Tower Lord

CHAPTER THREE

Lyrna

Water . . . Falling . . . A slow, regular liquid beat, birthing an echo.

Am I in a cave? Later, she would remember this as her first coherent thought as Queen of the Unified Realm. Her second being the fact that she was now queen. Her third would be a silent wail of despair at the agony searing its way into her mind, summoning horror and making her thrash and scream . . . The flames spouting from the Volarian woman’s hands, Malcius, Ordella, Janus, little Dirna, the stench of her skin and hair as it burned . . . She choked as the scream spluttered to silence. There was something in her mouth, something hard and unyielding clamped between her teeth. She tried to pull it free but found her hands unwilling to respond, restrained somehow. It occurred to her that she should open her eyes.

Darkness, broken by a dim shaft of light, hazy shapes huddled in catacombs. A cave after all. But why is it swaying so? And why do chains dangle from the ceiling?

A jerking movement from one of the huddled shapes commanded her eye, a loud retching reaching her ears along with the spatter of vomit. Silence returned, save for a faint whimpering, the occasional jangle of linked metal, and the creak of protesting wood.

Not a cave. A ship.

“So,” a soft, gravelled voice muttered in the shadows to her left. “The screamer’s awake again.”

Her eyes peered into the shadows, seeking a face, seeing only the dim outline of a shaven head, blocky and gleaming from the light above. A grunt as the blocky head tilted. “Don’t look so mad now. Pity, you’ll soon wish you were.”

Lyrna tried to speak, but found the words caged by whatever was clamped into her mouth, secured in place by leather straps about her head. She looked down at her hands, seeing a faint glint of old metal on her wrists. She gave a tug, chains snapping taught, the shackles chafing her skin.

“Overseer thought you were a nuisance,” the voice said. “Wanted to toss you overboard. The master wouldn’t have it. My Volarian isn’t good, but I think he said something about breeding stock.”

Lyrna heard no malice in the voice, just indifferent observation. She grimaced as the pain returned, closing her eyes as tears seeped forth, the agony sweeping across her scalp and face in waves. Her skin, her hair, burning . . .

She abandoned herself to the sobs that wracked her, collapsed to the damp wooden planking, shuddering in sorrow, drool flowing around the gag. It could have been hours, or days even, before exhaustion took her. She was always grateful there were no dreams lurking in the void that claimed her.

She jerked awake as something hauled on the gag, straining her neck as she was dragged to her knees, staring up at a very large man in a black leather jerkin. He leaned close, eyes staring into hers in appraisal, grunting in satisfaction then reaching behind her, undoing the straps and removing the gag. Lyrna coughed, retching and gasping, then choking off as the large man enclosed her face with his hand, pulling her eyes back to his. “No . . . screaming,” he said in broken Realm Tongue. “You. No more screaming. Or.” He raised something in his other hand, something long and coiled with an iron handle. “Understanding?”

Lyrna managed to move her head in a fractional nod.

The large man grunted again and released her, moving away, boots splashing in the bilge water. He paused to nudge a huddled shape with the handle of his whip, voicing a tired curse, leaning down to unlock the shackles with the key hanging around his neck then barking something over his shoulder. Two men, not quite so large, appeared from the shadows to lift the shape between them, carrying it towards the steps above Lyrna’s head, the only feature of the hold to be fully bathed in the light from above. Lyrna glimpsed a face through the gaps in the steps as they took the body aloft, a woman, her features slack and pale in death, but Lyrna had a sense she had been pretty.

The overseer, as Lyrna had intuited him to be, found two more bodies amongst the host of huddled shapes, both also dragged aloft, presumably to be cast overboard. She couldn’t tell how many others were shackled here, the furthest reaches of the hold were too shrouded in shadow, but counted over twenty within view. A space of ten yards square, holding twenty. The average Volarian slave ship is eighty yards long. There are perhaps one hundred and fifty people in this hold.

Off in the gloom the key rattled anew followed by a fearful sob. The overseer appeared again, pulling a stumbling figure behind him, a girl, slender, young, dark hair veiling her face, tears audible as she was led aloft.

“Third time for that one,” the shaven-headed shadow said. “Not a good place to be pretty, this ship. Lucky for us eh?”

Lyrna tried to speak, finding the words stuck in her sand-dry throat. She coughed, summoning as much moisture to her mouth as she could, and tried again. “How long?” she asked in a rasp. “Since Varinshold.”

“Four days, by my reckoning,” the voice replied. “Puts us maybe two hundred miles across the Boraelin.”

“You have a name?”

“I did, once. Names don’t matter here, my lady. You are a lady, are you not? That dress and that voice don’t come from the streets.”

Streets. She had been running through streets, screaming, the pain taking all reason as she ran from the palace where all was flame and death, ran and ran . . . “My father was a m-merchant,” she said, a tremor colouring every word she spoke. “My husband also. Though they hoped to ascend one day, by the King’s good graces.”

“I doubt anyone will ascend again. The Realm has fallen.”

“The whole Realm? In just four days?”

“The King and the Orders are the Realm. And they’re gone now. I saw the House of the Fifth Order burning as I was led to the docks. It’s all gone.”

All gone. Malcius, the children . . . Davoka.

Her gaze was drawn upwards as more feet sounded on the steps. One of the overseer’s not-so-large servants led a slim young man down into the hold, securing him to a free set of manacles a few feet from Lyrna.

“Another popular pretty face,” the shaven-headed man muttered.

“Necessity breeds forbearance, brother,” the young man replied in a light tone that jarred on Lyrna’s ear. She had to agree he was pretty, his features delicate, reminding her of Alucius, before the war and the drink.

“Filthy degenerate,” shaven-head said.

“Hypocrite.” The young man grinned at Lyrna. “Our screaming lady has regained her senses, I see.”

“Not a lady after all,” the gravelly voice replied. “Just a merchant’s wife.”

“Oh. Pity, I should have liked some noble company. No matter.” The young man bowed to Lyrna. “Fermin Al Oren, Mistress. At your service.”

Al Oren. Not a name she knew. “Your f-family has property in Varinshold, my lord?”

“Alas no. Grandfather gambled away every bean before I was born, leaving my poor widowed mother destitute and me obliged to restore our fortunes through guile and charm.”

Lyrna nodded. A thief then. She turned to shaven-head. “He called you brother.”

The shadowed face gave no response but Fermin was quick to reply in his stead. “My friend is fallen from the sight of the Departed, Mistress. Cast down amongst the wretched for his grievous attempt on the . . .”

The shaven head lunged forward, chains straining, the slatted light revealing brutish features and a misshapen nose. “Shut it, Fermin!” he ordered with a snarl.

“Or what, exactly?” the noble thief returned with a laugh. “What can you threaten now, Iltis? We’re not fighting over scraps in the vaults any more.”

“You were in the dungeons together,” Lyrna realised.

“That we were, Mistress,” Fermin confirmed, grinning at Iltis who had slumped back into the gloom. “Our hosts came for us the morning after the city fell, killed the guards that had been foolish enough to linger, killed most of the prisoners too. But preserving the strong and”-he winked at her-“the pretty.”

Slave, Lyrna thought, crouching to peer at the bracket to which her chains were fashioned. I am a slave-queen. The thought provoked a shrill giggle, threatening to build to more screams. She forced it down and concentrated on the bracket, her fingers describing a half loop and plate of iron, secured into the oak beam with two sturdy bolts. She couldn’t hope to work it loose. The only way these shackles were coming off was via the overseer’s key.

“You have a name, Mistress?” Fermin asked as she reclined against one of the beams supporting the steps.

Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, Daughter to King Janus, Sister to King Malcius, Ruler of the Unified Realm and Guardian of the Faith. “Names don’t matter here,” she said in a whisper.

The following day the overseer found no further corpses which seemed a signal to begin giving them better food, thick porridge with berries replacing thin gruel. Weeded out the weaklings, Lyrna surmised. And starved slaves are no use.

She watched the overseer closely during his visits, her eyes constantly on the key about his neck as he stooped to examine his stock, the key dangling, but never low enough to grab. Even if I could, he would beat me down before I could use it. She glanced over at Iltis slurping his porridge, meaty fingers scooping out the dregs from the bowl, licking them with gusto. Fourth Order, she decided. One of Tendris’s Ardent brutes. Not so easy to beat down.

She dropped her gaze as the overseer stopped beside her, leaning down to unlock the chains from the bracket. “Up!” he commanded, nudging her with his whip handle.

She rose, swaying on unsteady legs, muscles shuddering with cramp. The overseer pulled her into the light, taking hold of her face and turning her head from side to side, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, lip curled in disgust. “Too much damage,” he muttered in Volarian. “Even the crew won’t fuck you with a face like that.” Without a pause he reached down to lift her skirt, rough hands mauling, exploring. Lyrna choked back vomit and kept as still as possible. “Or maybe they would,” the overseer mused, rising and unlacing her bodice, hands and eyes exploring her breasts.

No screaming, Lyrna thought, closing her eyes and clenching her teeth as his thumb traced over her nipple. No more screaming.

“Not stupid either,” the overseer said, turning her face to him again. “What were you I wonder? Rich man’s whore? Prize daughter of a wealthy house?” He searched her face for understanding as he spoke. Lyrna stared back with eyes wide, her fear only half pretence.

The overseer grunted, stepping back and gesturing with his whip. “Sit!”

Lyrna slumped back to the boards and he relocked her manacles, leaving her fumbling at her bodice as he stomped up the steps. Davoka would have slit his belly and laughed as his guts spilled out. Smolen would have hacked his head from his shoulders in a trice. Brother Sollis would have . . .

THEY ARE NOT HERE!

She breathed deeply, forcing the tremble from her hands, leaning down to lace up her bodice with deliberate care. You have no protectors here. No servants. You must serve yourself.

Nighttimes were the worst, the other captives often given to terrors, calling out in their sleep for lost loved ones or begging for release. Lyrna slept only fitfully, waking often thanks to the pain and the memories. This night it had been the Volarian woman again, but instead of flame it was water that gushed from her arms, great torrents of it, filling the throne room . . .

She rose to her customary crouch, waiting for her heart to calm itself. The dreams were vivid, no doubt because she had repeatedly forced herself to examine every facet of what she witnessed in the throne room, realising for the first time that her fearsome memory could be a curse as well as a gift. She spared herself nothing, every word spoken by Brother Frentis, every nuance of expression, every lick of flame.

He had been flawless, she thought. Perfect in every way. Not like an act at all. A damaged man, noble in his humility, returning home after an epic of tribulation. The woman too, every inch the timid escaped slave. All gone the moment my brother died. And her rage when I killed Frentis, no acting there. Her thoughts lingered on the woman’s face, the grief and rage as the blood began to stream from her eyes. Unexpected, Lyrna decided. Frentis wasn’t supposed to die. Not part of the plan. Which begged another question. What else did she need him for? Or was it just the rage of a woman who loses her lover? The Mahlessa’s words came to her, as they often did as she pondered the mystery of it all. Three of these things . . . His sister . . . you wouldn’t want to meet her. Could it be? Had she survived an encounter with the third malicious agent the Mahlessa spoke of?

A fresh spasm of pain clutched at her scalp, making her stifle a gasp. Perhaps survive was not the right word. A mountain of questions but no answers. No evidence. But I’ll have it, however many years it takes . . . However much blood I have to spill to get it.

Her eyes were drawn to a movement off to her left. It was Fermin, leaning forward with a hand extended towards the deck, his finger moving from side to side as he smiled down at something between his feet. Lyrna followed his gaze, seeing a small black rat on the planking, staring up at the moving finger, its head matching the movement with exact precision, as if it were being pulled along by an invisible string.

Lyrna’s chains made a small clanking sound as she leaned forward for a better view. Fermin’s head came up in a start, expression void of any humour now. His fingers spasmed and the rat scampered off into the shadows. He looked away as Lyrna continued to stare, the Mahlessa’s words now singing in her head like a triumphal bugle: Look to the beast charmer when chains bind you.

“So, my lord,” she asked Fermin the next morning, “what manner of thief were you?”

For once he seemed reticent, reluctant to meet her gaze. “A poor one, given my capture.”

“When you are . . . taken aloft,” she persisted. “You must have seen how many hands crew this ship.”

His gaze met hers. “Why would that interest you, Mistress?”

There was a rattle of chains as Iltis shifted behind her, as she hoped he would. “Do you wish to be a slave?” she asked him. “Used like this for all your days? What fate do you think awaits you in their empire?”

“A better fate than being cast into the ocean. I’ll suck every cock they thrust at me and bare my arse to a thousand more. Shame is not my vice. But fear is. I intend to live, mistress of no name.” He turned away. “Scheme all you want, I’ll have none of it.”

“Forget him,” Iltis said in a dismissive rumble. “A coward will be of no use to us in any case.”

Lyrna turned to him. “Us, brother?”

“Don’t play with me, woman. I see your eyes covering every corner of this hold. What have you seen?”

She turned towards him, shuffling as close as she could, speaking softly, but still loud enough for Fermin to hear. “My family were merchants, as you know. We traded with Volarian ships. A ship this size will have a crew of perhaps forty men, fifty at most.”

Iltis frowned. “So?”

“There must be at least one hundred and fifty people in this hold. Odds of three to one, if we can loose them.”

“Many will be too weak to fight, and half are women.”

“Give a woman a good reason and she’ll fight a hundred men. And a weak man becomes strong when fired with fear and hatred.”

The man beside Iltis stirred, raising his head. Iltis turned a hard stare on him. “Breathe a word of this and you’ll wake up with a broken neck.”

The man shook his head, sitting up and shuffling closer. He was sturdy, though not so large as Iltis, with a prominent jaw and a scars on both cheeks marking him as either outlaw or soldier. “Get these chains off,” he said. “And I’ll rip the throats from a dozen of the fuckers with my bare hands.”

Outlaw, Lyrna decided.

Iltis regarded the earnest face of the outlaw in silence for a moment then turned back to Lyrna. “The overseer’s key. You have a way to get it?”

No. “Yes. But we need to be patient. Wait for the right time. Speak to those around you, keep your words soft, but warn them to be ready.”

“How do we know we can trust them all?” Iltis enquired. “Some may sell us for favoured treatment or a promise of freedom.”

“We have no choice,” Lyrna said, glancing over her shoulder at Fermin, now huddled with his back to them, though she saw his fists were clenched. “Trust must be risked.”

The word was passed from captive to captive, questions whispered back and forth throughout the day. They were afraid, but none save for Fermin said no, and none sold them to the overseer. Still free at heart, Lyrna thought. Not yet moulded into slaves.

She had questions relayed to the slender girl who was taken aloft most often. How many in the crew? How many are armed? The next time she was led to the steps her hair was pulled back from her face, her eyes still leaking tears, but lit with a determined light. Upon being returned to the hold her answers came back. Thirty crewmen. Fifteen guards, positioned about the hold entrance, working in shifts of five at a time.

She waited until Iltis was asleep before speaking to Fermin again. He sat half-turned towards the hull, eyes closed, a slight frown on his brow, as if straining for some faint sound. Lyrna listened and picked up a distant, lilting drone.

“Whale-song,” she said.

Fermin’s eyebrows rose and a grim smile came to his lips. “Not for long.”

Abruptly the whale-song ended and a moment later the hull reverberated with the echo of a crushing impact. “Red sharks,” said Fermin. “They’re always hungry.”

“You can hear their hunger?”

He turned back to her, expression closed once more.

“I know what you are,” Lyrna said. “Beast charmer.”

“And I know you’re not some merchant’s daughter. Did the overseer have it right? A rich man’s whore? I know you understood every word he said.”

“Whores get paid. Slaves don’t.”

“What do you want from me?”

“To do what you do. Steal. Or rather have your little friend steal for you.”

“The overseer’s key.”

“Quite so.”

“We unshackle everyone and storm the ship. That’s your great plan?”

“If you have another, I should very much like to hear it.”

“I have a plan, of my own. You see it’s the master of this fine vessel who calls for me. He’s a man of considerable property, a large estate near Volar, a wing of his house given over to his collection of young men from all the corners of the world. I’ll be his first from the Realm, pampered and cared for whilst you’ll be squirting out babies every year until your womb dries.”

“That’s your ambition? To be kept like a pet until you grow too old to interest him.”

“I’ll be on my way long before then, don’t worry. A whole empire to explore, so many treasures to steal.”

“Leaving everything behind? Your city, your mother?”

She saw that one hit home, the twitch of his mouth speaking of a suppressed pain.

“What of her?” Lyrna prodded. “Do you know what became of her when the city fell?”

He rocked back and forth, hugging his knees and suddenly appearing very young. “No,” he said in a whisper.

“You said you provided for her. That’s why you took to thieving, isn’t it? For her. Don’t you want to know if she still lives?”

“How do we know anyone still lives back there? How do we know anyone remains free?”

“I know it. And I think you do too.”

“When the City Guard caught me she bribed the lord of the dungeon to make sure I was fed. The King allows a few comforts in the dungeons now, if you can pay for them. At least, he did.” He closed his eyes, hugging his knees tighter. “She’s dead. I know it.”

“With all your heart? Because with all my heart I know there are still free people in our Realm, and they are fighting whilst we languish here.”

He opened his eyes and she saw tears shining. “You’re not a whore,” he said hoarsely. “No whore ever spoke like that.”

“Help us. We’ll take this ship and sail back to the Realm. I will help you find her, you have my word.”

He gritted his teeth, breath exhaling in a hiss. “I always used weasels,” he said after a moment. “Rats aren’t suited to thieving. I’ll need time before the bond is strong enough for such a complex task.”

“How long?”

“At least three days.”

Three days. An unwelcome delay, but Volaria was still a long way off, and three more days of improved diet could only aid them when the time came. She nodded. “Thank you.”

He gave a faint grin. “I hope there are some sailors amongst this lot, otherwise we’ll be running a great risk just to set ourselves adrift in a broad ocean.”

The rat dropped the berry in front of Fermin, sitting back and staring up with bright eyes, whiskers twitching. Fermin smiled fondly at the rodent and blinked, the rat scurrying off in a blur. It reappeared after only a few moments bearing another berry, adding it to the growing pile at Fermin’s feet.

“Don’t like this,” Iltis whispered. His face was shadowed but Lyrna knew it was tense with suspicion. “Use of the Dark is a denial of the Faith.”

Lyrna was tempted to point out that none of the original catechisms made any mention of the Dark and the strictures against it only appeared in Realm Law following the time of the Red Hand. But she doubted Iltis was the kind of man for whom reasoned discussion held much meaning. “We have no choice,” she whispered instead. “No other way to get the key.”

“She’s right,” the scar-faced outlaw said. “I’d even give my soul to the Cumbraelin god to get out of this pit.”

Iltis made a grunting noise, his bulky form hunching over in anger. “Heresy comes easy to the weak of Faith. Mine has never wavered.”

“We don’t get that key, you’ll have years of slaving to test your precious Faith,” the outlaw replied provoking a lurching snarl from Iltis.

“This isn’t helping,” Lyrna said.

Iltis ground his teeth and relaxed back against the hull, lost to the shadows once more.

“You understand your part in this?” Lyrna asked the outlaw.

He nodded. “Get to the tiller, kill the helmsman. Three of the strongest men will be with me.”

“Good.” She turned to Iltis. “Brother?”

“Once the shackles are off, wait for the guards to come for the nightly inspection. Strangle them with our chains and take their weapons. Take five men and kill the others on deck. The overseer’s cabin is at the stern next to the master’s. Kill the overseer first, then the master.”

“I’ll lead the others against the crew,” Lyrna said. “Try to herd them towards the port rail, keep them bottled up. We’ll need you to help finish them off, so be quick.”

“We’ll be lucky if half of us are still breathing by the end,” the outlaw said.

I’ll consider us fortunate if it’s a quarter, she thought. “I know. Do the others?”

“They know.” He swallowed and forced a smile. “Better a free corpse than a living slave, eh?”

Fermin pronounced his rat ready the following night, the animal now so completely within his control it would sit in his upturned hands, staring ahead with an unnerving stillness. “He’s a clever one,” Fermin said. “Not weasel clever, but still smart enough for tonight’s escapade.”

Lyrna felt a fresh wave of pain sweep over her head, making her grimace. The pain had changed over the last two days, becoming more concentrated in certain places, no doubt where the flames had seared the deepest into her flesh. Added to the pain was a hard ball of nausea in her gut. The Lonak had a word for it, Arakhin: the weakness before battle. “Then let’s be about it,” she said.

Fermin lowered the rat to the deck where it promptly scampered towards the steps, hopping from one to the other until it was lost from view. Fermin reclined, eyes closed. Lyrna breathed slow and even as the moments stretched, trying to calm the sickness building in her belly, feeling the silence thicken around her as the others waited. She studied Fermin’s face as he continued to sit with his eyes closed, seeing the occasional twitch or frown and wondering what it meant. Does he see through its eyes? she wondered as a faint smile came to the thief’s lips.

“He’s got it,” he whispered, making Lyrna’s heart leap. “That’s it, jump down, then back under the d-” His eyes flew open as a spasm of pain shook him from head to toe. He convulsed then doubled over, retching.

“Fermin!” Lyrna called to him. “What is it? What happened?”

The heavy fall of boots on the deck echoed throughout the hold, all eyes raised to track their progress. The footsteps halted, a pause, then something small splashed into the square of moonlit bilge water below the steps, something with black fur and a broken back.

Fermin stopped vomiting, righting himself and staring at the planking on the hull, his brows deeply furrowed in concentration.

The overseer descended the steps at a leisurely pace, the tip of his whip sliding over the wood as he made an unhurried entrance, standing in the moonlight and nudging the dead rat with his boot. “How very interesting,” he murmured in Volarian.

Fermin gave a pained grunt, his breathing heavy, sweat shining on his skin as he continued to stare at the hull.

“Magic,” the overseer said in Realm Tongue, raising his gaze. “One here, with magic. Who?” His whip uncoiled with a flick of his wrist, sliding across the planking like a snake. “All here, trade for one with magic.” He moved to the outlaw, staring into his eyes. “Understanding?”

The outlaw was shaking with fear, a fear so absolute it seemed certain he was about to spill every secret. Instead he closed his eyes and shook his head. Better a free corpse than a living slave.

The overseer shrugged and moved back, turning away, then twisting with cobralike speed, his whip moving too fast for the eye, the skin on the outlaw’s already scarred cheek splitting open as the crack reverberated throughout the hold.

“Who?” the overseer said again, his eyes roving, the outlaw sobbing in pain.

Fermin gave an audible gasp, sagging as yet more sweat streamed down his back, drawing the overseer’s eye. As he started towards him Lyrna jangled her chains, rising the bare few inches they permitted, speaking in Volarian. “It’s me! I have the magic!”

The overseer’s gaze narrowed, a very small grin on his lips as he moved towards her. “Should have guessed,” he said in Volarian. “Rare to find one, but when I do it’s usually the smartest.” He held up the key on the chain about his neck. “Sent your little friend for this. Clever, it nearly worked. But now I’ll have to kill ten of these as an example. Not you though, you’re worth a thousand of them. But you do get to choose.”

He moved back to the moonlit square, spreading his arms with a laugh. “So choose, you burnt bitch! Which of these do you want to watch d-”

The ship lurched, throwing him from his feet, the planking on the hull behind splintering, water streaming through in miniature fountains. The overseer staggered forward, falling onto Iltis and the outlaw. For a moment he gaped up at the big brother, face blank with shock. Iltis brought his blocky head forward to connect with the overseer’s nose, bone breaking and blood streaming. The overseer sagged as the outlaw twisted, wrapping his legs around the Volarian’s midriff, holding him in place as Iltis continued to bring his head down. More breaking bone, more blood.

“The key!” Lyrna shouted.

Iltis stared at her, blood streaming down his face, he blinked as the fury abated and understanding returned. With the outlaw’s help he rolled the overseer onto his back, fumbling for the key.

“I can’t . . .” Fermin said in a faint drone of exhaustion. Lyrna turned to see him slumped, blood streaming from his nose and eyes. “I can’t stop him . . . now. You have to be quick.”

“Got it!” Iltis said, pulling the key towards his manacles, stubby fingers attempting to manoeuvre it into the lock.

Something impacted on the hull once more, the planking splintering further, more water gushing forth, the level rising about their feet. Iltis cursed as the key was jerked from his fingers, spinning in the air and landing at Lyrna’s feet. She crouched down, hands plunging into the water, searching, panic threatening to strip her reason away . . . There, smooth metal under her fingertips. She grasped it tight, holding it up to her manacles, forcing the tremble from her hands as she twisted the lock to meet it. Slow, don’t rush . . . The key slotted into the lock, turned and the manacles fell away.

She stood, uncaring of the ache that burned in every muscle, surveying the few faces not hidden in shadow, seeing the terror and desperation, the pleading in every gaze. The steps are near, and this ship will sink before long . . .

She freed Iltis first, then the outlaw. “Guard the steps!”

“What about taking the ship?” the outlaw asked.

Lyrna glanced at the splintered hull and moved on to the next captive, a woman about her own age, sobbing in gratitude. “Soon there won’t be any ship to take,” she said, helping the woman to her feet.

She freed the next man in line and handed him the key. “Free the others. Hurry.”

She went to Fermin, finding him near senseless with exhaustion, although the blood had stopped flowing. “Wake up!” She slapped him across the face. “Wake up, my lord!”

Focus returned to his gaze and he groaned in protest as she hauled him upright. “What is it?” she said. “What did you do?”

“They’re always hungry,” he said in a whisper.

The ship tilted, the captives shouting in alarm as something scraped along the hull, the ever-rising water sloshing about. A guard came trotting down the stairs, probably sent to check on the overseer, drawing up in shock at the sight of Iltis and the outlaw. He turned to shout something at his comrades above but the outlaw whipped his chains around the man’s legs before he could speak, pulling him onto his face and dragging him down the remaining steps. Iltis forced him under the rising waters, keeping him submerged until his thrashing subsided.

“See if he has another key,” Lyrna said.

Iltis searched the corpse but raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Lyrna surveyed the captives, maybe twenty were free now, and the water kept rising.

“Can you keep it at bay?” she asked Fermin in desperation. “Until everyone is freed?”

He smiled, revealing bloodstained teeth. “Given all I have to give . . .”

The deck exploded, a huge fountain of water gushing forth and in the centre a great triangular head, impossibly wide jaws opening, revealing row upon row of spear-point teeth. The jaws closed on two of the captives, cutting through both like a scythe through straw, the gushing water turned red. The head thrashed from side to side, more wood splintering, the whole ship shuddering with the force, then it was gone.

“Convinced him we were a whale,” Fermin said to Lyrna, the water nearly at his shoulders. He met her gaze. “My mother’s name is Trella. Remember your promise, my Queen.”

Iltis’s large hands grabbed her, pulling her towards the steps as the water rose to cover Fermin’s head. Iltis pushed her ahead of him, up the steps and onto the upper deck. All was confusion, a few freed captives milling about, the crew either frozen in shock or desperately trying to launch their boats, deaf to the orders shouted by a tall man in a black robe.

“We need a boat,” Lyrna said.

Iltis nodded, striding towards the nearest boat, laying about with his chains, the outlaw fighting at his side as they forced a path, the remaining captives following in a dense knot. Some crewmen fought, others fled, most just stood and stared.

Lyrna found one of the guards on his knees, twitching fingers exploring the bleeding gash Iltis had left on his forehead. She pulled the short sword from his scabbard and strode to where the tall black-robed man stood shouting his pointless orders from a hoarse throat. He had his back to her so could offer no defence as she thrust the blade into it. He shouted in shock and pain as he sank to his knees.

“I would like you to know,” she said in Volarian, placing her mouth close to his ear, “that from this day every moment of my life will be spent rending your empire to dust and flame. I’ll give your regards to your collection when I burn your estate to the ground, Master.”

She left the sword embedded in his back and ran to the boat. The crew were now solely concerned with preserving themselves and the prisoners had a free hand in heaving it over the side, a task made easier by the fact that the sea was now almost level with the rail. The outlaw vaulted into the boat, reaching back to help a captive aboard, the slender girl who had been so popular with the crew. Lyrna noticed her nails were bloody and broken.

The ship shuddered once more and the sea swamped the deck. Lyrna found herself lifted by Iltis and thrust at the boat, catching hold of a cleat, the outlaw hauling her aboard with the aid of the others. Iltis pulled himself over the side and lay panting on the deck amidst the survivors. Lyrna counted five in all, ragged, exhausted, and all looking at her.

Not much of a kingdom, she thought, surveying the boat as they rose and fell at the ocean’s whim. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the ship’s mainmast slipping beneath the waves amidst a swirling cluster of flotsam. “Do we have any oars?”