on the bench, he straightened his limbs, then strapped him in so he wouldn’t roll off. This done, he checked him for injuries. There was a swelling on the back of his head, but the skin hadn’t broken.

  Trafyn watched dubiously.

  Isfyl rolled his head away from Garzik’s hands with a groan. His eyes fluttered open. ‘Who’re you?’

  Garzik almost answered, then remembered he wasn’t supposed to understand Merofynian, then wondered if there was any point keeping up the pretence.

  Trafyn pushed past him. ‘He’s the cook’s seven-year-slave.’

  Again Garzik was tempted to correct him, but it might still be to his advantage to hide his proficiency with the Merofynian language, so he held his tongue.

  Isfyl ignored Garzik. ‘What happened?’ He tried to sit up and discovered he was strapped down. ‘Why... what?’

  ‘Set him free,’ Trafyn ordered in Rolencian. He could just as easily have done it himself.

  Nevertheless, Garzik went around the bench, undoing the buckles while the two squires spoke.

  ‘The last I remember is the honour guard breaking,’ Isfyl said.

  Trafyn nodded. ‘When they broke, the Utlanders swept past. Four of them tackled Lord Neirn. He fought like a cornered leogryf, but there were too many of them. He went down roaring defiance. I didn’t see when you were knocked out. They brought us down here.’

  Garzik noted he wasn’t wounded. Since it was hard to avoid walking through the pool of blood and vomit in the small cabin, he mopped it up, but he couldn’t empty the bucket.

  A scream, cut off by a splash made him look up. He realised he’d been hearing splashes for a while now.

  ‘They’re throwing the crew overboard, the living as well as the dead,’ Isfyl said in Merofynian. ‘Even if they can swim, the cold will kill them quickly.’

  Trafyn shuddered as another scream was abruptly cut off. Garzik was glad Rishardt hadn’t been alive when they threw him over.

  Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them away.

  Odd... When he found his father dead, if someone had told him he would mourn a Merofynian’s death, he wouldn’t have believed them.

  ‘Why are we still alive?’ Trafyn whispered.

  Isfyl gestured to Garzik. ‘Utlanders need slaves, too. We’re young and healthy.’

  ‘We’re to be slaves?’ Trafyn repeated, dismayed.

  Both squires glanced to Garzik, who pretended he didn’t understand.

  ‘Don’t worry. We won’t stay slaves. We’re noble born. The Utlanders can ransom us.’

  As footsteps approached down the passage they all turned to the door. An Utlander opened it and barked a command at them, accompanying it with an exaggerated beckoning gesture.

  Trafyn looked to Isfyl, who swung his legs to the floor. He hesitated as if dizzy. Remembering how he’d felt when he came around, Garzik was tempted to help him.

  Impatient, the Utlander gestured for Trafyn to help Isfyl to his feet. They negotiated the door, with Garzik following them. He told himself Isfyl was right. They would be kept for slaves. There was no point throwing them overboard, not after they’d deliberately preserved their lives. An Utlander stepped in behind them with a lantern.

  Up on deck they found no sign of the old crew, but the middeck was lit up like festival night and crowded with Utlanders. How did they fit so many men on their ship?

  A steady stream of Utlanders carried Rolencian war booty across the deck and tossed it down onto their ship. Rather than being told to climb down to the other ship, Garzik and the two squires were driven to one side and made to understand they were to sit.

  A quick glance told Garzik the second ship had been lashed to the first. She was lower and smaller, built narrow and lean.

  As two Utlanders rolled a barrel of wine across the deck and sent it to the Utland ship, Garzik searched for the one-eared Utlander, but didn’t spot him. It was hard to tell them apart, with their beards, long wild hair and the witchy Utlander eyes. Garzik had only heard this spoken of, but now he saw it in face after face. All the Utlanders had it to some degree, a pale circle around the pupil of the eye. They all wore breeches and had bare feet. Many went bare chested. All bristled with weapons. Only one wore a cloak made of wyvern hide, the scales glinting in the lamp light.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Trafyn whispered, indicating the high rear deck where half a dozen Utlanders stood in a way that suggested something formal. The one who wore the wyvern cloak was obviously in charge. Threaded through his plaited beard were wicked-looking wyvern teeth.

  ‘Rewarding a brave man-at-arms?’ Isfyl suggested. Both squires spoke Merofynian and made no attempt to include Garzik in their conversation.

  The big one who’d told One-ear to leave Garzik alone stood next to an Utlander of average size. The one wearing the wyvern cloak embraced the strong-arm’s friend and made an announcement. Everyone on the middeck cheered.

  Then the crew separated, with about a third choosing to remain on the captured Merofynian ship.

  The rest returned to the Utland vessel, trouping past Garzik and the two squires. Last to go was the captain, who said something to the newly-made captain, shared a laugh and went to leave.

  He noticed Garzik and the others, ran his eye over them then pointed to Isfyl and beckoned.

  Trafyn reached for the older squire. Isfyl squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be ransomed.’

  He came to his feet, staggering a little, still dizzy from the head wound. After Isfyl climbed over the side, Trafyn wiped his face surreptitiously. Garzik pretended not to notice.

  With shouted comments and jests, the Utlanders released the ropes and the two ships separated, but did not part. They matched sails and course.

  Meanwhile, the new captain said something. His crew cheered, slapping their swords on their shields
in a rapid tattoo. This had been the drumming Garzik heard before the attack.

  With much laughter and jesting, the Utlanders opened wine bottles and passed them around. The new captain came down from the rear deck. He was followed by the big one, Strong-arm, who opened several chests. The captain pulled out a silk shirt and stripped off his own bloodstained vest.

  ‘That’s Lord Neirn’s chest,’ Trafyn muttered indignantly, as the new captain draped himself in Neirn’s finest velvets and strutted about. Recalling who he spoke to, Trafyn repeated himself in Rolencian.

  The Utlanders broke open the food stores, passing around smoked meat, last year’s apples, preserved peaches, dried fruit and nuts. Garzik’s stomach rumbled. The Utlanders drank, ate, sang and cheered while Captain Strutter distributed golden necklaces, jewelled pendants, rings, hair combs and more. This done Strutter pulled out some pipes and played a tune that got everyone singing.

  ‘They should feed us,’ Trafyn complained, then brightened. ‘Here comes someone now.’

  It was One-ear, and he carried wine, not food. Garzik frowned.

  One-ear assessed them swiftly. Garzik looked away. But One-ear’s gaze settled on Trafyn. He grabbed the lad by the shoulder, pulled him to his feet and offered him wine.

  Trafyn took a mouthful, then returned it. ‘I’m hungry. I want –’

  One-ear caught him, tilted his head back and poured wine down his throat.

  Garzik fought the instinct to protest. After all, what could he do for Trafyn? Rising to his knees, he peered over the side of the ship. The Utland vessel was less than a bowshot away. On its lower deck, he spotted Isfyl being forced to drink wine.

  Since when did they give slaves wine to share in a celebration?

  Shrinking down, he edged back between the bales, but he’d been seen. One of the Utlanders hauled him out and thrust a wine bottle into his hand.

  ‘Drink, I know.’ To save himself the indignity of being force-fed, he took a big mouthful. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the Utlander, who urged him on. By the time Garzik had downed half the bottle, his head spun and he staggered. Pleased, the Utlander took the bottle from him and dragged him over to his friends. He heard Trafyn’s protest. The squire’s words cut out on a gasp.

  When the Utlander deposited him on the deck, Garzik staggered. Hands steadied him. The next thing he knew hands tugged at his breeches. He tried to stop them. Tried to protest, but when he opened his mouth, they poured more wine down his throat.

  Coughing and spluttering, he found himself on his knees. Tears of fury stung his eyes.

  Why couldn’t Neirn have lived? It would serve him right. Serve Isfyl and Trafyn right. But him...

  He’d never even kissed a girl. His head spun and he blacked out.

  He surfaced several more times, only to find he was being passed around. When they thrust the wine in his hands, he gulped it down. Eventually, he sank into oblivion.

  Chapter Eight

  GARZIK WOKE TO a pounding behind his temples, a fierce need to urinate and a throbbing on one side of his head. The world sounded strange and it took him a moment to remember his missing ear, now covered by a bandage. His legs were warm, but his shoulders cold. Why was he naked? Why were hairy thighs pressed against his legs?

  He sat up, wincing as he took weight on his buttocks. It all came back to him.

  His gorge rose. No time to look for his breeches.

  He made for the side at a run and emptied his stomach. Just up from him, Trafyn was doing the same, only he sounded like he was never going to stop.

  Garzik felt a pang of sympathy for the squire as Trafyn hung over the side, wearing only his thigh-length undershirt.

  Which reminded him, he must find his own breeches.

  Garzik relieved himself down-wind, then turned around. The deck was covered in Utlanders sprawled in various states of undress, some wrapped in sleeping furs, some stark naked despite the cold. They ranged from lads his age to men like Captain Blackwing, forty perhaps. No white-haired old men. He suspected you didn’t grow old on the Utland Isles. Man and boy alike, they’d drunk themselves into a stupor. That triggered a memory of the Utland lads being used last night, same as him and Trafyn. What had he landed himself in?

  If only a sea-hound ship could find them now.

  For a heartbeat he indulged himself, imagining how the sea-hounds would cut a swathe through the naked, vulnerable Utlanders and retake the ship.

  He searched the horizon. This was a merchant ship, not a sleek Utland vessel. It would never be able to escape a sea-hound ship. The new captain was taking a risk commandeering this vessel.

  Unfortunately, there was no sign of the fleet and its sea-hound protectors. The only sail in sight was the original Utland vessel, which had drawn closer during the night until there was only a gap of about four body lengths between them.

  A shouted command made him turn to see Strong-arm going about the deck, kicking a man here, grabbing a man there. All the while, he repeated a string of words over and over – the Utland equivalent of Get up you lazy, bastards, Garzik guessed.

  With only a vague idea where he’d started out, Garzik began to sift through discarded clothes for his breeches. As he did, flashes of last night came back to him and his gorge rose again. How could he go home after this? The shame...

  He should just end it all. Throw himself overboard. Isfyl had said death would be quick in the cold, cold sea.

  But he couldn’t. Only he knew about Mitrovan and the scribe’s information might be crucial to Byren. Conviction filled Garzik. No matter what, he had to endure.

  Tears burned his eyes but he knew he’d made the right... the only decision. Turning away from the deck, he blinked fiercely to clear his vision.

  On the deck of the lower Utland vessel he saw Isfyl stagger to his feet. From the look of him, he no longer felt so cocky about raping three Rolencian maids in one night.

  Serve him right.

  Like Garzik a moment before, Isfyl staggered to the rail and vomited. When he was done he looked up and across the gap.

  Their eyes met.

  Garzik raised a hand. He expected a response – after all, they were in this together – but Isfyl did not acknowledge him. The older squire tilted his head up to the midmorning sky and closed his eyes. Was he praying?

  When he lowered his chin, his face was curiously calm.

  Garzik envied Isfyl his composure. Despite his own decision to live to serve Byren, he flipped back and forth between shamed outrage and numb misery.

  Trafyn waved to Isfyl, drawing Garzik’s gaze to the younger squire. Garzik glanced back to Isfyl, but the older squire didn’t acknowledge Trafyn, either.

  Instead, Isfyl climbed up on the rail, holding onto the rigging.

  Trafyn ran along to join Garzik. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Ending his shame,’ Garzik guessed. He’d only just rejected the same idea. Now that he was close to Trafyn, he registered the bruises on his neck and arms, and down his thighs.

  So far, no-one on the other ship had noticed Isfyl. But as Garzik turned back, there was a shout and an Utlander made for the squire.

  Too late. Isfyl stepped out and down, dropping into the sea with a splash. The ship sailed on, ploughing through the waves.

  Garzik leant over and looked back, searching for Isfyl, expecting him to surface.

  But there was no sign of the older squire. His head didn’t bob in the waves in their spreading wake.

  ‘He couldn’t swim,’ Garzik whispered.

  With a moan Trafyn turned around and sank down, his back pressed to the gunwales. He hugged his knees, staring dully at his feet. ‘I’m a coward. I’m a coward...’ He repeated over and over. ‘I’m without honour.’

  Garzik felt his misery.

  ‘Dying is easy,’ Garzik told him. ‘But there’s more honour in surviving to serve your king.’

  Trafyn blinked up at him, tear tracks on his dirty cheeks. For a heartbeat he did not react, then anger sharpened h
is features. ‘You speak Merofynian!’

  Garzik blinked.

  ‘You filthy...’ Trafyn sprang to his feet, leaping for him. The collision drove them both backwards. Garzik tripped over a sleeper’s legs, falling to the deck with Trafyn on top him. The impact drove the air from his chest in a painful gasp.

  While sitting across Garzik’s chest, Trafyn grabbed two handfuls of his hair and used them to thump Garzik’s head on the deck over and over. ‘Filthy Rolencian. Filthy...’

  Utlander laughter rang in Garzik’s ears as his head pounded with each impact and he fought to force air into his chest, fought against Trafyn’s weight. Pin pricks of light spun in his vision.

  Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped and he could breathe.

  Strong-arm stood over him, holding Trafyn by his shirt. The Utlander was so big he held the squire off the ground like a kitten.

  Strong-arm said something; the gathered Utlanders laughed.

  The big Utlander gave Trafyn another shake for emphasis, then tossed the squire aside.

  Garzik scuttled back, got his feet under him and sprang upright, half expecting Trafyn to attack him again.

  Why couldn’t the squire see they had to work together?

  Strong-arm seemed to be saying something to that effect as he gestured to each of them and spoke a stream of Utlander.

  Garzik had no idea what he’d said, and Trafyn looked just as lost. Meanwhile, Garzik’s missing ear was throbbing worse than ever and he felt the bandage. His fingers came away smeared with blood. Great, he was bleeding again, thanks to Trafyn.

  Strong-arm gestured to another Utlander who led them off, and pointed them in the direction of a bucket and scrubbing brushes. The middeck still bore evidence of the attack and subsequent celebration. Clearly they were supposed to clean the deck.

  Garzik repeated the phrase Strong-arm had used just to be sure and got a clip over his good ear for his trouble. He didn’t care. He’d found it useful to understand his Merofynian captors. Now that he was an Utlander captive, he had to learn their language.