by R J Barker
And yet he knew all this must be done.
“You wish for action, D’keeper,” said Farys. “Me too. It is not rightly done this sneaking about, right it ain’t at all.”
He was about to tell her not to be foolish, that he didn’t wish for action at all. Every time he had been into action he had been terrified beyond what he thought possible. But as he opened his mouth to speak he realised that at some level he did wish it, which was strange. It was not the fighting or the killing or the fury that he wanted, but the breaking of this constant tension he had not been truly aware of until now. With every step through the forest he became more sure an arrow was trained on him, more sure Anzir would miss something and they would walk into an ambush. More sure he would let Meas down.
“You are right, Farys,” he said. “I do indeed wish for something to happen.”
“It will, D’keeper. Don’t you fret none, it will.”
And of course it did.
They continued through the forest, making the best speed they could, twisted off course by thickets so dense they could not push through, until eventually they saw more blue sky above them than purple gion. The shorter varisk started to take over, pink leaves shining like open wounds. Anzir held up her hand and beckoned to Joron. When he crouched by her she pushed aside a tangle of vines and pointed.
For the first time in his life, he saw a windspire up close. He had expected it to be like the spine of a ship, a towering, slowly tapering spike that rose from the ground as if it had pierced the land from below, but it was no such thing. It was not white, for a start, but the colour of old and neglected bone, a pale yellowy white. It was also far, far larger than he had imagined. On Bernshulme only the Bern and the lamyard keepers could approach the windspire, and to get to it you must pass through the lamyards. No sane woman or man put themselves among so many gullaime.
So he only knew stories of the windspire, and those stories did it no justice. It rose, maybe ten times the size of a woman, from a thick base which tapered up to a rounded point, but it did not rise straight, it curved outwards so the tip hung four or five paces out from the curcular base. Neither was it solid. It looked more like the bone knife Farys carried, though what looked like carving on the windspire could not be the work of anything human, Joron felt sure of that. It was too intricate and strange and, somehow, wrong, otherwordly. It did not satisfy his sense of symmetry, though it pleased his eye in other ways: the detail, the repetition, the spirals and twisting lines that ran up and around it. In many places it was pierced, so varisk could be glimpsed through it. In other places the decoration was so subtle he only saw the lines because they were slightly darker than the rest of the spire. Nothing grew around it, but the large circle of bare ground which surrounded it did not look artificially cleared. It seemed the windspire required space, and the jungle respected that need.
And it sang.
It was not a loud song, and if they had not stopped in utter silence Joron may never have noticed it. But the windspire definitely had a song, a slow keening sound as beautiful and intricate as any bird’s. For a moment Joron was lost as he looked upon the thing, felt its subtle heat on his face.
“Twelve,” said Anzir quietly, and Joron tore his eyes from the windspire and back to what she talked of: the women and men in the clearing.
“I see only seven,” he whispered.
“Five archers hide around the edges, one in the gion over there.” She pointed up and Joron saw the figure crouched on a stalk. “Two are over there to landward and two more to seaward.”
“How did they know we were coming here?” said Joron, more to himself than to Anzir.
Nevertheless she answered.
“I do not think there is much else on this isle we could be interested in.” She did not look at him, only stared into the clearing. “And, no disrespect meant, Deckkeeper, but you have a gullaime on your back, which may be a clue.” Was there a flash of humour there? He was unsure as she spoke almost in a monotone.
“Do you have any ideas for us to take this place, Anzir?”
“Were I in charge, I would have a bow trained on the one in the tree and send some round to take out those in the bushes as quietly as possible.”
“Can it be done silently?” said Joron.
Anzir dug a finger into the dirt.
“Possibly not,” she said. “I could, but the rest, they are not trained in death the way I am.” They watched a moment longer, and then Joron tugged on Anzir’s arm, pulling her back to where the rest waited.
“Farys,” he said, “Anzir will show you where two raiders hide in the forest. Take who you wish and circle round behind them. Anzir will do the same. Hasrin.” He barely believed he was about to make his next request of this woman, who was friends with Cwell and had once been a deckkeeper. “You were once deckkeeper.” He took a crossbow from where it hung on his jacket. “You will know the use of this.”
She nodded, looking at him as if he prepared some trap for her, but took the crossbow.
“I was ranked the best shot in the fleet, once,” she said.
“Well” – he held out four bolts – “there is a man in the gion to the landward side of the windspire. You are to shoot him down.” Hasrin narrowed her eyes at him, then nodded and took the bolts. “The rest of you, string your bows and be ready to shoot those in the clearing at my signal.”
“What will the signal be?” said Farys.
“When I say ‘hello’.”
“D’keeper,” said Anzir, “if any of us fails or Hasrin misses the fellow in the gion, you will be dead.”
“That would be unfortunate,” said Joron, “so I am ordering no one to fail or miss.” Grim smiles met his words. “Now I shall count to two hundred. That should give everyone time to get in place and for me to remove the gullaime from my back.”
It seemed to Joron, as he lay the gullaime beneath a vine and crouched in the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, that his count of two hundred took an impossibly long time. It was not a comfortable time either as the same questions his little crew had asked him: What if they miss? What if they fail? spun round and round in his head and try as he might he could not put those thoughts in harbour, safe away from worry. Another joined them as he counted down – Why did I choose Hasrin? – and the possibility of death and how close he stood to it became more real. Hasrin was once a deckkeeper, and nothing is more accurate than a crossbow. He put one hand on a varisk vine, grasping the sinewy stem as hard as he could to still his shaking. What if she does not shoot? What if she misses on purpose?
At the moment he reached one hundred and ninety he muttered to himself, “Mother watch over your son.” Then he stood and walked until he was among the thick foliage at the edge of the clearing.
“I am looking for the windspire,” he said, and no one was more surprised than Joron that his voice did not waver or break. Then he took two steps forward out of the thick varisk. “Am I in the right place?”
Silence.
As if every woman and man and creature of the forest stopped what they were doing to look at this fellow who had stepped out and asked so politely where he was of those who would kill him. And though it was only a moment, the smallest sliver of time, barely a few grains of sand through a glass, it was long enough for Joron to think many things.
I should not have chosen Hasrin.
I should have had a better plan.
I will die here, foolishly, and my father will turn from me at the bonefire.
“Hello?” he said.
The arrows flew.
A bolt flew into the tall gion, and a body fell like ungainly fruit. From either side of the clearing came grunts and rustling as his crew attacked the hidden archers. Arrows cut into the seven in the clearing. Three fell, one was wounded. The three who remained ran at Joron, who found himself frozen, riveted to the spot as they came at him, weapons raised.
More arrows, and it was done. No one ever near enough to Joron to spit on him, never mind
cut him, and the air which he had been holding in his lungs was once more moving in and out of his chest. Anzir strode across the clearing. Blood spattered her clothes, and he wondered if she would call him on his cowardice.
“That was brave,” she said.
“Brave?”
“To stand unmoving and give the archers a second shot while your enemy ran at you. Few have the tits on them for that.”
“Ey,” replied Joron and wondered if she mocked him – if so he could not tell. “Well, it was not pleasant and I would rather not do it again. Now, let us get the gullaime to the spire.” Anzir nodded and they fetched the creature – so light in Joron’s arms. Anzir led the way back to the spire, the curnow in her hand dripping blood with every step. Joron found himself transfixed by the blood, having to shake his head to clear it of the sight.
Nearer to the spire, its song was louder. Joron knelt with the gullaime in his arms, not knowing what to do. Surely the windtalker could feel the spire now? He not only heard the song with his ears but felt it vibrate through his whole body. It was like he was a rope and the windspire was the wind howling past, making his body sing against his wishes when he was not ready for song. He expected something from the gullaime but did not know what. Some response. Would it raise its head and sing back to the spire? But the creature only lay limp in his arms.
“I think the gullaime must be touching it, D’keeper.” Farys had joined them at the windspire. “That was what old Garriya told me.”
“She knew what we did here?”
Farys shook her head.
“No, she just talks to me sometimes. Tells me stories, the sort a mother would, if I’d ever had one. In one story she said a gullaime has to touch the spire.”
“There is a something like a cave here,” said Anzir, “at the bottom of the spire.”
Joron stood and carried the gullaime around to where there was an opening in the base of the spire. Here the song was even stronger, so loud it caused Joron pain, a jangling of his nerves. And he knew then, though he did not know how, that the gullaime must be placed inside if it was to wake. He knew this the same way he knew he was the only one who could do this. The crew may leave gifts for the gullaime, venerate it in their own way even, but they would not touch it, so this was his task. And even if some other had come forward, offered to take his burden, Joron would not have given it up to them. So despite the pain-growing-to-agony that being so near the spire brought him, he forced himself forward, crouched down to place the gullaime in the opening. To go into the noise was like dragging himself forward into a gale. Every movement required an almost inhuman effort, but the moment the gullaime touched the floor of the cave, the sounds and the pain stopped.
Everything stopped.
Joron sat before the spire.
Bathed in light and then plunged into darkness. The forest, his crew, the island – all were gone. He hung between Skearith’s Bones, a thousand shining lights spread out around him.
He heard a single call – like that of a maidenbird – and the world came back fast at him, a riotous blur of colour and sound.
“Does it wake?” Farys said.
Joron blinked. Once. Twice.
He stared at the gullaime, hoping for some sign, but apart from the noise ceasing nothing had changed: the creature appeared as dead as it ever had. Though it was not, he was sure of that.
“How long will it take, D’keeper?”
“I do not know, Farys.” He took a deep breath. “But I do know I am glad that noise has stopped.”
“Noise?” She looked puzzled.
He did not know what to say. Had they not heard it? So in the way of officers everywhere who did not want to explain themselves, he changed the subject:
“Meas will need us at the tower.”
“My old shipwife,” said Ganrid from behind him, “told us you should never leave a gullaime. Said they run if you do. Get themselves in trouble, or killed.”
“Well, Meas is not your old shipwife, and our gullaime is like no other.” Joron looked up at Skearith’s Eye, which was well over the halfway point of the sky. “We will leave it here. No one will hurt a gullaime, and if we are successful at the tower we can pick it up on our way back.”
“And if we are not successful, D’keeper?” said Ganrid.
“Then no one will care.”
The forest had no wish to yield to the women and men pushing through it. It had no interest in their quick lives or the events that they considered so important that they had to hack and slash their way through. The gion and varisk forest, with all its attendant flora and fauna was to all intents and purposes eternal, and if it had any consciousness at all, the mission of Joron and his crew would not have concerned it.
For Joron Twiner, there was little but concern. Skearith’s Eye was now slipping down the blue of the sky, and with every degree the deckkeeper felt the sand in the glass running out. When they came across breaks in the forest canopy he looked to the east, looking for the white smoke that Meas had told him to expect when the tower was taken. But no smoke came, and it worried him. If they had failed and she was dead, he would command Tide Child, but for how long? How long before the crew overthrew him and turned the ship into a raider? Would Joron have the courage to die rather than acquiesce to such a thing? He doubted it, and what would his father think of that? Would he turn his back on him when Joron approached the Hag’s bonefire? Something sank within him, and the sweat on his brow was no longer from just the heat.
No, she must live. She had given him something, woken something within him. He did not understand it, but felt it was right. Felt himself becoming someone new, someone better. And he did not feel she was finished, that he was finished.
And had she not said she would never die on land? He could believe that. Most likely she waited for Joron to bring up his remaining crew to assault the tower. He needed to hurry. He needed to make sure he did not let her down.
“More thorns, D’keeper,” said Old Briaret, her face drawn into a long frown. “Hierthrews. They will cut us to pieces if we try and go through.”
“Then we go round,” said Joron, raising his voice. “Anzir, we go round.”
And so it went, hacking and slashing. Stopping to listen when Anzir thought something may be lurking in the forest. Whether human or animal, all Joron knew was that he would rather fight any number of women and men than the terrible black tunir he had seen on the beach.
He found himself cutting through the jungle by Farys. She was bleeding from a wound to her arm, and he could see that every time she swung her curnow it caused her pain.
“Where are you from, Farys?” He asked, more to distract her from her pain than out of real interest.
“Fallhulme, D’keeper,” she said. “Old island. Used to be where they dumped keyshan hearts, and ain’t a woman or man ever been born there that were Bern.”
“Few of us are Bern or Kept,” he said,
“My mother died bringing me to life, otherwise I were perfect before.” She pointed at her burned face and then looked away as if ashamed. And Joron wished he had not started the conversation as he had no wish to hurt her, and little understanding of how to make someone feel better.
“My mother died too,” he said, wanting her to feel less awkward.
“Really?”
“Ey. My father raised me as a fisher.”
“My father died when I were not old. And my uncle sold me to a fleet recruiter.” Joron did not answer. He had only intended to distract her, but now she seemed intent on telling him her life story, and he was not sure he wanted to know. “Went to a ship called Keyshanheart. The boneglue caught one night, and I were trapped in the hold. I got out, many didn’t. Though most thought I would die in the hagbower – from the fire, see?”
“But you did not.” He tried to make his voice light. Tried not to think about being trapped in a burning boneship.
“Oft wished I had, D’keeper,” she said, her voice cracking, and turned her face fro
m him.
“Well, if it helps any, Farys, I am very glad you did not,” he said.
She turned back, eyes wet, streaks cut in the sweat on her face by tears.
“Thank you, D’keeper.” And he thought maybe he should ask how she came to be on the black ship, but then did not because he knew it may be heard as an order. Such things were a deckchild’s secret, to give or not as they wished.
“Come on,” said Joron, raising his voice so all could hear. “Meas has not taken the tower yet as I see no smoke. If we do not hurry we will miss out, and who knows what riches these raiders hide?” Predatory grins greeted that, though Joron had to tighten his hand around the hilt of his blade to stop it shaking at the thought of action. When he closed his eyes he saw the raiders from the clearing running towards him, felt the terrible, bone-numbing fear that had rooted him to the spot.
Odd that despite his fear of pain and death he could still lead his crew towards it – through the thorns and past the vines, looking in vain for the smoke, occasionally sending someone up the gion to spy out the land ahead. His arm ached from slashing with the curnow and his legs ached from clambering over roots and fallen vegetation. His mind ached from staying alert to any threat that may emerge from the forest.
And still, when the cry came from above – “I see the tower!” – it felt like too soon.
All action slowed. No longer did they cut through the forest making little attempt to stay quiet; now they crept forward, Anzir still at their head. Joron checked that everyone wore the black armband that marked them as the dead.
