The man on Jorrell’s left, closest the hull of the ship, had already slumped against the tar-coated planks and was snoring lightly. The stink of a hundred sweating men in the tight space was almost unbearable, but there was barely any relief from the minuscule oarports. There was some dim light, provided by grease candles, which had their own particularly rancid stench. They swung from the boarded ceiling, encased in brass and glass lanterns that were so dirty almost none of the light penetrated the grime.
Jorrell’s companion on his right side was devouring his own meal before it could be taken from him. As he evaluated the rest of the ship’s crew, Jorrell assessed his remaining, conscious bench mate. He had seen him on the quay and had noted that they were about the same height, taller than most, and that he looked to be young, too, about the same age. They were similar build, strong of leg and broad of shoulder, both dark-haired. They could have been brothers, except Jorrell’s eyes were blue and his fellow oarsman’s were cat green.
Another interesting feature was that his companion’s hands were noticeably not quite so bloodied as his own.
Jorrell could not extend his shredded palm in a gesture of greeting. Instead he nudged his elbow into the arm of the man next to him
“My name’s Jorrell, friend. What’s yours?”
Those vivid green eyes regarded him suspiciously for a moment. “I’ve already eaten my share. You can’t have it,” came the hoarse response.
“And I’ve eaten mine, I don’t want yours. All I asked for was your name.”
“Cael.”
Jorrell nodded to Cael's hands which were resting, palms upwards, in his lap. “Your hands aren’t ripped up like mine. How is that?”
Cael snorted. “I’m a farmer’s son. I’m used to this kind of work.” Cael inclined his head at Jorrell’s raw palms. “You’re obviously not. Listen, when they bring the liniment round, use it sparingly. Bind your hands with a rag. That’ll keep the muck out. If you get chance, wash them in sea water. It’ll burn like the breath of Taan, but it’ll harden the skin. Stretch them, every night. Ignore the pain. If you don’t, the new skin will heal hard. It won’t be flexible, and your hands will look like claws. You’ll lose your grip.”
Jorrell smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
Cael smiled in return, and Jorrell felt just a little less alone in the bowels of hell.
~o0o~
It was the night of the twelfth moon. The new recruits had been in the camp for more than twenty nights. During that time they had already learned how to wield the heavy shields that were almost as long and as wide as their bodies. They had been schooled to use the great bastions of wood, canvas and leather to protect themselves and the soldier next to them from both swords and arrows. They had trained with the short swords and lances, which were the only weapons practical to use while carrying the massive shields.
During that time, he had already taken part in battles and seen the gruesome reality of army life.
Jorrell’s skill with a bow and arrow was of no use in the ranks of the foot soldiers. As a new recruit, he was nothing more than cannon fodder, and he did not have any money with which to purchase his way into the ranks of the archers.
He had also learned to ignore the constant derogatory diatribe of his commanding officers, and how to avoid the notice of the crueller lieutenants and some of the experienced soldiers. New recruits weren’t just vulnerable to the enemy that they fought. They were at the mercy of anyone with a cruel nature, or a desire to exert their influence to exact sexual favours.
Naidac was about as far beyond Jorrell’s realm of experience as it was possible to be. It was nothing like the warm, bright state of Felthiss. It was bleak; that was about the best word to describe this country which had been forsaken by the gods. It rained, almost constantly. When it wasn’t raining, it was snowing. It was a world depicted in shades of grey. The cold, damp weather leached every ounce of colour from the landscape.
Their enemy dressed in scraps of fur and leather, and ornamented themselves with shards of metal and bone for no defensive purpose that Jorrell could discern, other than to unnerve their enemy. The Naidacan warriors blacked their faces with charcoal from their campfires, until their eyes showed ghostly bright in their faces.
The Naidacan warriors fought with the desperation of a people fighting for the continuation of everything they held dear, but they were not as well organised as the Felthissian troops, and they were woefully outnumbered. Jorrell did not expect that the army would need to remain long in the harsh country, but he wondered and feared for his future after this war had been won.
His hands had healed. They were stronger now, thick with callused skin. His body was stronger, too. Maybe his spirit was as well, but not on this night. On this night, he felt broken. Where the dehumanising concepts of the army had failed, his exile from Serwren had succeeded.
He was huddled in the flimsy tent that he shared with Cael and two others. It reeked of their mingled body odour, and it was downwind of the latrines. The thin material was nowhere near substantial enough to guard against the chill in the air of this northern country.
On this night he should have been in the palace of the First Father. He should have been dancing with Serwren, holding her slender curves tightly against him. Jorrell’s cock stiffened rebelliously at the image. Tonight he would have asked for her hand in marriage; tonight they would have been the beginning of their future together. Tonight it was all he could do not to perish from the freezing cold.
Their tent mates were asleep. Jorrell and Cael were wrapped in their blankets, sharing the insufficient warmth of one candle in an open lantern casing. They had been discussing the merits of their commanding officer versus his superiors.
“What did you do, anyway?” Cael asked, apropos of nothing.
“What do you mean?”
“You must have done something. Don’t tell me you fucking volunteered to come to this hell hole.”
“What did you do?” Jorrell asked, his curiosity stirred. They hadn’t had the opportunity to delve much into each other’s lives before the army. Mostly, after discussing the teachings or the battles of the day, they fell into an exhausted sleep.
“Me? I volunteered, like a fucking idiot.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Farmer’s son, remember? The only life available to me was to work the same land as my father, day in, day out, year in, year out. I wanted some excitement, a chance to see something beyond Felthiss. I’m beginning to realise I was a fucking fool. So, tell me, what did you do?”
What had he done? When he examined those last conversations with his father, Jorrell found it harder to pin-point the consul’s logic. Something had happened while he was on the Isle of Gryphons, Jorrell was sure of it now. He had been punished for something he knew nothing about. He gave Cael the best answer that he could. “I fell in love with the First Father’s daughter.”
“You got caught fucking her?”
Jorrell did not flinch at the coarse sentiment. He’d become used to its like during the short time he had been immersed in army life. “No. I didn’t get caught.”
“But you did fuck her?”
“That’s none of your fucking business.” Jorrell grinned at his friend. He and Cael had become almost inseparable; as well as sharing a tent, they fought side by side, always.
“Of course you did,” Cael muttered slyly. “What’s she like?” he asked brightly.
“I’m not fucking telling you that,” Jorrell answered with a sound of disgust.
“No, I don’t want to know that... well.” Cael shrugged. “I meant what’s she like? Tell me about her. The day we sailed was the first day I’d even been to Thrissia. I’ve never seen the First Father or his daughter. We never even fucking saw the consul who is supposed to speak for us. So, I don’t know what she looks like. Tell me about her.”
Jorrell took a deep breath to shore up his reserves against the pain he knew would come. Despite her betrayal,
he still loved her. That agony was still fresh in his heart. He regretted now that he hadn't asked her why she couldn’t wait for him. “She’s beautiful,” he began.
“Of course,” Cael interrupted, his tone a little sarcastic.
“Do you want to know about her or not?”
Cael hitched his shoulders, indicating that Jorrell should continue.
“Her eyes are blue, like the sky before the sun reaches its peak. She has long hair, brown, but it catches fire in the sunlight. It reaches down to her waist. It flows like a river, when she doesn’t tie it all up. It feels like silk. Her skin is pale, like the moon.”
“And her body,” Cael asked eagerly.
“Use your fucking imagination,” Jorrell replied tersely. “Actually, don’t you fucking dare,” he amended.
Cael chuckled. “I bet she’s smart.”
Jorrell nodded. “She is. Smarter than me. Smarter than her brother. She’s one of the most intelligent people I know.”
“She has a brother?”
“A twin. Erkas. That bastard has been out to make trouble for us since the day we were put to school together.” Jorrell could not keep the thread of anger from his tone.
“You think he has something to do with you being here?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Cael was silent for a while, contemplating the guttering candle.
“You would have married her?”
Jorrell kept his eyes on the candle also, he did not want to reveal the hurt that he knew was written on his face. “If I had been given the chance. It’s the night of the Feast of the Twelfth Moon. Tonight I was going to ask her father for her hand in marriage.” Jorrell coughed to deny the emotion that threatened his composure.
“So what’s happening to her, now that you’re here?”
“She’s to be married to one of the consuls,” Jorrell replied bitterly.
“A fine young fellow, no doubt, who’ll make her forget all about you,” Cael joked.
Jorrell felt his features darken with rage. “No. To a disgusting, fat, old goat, who stinks. When I think of her, enduring... that’s what I think of when we’re fighting the Naidacans. That’s what I think of when I kill them.”
“Cheer up,” Cael mused. “Maybe we’ll survive this fucking shithole. And when we do, you can go back and kill the bastard and get your girl back.”
“It’s the only thing I live for,” Jorrell murmured as the candle guttered and finally died.
Chapter Nine
Serwren knelt in the large pool in the water room that was part of her father’s suite of rooms. It was larger than her own bathing room. The extra space was required for the extra bodies, who were helping her to prepare for her wedding. Serwren was not generally waited on hand and foot, she had always preferred to keep her privacy and her independence, but her father had insisted on this. Apparently it was tradition for a bride’s friends to help her prepare for her wedding. Serwren had no female friends. Despite what Seddrill had said two moons before, she did not believe she had any friends. Her wedding had been arranged to take place on the second full moon of Doohr; it would be warmer than the season of Aweer, but cooler than the season of Taan.
Presently, a maid was washing various scented potions through Serwren’s hair, and another was tidying away her collection of sponges and razors, having washed and shaved Serwren’s entire body. There were aspects of that attention that Serwren was trying not to consider too closely. She tried to keep her mind carefully blank and not think of what the coming event meant for her. She stared into the middle distance, meeting no one’s eyes, and said not a word. She didn’t register than one of the older maids had entered the room until she heard hands being clapped sharply.
“Be off, you two. You’re taking too long.”
The two younger maids scurried to comply with the command. With only a little interest, Serwren cast attention to the newcomer. She almost smiled; it was Aileth, possibly the person closest to a mother that Serwren could claim.
Aileth beckoned Serwren to come closer to the edge of the pool. Serwren did as she was bid, and Aileth knelt down, with a groan of protest for her aging joints, and continued the job of cleansing Serwren’s hair, massaging her scalp with gnarled fingers. She worked in silence for a while, and Serwren almost relaxed.
Aileth broke the quiet with a murmur. “Try not to be too afeared of tonight, child. I wish I could spin you tales of how pleasant it will be, but Bornsig is not your young suitor. Endure. It will be over quickly enough. There will be some pain...”
“I know.” The words were past Serwren’s lips before she caught them. And something in their inflection, because they were not the irritated huff of a youngster who believed she did not need advice, caught Aileth’s attention.
“You dallied with your young suitor, then, miss. You were lucky not to get caught with child.” Aileth chuckled. “That old goat will be most disappointed.”
“I don’t think it will matter much to him.” Serwren sighed. “I think he is enamoured with the idea of a young wife, regardless of her innocence.” Serwren paused. If there was anyone left in the palace that she would have dared to trust, it would have been Aileth. The old woman had been the one to explain to her what the sudden bleeding that came with every moon meant and who had taught her how to deal with that unwelcome facet of womanhood.
Serwren had felt so alone in her emotional turmoil that she wasn’t even sure she actually existed anymore. She felt so disconnected from everyone around her that she might as well have been a ghost haunting the halls. She needed to confide in someone, almost as much as she needed to draw her next breath. “It wasn’t Jorrell.”
The hands combing through the knots in her hair stilled. “Who then, young miss?”
The silence of the chamber, save for the gentle sounds of the water, was absolute until Serwren broke it. “My brother.”
Serwren felt Aileth’s fingers flex against her scalp, and immediately tried to clarify the shame of her statement, but the words would not come. “He... he...” Her tears, however, flowed freely, and disappeared into the water surrounding her.
Aileth resumed her ministrations.
“I am truly sorry to hear that, my dove. He’s been forcing the younger maids for years, telling them he’ll see them turned out as thieves if they say anything. I never thought he would do such to you.”
“He, perhaps, has more reason than most. His jealousy maddens him.”
Serwren heard the rattle of an earthenware jug as Aileth picked it up from the tile floor before dipping it in the water, ready to pour over her hair to rinse the lotions away.
“It doesn’t always hurt like that, my dove. With the right man, it can feel wonderful, the most sublime feeling on earth.”
“Bornsig is not that man,” Serwren whispered. She felt her heart begin to race as the thoughts that she had been trying not to think began to clamour.
“No. No he is not.”
Serwren opened the door in hear heart that contained her most painful memories, just for a moment. “When Jorrell touched me, it felt like my blood was on fire.”
Aileth chuckled. “Aye, a good-looking young buck like that, I don’t wonder it did.” Serwren felt a warm, bony hand rest on her shoulder. “It’ll be worth it, when you have children to love. Once you get with child, you can refuse Bornsig your bed and point him in the direction of a mistress.”
“And what if he won’t go?” The water rippled with Serwren’s sudden trembling.
“Men are simple creatures, my dove. They take the path of least resistance. Make yourself too difficult to bother with, and he’ll soon take his attentions elsewhere.”
As Aileth continued to rinse her hair, Serwren turned that piece of sage advice over and over in her mind.
~o0o~
It had taken four maids to fasten Serwren into her dress, but only two to extract her from it. The masses of fabric were much easier to deal with when one was not concerned about creases or t
he correct tightness of the lacings.
Serwren took a deep breath when the boned corset was finally unlaced and her lungs were allowed again to expand to their full capacity. The stiff fabric, embroidered with shards of jet, had left her arms and shoulders bare. The skirts of the creation were huge; Serwren had to hold the hands of both maids as they reached over the ocean of fabric to help her step out of them when they pooled at her feet. There had been so much of the dress that her new husband had barely been able to stand by her side all day, kept from her by a barrier of silk. Serwren had been harbouring a childish and futile desire to never take the dress off.
Her father had been incensed by her wish that her dress should be dyed the black of a moonless night. There was no particular tradition for a particular colour, but most brides chose something bright and cheerful. Since Serwren felt neither bright nor cheerful about her nuptials, she had chosen a colour that matched her mood.
Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1) Page 10
