by R J Barker
“Me?” she said. “But I have—”
“—proved yourself,” he said. “More than enough. I saw you decide to take down the women who held the oil despite knowing what that meant.”
“I just—”
“—saved many of Tide Child’s crew, Farys, that is what you did.”
“They burned,” she said, and her eyes glazed over.
Joron raised his voice.
“Does anyone have a problem with me leaving Farys in charge?” He looked over his shoulder.
Namd shook his head, Karring nodded and Old Briaret smiled at him, showing him her sparsely toothed gums.
“No better deckchild to serve, D’keeper,” she said.
“Than it is decided,” said Joron and put out a hand for Farys. She blinked, looked at him. Nodded. Then she took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. “If anyone gets past you and up those stairs, I’ll have you all corded.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” said Farys. “There’ll be no need for that.”
“No,” said Joron, “I do not believe there will. Karring, you come with me.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” said Karring.
With that Joron turned and ran up the stairs after Meas and the rest of the crew, through the wisps of smoke that threaded the air with the smell of roasting flesh.
On the first floor he found a few bodies – nobody he recognised. The sounds of fighting came from above and he rushed up to the second floor. What he found puzzled him at first, for though speed was of the essence Meas and Tide Child’s crew were holding back, standing at the top of the stairs screaming encouragement. Then he understood: this sort of fighting was the true domain of Coughlin and his men – they were trained for it. He could see their backs at the next set of stairs, and then the raiders must have broken and they were gone up to the top of the tower.
“Shipwife Meas!” came Coughlin’s voice.
“Joron,” she said, “with me.” She pulled one of the crossbows from her coat and they ascended.
On the top of the tower Kanvey and ten of his raiders remained. They were corralled by Coughlin and his men, all armed with shield and sword, into one corner of the tower, away from the big gallowbow. Narza ran to the bow, looked it over and then kicked it, hard, twice and pulled the cord from it, showing it to Meas.
“Hag’s arse,” said Meas. “They have cut the cord rather than allow us to use it.”
“Why do we need it?” said Joron.
Meas pointed across the strait to the other tower.
“To take down that, before they take down us.”
“What do we do with them?” said Coughlin, pointing at the women and men around Kanvey. “There is little fight in ’em now.”
Meas looked over the little group.
“I need cord for this gallowbow,” she shouted. “I have little time. I imagine the other tower already suspects this one is taken. Anyone who tells me where there is launching cord may join my crew and live.”
“There is none,” said a tall woman with blood dripping down her face from a cut to her head. “That was our last.”
“There is the old cord,” said a small man holding a wyrm-pike in a hand with only three fingers, “in the red barrel on the second floor. But there is not much tension left in it.”
“Mevans,” said Meas, “get that cord. You two” – she pointed at the man and woman – “over here. When Mevans returns you will help him string the gallowbow.” Meas strode to the edge of the tower and, taking the nearglass from her coat, stared down the channel. “Hag’s breath.” She said it so quietly only Joron heard her. “They are near now.” Then she swung the nearglass round to inspect the other tower. It did not look like much to Joron, just a flimsy construction of gion and varisk, but it must have been stronger than it looked to mount a bow like the one in front of them. Mevans reappeared with a length of bowcord and together with the two raiders began to string the great bow as Meas watched the other tower through her nearglass.
“Down!” screamed Meas, and all hit the floor of the tower. It felt as if every brick of the tower jumped, making a noise like a club hitting a head, but so much louder. The air filled with choking dust.
“What happened?” Joron raised his head, spitting out thick air.
“The other tower,” said Meas. “They loosed a wingbolt at us.” She stood. “Everyone down the stairs . . .” she began and then her voice tailed off. Half of the top of the tower was gone, as was their route of escape. Kanvey, along with what remained of his raiders, had vanished. Where they had stood was a void. The wingbolt had destroyed the corner of the building where the raiders had been, the stairs and part of the floor below. Coughlin stood with his men on the edge of the void, looking dumbfounded. “Mevans!” shouted Meas. “Get that bow strung now!”
“Almost done, Shipwife,” he shouted. And if he was at all disturbed by the destruction of the tower he did not show it. “But the fellow was right. There’s little tension left in it. I doubt we’ll—”
“I will hear no doubts!” she shouted, then looked through her nearglass. “They are getting ready to loose again but they are not fleet,” she said. “We are. So we will be ready before they launch again.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” said Mevans as he threaded the bow. “Well, spin it then,” he shouted to the two ex-raiders standing by the bow. “And someone bring me a wingbolt!” Coughlin stumbled over, holding one of the heavy stone bolts, which must have weighed nearly as much as he did.
“Anzir,” he said, “help me load this. I have no wish to be swept off the tower like those other poor fools.”
“Not yet,” said Mevans. “We are not full wound yet.” He watched the two raiders as they spun the winch, and if he was worried about another bolt hitting the tower Joron could not tell, though he could feel the tension rising among those who stood around him.
Meas continued to stare through her nearglass.
“Are we ready yet?” she said. “For they almost are.”
“Nearly, Shipwife.”
Meas did not look at him, only continued to stare through her nearglass.
“Down!” Meas shouted again and they hit the floor once more. The building shook, but this time not as violently. Joron was one of the first to his feet, to find Meas already up and leaning over the parapet staring at the ground. “That one hit the base of the tower. There are cracks in the wall but we still stand. It will not take much more though – it seems raiders are shoddy builders. Come on, Mevans, spin that bow, Hag curse you.”
“Load!” shouted Mevans, stepping back, and Coughlin and Anzir hurried forward, placing the bolt into the bow.
Meas ran across to stand behind it.
“Mevans, two points to seaward if you would,” said Meas. Those atop the tower, covered in dust, aware that death could come at any moment, held their breath as Meas, calm as it was possible to be, lined up her shot. “Raise its beak a touch, Mevans . . . Another point to seaward.” She stared a moment longer until those on the tower were wound as tight as any firing cord. Joron knew the bowteam on the other tower would be spinning their own bow, getting ready to loose again. “That’s it, Mevans. Loose! Loose it!”
Mevans pulled the cord, jumping back as the bow sang its violent song and the wingbolt skidded along the shaft and out into the air. The deckchilder on the tower roared as if their shout could give the bolt extra force and help it on its way.
Their roar was swiftly stilled.
The bolt was not going to reach its target. Mevans had been right: the cord had little fury left in it. The wingbolt glided out from the tower, losing height all the while, and by the time it was a third of the way across the strait was already well below the height of the tower on the other side. They watched forlornly as the bolt splashed into the sea barely halfway across the channel.
No one spoke.
Joron felt that the Hag was a step away from claiming them all. There was little they could do to stop the other tower launching. In the silence he could hear
the tower below him creaking and moaning like a boneship caught in a storm. Joron was sure it would not take another hit.
“What are you standing about for?” shouted Meas. “Spin that bow up, Mevans, and cinch the cord as far as it will go. I care not if we risk it snapping.”
“They will loose again soon,” said a voice from behind them.
“And they may well miss,” snapped Meas. She put the near-glass to her eye. “Spin it!” And the process started again, a little area of furious activity around the bow while everyone else could only stand and watch, trapped on top of the tower and with nothing to do but wait for the inevitable shot from across the strait. “Skearith’s Broken and fiery heart!” Meas said. “They mock us.”
“What?” said Joron.
“They are about to loose,” she said, “and they are waving at us. Any who wish to lie down to meet the bolt may. But I will stand here and meet it head on.” She gazed across the sea, and if a look could kill then the tower across from them would have been stricken. She raised her nearglass. “Here it comes.”
It seemed a bad day to die. The air was so clear, the sky so blue and the sea so clean and cold. But this was the way of the Archipelago: this was how the Maiden liked to trick, how the Mother taught hard lessons and how the Hag loved to mock. They had fought so hard, done so much, but it meant nothing. A breeze caressed the back of Joron’s neck. He heard the cry of a bird.
The wind brought the faint shouts of triumphant women and men and the cough of the other tower’s gallowbow as it launched.
He heard the bird cry again – this time louder – and it seemed like time atop the tower slowed.
Black Oris landed on Joron’s shoulder. Joron turned to look at the bird.
And there, climbing over the edge of the parapet behind him, was the gullaime windtalker. It hopped across the broken roof on to the great bow and from there on to the one of the crenellations of the tower. All watched in silence, some confused by its sudden appearance, some shocked, some pleased. It snapped its beak at the air. At the same time it flapped its robed wing across the front of its body, as if batting away some troublesome insect.
Joron heard the whistle of the incoming bolt, and Black Orris flew from his shoulder.
Did he imagine it, or gestured did he actually see the bolt swerve? See it caught in a gust of wind. See it tumbling and spinning though the air until it landed in the clearing below the tower, throwing up a great splash of earth and carving a huge divot. The gullaime turned its head – but not its body – to face Meas.
“They miss,” it said. “Don’t you miss, ship woman.”
“Load the bow,” she shouted. Coughlin and Anzir were there. Mevans had already spun it back and then the bolt was in. “Loose!” And all those on the tower rushed to the parapet to watch the bolt.
It fell. Just like the first bolt.
The gullaime let out a furious screech and threw both its wings forward. From far below and to seaward its call was answered by the deeper, multi-toned shout of the approaching arakeesian. Joron’s ears hurt, and he thought he heard the song of the windpsire, loud and triumphant and beautiful as it twisted in and out of the call of the gullaime and the call of the keyshan. Then the windtalker raised its wingclaws above its head, wind howled around the tower and out to sea. It lifted the falling bolt, raising it higher and higher higher on invisible currents, far above the height the bow could have taken it to. Then the gullaime let out another screech, one full of fury, and once more it was answered by the sea dragon far below. Then the windtalker brought its wingclaws down.
The bolt dropped like a stone. The impact of the wingbolt on the opposite tower was so powerful it seemed to explode. The bolt smashed through the platform, the scaffolding and the floor below, sending varisk and bodies flying through the air, cascading down the cliff face to splash into the uncaring sea below.
Silence.
The gullaime turned, hopped down from its perch, walked across the tower and jumped up on to the opposite parapet. It glanced towards the missing corner where the stairs should have been and shook itself.
“How you get down, Joron Twiner?” it said. Then it climbed head first down the outside of the tower. From out of the sky came Black Orris, landing on Joron’s shoulder once more.
“Arse,” said Black Orris.
Bird take an oar.
Godbird lights the way.
Maiden take an oar.
Trick for the Maiden.
Mother take an oar.
Duty for the Mother.
Women take an oar.
Honour for the Bern.
Men take an oar.
Coin for the Kept.
Pull for the Hag.
The Hag takes all.
Traditional rowers’ chant
Ropes, that was how they got down. Farys and the others Joron had left at the base of the tower had survived the bombardment and found ropes to throw up. Once everyone was down, Meas ordered the tower to be burned. As they left the island in the flukeboats Joron looked back to see the fire do its work and watched the tower as it crumbled into the sea, sending up great plumes of water as Cruel Water and the arakeesian passed.
The gullaime rode on Joron’s flukeboat, perched on the prow like a particularly ugly figurehead. It did not speak, only stared forward. The rowers looked tired, and Joron knew how they felt. His muscles ached, he stank of fire, and when he closed his eyes he would see one of the many moments when he had come close to losing his life: The first strike of the wingbolt, one moment, Kanvey and his raiders the next, the fires of life extinguished in the blink of an eye.
He looked at Farys, who led the rowing, calling out the stroke using an old song, and though tiredeness was writ in her every movement she found time to smile at Joron.
“We did a good job, D’keeper?”
“Ey,” he replied, straightening where he sat on the rump of the boat, “and I am rightly proud of you all.” Heads went down in the boat, as if it was difficult for them to hear his praise, but he felt they were pleased by it. He sat back and let them row, aware, in a way he never had been before, that his rank created some impenetrable barrier between him and those who were under him. He would, must, rely on them, be prepared to put his life in their hands, but he would never get to call them his friends. He would always be apart from them and they from him. Some of those in the boat had been with him when he had called himself shipwife and would once have laughed at the thought of following any command from his mouth. They should still see him as a fool, but they did not. Meas had wrought some strange magic, and he had been reborn through her.
The flukeboats met up with Snarltooth, which followed the tail of the sea dragon. The two-ribber’s shipwife, Brekir, ordered the boats to be taken in tow, so the deckchilder put up their oars and got some longed-for rest.
They passed between the cliffs of Arkannis Channel, black to seaward, white to landward, and Joron stared up at the smouldering wreck of the tower and quietly asked the Sea Hag to look after those who had fallen there. He was awed by the mountains of Skearith’s Spine, from their base, where waves crashed and foamed against the rock to the almost-lost-in-the-clouds splashes of snow on the summits. His crew saw no wonder there, they demonstrated one of the great skills of the true deckchild – the ability to sleep anywhere, and the fluke-boat was pulled through the sea to a chorus of snores.
Later, and safely back on board Tide Child, Meas congratulated him and poured him a cup of akkals, the harsh spirit beloved by the rich on Bernshulme. It had been a long time since Joron had touched alcohol, and though the warmth of it in his gullet was welcome it brought back unpleasant memories of the man he had been, hiding in the derelict flensing yards and trying to drink himself to death. He did not ask for another glass, though neither did Meas offer.
“We have done well,” she said eventually, “though without the gullaime we would have been lost.”
“Never question the Maiden’s gift,” said Joron, the alcohol having l
oosened his tongue a little.
“No, never do that. And I do not.” She picked up her cup, put it down. “It was a hard fight, but from now onwards hard fights will be our lives.”
“It will?” said Joron. And he wished he had asked for another cup of akkals. His mouth was dry and his body longed for alcohol, but he shut the desire away.
“Ey,” she said, placing her hands on the surface of her desk. “We have passed the capital line now; the weather will only be getting colder.”
“But the nearer we get to the Northstorm, the emptier the sea will be. There are fewer islands so that should benefit us.”
“Maybe,” said Meas, then stood and walked to the door. “Have Aelerin and Dinyl brought to me,” she shouted. Joron heard the call echo through the ship, and a minute later the courser walked into the cabin, closely followed by the deck-holder.
“You wanted us, Shipwife?” said Dinyl.
“Ey.” Meas pulled a chart from a drawer and spread it on the desk. “Courser, show Joron and Dinyl where we think the arakeesian will go and where we should worry.”
“Yes, Shipwife.” They leaned over the desk, putting a slim finger on a blue line that snaked up the map. As they moved their finger along, Joron saw the distance eaten away, saw the days and weeks passing with each small movement. “Here,” they said, “the wind sings me about a week’s journey. We can expect to find the first touches of the Northstorm. I do not think gales and such, but the wind will not be as kind to us. It is also here that there is a thinning of the ocean, not so you can see, but underneath and it will force our course. If we were hunted by Hundred Isles ships, this would be where to pick us up.”
“So they may have a fleet waiting for us?” said Joron.
Dinyl shook his head.
“They should not have. Kept Karrad and his allies in the Gaunt Islands are stirring up more trouble to keep the fleet busy and drawn towards the Southstorm. They may know about the arakeesian by now, but neither side will want to stop watching the other.”
