Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 8

The ringing clash of a hammer against metal that was the mine’s alarm woke Dancer. He opened his eyes to harsh golden sunlight and lay for a time, already exhausted, his body aching, but eventually he had to rise as the heat of the coming day had already plastered his shirt to his chest. He swung his legs down from the stone ledge and checked on Kellanved.

The mage still slept, or lay insensate or lost in a coma; which of these, he wasn’t certain. For days now no movement had stirred the lad’s limbs, though his chest did rise and fall, if only as faintly as a bird’s flutter. Dancer occasionally made an effort to remember him as someone of his own age, but this was becoming nearly impossible as even now the mage’s seemingly permanent illusion of decrepitude remained. Everyone in the mine thought of him as a weakened ancient, and thus expected him to die; but Dancer knew otherwise and counted on the resiliency of youth to pull him through.

He took a gourd from the wall, unstoppered it, and gently poured a few drops of the precious water on to the lad’s lips. The moisture disappeared, but was it even worth it? He was not allowed to draw an extra ration for Kellanved as the mage had done no work as yet. Dancer stoppered the gourd and pushed aside the ragged hanging of their alcove; the smothering promise of the day’s heat almost drove him to his knees, yet he held on to the hacked stone, steadying himself. He glanced back to his insensate partner. How long could he possibly maintain this?

Yet if their positions were reversed, how long would he wish Kellanved to hope and to try?

For as long as was humanly possible. And infuriating as Kellanved was, he had to grudgingly admit, with some surprise, that he was the best friend he had ever had. Perhaps the only, barring Illara.

He would not be the one to fail the partnership. And there was self-interest to consider as well, of course. If even half what he suspected the little mage was capable of came to pass, it could be well worth the investment.

Steeling himself, he set out to make it through another day. At this time in the morning the open pit of Skullcup was still mostly in shadow, yet this did nothing to spare its prisoners the heat of the surrounding desert. He headed to the barricaded hut that was the guard shack. Here he’d receive the day’s work chit – a sliver of copper. No chit, no morning meal.

A line had already gathered. Dancer studied his fellow inmates. Seven Cities natives mostly; lean, not as tall as he, dark-haired, and tending towards a dark gold in hue as the sun beat down mercilessly in this place. Most, he understood, were condemned petty criminals, together with a smattering of transported mages and apostate priests. Some few were purely political prisoners, while he and a smattering of other outlanders were the contingent of trespassing foreigners.

An old woman with long scraggly dusty hair was in the line ahead of him and on impulse he asked, ‘What did you do to deserve this?’

She glanced back, rather startled at being addressed, and then scowled. ‘Nothing! This is all Yath’s doing! I should be Holy Faladah! My interpretation of the Seven Holies is no less legitimate than theirs.’ Then she pointedly turned her back on him – uninterested in foreigners, it would seem.

When he reached the barred window the chit was slid across to him and he then headed for the kitchen tents. The stabbing desert sun seemed to hammer his head and shoulders as he crossed the open ground and already sweat dripped down his back. To one side of the pit here lay pens of chickens and goats. Next to these were the night-soil gardens. Tending these were the soft assignments usually handed over to the eldest or most infirm of the inmates. Greybeards leaned on rakes and hoes, studying him with tired eyes as he passed, for he was an unusual exception among the population here. He had seen a third of the years of most; a fifth of some.

In this section of the pits a gleaming turquoise pool lapped up against the sheer north cliffs, and though everyone was as dry as a desert snake none touched that water, not even the animals. It lay glistening and unearthly clear, a constant invitation to parched throats and yearning stomachs, but undrinkable. For the water’s eerie clarity betrayed its true character – alkaline death.

At the kitchen tents he received a clay bowl, a glop of mush, and a piece of rock-hard bread. Sometimes there was boiled meat, fish or sea-turtle, but word was the turtles were becoming more and more scarce.

He ate crouched in what slivers of shade he could find, then joined the line forming up in pairs for the day’s assignments. When he reached the guards at the front of the line he was handed a long-handled hammer and his shoulders fell. The sledge again. Swinging the damned thing was killing him.

‘Sorry, lad,’ a gravelly voice croaked beside him, and he glanced over to see the squat and blunt-featured mage, Hairlock. Sweat already ran in rivulets down the man’s bronzed bullet head.

The guard handed Hairlock a copper chisel and urged them along with a nod. Hairlock led the way up the maze of tunnels. Once they were far from the guards, he slowed, saying, ‘No change in your friend’s condition, hey?’

‘No.’

Hairlock grunted his understanding. They walked the tight constricted tunnels until they reached the face of one side channel. Here the mage set the chisel to the rock and Dancer swung the sledge sideways – the tunnel was too low to allow an overhead swing.

Between ringing, deafening blows, Hairlock said, ‘He won’t recover, you know.’

Dancer, his teeth clenched with effort, answered, ‘We’ll see.’

‘It’s the dust. His mind, or spirit – what some call his kha – is disassociated. Lost. He’s wandering the Warrens now as a ghost.’

‘How does it work?’

‘The dust?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, no one knows for sure. It deadens magic. Suffocates it.’

A skinny grey-bearded elder who had been filling a woven basket with rock now straightened and approached them. ‘Think of water,’ he said.

Dancer hefted the sledge, thought of his own dusty-dry throat and croaked, ‘I’d rather not.’

The fellow smiled indulgently. ‘Water flows freely, yes? But when it freezes it holds its shape – understand? Some think the ore does this – freezes magic. Or metal. Molten it flows. Until it hardens. Otataral hardens it.’

‘Thanks for the lecture, Eth’en,’ Hairlock said, rolling his eyes.

Eth’en raised a bushy grey brow. ‘This is an entire field of study, I’ll have you know.’

Hairlock waved him away. ‘Of that I have no damned doubt.’

The oldster picked up his basket and shuffled off. Hairlock watched him go. ‘Scholars,’ he sneered, derisive.

Dancer returned to hammering. After a few more blows, he asked, ‘What is this place, then?’

The squat mage shrugged. ‘Just a money-making enterprise. Privately held.’

‘Not a prison?’

The mage eyed him for a time. ‘Not as such. The Falari pirates who run it take whoever they’re paid to hide away.’

‘Like scholars and malcontents?’

A wide frog-like smile split the mage’s face. ‘Yeah. Kinda like that. Took two Holy Falah and one of the Seven City champions to bring me down. This is the only place that can hold people like me.’

‘Mages.’

Hairlock grunted his agreement.

‘A prison of mages.’

‘And politicals ’n’ thieves. ’Cept for the odd duck – like you.’

Dancer hefted the sledge over the crouching mage. ‘Like me?’

Hairlock grinned up at him, revealing his greying rotten teeth. ‘Been watching ya. This place can’t hold you. Ain’t built to. I figure your friend won’t last much longer and you’ll leave once he’s gone.’

‘So?’

‘Take me with you.’

Dancer leaned on the sledge. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘You want to get off the island, don’t ya?’ He glanced about to make certain they were alone. ‘I know where there’re boats hidden.’

Dancer shook his head, disappointed. ‘There are no boats here. The supply boats arrive with food and water then leave with the ore, and that’s that.’

‘So the guards say. But I’ve been here a long time and I’ve heard things.’

Dancer returned to breaking rock. ‘Such as?’ he asked between blows.

‘These islands, they’re clan lands. Right now the Dosii claim them out of Dosin Pali. Every once in a while one of the Holy Falah gets his panties in a twist over the damned foreigners here and so they whip up their followers into delousing, if you know what I mean.’ Dancer nodded his understanding. ‘That’s why they keep boats hidden nearby.’

‘Okay. So why aren’t you gone yet?’

‘Can’t do it m’self. Can’t climb any wall. Can’t sneak up on any guard. But you…’ and he winked, grinning his ugly frog-grin, ‘something of a speciality of yours, I’m guessing.’

Dancer said nothing. He continued hammering, though his arms burned as if afire. ‘I won’t go without my partner.’

Hairlock grunted, nodding. ‘I c’n wait. Won’t be long.’

The rest of the day Dancer worked in silence. When the dusk gongs sounded the end of shift, he shuffled back up the tunnels, deposited his sledge, and was given a new chit for the second meal.

He ate this in the alcove. His shoulders and arms twitched and he could barely raise his hand to his mouth. He kept a smear of the glop for Kellanved. This he pushed through the lad’s lips, not knowing if he was swallowing or not. In the murk of the evening it appeared to him that the mage’s form held a strange translucency, as if he were but an image, or shadow, of himself. He squinted, reaching out; touched the rough solid cloth of the lad’s chest. He shook his head and collapsed on his own ledge to take the fitful rest of the exhausted and hungry.

A fist tapping on the rock nearby roused him. He raised his head. ‘Yes?’

‘Greetings. It is I, Eth’en. May I enter?’

Dancer swung his feet down. It was dark and desert-chill now; he draped his single blanket over his shoulders. ‘Come in.’

The hanging cloth was brushed aside and the old fellow from the tunnels stepped through. ‘Good evening. Pardon this intrusion. I was wondering if I might examine your friend?’

Dancer could not see why not. ‘Go ahead. You know what you’re looking at?’

‘Indeed I do. I am of the Tano. A Spiritwalker – does this mean anything to you?’

Dancer shrugged. ‘No.’

A wry smile touched the elder’s lips. ‘Thank you. You are a rebuke to the vain. You are quite right. There is no reason at all why you should know what it means.’

He turned his attention to Kellanved and Dancer saw his face change; his brows rose, surprised, and he withdrew his outstretched hand, as if wary. He raised his gaze and Dancer saw wonder in his yellowed bloodshot eyes. ‘Please tell me … what were the circumstances of your friend’s, ah, arrival here?’

Dancer explained.

Eth’en nodded. ‘Yes. And this Warren – Rashan, I should guess?’

‘No. Meanas.’

The Tano actually appeared shocked. He said, after a time, ‘The Broken Realm. That is very unusual. So, he was walking you in through Shadow.’

Dancer considered, then shook his head. ‘Not … really. We passed through a gate in Shadow.’

The Spiritwalker hissed out a breath and sat on one of the stone ledges. ‘A third Realm? Describe it, please.’

Dancer shrugged again. ‘It was dark and lifeless. Fields of ash – as if some sort of firestorm had passed through consuming everything.’

The elder pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘The Moaning Plains?’ he murmured wonderingly. He regarded Kellanved for a time. ‘So … his spirit was stretched out across three Realms: ours, Shadow, and what some name the Scar. And then the Otataral took him…’

Eth’en sat back, raised his gaze to Dancer. ‘There is a ritual we have among us Tano – a deadly test. If one is willing to risk one’s essence, one’s mind, one may walk out into the Otataral Desert and sing – summoning our version of the Warrens – and embrace the transformative powers of this ore. It is near suicide. But those few who return … they return changed. Able to do things none other can…’ He looked away, his gaze far off. ‘It lies at the root of our powers, you know. Our Spiritwalking.’ He inclined his head to Kellanved. ‘They say delving into Meanas drives one insane. If your friend had already hardened his mind against its peculiarities, then when the Otataral struck … there is a chance.’ He spread his hands.

‘I see. Thank you.’

The elder rose, grunting, lifted the hanging, and turned. ‘Do not abandon him. Even if you think him dead. There is a chance.’

Dancer nodded. He sat and stretched out his legs as if settling in for a long wait. ‘We’ll see.’

* * *

Horst Grethall, caravan-master, and merchant out of Ryns, of Itko Kan lands, was uncharacteristically optimistic this day as he watched the congregation of wagons and carts take shape at a traditional assembling field south of Li Heng.

Now that that city was once again open for business, goods from the west, specifically finer Quon and Tali products, were trickling in. And this was excellent for business, as the southern markets were screaming for Talian leatherwork, filigreed silver, and Quon liquors. So if all the pieces came together in their proper time, his might be one of the first of the larger caravans to arrive in Itko Kan bearing a supply of these oh so desirable goods.

And not only this; he also had reason to be optimistic regarding his security during the month-long journey south – regardless of rumoured bands of renegades from the dead king Chulalorn’s shattered and beaten army, and opportunistic border raiders from Dal Hon – for he had acquired the services of the most sought-after caravanserai guard and fighting champion. She was a strange one, everyone agreed, but her reputation and skills were unimpeachable.

So he was in an almost cheerful mood as he walked the borders of the assembling field, seeking out old acquaintances and answering queries from his sons regarding marching orders, complaints, and disputes over fees. Veterans of his earlier crossings north and south across Kan lands wondered at this vision of a cheerful, near-carefree Horst, and they hoped he had not taken up smoking rustleaf, or d’bayang poppy.

It was near the end of the day when his youngest son came to him with a report of one last wagon petitioning to join the caravan.

Horst waved the boy away. ‘We’re fat enough. That’s why we’re leaving tomorrow.’

‘This fellow is quite insistent … and he looks like a competent swordsman.’

Horst shook his head. ‘I have guards enough. I’m not running a charity for out of work soldiers.’

Sevall opened his hands. ‘Well – he said he’ll just follow along anyway…’

Horst stopped his walking inspection of the line, turned to his son and set his fists on his hips. He felt the heat of temper pushing up from his stomach. ‘For the love of…’ Then he reconsidered. He’d turned away three extended families hoping to travel south under the protection of his caravan: pale some of them had been, sweaty, with obvious fevers among the kids. Plague.

He knew they’d be quarantined before being allowed entry to Kan, but there was no sense inviting the damned sickness into the caravan before it even started. He and his were safe – he carried a poultice round his neck blessed at the waters of the Temple of Poliel – but strong hands were needed to lead all the wagons. He sighed. ‘Fine. Let’s have a look.’ Sevall led him to the rear.

It was a garish red and gold oversized cart pulled by two horses – both of which looked healthy and well cared for, which was encouraging.

A single fellow stood before it in plain linen trousers and a long hanging shirt, his massed black hair unbound and loose, a long-sword at his side. And he was Dal Hon, or at least half so; this was not encouraging to Horst, who was only used to seeing Dal Honese at the opposite end of their hook-swords. He crossed his arms and looked the young fellow up and down.

‘You wish to join?’

The youth inclined his head in a measured nod. ‘I do.’

Horst gestured to the painted cart. ‘What’s this? The smallest bordello on the continent?’

‘It is my grandmother. She intended a pilgrimage, but age has caught up with her and it is her last wish to be buried with her lineage on Malaz.’

Horst grunted at that; he’d seen many such aunts and dowagers on the pilgrimage trails. He pointed to the north. ‘Why not take a riverboat? It’s far quicker.’

The fellow shook his head. ‘She has a dread of water.’

Now Horst frowned. ‘Well … I’m sorry to be the one to give you the news, but Malaz is an island.’

A slight rise and fall of the fellow’s enviably wide and muscular shoulders. ‘A flagon of wine might be the answer to that.’

‘It’s the answer to all kinds of things,’ Horst muttered. He nodded. ‘Fine. But even if you can fight you still have to pay the shared protection fee – understood?’

‘Agreed.’

‘And my security chief has the last say.’ He turned to Sevall. ‘Get Shear.’

Sevall ran to summon her.

They waited. When Shear drew close Horst did not have to turn to look for it was obvious in the surprised expression and fixed attention of the newcomer. When he felt her at his side he turned to look up her slim lean figure to her tightly braided auburn hair, and of course the strange affectation of the brightly painted half-mask that covered her eyes.

Those eyes, mostly hidden behind the mask, were fixed upon the lad. Horst gestured to him. ‘This fellow wishes to join his cart to the line. You demand approval of all additions. What do you say?’

She approached the newcomer, who, to his credit, did not laugh, or shrink, or give ground to this odd woman. In point of fact it was Horst who found himself becoming uneasy as Shear closed upon the young fellow until the two were nearly touching. Never had he seen anyone endure the strange outlander’s gaze for so long – not even he, and he was her employer.

He was also struck by how similar the two appeared; both in loose unadorned trousers and shirts, both wiry and lean, he with a simple utilitarian longsword at his side, she with twinned equally plain and functional swords at hers.

After a rather uncomfortably long time Shear turned away, without lowering her gaze, and returned to Horst. As she passed, she gave the slightest nod of assent, and Horst found himself releasing a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them. ‘Very good. We leave tomorrow. Your name?’

‘Dassem, sir.’

‘Sir? What do I look like? A damned Bloorian fop? That’s Horst. Caravan-master to you. Your cart will bring up the rear.’

If the young lad was resentful of the order of march he did not show it; he remained oddly calm, tranquil beyond his years. Again Horst was struck by an odd similarity with the outlander swords-woman, Shear. She too projected a strange serenity – even when cutting outlaws in half.

* * *

The slight creak of the opening door woke Tayschrenn. His cell was the utter black of any subterranean unlit cave, yet his eyes, like the eyes of all those sworn to D’rek, could penetrate the gloom.

Recognizing the figure now slowly closing the unlockable door behind her, he said, wryly, ‘This in an infraction of the rules, Silla.’

She turned, finger to her mouth. ‘Shh! Quiet.’ She sat next to him on the rope cot. ‘You should go tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘Tell no one. Just leave. Find a distant temple – any would welcome an adept of your rank.’

He smiled, quite amused. ‘Whatever for?’

She peered round. The open fear in her eyes sobered him. ‘Have you not been paying attention?’

‘Attention to what?’

She raised her open hands, exasperated. ‘To the questionings! The arrests! The disappearances.’

He shrugged. ‘It is normal for any new regime to see to its security.’

Silla lowered her voice even further, fierce. ‘All those being taken were close to Ithell. Don’t you see it? He is working his way up to you!’

‘Who?’

She squeezed her hands between her legs, lowering her head. ‘Tallow – or his people.’

‘Yet you welcomed him.’

‘I did not expect this. He is the Invigilator! An authority in the cult…’ She struggled to find the words, threw out her hands in frustration. ‘Why? Why this? It isn’t necessary!’

Tayschrenn dared to rest a hand on her shoulder. ‘Perhaps it is cult business. Perhaps he is following his duty. Do not worry. I have nothing to fear. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

The look she gave him was one of incredible pity. ‘Oh, Tay. You are so naïve. This is not about doing right or wrong, or following rules. This is about power.’

Feeling rather stung, he removed his hand. ‘I happen to know a thing or two about power.’

She took his hand, squeezed it. ‘Yes. I’ve heard all the stories. That when they awoke you to the Warrens the entire island shook. That all the elders combined could not master you even as a child. None dispute your might. What I am talking about is a different kind of power. Political power. Rulership. You are a threat to those in power now. Promise me you will go … please.’

He shook his head. ‘No. I will not flee. That would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. I have done nothing wrong. I welcome any questioning. I will be exonerated.’

Her sad look remained. ‘Oh, Tay … you think you cannot be touched. But you can. One day you’ll see.’ She pulled her hand away and he was surprised by how cold his own quickly felt. At the door she paused, whispering, ‘I hope it will not break you when it happens.’

* * *

Two days later they came for him.

It was the middle of the night when four of the Invigilator’s deputized special proctors came to his door to escort him to the courts. He offered them no resistance. They led him through empty, little-used tunnels and it soon became apparent that they were not taking him to the open general assembly hall, but to private chambers.

They sat him in a chair at the centre of an empty room lit by a few sullen candles and then withdrew. He assumed he was supposed to be nervous, his mind racing regarding what this was all about, growing more frantic as each moment passed, creating all sorts of fantastical scenarios of accusation and guilt. He waited instead with hands clasped and eyes shut, meditating.

After some time footsteps announced a visitor. He opened his eyes to see Tallow himself in the flickering gold candlelight and somehow he was not surprised in the least. The man wore a pained, saddened expression, and held his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Tayschrenn…’ The Invigilator sounded weary and regretful.

‘Yes?’ he interrupted, making an effort to appear especially attentive.

Tallow’s thick lips compressed tightly for a moment before he continued, ‘I want you to know that I personally do not wish to follow through with what has been ordered, but I am powerless before the will of the investigative council…’

‘And these are?’

The heavy-set priest blinked, frowning. ‘These are who?’

‘The council. Which priests and priestesses are these?’

Tallow shook his gleaming bullet-shaped head. ‘Tayschrenn … I am disappointed. Recriminations against the court will not help you now. It is too late for such games.’

‘Games?’ Tayschrenn repeated, one brow arched.

‘Indeed. During questionings troubling facts and accusations regarding you have arisen. These all require further investigation. It is my unhappy duty to see to this.’

‘Questioning … torture, you mean.’

‘Determined interrogation,’ Tallow corrected.

‘And these accusations are?’

Tallow raised a hand. ‘All in good time. More facts must be gathered. We must be thorough. Until then, please consider yourself under a sort of unofficial house arrest. More isolated quarters will be provided where you should reflect upon your past behaviour. Follow the proctors and please – do not cause any trouble.’

Tayschrenn understood that Tallow very much hoped he would cause trouble. Insubordination would make the man’s job so very much easier. He decided, then, not to make any protest at all – not that he’d planned to in any case.

Tallow motioned and the four proctors emerged from the gloom. They now held staves and one pointed aside, inviting Tayschrenn that way. He rose, saying to Tallow, ‘Until we meet in the temple courts for my hearing, then.’

A sideways humourless smile climbed the priest’s lips, and of all that had unfolded or been said that evening, that smile was the only thing that made Tayschrenn uneasy. ‘Until then.’

His new ‘quarters’ proved to be a cell close to the shore. So close in fact from the evidence of salt saints and damp that waves must splash in through its barred window during high tides. The proctors waved him in and closed the door, and he heard a lock being shut. This must be one of the very few lockable rooms in the entire temple complex.

He sat on the cold stone ledge, its blankets rotting and stiff with dried salt. The flimsy door and simple lock were no barrier to him, and the sea beckoned as the waves came surging against the rocks just beneath.

They expect me to run, he realized, almost in disbelief. They wanted him to run. This cell was designed to lure him into fleeing. So close; so simple. And that would make Tallow’s job so very easy, wouldn’t it. Admission of guilt to any and all false accusations.

Well, he would not make Tallow’s life easier.

He could outwait them, and endure anything they might invent. In his researches into the Warrens he’d stood before the vast emptiness of the Abyss itself, and faced entities that would blast the minds of any or all of these so-called masters.

There was nothing they could do to unnerve him.

No indeed. It would be they who would regret these actions. He would see to it.

And so he drew his sandalled feet up from the damp stone floor and crossed them, set his hands on his knees and settled into a course of deep meditation – to wait, to cleanse his mind – and to prepare.

* * *

A handful of the crew of the Tempest crouched together deep in the ship’s hold and talked murder.

‘Why sail onward?’ asked Hela. ‘He’s one man, and rich! Let’s toss him overboard and be on our way!’

‘West, he says,’ hissed Gudun. ‘Like it’s a stroll across the Deep. It’s all the cap’n could do to convince him to head up the coast. I say we get rid a’ him.’

‘The isle of the Seguleh is close,’ mused the mate, Wess. ‘We could maroon him there.’

All broke out in gales of laughter at that suggestion. A bottle made the rounds.

‘Then it’s decided?’ urged Hela. ‘We take him down?’

Young Renalt of March raised a slim dagger, growling, ‘Aye.’

Wess slapped the dagger aside. ‘He wears a mail coat, y’fool. How many crossbows ’n’ such do we have in the armoury?’

‘Enough,’ answered Gudun, the quartermaster. ‘And the cap’n?’ he asked Wess.

‘She’ll go along or she’ll be next.’

‘What does Bonecutter Jute say?’ Renalt asked of the group, and he gestured to where a grey-haired old man lay back against the planks, his eyes shut, a bottle clutched to his chest.

‘Who cares what that old winesack has to say?’ Hela snarled, but, glancing about, she saw frowns and uncertainty at her words among all those gathered and so she threw an arm out, inviting, ‘Fine!’

Renalt jostled the old man’s shoulder but it was not enough to rouse him. He cuffed him harder and the fellow snorted, smacking his lips, and blinking into wakefulness. ‘More wine,’ he croaked. Renalt tapped the bottle at his chest and he grunted, surprised and pleased, and took a swig.

‘We’re moving ’gainst this stranger,’ said Renalt. ‘What say you?’

The old man leaned forward, peered right and left, and cleared his throat. He raised a hand, finger poised, and said, ‘Who?’

Hela blew out an angry breath. ‘Our passenger, y’damned useless old soak!’

Bonecutter Jute nodded then, knowingly, and took another quick swig. He squinted up one eye and pressed the raised finger to his chin, thoughtfully.

The crowd waited silent and still while the old man considered. Finally, he unscrewed his eye and said, frowning, ‘Who?’

All groaned their dismissal of the fellow; many suggested where he could put that damned finger of his. Wess eyed those gathered and told Gudun: ‘Open the armoury.’

The crowd broke up, but Renalt remained with Bonecutter Jute. ‘What is it?’ he asked the old man. ‘You’re always soused, but not this bad.’

The oldster hugged the bottle like a floating timber in a storm. His eyes remained resolutely squinted shut. After a time, Renalt gave up and followed the others. Alone, Bonecutter Jute let out a long breath and raised the bottle. When nothing emerged from its mouth he frowned anew and returned to hugging it. Little beady eyes gleamed in the dark around him as rats came edging out of hiding. He whispered to them: ‘I drink when I’m afeared. And I’m greatly afeared o’ something.’

* * *

Above decks, Lars quickly opened the door to the ship’s main cabin – the captain’s, which the stranger had taken as his own – and locked it behind him. He immediately began coughing and blinking in a thick miasma of sweet-smelling fumes.

‘Is there a fire, m’lord?’ he gasped, rubbing his eyes.

‘No,’ came a low hoarse answer through the dense scarves of smoke. ‘No fire. Why do you disturb me?’

He remembered his panic. ‘The crew! They’re coming for you – us! I was listening! We must get the captain behind us. Perhaps with his support we can turn some of the crew…’

A ghostly shape emerged from the smoke: the stranger adjusting his mail coat and hitching up his long leather weapon belt. Lars felt a strange shiver of preternatural fear at the sight, as if he were witnessing the visitation of some hungry revenant, or ancient spirit.

The stranger, Kallor, picked up a burning smudge, or candle – the source of the dense fumes – and extinguished it with his fingers. He set it aside, saying, ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He asked, conversationally, while adjusting the set of his archaic, two-handed sword, ‘What minimal crew – in your opinion – is necessary for the handling of this vessel?’

Lars blinked at the fellow. Had he gone mad? He stammered, ‘Some forty, I should think, m’lord.’

The stranger raised his iron-grey brows in surprise. ‘Forty? Really? You do not think that is an excessive number?’ He stepped up to the door and Lars shifted out of his way; he grasped the latch, and turned to Lars. ‘We could get by with twenty, do you not think? Now, let us go and face our assailants, yes?’

Lars could only swallow, utterly terrified. ‘I will remain here and guard your possessions, if you do not mind?’ He meant the man’s riches, which he imagined must be hidden somewhere in the cabin.

‘Suit yourself,’ the fellow answered, shrugging, and he opened the door on to the darkness of the night and strode out, his armoured boots clanking on the wood decking.

Lars shut and locked the door behind him to stand panting, his mind racing: what to do, what to do? How could he ingratiate himself with the crew? Hang back and deliver the last blow to this Kallor’s back and thereby win some credit? Or should he find and hide the riches? No, not that – they would only torture him to discover them then do away with him. He rocked in place, his hands at his own throat. How could he survive this? There must be a way!

Then he decided: side with the crew – it was the only possibility. He pressed an ear to the thin planks of the door, waiting for his chance. He heard voices in muted conversation: the lazy delivery of the stranger and the tense clipped demands of the crew’s spokesman: the mate, no doubt.

An ear-shattering scream threw him away from the door and on to his back. The thump of multiple crossbows releasing punched the air. More screams – these now tinged with terror – and the stranger’s armoured boots clomping as he marched about the deck. Panicked thumping of bare feet drummed the decking as well. Someone pounded the door, screaming, ‘He’s killing us all!’

A length of bare iron punched through the door’s planks, red-smeared, and withdrew with an ear-tearing screech. Whoever had been spitted on it sagged to the base of the door. The armoured boots clomped onward, slow and steady. Lars pushed open the door, shoving the corpse aside; was he too late already?

Outside, the deck was a heaving horror of sloshing blood and gore. Bodies rolled from side to side as the Tempest lolled, unmanned. A chill wash of watered blood and other fluids splashed over Lars’ hands and knees as he crawled. Of the stranger he saw no sign; his hunt must have taken him below decks.

One sailor, female, sat back against the mizzen, a line firmly wrapped about one arm. She was alive, but slouched red with blood from a savage slash across her face down to white bone.

Another sailor sat against the side, hands pressed to his own face where blood streamed down his forearms to run into his lap.

He’s marking them, the thought came to Lars. Marking the spared.

A new figure emerged from the companionway, tottering, unsteady. It was the Tempest’s old bonecutter and sometime sea-mage, whose name he couldn’t recall. The old fellow walked hugging a jug to his chest, the wind whipping his long beard and grey hair. Seemingly oblivious of the charnel wreckage all about, he came stepping over corpses to pass close by.

Pausing, the oldster peered down at him, blinking his rheumy eyes. ‘Ancient evil has returned,’ he announced, and crossed to the side where, to Lars’ disbelief and horror, he threw himself straight over the rail to disappear head over heels.

Lars wasn’t certain, but he might have passed out for a moment after that. When he next looked up the stranger’s gore-smeared armoured boots faced him and he raised his gaze up the long hanging mail coat, gleaming with others’ blood, to the man himself, regarding him somewhat quizzically with his grey dead eyes.

The stranger cleaned his long blade by wiping it across the back of Lars’ shirt. ‘You can sail?’ he asked.

Lars nodded frantically. ‘Oh yes! Most certainly, lord.’

‘Good. Join the others. All hands will be needed now, yes?’

Lars could not stop his manic nodding. ‘Oh yes, lord.’

The stranger, Kallor, gestured to the sailor leaning up against the side, commanding him to approach. Blinking, near unconscious with pain and shock, the fellow levered himself up and shuffled to them through the wash of blood-stained water.

‘You are mine,’ the stranger told him. ‘The Marked. Clean up the vessel then set course due west.’ The sailor nodded miserably, both hands pressed to the savage gash across his face. ‘Oh,’ Kallor added, ‘and do not toss the bodies over the side. The way is long and supplies are short. You may have need of them.’ And he laughed, low and long, as he clomped his way to the cabin and shut the door behind him.

A cold rain began to fall from high clouds and Lars stood feeling the chill drops run down his face. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t taken those gems.