Читать книгу Hero Born - Andy Livingstone - Страница 10

They were coming, he knew that. No messenger had forewarned him, but living for years, so many long years, in a world limited to the dust and gloom of these few chambers perversely had brought with it an acute sense of the wider place around him. Servants and retainers moving about their daily routines around his quarters, unseen beyond his doors but betrayed by their soft murmuring and quiet tread, created a rhythm that needed only the merest change to attract his attention. He had listened.

At first, there had been abject dejection that his existence had descended to such banality but, before long, there was a resurgence of the curiosity of his youth, the voracious appetite for information that had been far more the reason for his success than the chilling ruthlessness for which he had been known to the public eye. He became absorbed in the noises, the movements, the rhythms. Over time, the changes, and not just the routine, brought understandable meaning and, bereft of any distractions, he had become adept at reading that meaning. And it had helped the hours to pass.

From time to time, they would come for him. When they remembered that he could be of some use. And they would be surprised at his knowledge of the world outside his chambers. Not of the movements of servants – such trivialities were so far beneath them that they had no interest in that class other than knowing that the required services had been performed even before they realised they were needed. No, their surprise would be at his knowledge of the machinations of court politics, and even of the swirling currents of affairs within and between nations. But, then, he had never seen servants and their movements as trivial. Not in the sense that he had appreciated them, of course, but rather in the sense that every one of them was an opportunity to be exploited: the wine-bearer waiting behind the pair of nobles deep in conversation; the ostler helping an ambassador dismount while he dropped his impassive visage and ranted, safe from the gaze of the court; the handmaiden in the bedchamber of the visiting king’s wife; the concubine in the bedchamber of the visiting king. He had, in previous decades, made it his business to know by name every servant in the palace. Few of those were still in service, but enough remained to paint a picture of the world near and far. Whenever he was summoned, he revealed only a fraction of what he knew – it went against the grain to do otherwise – but he gave them enough to engender a sense of wonder, or suspicion, at his knowledge; he cared not which, he enjoyed both. They concealed their surprise, of course, but he had spent too many years reading other men to miss the glimpses of their true feelings. He had so few moments of genuine pleasure any more, but these times were counted among them. He, too, would never reveal such emotion, but he was well-practised at concealing it, and they were mere novices in reading it. And an air of mysticism was always handy.

Nevertheless, as he left them, they would always see him as their fool. And he would always see them as his puppets. And he despised them for both.

Unseen knuckles rapped softly at the door. They had come to summon him to the court. He rose and grunted acknowledgement. By the time the servant entered the room, the smile that had played around the corners of his eyes had been replaced by his familiar cold mask.

He was ready.

****

Shortly before dawn, the Captain woke from a fitful sleep. Sitting up, he pulled on his boots and shirt and reached automatically for the sword from lying beside him in the bunk. Some old habits refuse to die. He buckled it on as he left the room and, in moments, was below deck.

He hesitated. Even after all these years, he felt a touch of nerves before entering her presence. Taking a breath, as Brann had done only a few hours before, he walked in. He stood, looking down at the bundle of rags, unsure if he should wake her. As he watched, however, he gradually became aware of her face, eyes unblinking, staring calmly back at him.

He jumped. Slightly.

‘Think you I was unaware of you, boy?’ she said softly. ‘Much use to you I would be, were I not even able to notice your approach. Much use indeed.’

He bowed his head, a faint smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Apologies, my lady,’ he said. He was about to continue, but she pre-empted him.

‘Want to know what the day brings, do you? Want to know of approaching others?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You know the other ship?’ he asked.

She shook her head slightly, the charms tinkling gently. ‘I see many things, my boy, ships, weather, mortal spirits among them, but I recognise the identity of no ship but this one,’ she said quietly. ‘But sometimes I cast the bones for myself, not just when you ask, so I do. Today I did. And so already I know of others approaching. Would you know more?’

He nodded, once. ‘I would, my lady. As ever, anything you can tell, I would know.’

The bones were lying on the floor in front of her. With a surprisingly deft sweep of her arm, she caught them up and cast them in a single movement. They rattled to a halt and, without taking her eyes from them, she reached to the side and drew one of the candles closer. ‘Danger approaches, twofold,’ she said.

He stiffened. ‘Two ships?’

She shook her head. ‘Specific, it is not. But men or weather, all that approaches means this vessel harm, so it does. Take care, so you should.’

‘We have few friends in this world, and none out here in this sea,’ he murmured. ‘Is there anything else?’

She poked one long finger at two of the bones, staring intently at them. She brushed the other relics aside, as if to concentrate on the pair. Silence hung heavy as she stared, unmoving. The Captain checked himself, feeling the urge to hurry her, but knowing the futility of doing so.

She nodded once, as if now sure of something that she had suspected. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is more. If conflict there is, I cannot say the outcome, neither I can. Conflict will swing many ways, at the whimsy of fate and the decisions of men. But one thing is clear: if you fight or if you run, you will lose some in your charge. How many, and who, is down to you. Down to you, it is. But this much is clear: men will die today.’

He cursed the capriciousness of Calip. Why could the god of luck and chance never allow anything to be straightforward?

She spoke again, her tone final and dismissive. ‘I see no more. Take care and think clearly, so you should. Think clearly as you battle nature and man. Perhaps you can use one against the other.’

‘Use them to fight or to run?’

‘I see no more,’ she repeated, sweeping up the bones and watching them as she fiddled with them absently. ‘Take care, boy.’

He thanked her, and turned to go, his shadow flickering in the candlelight. As he reached the doorway, he stopped, his fingers tracing the scar on his cheek as he stared, his eyes on the floor but his mind clearly elsewhere.

Without looking up, she murmured, ‘Something else bothers you?’ She almost sounded amused.

He turned. ‘It does, and that you well know.’ He could have sworn that she smiled in the dim shadows. ‘The boy. What is it about him? What did you see, and why did he affect you so? Why does it trouble me? I cannot rid my head of it.’

She shrugged, a strangely normal-looking gesture from one such as her.

‘I saw what I said, and I said what I saw,’ she said simply. ‘I know it troubles you, as it troubles me and it troubles him, so it does. Do not forget that: it troubles him, most of all. It is never pleasant or easy to be introduced to your destiny, even if you know not what it will be. Especially if you know not what it will be. Just knowing it is there, that a choice awaits you, is not welcome for anyone, let alone one so young.’

He crouched in front of her, a move that was almost imploring. ‘But who is he? Is it good or bad for us that he is here? What will he do? What should I do?’

She laughed, quietly and briefly. ‘Who he is, is less important than who he will be, so it is. And good or bad for us, depends on him. And what he will do, will be his choice, so it will. And what should you do? Nothing. Nothing that you would not do otherwise, had you not heard of any destiny. Do not free him, if you would not otherwise free him. Do not speak to him if you would not otherwise speak to him. His destiny is not yours to influence, not yours, no. If his fate is now to be a slave, so be it. If there comes a time when you would use him otherwise, so be it. Cera will sit in the Hall of the Gods and spin the thread of his destiny accordingly, so she will. She will spin as she spins for all of us now and before and all who ever will be. She will spin, she will spin, she will spin, and we all must accept our place on her tapestry.’

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him in amusement. ‘But why ask me of him, when you have the boy on your ship that you can ask yourself?’

He stood. ‘As ever, you are right. Apologies, my lady. I am thinking so deeply about it, that I cannot see the most simple truth. I thank you, as ever, for your assistance.’

He made to leave once more, but her voice stopped him. ‘Take care of him, while you have him. Tomorrow, especially. And take care of yourself, Einarr.’

He froze. Without turning, he said, ‘I will do my best – on both counts,’ and left.

Brann stirred and, as memories flooded back, he jerked into a sitting position, discovering that he had acquired new aches from his awkward sleeping position to add to those from his journey draped over the back of a horse. At first disorientated, he peered around the cramped hold at the sleeping boys. The last of the drowsiness left him, and he reacquainted himself with his surroundings, examining the room and its inhabitants in the detached way that was becoming so familiar that it had almost moved to his subconscious. Almost. He felt sure he would never truly be at ease with the feeling of separation.

Discovering a hard lump under one leg, he fished out the cheese in its rag covering. Remembering the way that Boar had thrown it down, and noticing the careful way it had been wrapped, he guessed that Gerens had stored it for him. He silently thanked the sleeping youth beside him, still not quite sure why the brooding, in many ways intimidating, youth had chosen to take him, to whatever extent, under his protective wing. His hunger overwhelmed his thoughts, and he wolfed into the food. He noticed the bowl on the floor, and greedily gulped down the water. It was lukewarm, but it still tasted sweet and precious. He leant back against the wall, and the hilt of the stolen knife dug into the small of his back, reminding himself of his folly. Fear swept through him and he cast about for somewhere to dump it, but the room was so bare of all but sleeping boys; it would surely be found, and that could mean the death of all of them.

He pulled out the knife and twisted it in his fingers. A cold melancholy sank over him, and he ran a thumb along the sharpness of the blade. The death of all? Or the death of one? With interest, he found that the prospect of death did not concern him, one way or another, but the ease with which it could be achieved fascinated his darkly dispassionate mind. He ran the keen edge across his wrist. The slightest of pressure, the least of effort, the simplest of movements would be all it would take to make the most momentous of impacts of a life.

The approach of unmistakable footsteps jerked him back from his introspection and he shook his head, thrusting the thoughts back down, buried alongside his suppressed emotions. As quickly and quietly as he could manage, he slipped the knife once again into his waistband and curled up on his side, closing his eyes in the hope of avoiding Boar’s attention.

It was in vain. A heavy boot in the small of the back, no more than two inches from the knife, made him yell in pain.

‘Morning, maggot,’ Boar said with satisfaction. ‘Time to get up. For some reason, the Captain wants to see you.’

He unfastened Brann’s manacles from the chain on the floor and, grabbing the front of his tunic with one hand, hoisted him to his feet. His knees immediately buckled and he fell back to the deck.

Boar grinned maliciously with the few teeth he possessed. ‘Better get the legs working. Easier to walk than be dragged – especially on the ladders. Mind you, more fun for me that way.’ He laughed, amused at his own wit.

He grasped the back of Brann’s tunic again and, lifting the boy’s torso from the ground, started dragging him along the short dusty corridor, his legs trailing behind him. Mindful of the comment about the ladders, Brann forced his stiff limbs to move and scrambled until he was upright.

‘There you go,’ Boar smirked. ‘Got you walking again, didn’t I? Can’t say I’m not good to you.’

Thinking it unwise to offer any reply, Brann climbed the ladder and waited at the top for Boar’s massive form to emerge. The huge oaf pointed him to the door of the Captain’s cabin, and knocked on it three times. At the sound of a voice from within, Boar opened the door, pushed Brann through, and followed him in.

‘You wanted the boy, Captain,’ he said.

Rising from behind a simple rough desk that seemed, to judge from the remains of a meagre meal left from the night before, to double as a dining table, the Captain moved towards them.

‘That will be all, Boar,’ he said, dismissing the man.

Alone with the man responsible for the loss of everyone and everything he held dear, Brann stared at him. He should have been overwhelmed with rage, or terror, or hatred, or all of these. But all he felt was a dull resentment, as if the world he was in was unwanted but unreal. He stared blankly at the Captain.

The subject of his stare drew a chair up to the desk and gestured to Brann to sit. Placing food in front of the boy, and nodding in reply to Brann’s questioning look, he said, ‘Yes, eat. It is just the leftovers of some bread and cheese from last night, but I am guessing you have not seen much food these past couple of days.’

As Brann launched into his second breakfast of the morning, the Captain sat down opposite him.

‘Slowly, slowly,’ he cautioned. ‘If you throw it back up, you would be as well not bothering to eat it.’

Brann forced himself to take the advice. He felt conscious of the man staring at him, as if he were assessing him, and looked up at him. What could the man tell from the way he ate? Why watch him now? Feeling that he had no way of knowing the answer, he shrugged slightly and returned to the food.

For a few long moments, the sound of his eating was the only noise in the room, and as Brann became aware of it, the noise seemed to become louder with each bite. The tension was eventually broken by the Captain.

‘Apologies in advance,’ he said. ‘You will find me blunt. Too many years in the company of professional men who expect orders and know nothing of small-talk.’ He stood up, and spoke abruptly. ‘I am wondering what you made of what Our Lady said to you.’

Swallowing a mouthful of bread, Brann said, ‘Your Lady? You mean…?’

The Captain cut in. ‘The old woman below deck, yes. She is our wise woman. She reads the bones, as you saw, helping us prepare for changes in the weather or…’ He paused. ‘Or other things.

‘But the vision she had with you – I have never known it before. That reaction, the strength of that trance… I have never known it to be like that.’

‘Maybe she has not been well,’ Brann suggested, noticing that the ship had started to rise and fall more violently. ‘The movement of the ship, sea-sickness, and things like that.’

The Captain laughed, a natural sound that was startlingly at odds with his grimly efficient appearance. ‘Oh, boy, if only I had your innocence around me more often. No, no, she has been at sea, with us and many others before us, for at least seventy years now – well, seventy that we know of. No, that reaction was something different, and powerful. Do you remember what she said?’

Brann nodded, not realising that he had stopped eating. ‘I cannot forget it. Do you want me to repeat it for you?’

The Captain sat down again. ‘No need. I, too, cannot remove it from my head.’ He leant back, running his hands through his now-unruly black hair.

Hesitantly, Brann asked, ‘Do you know what it means? All this talk of destiny and suchlike? Is it real?’

‘That you can be sure of,’ the Captain nodded. ‘If she says it, it is real – in some fashion or another. She sees future possibilities, but what actually transpires depends on so many things: random occurrences, decisions – considered and intuitive – of many people, twists of fate, the whims of the gods, and on, and on. So she cannot say what you will do, only what you will face. So, whatever happens to you, at many points you will have to decide what path to take. And one of those decisions, one of those paths, will be one on which hangs the fate of others. That she knows. What that decision will be, may not be decided yet – it may change several times according to the way your life goes between now and then.’

He sighed, then leant forward, his eyes boring into Brann as if gauging his reaction. ‘Everybody faces decisions on a daily basis. But in your case she knows that one moment of great import will come – and when she speaks of that, she speaks of importance to a great many people. Who are you? What is it that you offer? That you can offer? What are you?’

Brann felt himself go still. His tone was as dull as his feelings. But there was bitterness in the truth of the words. ‘I have no family. I have no life of my own. Your men saw to that. You made me what I am. I am nothing.’

An edge crept into the Captain’s voice, but too slight to tell whether it was from frustration or anger. ‘That may be your fate now, but according to Our Lady, it is not how you will be in time.’

Brann felt sick at the thought, lurching in an instant from a complete lack of care to overwhelming waves of emotion. It seemed as if the world was closing in on him, and he felt very small. Tears started to well up.

The Captain moved around the table and patted his shoulder, awkwardly. ‘If you want to, cry. Let it go. It is shock – you have been through much, and it will take a while to get over it, as she told you. If you want my advice, try to let it out – but not in front of the others. Weakness is not a good thing to show around here, but I guess you have worked that out for yourself.

‘I have worked with many warriors in my time, so I have seen many people go through what you are feeling just now. Some find it helps to take one day at a time. Treat everything you do as the most important thing in your life and devote yourself to it until it is done, then move on to the next.’ He laughed briefly. ‘You may end up an obsessive, but at least you’ll get through the days.’

Brann, however, did not cry but instead finished the last of the food and caught his plate as it threatened to slide from the table. The rising and falling of the ship had now been joined by what felt like a sideways buffeting, giving a distinct feeling of being tossed about by a playful giant.

‘Did something bad happen to you?’ he asked, taking a deep breath as if sucking his self-control back inside him. ‘Is that how you know what to do?’

The Captain stopped, his face set grimly. ‘Another piece of advice, boy. It is seldom beneficial to your health to pry. Try to avoid doing so.’ He grunted. ‘Anyhow, that is all. I merely wanted to make sure that you did not say anything to anyone – and I mean anyone – about Our Lady. The less that people know about her, and the more mystery that surrounds her, the more she is revered, or feared… and the better it is for her, for me and for the ship.

‘And it will be better for you, too, not to talk. You will find that, when someone is the subject of a prophecy, good or bad, small or great, it tends to breed jealousy and resentment. At the very least, others will never look at you for the person you are: you will just represent the prophecy to them.’

He walked to the door and shouted for Boar. Brann cast a look around the room, realising that he had been so intent on eating that he had never bothered to examine his surroundings. It was basic: a wooden bed, the desk and chairs, a long chest large enough for weapons and clothes and, curiously among the bare efficiency of the rest of the cabin, a small bookcase. He could not make out the titles of the books, but they looked both well-read and cared-for.

Then Boar had him gleefully back in his clutches and prepared to drag him roughly from the room, squeezing his arm so hard that Brann caught his breath.

‘Hope you don’t mind me holding so hard, only we don’t want you to fall over in the storm, do we?’ he growled happily at the boy. Brann thought that he would rather fall, but felt it wiser not to suggest it to Boar.

Before they could leave the room, however, a bell started to ring. The Captain froze in the doorway, holding one hand out behind him to tell Boar to stay where he was. A warrior skidded to a halt in front of the door, as others tumbled from below decks, weapon-bearing belts in their hands rather than having wasted time buckling them on until they could determine the nature of the alarm.

‘Pirates, Captain!’ the warrior shouted above the noise of the sea and the bell. ‘To the port side, and closing fast.’

‘How did they get so near?’ the Captain yelled back. ‘I gave strict orders to watch them and rouse me if they approached.’ He paused, and his eyes narrowed. ‘To port?’

The warrior wiped his soaking long hair away from his eyes and, with a practised hand, tied it behind his head as he spoke. He nodded, confirming the Captain’s suspicions. ‘That ship was a decoy, Captain. It moved closer, then dropped away. Then closer, then away, all the while to make us wonder. While we watched, the other one crept up on the other side. With no lights and dark hull and sails, they managed to stay under cover of the waves as they rose higher, whipped up by the storm as it came in from the wide sea, and fast with the wind behind it.’

The Captain nodded curtly. Whatever the reason, and no matter his anger at himself for allowing them to be duped, they had a situation to deal with. It had been admirable sailing, whoever his foe was, and if their fighting in any way matched that level of skill, they would have a job on their hands.

‘Get to your position,’ he shouted. ‘You too, Boar. You,’ he pointed at Brann, ‘stay here.’ He slammed the door shut. Brann raced over to it and opened it slightly. He was damned if he was going to miss whatever was going on. His right hand went instinctively to the hilt of the knife at the small of his back. Then his common sense took hold and he realised how ineffective the small weapon would be in anything that was about to transpire. Very quickly, however, his foolishness was overwhelmed by his curiosity, and he returned his attention to the scene unfolding beyond the door.

The Captain was roaring, ‘Cannick! Cannick!’ The old warrior appeared at his side. Despite having finished his shift at the steering oar only two hours beforehand, the Captain could see he was still one of the first on deck. ‘What’s the situation?’

‘Pirates, Captain,’ Cannick shouted. ‘One hundred yards out, and closing fast. Not enough time to arm the slaves. The other ship is not immediately within dangerous range, so I’ve readied the men for any attack from the one side, and I’ve sent the archers to the bow to oppose their crossbowmen.’

The Captain assessed the situation in a sweeping glance. ‘We cannot afford to arm the slaves, anyway; we need them to keep us steady in these waves. In any case, this weather will see that there will be no boarding unless we are defeated first. No one could successfully cross to another ship in these conditions if they had to face armed men to do so.’ His eyes swept around the ship. ‘Good, Cannick, well done.’

‘So why attack?’ Cannick was confused. ‘Pirates steal. If they can’t board, maybe they won’t attack.’

‘Look at them, they are attacking. They will be close in minutes. The time for wondering is by. If we stop to wonder why, all we will know for sure is how we are to die.’

He started to climb the ladder to the platform at the back of the ship. Without warning, he reversed his decision and dropped back down beside the veteran.

‘Cannick, change of plan. Bring the archers to the stern.’

Cannick was astonished, but masked his expression instantly. ‘All six of them, Captain?’ he shouted. ‘What about the enemy’s crossbows? It gives them liberty to loose untroubled, if ours are not giving them something to think about.’

Although he was voicing his misgivings, he had already signalled to the archers, who were by now running towards the stern.

The Captain looked at Cannick. For anyone else, questioning his orders would have brought a harsh penalty, but this war-hardened old man had taught him most of what he knew about battlecraft. He started to climb the ladder again, shouting back over his shoulder, ‘I don’t want stalemate. I need to win, and fast.’

He knew it was a gamble, but he had no choice. Most, if not all, pirate ships were bigger than his and more heavily armed, and usually with some sort of artillery. Reaching the rail, he saw that this one was no exception. The heavy ship was indeed closing fast, and its crossbowmen were readying in its bow. At the stern, however, was mounted the real threat: a springald – a huge crossbow-like weapon that had been swivelled towards them. It was pointing, it seemed, straight at him; they always seemed bigger, he thought, when they were aimed at you.

The Captain turned to the drummer. ‘Signal reverse stroke, for three strokes, then resume.’

The order was obeyed instantly. As he had hoped, his ship had slowed slightly – not enough to lose its momentum, and therefore control, in the stormy waters, but enough to cause the other vessel to overshoot slightly. They were still facing the springald, but at least the change had altered the part of his ship that the fearsome weapon was aimed at, and the pirates would have to decide whether to shoot at a target other than their first choice or go through the process of unlocking the springald’s mounting, reaiming it and locking it down again before letting loose its missile – which, particularly given the tossing conditions, would buy them some extra time. He fervently hoped it would be the latter.

As if to mock his tactics, the springald loosed with a chilling twang that could be heard above the storm, arcing the giant bolt at the mast. It struck the furled sail, ripping it, and carrying on into one of the benches. Screams rang out: not of pain from those hit, but of horror from those around them, hardened men as they were. The two rowers who had been struck had died instantly, and horrifically.

The archers had arrived beside him. ‘Aim for the steersman,’ the Captain shouted. ‘Start as soon as they are in range.’

One of the archers replied, ‘That would be now, Captain.’

They let loose their shafts immediately, desperate to end this as soon as possible after witnessing the destruction wrought by the giant bolt. Probably through luck, considering the movement of the ship and the high wind, their first volley flew towards its target, with one shaft catching the steersman square in the throat as he turned to look their way. The force of the blow flipped him backwards, and he disappeared into the sea.

The Captain shouted, ‘Shower arrows on anyone who comes to take over. Until they do, feel free to target the weapon.’

The springald’s crew had taken cover when they first saw the arrows fly but, under the persuasion of a huge man with a bared cleaver-like sword, they had quickly reappeared to reload the weapon, furiously cranking back the wire and slotting another bolt into place. Bellowed orders saw them lower its aim. Having witnessed the effect of their first attempt, they were abandoning the difficult shot at the mast and aiming for the rowers directly this time. It was a quick adjustment to make, for the vertical angle could be altered without unlocking it; although the mechanism allowed it to slide back to absorb some of the energy and reduce the chance of it ripping up the deck to which it was bolted, the massive power it released meant that it had to be anchored against lateral movement. As four arrows flew towards them, the men around the fearsome device took cover again but at that time a pirate could be seen running in a crouch for the swaying tiller and the archers switched their aim back to the steering arm and, as they did so, one of the men operating the springald took his chance to dive at the murderous weapon and hammer at the release mechanism.

Perhaps mercifully, the rowers were facing away from the other ship. Again, those killed never knew that it was coming. The devastation at that short range was, however, horrific. The huge arrow smashed directly into two benches and ploughed into the side of the ship, taking a chunk of the wooden wall with it into the heaving sea.

Three men died instantly. Another two had their heads bludgeoned and shattered by an oar whipped around by the passing missile. Incredibly, no one else was injured. The bolt had been eerily precise in its destructive passage. The ship’s drummer, well aware of the need to keep the vessel pointing into the maliciously relentless waves, beat relentlessly, bellowing at the rowers to keep working to maintain their position. Fortunately, and almost unbelievably, their discipline held in the face of such horror. They knew they had no option: to stop rowing would mean death in either case, from the sea or from the pirates.

The Captain had only glanced at the impact, his attention solely focused on determining the damage to his ship, for the moment at least. If it had been mortally holed, he would have had no option but to change his tactics and attempt to board the pirate vessel. In the current stormy conditions, that was a move that could sink both ships.

One of the archers turned to him. ‘Should we go for the springald, Captain?’ he shouted. ‘We can’t afford too many more hits like that.’ The Captain shook his head. His opposite number on the pirate ship was no fool and had quickly seen his ploy and, although the enemy crossbowmen themselves had been slow to react, they had clearly now been ordered to make their way aft as quickly as the conditions would allow.

‘If we do not get lucky soon, you will have their crossbows to worry about as well,’ the Captain yelled back. ‘Concentrate on the tiller.’

The archers had long since abandoned ordered volleys, and were now loosing as fast as their ability allowed, with arrows being shot before the previous ones had landed. Many were being carried adrift by the blustering wind, but enough were reaching the area of their target to give them hope.

The crew of the springald, however, were busy reloading, and the crossbowmen were nearing the stern. The replacement steersman crouched low, determinedly holding course; the Captain could not help but admire his courage. Behind the group around the springald, a man was trying to push past. The Captain stared through the driving rain, and saw a large shield in the man’s arms.

‘Shoot faster,’ he yelled. ‘They are bringing protection for the steersman.’

As he shouted, however, the instruction became unnecessary. An arrow – ironically one blown slightly off course – struck a metal fitting on the springald. It careered at a sharp angle and streaked a few short yards before spearing into the chest of the crouching steersman. The deflection had robbed the arrow of much of its speed, so it did not strike as hard as the one that had launched the previous steersman into the sea. Nevertheless, it was instantly obvious that it was a fatal blow.

Without any control, the ship started to drift into a turn. The crossbowmen had reached the stern, and one realised the danger and started to throw himself at the tiller. He was too late. The life had run from the steersman and he was slumped on the arm of the tiller, turning the ship completely broadside to the massive waves. The desperate man hauled him to the side and wrenched round the steering arm, but he must have known it was already an impossible task.

It was over in seconds. Three massive waves in quick succession smashed into the wallowing vessel, both swamping it and rolling it to a critical angle and allowing water to pour over the side. For a moment, the stricken ship started to right itself, but the water already on board and the waves that continued to batter from the side, and fill it further, left it lying at a steep angle on its side with the stern slightly raised, and low in the water. Even the thunderous din of the storm could not mask the noise of everything above and below its decks that was not fastened down – and much that had been – crashing towards the lowest point. What they could not hear, but what was even more critical to the stricken ship’s fate, was the noise of the sea rushing into the vessel through every available aperture now open to it, as well as a few that the forceful water had opened up for itself.

It remained at that angle briefly until, without warning, it slipped quickly and quietly beneath the surface. Eight or nine pirates could be seen, when the weather allowed, bobbing in the water, although three were dead already.

One of the archers turned to the Captain, nocking an arrow to his bow. ‘Do we shoot them or bring them aboard, Captain?’ he asked.

His face impassive, the Captain stared for a moment at the figures in the water, then shook his head.

‘Neither,’ he said abruptly. ‘They seal their fate when they sail as pirates: no captain would risk the lives of his crew by taking on board any of those murderous scum. And we have used more than enough arrows already because of the weather and the need for fast action. The sea will take care of them, soon enough.’

He turned to call for Cannick, and found the veteran already standing attentively a few yards away. ‘The other ship?’ the Captain asked.

‘Gone, Captain,’ Cannick said. ‘They started closing in when they saw their friends attack, but then held their position, not wanting to risk anything in this weather, I guess, and waiting to pick up the pieces when we were finished. As soon as they saw the other ship go down, they disappeared the way they had come.’

His leader nodded. ‘I expected as much. They could be close enough to see it sink, but not close enough to see how we did it. If they had known how lucky we were, they maybe would not have left so quickly. But people like that only fight when they think the odds are heavily on their side.’ He smiled coldly. ‘The gods were kind to us today.’ He looked at the seven bodies on the benches. ‘To most of us, at least.’

Cannick nodded. ‘Indeed, Captain. Indeed. And for those others, it was quick. The only good death is a quick one.’

The Captain was watching as the bodies of the dead rowers were unchained and, unceremoniously but with quiet respect, were committed to the tossing sea. Others worked to take down the torn and flapping sail, clear the wreckage and patch up the damage until proper repairs could be carried out. Without turning round, he said, ‘I can see you have got the tidying up under control, Cannick. Just make sure the steersman and drummer work together to keep us afloat. We are damaged and have a bit of rough weather to deal with. We can yet follow the fate of the pirates.’

As he started down the ladder to the deck, he shouted, ‘Once the waves die down, give me a full damage report, on ship and people. And alert me at once, of course, if we have any more uninvited guests looking as if they want to taste our hospitality.’

Cannick grinned. ‘Of course, Captain.’

As the footsteps started down the ladder, Brann eased the door shut and moved back into the cabin, trying to look innocent. As he sat down, the knife prodded him and he realised he had passed up a perfect opportunity to secrete it in the Captain’s cabin. Frantically, he scanned the room for a hiding place for the weapon, but the footsteps outside the door told him he was too late. He dropped back into the chair, resuming his attempt at innocence, as the Captain entered and sat on the edge of the desk, easing off his boots, pouring sea water from them into a nearby basin.

Without looking up as he peeled off his sodden, woollen boot linings, he said: ‘Did you enjoy the view?’

Flustered, Brann floundered for an answer. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean.’

The man’s eyes narrowed in amusement as he walked across the room to hang his sodden and dripping cloak from a peg behind the door, his steps steady and assured despite the violent and unpredictable tossing of the ship. ‘Remember, boy, and continue to remember: it is my job to know everything that happens on this ship – and to notice everything. You would not have been able to see all of our little encounter from the doorway of this room, but you would have seen enough. And do not bother to deny it. Hell’s demons could not have stopped me looking, had I been in your place.’

Brann shrugged. He did not know what to say.

The Captain stared into his eyes, his gaze intense and penetrating as if he were trying to probe Brann’s thoughts. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked at last. ‘It cannot be something you will have witnessed very often.’

Brann fidgeted with his cuff, dropping his gaze to the floor. ‘I don’t know how I feel. Ever since your men killed my family and burnt our home, ever since Boar put a bolt through the head of my brother an arm’s length away from me, ever since I was enslaved, I have felt cold and emotional, opposites at the same time. Most times it feels as if I am just looking at things and working them out, but occasionally, without warning, I feel that I am about to burst into tears for no reason.’ He glanced at the Captain. Seeing his face impassive, he continued. ‘But when I saw all that, I was just numb, taking it all in and trying to notice everything. I was not scared, but I was not brave either – I just felt as if I was no part of it, as if nothing would happen to me.’

He shook his head in confusion. ‘But I should have been scared, and I should have felt sick when I saw what happened to those rowers. Anyone would have.’ He looked up at the Captain. ‘But I didn’t. Does that mean I am evil? Those men were torn apart, and I felt nothing. Am I evil, now?’

The Captain put a hand on his shoulder, as awkwardly as he had done earlier. ‘No, your mind has switched part of itself off because of all you have experienced. You could not have coped with the emotions created by even a fraction of what you have had to face, else you would have gone mad. It is too much, so your mind protects itself. You will learn quickly about everything you see, because you will analyse everything without emotion cluttering your thoughts.’ He moved to lean heavily with both hands on the desk, staring at the dark wood but seeing something far from the dim cabin. He sighed. ‘But we all need our hearts as well as our minds, so you will open yourself up again in time and, by then, you will be tougher and better able to deal with the more unpleasant side of life. Be careful. All men have a darkness within them, and a light, in differing balances. But if you create a void within, the darkness may fill it completely before you begin to let light back into your life once again. At the moment, you may not like your situation, but whatever point you are at in your life, the present is the only reality. You can work to change the future, but not the present. If it is your fate at the moment to be a slave, it is not my place to question the will of the gods, and neither is it yours. That is the belief of my people and, among the many races I have met in my travels, I have not found a reason that can invalidate its simple truth, so it will do for me. As it would serve you well, also.’

‘I understand that, but there is another thing I do not understand.’ Brann’s brows were furrowed. ‘I was told that the rowers were prized slaves, that their well-being was important to the ship. Yet those who lost their lives while sticking to their duty were just dropped over the side, like rubbish. How can you expect the others to give their all if that is how those men were treated?’

The Captain smiled. ‘Your feelings may have been put on hold, but you have been thinking about what you have seen. That’s a start, at least. And I can see how it would appear to you that way. But these men live in a hard practical world. Had those men been injured, we would have done all in our expertise to save them, or at least to ease their suffering. But they were dead. And what were we to do with the bodies? Store them on board to attract disease and serve no purpose? Quick clean disposal was right. They had no family here, and the gods already know them, so what would be the point of a ceremony when we are already battling a storm? The men they were in life will determine their passage to the next world, not prayers offered on their behalf once they are already travelling that road. To conduct ceremonies would merely delay us when it is folly to hang around at the scene of a fight. These men understand that. This is the world we live in: one where practicality helps you survive and sentiment kills you. This is the world you now live in, too. Remember that, and you will learn more quickly how to stay alive.’

The Captain moved to the door and sighed wearily. ‘If we can manage it without interruptions this time, I will have Boar take you back below. And, if anyone asks what passed between us, it is none of their business. If they persist, tell them to ask me about it. I do not expect they will do so.’

He opened the door and shouted for Boar. Before the fat bully appeared, the Captain turned to him. ‘And tell them I scared the hell out of you. After all, like Our Lady, I have a reputation to protect.’

The door closed and Brann was left standing on his own. At first, it seemed strange that he, a captive, should be left unattended, but then he thought, Where could I go? Footsteps approached, and his stomach knotted at the thought of Boar. Sure enough, his fear was borne out as the lumbering giant enjoyed bouncing him against every wall and sharp edge he could find on the way back to the hold.

As Boar fastened Brann back into the chains, he knelt beside him and leant close over him. The smell from his body or clothes – or both – was overpowering.

‘Don’t you be thinking you’re the Captain’s pet, maggot,’ he snarled, and Brann flinched as he realised that the smell of his breath was even worse. ‘You’re mine, and mine you’ll stay.’

As Brann jerked back from the stench, Boar mistook the reaction for fear. Satisfied that he had achieved his goal, he grinned, showing the few rotten teeth he had left. ‘Good. Remember that, or I’ll have fun reminding you, maggot.’

He stood with surprising agility for one his size – Brann reappraised his opinion of the proportion of the man that was blubber – and made his way, laughing, back up the dim corridor.

Gerens nudged Brann. ‘I see you have made a friend there,’ he said dryly.

Brann sighed and leant back. ‘Oh, Boar and I, we get on great,’ he replied. ‘You know, the sort of relationship where he makes my life even more of a misery than it already is, and I dream of killing him.’

A boy nearby spoke up. ‘You would have to join a queue for that. Remember, you have only had it from him for a day or so. Some of us have been here for more than a week.’

For the first time, Brann looked around the small room. Fatigue had driven curiosity from his mind when he had been brought in previously, but now he wondered if anyone else from his village, or even the town, had suffered the same fate. A quick glance, however, determined that he had the dubious honour of being alone in being brought on board from his valley. ‘What is it like?’ he asked the boys. ‘What happens to us?’

A second boy snorted. ‘Nothing, and that’s it. We are just left here and fed occasionally. The exciting times are when you get your food and when you use the bucket there, because those are the only parts of the day that you do anything other than sit on the one spot. Apart from once a day when they take us up to walk up and down the deck for a while to keep strength in our legs. Can’t sell us if we can’t walk, can they?’

The first boy barked a hoarse, humourless laugh. He was thin, almost skeletal, with sunken eyes that disappeared into shadow in the gloom and was, Brann realised as his eyes adjusted to what little light was afforded them, at most two or three years older than himself. His laughter turned to coughing and the boy cleared his throat before adding, ‘Sometimes they even stop us talking if any of them are trying to sleep. As if it was not boring enough already down here. But forget your questions. Why were you taken up there? And what in the gods’ names was going on?’

Brann shrugged and made an excuse that he had been asked about the land around his village in case the raiders ever wanted to pay a return visit.

‘I hope you didn’t tell them,’ the thin boy snarled. ‘Bastards.’

‘Not enough time,’ Brann said, and recounted the attack by the pirates, telling as much as he had seen and embellishing the rest. After the excitement of the tale wore off, the others around him were silent as it dawned on them that their fate could have been even worse.

‘I don’t know what I would have preferred,’ the thin boy said. ‘Drowning or being captured by the pirates. Suddenly boredom seems much more attractive.’

A slight, tousle-haired lad with an angelic face at odds with a voice that was deep in anticipation of the man he would become, but layered with the harsh tone of the adolescent he still was, butted in. ‘What about the old woman? What did she want with you?’

Brann shrugged. ‘No idea. She thought I was someone else. Who knows what she wanted?’

The thin boy stared at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. ‘Seems strange to me. I think you know more than you are saying. You’d better not be holding out on us, boy.’

Gerens turned his dark glare on the boy. ‘What do you mean? Did you hear the way that woman screeched when they took him in there? Made my blood run cold, so it did, and I was in here. Would you have liked to have shared a room with her? And how do you fancy being marched about in the gentle care of Boar? I know I’d rather be here. Would you have traded places?’

The boy grunted, coughed raspingly and lay back to doze, and the hold fell silent. The musty room was filled only with the creaking of the ship, a noise that was becoming so familiar to Brann that, most of the time, he was no longer aware of it. He leant back himself; he was exhausted again. It was not too long since he had slept, but he assumed the tiredness was due to the effects that the Captain had talked about. He tried occupying his mind, counting the lines of the grain in the floorboard beneath him but, before he had got far, he had drifted off to sleep once more.

He wakened twice and, each time, managed to eat a little. On one occasion, the captives were talking, but he lacked the energy, or will, to do anything more than idly listen before drifting back off to sleep. From what he could hear, the others were the product of raids further north up the coast. It made sense: the ship’s destination would be far to the south, where countries with the slave markets lay, so they would always be headed in that direction after each raid; were they to work their way northwards as they raided, they would be increasing the distance they had to run if anything went wrong, and would be leaving enemies between them and their haven.

The third time he wakened, it was as a result of being shaken roughly by Gerens.

‘At least look as if you are awake, chief, even if you don’t feel it,’ the youth murmured in his ear. ‘Boar approaches – you could tell his tread a mile off. And I would guess it is better not to give him the chance to wake you himself.’

As if to prove his point, Boar appeared in the doorway and casually kicked a sleeping boy in the guts. The boy awoke, coughing in pain, and Brann was thankful for the timely advice and the fact that, for some unfathomable reason, Gerens seemed to have appointed himself to watch over him, like a savage but attentive guard-dog. Still clutching his stomach, the boy lurched to his feet; he was one of several who had previously learnt the folly of staying down long enough to allow Boar a second kick.

‘Captain wants seven of you upstairs now,’ he growled, unfastening those nearest the door – the six in Brann’s group, and the next one along. He stood them in the corridor and looked along the line. His gaze stopped when it fell on the boy who had been sick when they first came aboard. While most of the others had adapted to the movement of the ship – in fact, some, including Brann, had actually found that it lulled them to sleep – the lad had continued to be ill without respite, and looked as weak as he must have felt.

Boar snorted in derision. ‘Captain asked for the seven most recent, ’cause he wants the ones who haven’t been weakened by all the sitting around you maggots do. But you,’ he prodded the sick boy in the chest with a force that rocked him onto his heels, ‘you won’t do, will you? Pathetic little worm.’ He shoved the boy back into the room and fastened him back to the chain, taking instead the next one available: the thin boy who had spoken to them earlier.

‘You’ll do,’ he grunted, dragging him from the room. The boy could hardly walk, but he forced his legs to work, mindful of the sort of ‘helping hand’ that Boar was likely to offer. The huge oaf, his constantly moist lips glistening in the lantern-light, peered into their faces, his foetid breath causing more than one of them to cough. ‘You’ll all have to do, won’t you?’ he sneered.

He pushed them to the ladder, and they climbed into the blinding sunlight. The storm had passed and a stiff breeze was filling the large sail. An older warrior walked over to the little group as they stood, squinting and shivering. He looked them over and stared at Boar with piercing blue eyes.

‘This the best you could do?’ he asked. Brann recognised from his voice that he was the one the Captain had called ‘Cannick’. He had seemed to be the second in command on the ship, and close to the Captain.

Boar nodded. ‘Just what the Captain wanted. Can’t bring better than I’ve got, can I?’

Cannick turned away from him. ‘That you can’t, Boar, that you can’t.’ He examined the group again. ‘Anyway, they are not your concern now.’ Noticing Boar’s glower at the edge of his vision, he added, ‘Do not worry, we should be filling the gaps for you soon enough. We may as well make use of the room in the hold and, more importantly, we need to fill our quota so we can be rid of this contract as soon as we can.’

Boar grunted something unintelligible – and probably obscene – and stomped off. Cannick stared again at the little group.

‘As you may have heard,’ he growled, ‘we had to deal with a little incident. What you will not know, however, is that we are short of seven rowers as a result. Those of you who can manage to count further than the limits of one hand will have noticed that there are seven of you. Work out for yourselves what happens next.’ He grinned. ‘Your pleasure cruise is over, boys. Now you start working for your crust – at least, until we can pick up some others more physically suited to the task. And, rest assured, you will work.

‘As you can see, there are three rowers to a bench. You will be put, mostly, in pairs with an experienced rower as the third member of the bench. The final one of the seven will, obviously, be with two existing rowers, but do not think that equates to an easy ride – you will just have two people to nag you rather than one.

‘Now, I know some of you will be looking at the condition of the men already there, and at the state of yourselves, and noticing a little difference. You may be feeling a little puny. There is a good reason for feeling that way: you are.’ They were indeed feeling more than a little inadequate compared with the lean, muscled men who were taking the chance to rest while the repaired sail did their work for them.

Cannick continued, ‘You may also be wondering at the wisdom of putting two of you with just one rower. Why not put two existing men to one new one to maximise the pulling power on each oar? It is simple: it would be too easy then for the one of you to let the two other men do all the work. Even if you were trying, you wouldn’t be trying as hard as you would if you felt that your efforts, or lack of them, would always be evident. If you pull your weight, however, it will not only help the ship, but it will help you, for you will develop physically more quickly. And do not worry about whether you are strong enough to cope. Rowing is more about technique and stamina than brute strength; keep pushing yourselves, and you will be surprised how long you can keep going. And it will get easier, believe me. You will pick up the technique quickly enough – it is not complicated.’ He paused, a mischievous glint developing in his eyes. ‘Oh, and do not worry yourselves about the crew coming down too hard on you if you are not trying hard enough. We will not need to. Your fellow rowers will let you know soon enough. I advise you not to let them down.’

He gestured one of the warriors forward. ‘Galen will allocate you to a bench. Pay attention to what he tells you, and listen to the rower you are placed with. It is the easiest way to learn, so take the chance.’

With that, he wheeled away to attend to some other matter. Galen looked them over and slowly shook his head.

‘I understand what Cannick was saying,’ he said. ‘But I do not share his confidence that putting two of you with only one rower is wise.’ He sighed. ‘But I suppose we have to fill the spaces, and cleverer men than me have decided how it is to be done. It is up to you to prove them right and me wrong. Let’s go.’

He started to lead them off, but spun back as a thought occurred to him. The group bunched up at the sudden stop, and he took the chance to lean in close and speak quietly. ‘One other thing, and I will tell you of it before we get into earshot of the rowers. What Cannick said about your effort was right. He has more experience than the rest of us combined, and he has seen more… let’s just say, “incidents” than he probably has cause to remember.’

He nodded towards the rowers. ‘These are hard men living a hard life. Just do not mess with them. Keep in mind that accidents happen at sea, and that you do not want to be one of them.’

He started off again and the seven, who had grown ever more nervous with each instruction or word of advice, followed him towards the front of the vessel. Brann watched the tall warrior, moving with a grace and assured balance that was unusual for a man of his size. It was strange: he did not like Galen – how could he? – but at least the man was fair to them and, whatever the reason for it, he seemed to care about their health and well-being. So did Cannick and the Captain; in fact, Boar, who most closely fitted any preconception that he might have had of slavers, seemed to be an exception on this ship. But what surprised him was that he did not hate them. They had murdered his family, destroyed his home, turned him into a galley slave and were intending to sell him in a slave market. On top of that, they were slavers: people who were abhorrent to normal folk. Yet, try as he might, he could not make himself hate them.

Why? Maybe he had nothing left in his life, and he was clinging to any crumb of kindness that fell his way. Or maybe I’m going mad, he thought with a smile.

Galen had noticed the smile. ‘I see you still have spirit, boy,’ he said. ‘Either that, or you are monumentally stupid. Either way, make the most of that smile. You are not likely to have the energy for another one for a while.’

They had stopped at the front of the ship. A group of warriors was waiting there, and one of them had started unlocking rowers from their chains at the boys’ approach.

The men and boys were quickly rearranged over the front benches on each side of the aisle according to Cannick’s instructions. Brann noticed that two of the benches looked new. It would have been there that the missile had struck, and he shuddered at the thought.

As they were assigned their positions, Brann realised that, while the warriors around them appeared to be lounging casually, their hands never strayed from their weapons and their eyes were watchful. The crew and slaves may have an understanding, but these were men who took no chances. They appeared more like professional soldiers than the lowlife vermin that he would have expected slavers to be.

Brann stayed close to Gerens, in the hope that he would be paired with the closest thing to a friend that he had at the moment. It worked. Galen pointed to the pair of them, ordering curtly, ‘First two, in here. New boys nearest the side, rower nearest the aisle. That way, the one at the end who effectively controls the oar will be the one who knows what he is doing. That does not mean you boys can catch an easy ride – those who do not share the burden will soon be reminded of the need to do so by those around them.’

This was the third time that the boys had heard this last piece of advice, but Brann guessed that, on this occasion, it was being said for the rowers’ benefit. He felt glad that the grim men he was sitting among knew that the boys had been warned, so they would not feel the need to inform the newcomers of the fact in their own fashion.

Brann and Gerens were placed with a lean, bald rower with staring eyes and swirling tattoos painting symbols and unfamiliar script across most of the exposed parts of his body, including his scalp. His smooth skin and lean build made it hard to determine his age, but Brann guessed he was at least old enough to be his father. Brann found himself wondering if he had pointed teeth and spoke in a hiss. He just seemed the sort.

The tattooed man stared at the boys appraisingly – something that was becoming familiar, but no less uncomfortable. He grinned. ‘Grakk,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

Brann was disappointed: both Grakk’s voice and teeth were perfectly normal, if respectively a little guttural and stained. And, despite the strong accent, his speech seemed, even in those few words, to be cultured and eloquent, entirely at odds with his appearance and proving the rashness of Brann’s initial assessment. On reflection, though, his reaction turned to relief – the unkempt hulk of a rower on the bench in front of them was berating the red-haired youth and his companion purely on the grounds that he had been landed with a couple of puny farm boys through no fault of his own. And his threats of what would ensue if they even thought about slacking were decidedly unpalatable, to say the least.

Brann and Gerens introduced themselves and Grakk – in a formal gesture that was as incongruous in the setting of the rowing benches as it was from one who, despite his refined speech, did still resemble a nomadic savage – gripped their hands and nodded his acknowledgement of their meeting.

‘Do not expect frivolous conversation,’ he informed them. ‘Observe diligently to learn, and work to your utmost to make use of what you learn. Here, as in life, learning is everything. In that fashion, we will all prosper. In the meantime, appreciate what is in front of you.’ He stared intently at Brann. ‘It is indeed a glorious day. Now, however, I will sleep.’

With that, he curled up on the floor in front of the bench, closed his eyes and, in moments, appeared to be sound asleep.

They looked at each other. ‘I believe we may be lucky in our companion,’ Gerens said solemnly.

Before Brann could reply, the shaggy-headed rower in front of them turned round. ‘Yes and no, boy,’ he growled in clipped accent. ‘Yes: you did not get me, and I am not as well-spoken in my instructions as he just was. No: the last man on these benches who crossed him had his throat slit from ear to ear by the morning. Left a terrible mess, it did. Of course, nobody knew who did it. It couldn’t have been any of us rowers, could it? We have no means of doing something like that.’ He grinned malevolently with around half the teeth that his mouth should have contained. ‘Do we? Sleep well tonight.’

The pair stared at each other again. They looked down at the gently snoring Grakk, and back at one another. ‘Well, chief,’ said Gerens with a shrug. ‘It’s something to bear in mind.’

Brann stifled a giggle, the tension that had knotted his insides all of his time on the ship exaggerating his reaction. He was sure that Gerens had meant it without any humour, given that the boy’s dark delivery had not wavered in the way he had said everything since their meeting. It mattered not. He was unable to totally prevent the giggling, and he bit on his sleeve in an attempt not to draw unwelcome attention to himself. Despite himself, he found that he was starting to like Gerens. His dark, practical approach to life was consistent, and consequently dependable. Brann tended to think things through, to be sure he was making the right decision; sometimes, however, it was necessary to cut to the simple truth of a situation, and Gerens was certainly the master of that approach, which Brann found, under the current circumstances, comforting. As was the boy’s unfathomable decision from the moment they met to make it his mission to take Brann under his protection. Unfathomable, but, under the current circumstances, there was no earthly need to attempt to fathom it and all that was left was to accept that it was extremely handy. Handy, and comforting.

The laughter subsided, and he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. The boys sat quietly for a while, mindful not to disturb any of the rowers around them – especially the large one in front of them – who had followed Grakk into slumber. Their tattooed companion looked as if a raging thunderstorm would not waken him, but they felt it wiser not to risk it.

The thin boy turned around, taking care not to wake the rower on one side of him or the sallow boy on the other. ‘Since we’re all in the same boat…’ Brann manfully resisted the urge not to giggle again. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Since we’re all in the same situation, I think it would be better if we all get on. Whatever went on between you and the old woman is not my concern. And your friend was right: I am glad it is not my concern. Any attitudes from down below could maybe be left in the hold, yes?’

Gerens shrugged and nodded. Brann, as the main target for the comments in the hold, felt awkward in his company and was more reticent about accepting it so easily. But he saw no advantage in showing open hostility; better to accept him on the surface, and be wary underneath. The smoother things ran among them, the easier it would be to cope with their ordeal. At the very least, it was one less thing to worry about.

He nodded as well. The youth introduced himself as Pedr, a metal-worker’s son from a small coastal village. He was taller than Gerens, but gangly and skinny in the way of boys who had grown rapidly in height; he had not yet filled out to match it, if ever he would. He was talkative, and strong of opinion and, although that could prove irritating at times, his chatter – kept low to avoid disturbing the frightening rowers on each of their benches – at least passed the time.

After what seemed like hours but could only have been, according to the sun’s progress, little more than half-an-hour, the large drum at the stern let out three thunderous bangs. With a start, Brann realised that Grakk was sitting beside them – he had gone from sound sleep to ready alertness so quickly that the boy had not seen him move from the deck.

Every one of the rowers was in position – obviously the drumbeat had been a signal to action. Flexing his arms, Grakk confirmed it. ‘Make yourselves ready. We will be commencing rowing,’ he said simply.

‘Straight away?’ Brann asked, alarmed. Now that the moment had arrived, he suddenly felt the weight of how little he knew about the activity that would be his life for the gods only knew how long.

Grakk looked at him for a moment. ‘If it were “straight away”, you would be rowing already.’ Brann blushed. It was indisputable logic, and obvious. Grakk grinned. ‘When the drum bangs three times, as it just did, you will prepare yourself. When the drum bangs twice more, you will extract the oars. Understand?’

Brann nodded, taking in the simple explanation with wide-eyed attention as if he were listening to the most complex of instructions. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he stammered.

Galen strode down the aisle. ‘We row in fifteen minutes,’ he shouted. ‘First of all, the first two benches nearest the bow on each side will practise getting their oars in and out, for the sake of the new lads. The oars are the big wooden things by your side, by the way, just in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Brann realised with yet more embarrassment that he had been overwhelmed by so many other things that he had not even noticed the single most important object in his new life. As the smallest on his bench, with the shortest reach, he had been placed closest to the side, where the swing of the oar would travel less. He looked to his right, and saw the oar lying flush with the side of the boat, at a slight angle. Its lower half extended out through the side of the boat via a hole that was currently sealed with a waxed wooden plug cut to fit precisely around the stowed oar to prevent sea water from splashing in around their feet or, in the case of Grakk and several others that Brann had seen, around their bodies when sleeping. The length of shaft inside the ship lay on top of the oar from the bench in front of him, and was strapped securely in place. The shaft itself was not straight, as he had expected, but had been crafted with a shallow double-curve around halfway along it to allow it to lie snugly against the boat both inside and out.

Gerens saw him looking at the oars. ‘On some ships, chief, they pull them completely on board, but there is not enough room on this one for that. My father used to make me wooden models of all sorts of ships when I was little. I never suspected I would find myself sitting on the real thing.’

Galen returned from the other end of the ship, where he had been explaining to the rowers what was going to happen. He spoke again to the boys. ‘Now you have had a chance to look around, listen to me. There are two things to notice: one, a plug with a handle and, two, a strap beside you holding in place the oar for the bench in front of you. You can see that the same strap extends over your own oar as an extra safeguard.’