Читать книгу Hero Born - Andy Livingstone - Страница 9

He shivered. It was cold in his rooms, though the sun had risen high. It was always cold, now. Built to keep out the heat, the design took no account of the heat that the elderly crave once the cold starts to set into their bones. He shuffled towards the balcony, lured by the sunlight. He scanned the floor for dangers under the dust. He had had his fill of falling for a lifetime, no matter what little of that may be left to him. He watched the dust kicked up by the slippered feet poking out from under his ankle-length shift. Dry dust. Lifeless dust. He grunted. Just like his skin. But it had not always been so. Not like this. Far from this.

The heat hit him like a hammer. He had reached the balcony. It was too hot. And bright. He grunted again, the closest he could manage to humour at the irony. He forced himself to endure it, and gripped the heavy balustrade, the sun casting ornate shadows through the carved stonework onto the plain grey of his shift. Squinting against the glare, he peered beyond the gardens, past the high white walls, to the dusty flat area beyond, the sand hard-packed by generations of feet. He saw a rider, galloping in triumph, sword gleaming high as he circled the area, acknowledging the roars of the crowds. Royal crimson lined his billowing cloak, and crimson of another sort soaked into the dust beside the body slumped in the centre of the arena, a riderless horse standing disinterestedly nearby.

His eyes were wet. The sun must be particularly bright today. He blinked to clear his vision, and the scene faded. It seemed so, so long ago. It was so, so long ago. Who benefitted from memories? Would they give strength to failing muscles? Would they ease aching bones? Would they turn white hair brown?

He turned and shuffled back into the cold, taking care not to fall.

****

Brann shivered and spluttered as he was wakened by ice-cold water thrown roughly into his face. Sitting up, he tried to open his eyes but, before he could focus on anything, his stomach heaved and he vomited violently over his legs and lap.

A raucous laugh blared in his ear. ‘There we go,’ a voice as rough as his treatment sneered. ‘If I had a gold piece for every time that happened, I’d have my own boat by now.’

Another voice answered him. ‘Can’t have him going on board like that, though, Boar. Captain won’t thank us for attracting disease, and so on.’

The first voice was irritated. ‘I think I know what I’m about after the years I’ve had doing this. Better than someone like you who has never done it before. I don’t need you to tell me.’

‘Like when you released the horses we had taken as soon as we got here?’

The man gave a dismissive snort. ‘We don’t need them any more, do we? They could have been noisy and given away our position.’

The other voice was scornful. ‘If anyone was close enough to hear horses whinnying, we would be found anyway. Our position is much more likely to be given away by a couple of riderless horses roaming around. And where was your vast experience when you shot the other boy?’ he snapped. ‘All we were looking for was food and water. Others were taking what few slaves we need. Did you know what you were doing at that time?’

‘He would have seen us,’ Boar grumbled, although he seemed too wary of the other man to react with any aggression to the withering criticism. ‘I had to do it or they would both have raised the alarm.’

His companion’s tone was contemptuous. ‘That is not true, and you know it. We saw them coming and they were going too fast to notice us. If you had moved just a few yards into the heavier bushes when I told you, they would never have seen us.’ His voice dropped to a low, threatening level. ‘You know what I think? I think you enjoy it. I think you like the killing, just for the sake of it. And you saw the chance for it with the attack on the village. Just like you enjoy the misery of the slaves you take. Well, I don’t care who you sailed with before: you are with us now. And it will stop when you are with me, because the next time it happens you’ll know what it feels like to be on the receiving end, and you’ll have my sword to thank for it.’

‘You better not be threatening me,’ Boar objected hotly, but it was obvious that his tone carried more bluster than menace.

The first man was unconcerned. ‘Take it how you will. But if you know what’s good for you, you will remember it.’

‘Anyway,’ Boar objected, trying to salvage some pride, ‘you have taken as many slaves as I have on this trip, as many as any of us have.’

The first man paused, and when he spoke his voice was heavy and low. ‘That may be true, but none of the rest of us approaches it with your relish. It may be the way of the world in some parts, but not where I come from. If a man’s fate is to be a slave, so be it, but I would prefer not to be a part of fulfilling his destiny, thank you very much. All but you will be glad when we are free of this cursed contract at the end of this trip. Then, if you miss your slaving, you can go back to the pirate ships you came from. Though I’m guessing that whatever reason made you leave them and turn up when our Captain was recruiting might just still apply. What do you think?’

Boar fell silent. Whatever he thought, if anything, was kept to himself. The other man’s voice moved closer to Brann.

I should feel rage, or grief, or something… anything, Brann thought. He had just listened to a description of his brother’s death – and the futility of it. But, instead, all he felt was emptiness. The feeling seemed to grow from a lump in his stomach and spread through every part of him, leaving him light-headed and almost dreamlike. A hand grabbed his tunic between the shoulderblades and hoisted him to his feet. His vision started to clear, and he shook his head as if to try to help his eyes focus more quickly as his feet sank a fraction into rough sand.

He already knew he was beside the sea – the crash and hiss of waves breaking and soaking back into the beach and the heavy salt air in his nostrils had made that obvious from the start. He may have felt completely disinterested in his surroundings, but that did not mean that he was unaware of them.

Rough fingers gently prised at his hands. He looked down and realised he was clinging to a bundle of black cloth, his fingers clamped about it and his arms grasping it tightly against his chest.

The voice of the man was soft, soothing, almost caring. His surprise at the tone caught his attention. ‘It’s all right to let go. You’ll get it back, don’t worry. The gods know you may be glad of it. It’s not so warm out on the water.’

Brann looked at it. His father’s cloak, heavy, black and with a vertical rip near the hem at the back. His mother had urged him to look for a new one when they visited the town for the ball game, but he had resisted. For reasons he never explained, he loved it, and insisted on having it repaired instead. That must have been where he had been heading when he saw his two sons, only one of them alive. In his grief, he had dropped it. And in his grief, Brann must have picked it up. He had no idea why. He had no memory of even doing so. But he had it now. His only link to what already seemed a distant life. And he was not about to give it up.

The man eased at his fingers again. ‘You were the same last night. Nothing I could do short of breaking your fingers would let me get that from your grasp, even when you were out cold.’ Brann tensed, gripping it tighter to him. He sank back to the ground, his knees drawn up protectively in front of him. ‘I don’t want it, boy, fret not. I have my own, and so, if you’re interested, does Boar. I was only going to stow it safe on the horse last night, and now I just want to keep it dry. It is no use to you wet and you need a wash. But we have little time, so if you don’t let go now, it’s going in the water with you.’

This time he did not try to prise Brann’s fingers from the material, but simply held out his hand. Brann, staring only at the hand, slowly placed the cloak in it. The bundle was dropped on the ground at his feet.

The man grunted and stared at the boys around. ‘I keep my word,’ he said. ‘You’ll get it back.’ The instruction to the boys sitting beside it was clear, but they were too cocooned in their own misery to care.

Brann was hoisted to his feet once more. It was fortunate that the man was still grasping his tunic: as soon as he was pulled upright, his knees buckled and his vision began to swim once more. He was half-led, half-dragged into the shockingly cold water and, in only a few paces, he was thigh-deep. He thought the cold of the water might clear his head; it did not, it just left his legs numb.

Abruptly, the hand let go. His legs, with a lack of feeling now added to the weakness, gave way. Before he could even register that he was falling, he crashed into the water. This time, his head did clear. The anonymous hand grasped him again and pulled him up before he managed to swallow too much of the sea. He spluttered, the salt water making his stomach lurch again but, this time, he resisted being sick.

The hand held him up while its partner roughly rubbed his face and clothes with water to clean them. He could force himself to stand under his own strength, and he helped to wash himself. He staggered slightly in the swell, but determination let him catch his balance.

‘A little fighter, are you?’ the voice said. ‘We had to dunk most of the others four of five times before they came to. Keep it up and you might just survive all this.’ All what? Who were these people? And who were the ‘others’? Through the blank apathy in his head, the questions nagged him. But, because of that cold indifference, the answers were not so plain.

He wiped the water from his eyes, the manacles hindering even the simplest of movements. He blinked several times before his vision cleared. He caught his breath at the sight of the man beside him in the water: a mountain of leather, weapons, shaggy black hair and even shaggier beard. As he reached over to start dragging Brann back to the beach, his cloak moved to reveal a lean, muscular build; the cloak, worn over his multitude of weapons, had created a false impression of bulk.

‘I’ll manage,’ Brann croaked, staring down at the water.

The warrior laughed again. ‘We’ll see. Keep that attitude, and you might just.’ He slapped Brann casually on the back, almost launching him face-first into the water. ‘Anyway, you’re clean now, and awake. Enough of this idle chatter. Get back ashore with the others.’

Brann waded back to the beach, where five bedraggled figures huddled together for warmth and, probably, comfort. A quick glance told him no one else from his village had been taken. A quick glance born of cold curiosity, it was, but no more; he found he didn’t care whether or not any of the faces were familiar. Four of them, boys of around his years, were hunched in dejection. His gaze held on the fifth figure: a rangy youth, little more than his own age, with a shock of unkempt and probably untameable black hair that sat every way except flat, the thick tendrils exploding like dark flames from his head. Everything about him seemed angular, from his craggy face to long arms that hung, all bones and corded tendons, and from wide shoulders to legs that seemed as if they would have the co-ordination of a new-born foal. Despite wearing nothing but a rough tunic, he seemed oblivious to the damp chill that was forcing shivers into the others, and he exuded an indefinable strength that ignored the impression given by his gangly build. Most curiously, while the rest of the group exhibited a predictable mix of dejection and shock, he merely stared around him, as if nothing untoward at all had taken place. On closer inspection, an aggressive intensity burned in his glare. It burned, but its fire was cold. The sort of look that Brann had spent his life avoiding. He had preferred to spend his time among those with open personalities, with friendliness that brought none of the intensity or false posturing of those who felt they had to be aggressive in life to hold the respect of others. He had preferred those with personalities like his brother’s. He forced his emotions back into numb emptiness, pushing back the grief that threatened to surge through him.

A second warrior – presumably the one called Boar – comparatively shorter than the first and this time genuinely broad, crouched beside them, smirking and enjoying their discomfort and dismay with obvious pleasure. At the sight of the smirk, memories of foul breath flooded Brann’s senses and he massaged the bruise on the centre of his chest. Even without the sight of the red scarf on the man’s head, he would have known he was looking at the man who had murdered Callan and rage and fear rose in equal violent measure, threatening to make him vomit again. Pushing the emotions deep down and locking them away, Brann stumbled the last few steps from the water, a receding wave dragging at his feet and, guided by an unsubtle shove from behind, he joined the group. A chain was looped quickly through his manacles; he saw that it ran similarly through the bonds of the others, linking them in simple, but effective, fashion.

He sat, watching, listening, but still feeling detached, as if he were not a part of the scene. Two of the boys whimpered softly; the rest, despite their differing demeanours, were silent, staring down at the sand in their collective misery and despair. Only the dark-haired boy looked up, his burning gaze locking for a long moment with Brann’s. Then he nodded at him, once, and looked ahead once more. It seemed appropriate to his situation that the one with the character he would normally avoid was the one who had connected with him. He spat the remnants of salt water into the beach between his feet. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?

Strangely, Brann felt lucid, to a heightened level. He could understand the reactions of the others, but not his own. Although distant, he was coldly logical, absorbing everything around him with frank clarity. He was an emotional boy (his father had often chided him for letting his heart rule his head, in the days before he had so quickly rejected him and sent him running into the clutches of the men who had murdered his brother) and it was an alien experience to find himself as he was now, without fear, nerves, anger, despair, horror: all of the feelings that he thought should be overwhelming him.

Instead, he felt a calm assurance with, perversely, a tinge of bitter amusement. Perhaps this is how you feel when you accept you are going to die, he mused. Or maybe I can’t be hurt any more. Or maybe both.

His mind turned back to Callan, replaying the images of his brother’s death. It must have happened so quickly yet – at the time and, now, in his mind – it seemed to take an eternity. Then, as a misplaced background to that picture, he saw his home ablaze, with his family inside.

Why am I not crying? Where is the pain? he asked himself, over and over. It seemed as if the boy he had been was a stranger, as if he had awakened beside the sea a new person.

You’re not you any more. You can’t afford to be. Face it, this is what you’ve got from now on. Get used to it. A hint of an ironic smile twitched one corner of his mouth, a distant relation of the broad grin that had always sprung so readily to his face. Oh, gods, I’m going mad. I’m talking to myself like an idiot.

One of the boys tried to speak, failed and cleared his throat. He tried again. ‘It’s freezing. Can we not have a fire?’ He indicated a bundle of wood and dry leaves that had been piled together just a few yards further up the beach from them.

Boar cuffed him roughly across the side of the head, knocking him into the sand. ‘Keep it shut, maggot,’ he snarled. ‘Speak again and you’ll get worse than that.’

The taller man inserted a foot under the boy’s shoulder and lifted him until the youngster took the hint and sat himself up once more.

‘Don’t lie down, boy,’ he growled. ‘It’s damp. You’ll only get colder.’ He looked back across the beach. ‘There will be no fire. We’re not exactly wanting to invite guests to our party, are we? Don’t worry, you’ll be dried off soon enough.’

His burly companion grumbled, ‘You talk too much, Galen. Leave them alone – they’re nothing but your next wage.’ His voice turned mocking. ‘You sound as if you’re starting to care for them. First rule of slavery: they’re nothing but pieces of meat.’

Galen grunted and turned away, walking to the edge of the sea and staring out across the waves. ‘Where are they?’ he hissed, exasperation heavy in his tone. He jerked round, his hand reaching for the crossbow slung across his back. Dunes separated the beach from the land beyond, and movement there had caught the edge of his vision.

Boar rose from his crouch with an exaggeratedly casual air and glanced lethargically across the sand. ‘It’s only Barak,’ he said. ‘You are a jumpy old woman.’

Ignoring him other than to murmur, ‘Better jumpy than dead,’ Galen walked towards the approaching figure, a small wiry man but no less festooned with weaponry than his two comrades. Boar spat forcibly and muttered unintelligibly. Brann guessed it was not a compliment. He also noticed that, whatever Boar had said, he had waited until Galen had moved beyond earshot before passing his low-pitched comment.

Barak reached Galen before the tall warrior had moved more than a dozen paces from the group and skidded to a halt. He nodded a greeting to the other two. ‘Light the signal,’ he said simply in a hoarse voice. ‘They’ll be round the headland in minutes.’

‘Not before time.’ Galen crouched beside the firewood and, in seconds, had sparked it to life. A trail of smoke quickly reached towards the clouds.

Barak looked at the bedraggled group chained before him. ‘An extra one.’ It was said as a statement, but it was clearly a question.

‘Boar,’ Galen said, without looking up.

Barak grunted, obviously needing no more explanation.

Boar roughly dragged the chain upwards, effortlessly pulling two boys clear off the ground. Not wishing the same treatment, the others stood by themselves as quickly as cramped legs allowed. The burly warrior barked a harsh and unpleasant laugh and started to pull on the chain to lead the captives to the edge of the sea. ‘Time for a lovely voyage, lads!’ he cried, revelling in their anguish. ‘Bet you never thought you’d get the chance to see distant shores and exotic lands.’

A ship, sleek and nimble, swept around the narrow rocky peninsula that formed one side of the bay. Its mast bare of sail, it cut through the water, driven by a single bank of oars on either side that rose and fell in perfect time to a relentless drumbeat. As it pointed itself directly at the smoke, Boar dragged the captives into the water, while Galen – who had kicked sand over the fire as soon as the ship had responded to the signal – and Barak kept pace at either side.

A double-beat of the drum was followed by a barked shout of instruction and the oars reversed their stroke for three long sweeps, churning and foaming the water and seeming to stop the craft almost immediately.

The wading group had reached deeper water and started, in their haste, to lose their footing. Brann, spitting out an unwelcome mouthful of water, looked ahead to see archers gather in two small groups at the prow and stern. Galen shouted urgently to the boys, ‘Kick your legs. We’ll pull you along. Just concentrate on keeping your faces above the water.’

None of them wanted to go to the ship, but the consequence of defiance was drowning. As if to inadvertently prove the point, one of the boys, obviously not a swimmer, panicked and started to thrash in the water, dropping quickly beneath the surface. With a pointed lack of haste, Boar moved over and dragged him up.

‘There’s always one,’ he moaned. ‘Why can’t you pathetic farm boys all make sure you can at least float?’

He grabbed the back of the spluttering boy’s tunic and held him clear of the water. For all of the man’s obnoxious traits, Brann could not help but marvel at his brute strength. It’s just a pity about the ‘brute’ part of it, he thought. All three of the warriors seemed oblivious to the weight of the host of weapons encumbering each of them as they swam, but to have the ability, as Boar was casually demonstrating, to support a mostly grown boy with one hand at the same time was more than impressive. Brann resolved that, for as long as he was in this predicament and in Boar’s company, he would keep quiet and try not to attract attention. Where Boar was concerned, the only consequences seemed to be harmful ones.

A net was thrown over the side to help the swimmers from the water. Hands reached down to pull them aboard, and the three warriors followed in an instant, hardly out of breath. A hoarse voice bawled ‘Row!’ and, as the drum started to sound, the three men on each oar bent their backs. With a beauty in its precision, the oars on each side rose and fell in a single motion and the ship seemed to leap forward.

As they picked up speed, a party of around a dozen horsemen, each with a short cavalry bow held ready in his hand, thundered onto the beach, drawn by the smoke of the signal fire. Brann realised why Galen had smothered the flames as they were leaving: it had seemed like a waste of time when the men were otherwise consumed by urgency but, in dissipating the tell-tale smoke as, unknown to them, the riders had been closing, he had made it slightly harder to pinpoint their exact location and had bought them precious time. If they had still been in the water when the men had arrived, they would have been as soft targets as there could be. He harboured no notion that the horsemen would have bothered about the boys in the water if they had a chance of striking back at any of the hated raiders.

Several of the horsemen leapt from their mounts even before the animals had come to a halt and, with the speed of professional soldiers, nocked arrows and let fly. The ship, however, had already cleared the range of the short bows and the volley dropped short.

With a shout and a gesture, one of the riders stopped the bowmen, realising the futility of the action and thinking, perhaps, of the cost of arrows and a quartermaster’s ire. Several of the group hurled furious insults at the retreating boat, their cries just audible above the creaking of the oars, the slapping of water against the hull, the grunting of the rowers and the thumping of the drum. Within seconds, they could be heard no more.

Galen stood at the rail, staring impassively back at the shore. ‘Soldiers,’ he said in a low tone. ‘A whole squad. See how quickly they came to the fire, lads?’ He nudged with his foot the boy who had complained. ‘Now you know why you stayed cold.’ He threw down a bundle of towels onto the deck beside them. ‘Now strip. Dry yourselves.’

Several of the boys looked hesitant at the thought of disrobing in public. Galen chuckled. ‘There is no modesty at sea. Dry yourselves or you’ll sicken. Don’t worry – I’ll let you keep the towels until your clothes have dried.’

Their sodden garments were taken and hung on a line near to the captives. The sun was beginning to climb in a sky that was largely unencumbered by clouds and, with the added help of the sea breeze, it would not be long until they could dress once again.

The ship hit deeper water, and Brann began to notice the feeling of the slow rise and fall as it rode the swell. A shout from the stern prompted several men to busy themselves with unfurling the sail on the single mast. Once the fresh wind caught in the canvas, causing it to flap and crack for a few moments before it swelled forwards, the drummer banged twice and a square-headed man with close-cropped grey hair bellowed, ‘Ship oars!’

With a rumble surprising in its brevity, the long oars were dragged on board and fastened into position. The rowers stretched muscles, settled more comfortably on their benches and caught their breath after the burst of hard exercise. The short intense nature of their effort had not allowed them to gain a second wind and, in the manner of men who knew not when their services would be called upon next, they seized without hesitation the chance to recuperate.

Brann sat on the deck and huddled against the other captives in the broad aisle that ran between the rowers. He hugged his knees to his chest, staring down at the planks of the deck. The wood was worn smooth, but was solid and tight-fitting; even that small detail suggested a quality ship, expertly crafted and carefully maintained. The easy confidence and efficiency of the men aboard, and the quality and condition of their weapons and clothing, added to the impression that he was among anything but a rag-tag group of outlaws and bandits. These were professionals, skilled and experienced – and Brann was unsure whether that was a good or a bad thing.

On one hand, he felt that his safety, while not admittedly at an all-time high, was more assured with such men in terms of avoiding either a shipwreck or harm at their hands than if they had been drunken unscrupulous oafs. And cleanliness and hygiene would lessen the chances of disease.

Alternatively, chances of escape would be virtually non-existent among captors such as these. They knew what they were doing and, in the case of Boar and most probably many of the others, had done it many times before. Whatever they were, they were good at it. Whatever their intentions for him – and, with a start, he realised that he had not even thought that far ahead – he was sure they would achieve them.

He was, to his surprise, not sure that he even wanted to return to his village, to the scene of the brutal deaths of everyone close to him. What was there for him to go back to, other than pain and grief? But where else did he have to go? His mind spun furiously. Shaking his head violently, he ran his fingers through his hair in anguish and confusion.

A pair of black boots stopped in front of him, breaking both his gaze and his whirling thoughts. A voice, cultured but anything but soft, said, ‘Welcome aboard. I assume none of you is a sailor. You have a morning to become accustomed to the motion of the ship, and to put your clothes back on. Then you will eat. Whether you feel like it or not.’

Brann looked up. ‘Why are we here? Where are we going?’

The tall man’s dark eyes locked with his and Brann’s stomach lurched with nerves at the intensity of the gaze, the first strong emotion he had felt since his capture. The man’s expression flickered, surprise momentarily evident. Brann cursed himself. A man like that would not be accustomed to being interrupted. So much for keeping a low profile.

‘You will find out soon enough. We have almost a full cargo now, and we are heading for port after just one more stop.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘Rest assured, you will have more to concern you now than a ball game for apprentices.’

He brushed spray-soaked hair away from an L-shaped scar on his cheek, and returned to the rear of the ship.

The morning dragged by in a daze. At first, the movement of the ship caught Brann’s fascination. He’d known it would rise and fall, but he had never envisaged the rocking, both from side to side and front to back – or any combination of all of them. In the absence of any notable activity (with the wind filling the sail, the rowers were still taking the opportunity to doze and, of the crew, only the helmsman and a lookout remained in view) all he had to fill his attention were the noises – which comprised the creaking and groaning of wood and rope, the occasional sharp crack as the sail flapped, sporadic snores from the rowers and a soft whimpering from one of the boys beside him – and the sensation of movement. He tried to play games to relieve the boredom, predicting the combination of movements that would come next, or whether the boat would roll to the left before it rose. But it did not take long before he lost interest in that, also.

One of the boys retched, his body jerking forward and jangling the chains. Brann was relieved that at least he did not feel any sickness from the motion of the ship. Two of the boys spoke to their miserable and pained companion, trying, without success, to comfort him. It appeared from the conversation that the boy had nothing left in his stomach to vomit, having been brought over the course of a night and a day to the coast by captors who had lost all of their rations – and one of their number – in a fierce skirmish along the way. The boys had been left with Barak while the men left again to search for provisions, intending to meet up with the ship further up the coast. When Galen and Boar had arrived with Brann, Barak had left to find a vantage point to watch for the ship.

Brann watched the trio dispassionately, still feeling a detached onlooker. He was well aware that he was in the same situation as the other five, but still felt different from them in ways he could not rationalise, as if none of it was really happening to him, as if he were watching a performance by one of the groups of travelling players who would periodically visit his village.

‘Get a grip on yourself,’ he muttered angrily to himself, slapping his thigh as if to waken himself from a dream. You won’t find a way out of this unless you accept it is real, he thought.

The boy had stopped retching, and his comforters had fallen silent again. Now that the distraction of another in need was over, the captives were left to face their own misery once more, their hunched shoulders and hanging heads speaking more eloquently of their emotion than any words. And with the little tableau finished for Brann, he cast around the ship for anything else that could hold his interest.

A few warriors had returned to the fresh air of the open deck and were tending to their weapons, cleaning and oiling them to protect against the effects of the salt water and anything else that may have attached itself to them in their use over the past day. Those weapons that were not worn about their persons – and these seemed few, Brann thought wryly, considering the host of swords, knives and axes that festooned the men – such as spears, crossbows and bows, were carefully wrapped in lightly oiled cloths. Brann noticed, however, that even these wrapped weapons were never far from the warriors’ reach. Most of the men seemed to be from the same tall, powerful race as Galen, their pale skin beaten and scoured by the gods knew what sort of violent weather, by rain and wind or sun, by howling sandstorms or driving hail and lashing salty spray, until it matched the faded leather of their boots in consistency and colour. The remainder, few as they were, were from a variety of other origins, but they all had at least one thing in common: they were not men who would be caught unready.

The monotony was broken by the return of the boys’ clothes, but only briefly. Brann turned his attention to the rowers, sprawled against each other and whatever part of the ship was available as they took advantage of the chance to rest.

Brann had heard of ships that used rowing slaves, and had imagined such men to be huge muscle-bound hulks, selected for their stature and with their bulk increased by endless days of heavy toil. Instead, these men were of all sizes, but with a uniform leanness rather than being over-laden with bulging muscles. True, they looked strong enough – the ease with which they had handled the large unwieldy oars had been testament to that– but it seemed more of an adaptable strength that could cope equally well with short bursts of power or long stretches of steady rowing.

It seems obvious when you thing about it logically, he mused. I just never had reason to think about it before.

The ringing of a moving chain as one of the oarsmen shifted position drew his attention to their feet. The rowers sat in threes, and each man had a manacle on his left ankle with a short chain reaching from it to a ring at the other end. Under each bench, another chain ran, passing through each of these rings. This chain was anchored to the side of the boat at one end but, where it reached the aisle, it was linked by another ring to a long chain that ran the length of the ship.

The wild-haired boy beside Brann noticed his interest in the chains. ‘Clever, is it not, chief?’ he said, his voice as cold and flat as the sea around them. It was a statement of fact, not admiration. ‘Simple, but clever.’ The boy regarded him with a cold dispassion and Brann looked into the palest of blue eyes. They did not bore into him as the dark stare of the man with the L-shaped scar had done: instead, the intensity in this gaze was behind the eyes, a cold fire that burned within, never raging nor dying. There was something about him that suggested an older perspective on life. Perhaps it was his physical calm amidst the dejection of the other boys.

‘What do you mean?’ Brann asked. His voice was as low as his spirits and the aggression in the boy’s gaze indicated a temperament that he had always found irritating, but he welcomed any conversation that broke the tedium.

The lad nodded with economy of movement towards the rowing benches. ‘The chains. It is an old enough system, but it works, so why change it?’

‘What system? Surely they just get chained up and they row. That’s it.’

His companion shook his head slightly. ‘Simple, but not quite that simple.’ He spoke in short bursts, as if uncomfortable saying any more than was strictly necessary. It was so much in keeping with his appearance that Brann almost smiled. ‘My father rowed. On a galley bigger than this. An Empire one with three banks of oars. Until he escaped and tried farming instead.’

Brann’s eyes came alight. ‘Escaped?’

The pale eyes flicked his way. ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘It took more than a decade for the chance. Six tried; he and one other made it. That’s better than normal. We face a life of slavery.’ He snorted. ‘The son follows the father’s trade.’

‘So that’s what they mean for us? Galley slaves?’

The untameable hair quivered slightly as the head shook in reply. ‘Not right now, and not for you. Look around, chief: any spaces on the benches? It will be the slave markets of the Callenican Empire for us. A little lad like you? May be lucky and get a nice position as a house slave. Someone like me…’ He indicated his large ungainly frame, and shrugged. ‘People look at an oaf like me and think of heavy labour.’

‘Not all heavy labour is on a ship,’ Brann pointed out.

The boy spoke deliberately and patiently. ‘We will most likely finish in Sagia, the capital. They will look for a quick sale and Sagia holds the biggest slave market. There are no mines or quarries there. The farms are worked by families. The city is a port, so the work revolves around shipping. The Dockers’ Guild controls the jobs onshore, so all that’s left is a bench on some ship. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a watertight one.’

Brann looked more closely at him. The boy had noticed, and deduced, much in a short time. And he had knowledge that extended the width of a continent further than the half-day’s walk that had been the limit of Brann’s world until the day before. He could prove to be a valuable ally if they were ever to spot a chance to escape. ‘You know much about these distant places. Your father?’

‘Do you always ask so many questions?’

Brann grunted. ‘Only when I don’t know so many answers.’

The youth considered this, and nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. I was put to sleep each night with stories of his time at sea. Never thought I would get to see it for myself.’ He turned away and stared over the rail at the choppy blue-grey waves.

Emotion surged in Brann, taking him by surprise and forcing him to fight it hard. Somehow, what his companion left unsaid was more touching than if he had poured out his heart. For the first time since he had returned to consciousness, Brann felt empathy for another – and realised that he did not even know the name of the person who had awakened it. Unnerved by the combined power of grief, loss and fear, and lest it would overwhelm him, he forced the feelings back down, quickly re-establishing the cold, hard barrier. If he could not confront the emotion, it was better to avoid it. And, anyway, he was a little intrigued by what the youth had started to explain beforehand. Unlikely as it seemed, he was finding that he wasn’t quite so irritated by the boy’s personality as he had thought he would be. It was intense, but there was comfort in its straightforward logic.

‘What did you mean about a system?’ Brann ventured. ‘To do with the chains,’ he prompted.

The youth nodded at the rowers. ‘They are slaves… but valuable slaves. They do what they do, well. Their bodies have adapted to it. And, if they are rowing, the warriors can be warriors. So the warriors take care of the rowers. Do you see what I mean, chief?’

Brann nodded. He felt hollow, as if nothing really mattered but, under current circumstances, he had time to fill and he was at least learning about his surroundings. Despite the logic in the boy’s dismissal of any chance of escape, that course was exactly the one he intended to follow at the first opportunity, and the more knowledge he gathered about his captors and surroundings, the more likely he was to spot, or even create, such an opportunity. ‘I understand what you say,’ he said, ‘but what has it got to do with the chains?’ The chill eyes looked at him. ‘Sorry. More questions. I know. You must be tired.’

‘If I was tired, I would sleep. But I’m not. You have a question, I have the answer, and we both have the time.

‘At times, the chains need to come off quickly. A sinking ship, or an attack with hand-to-hand fighting.’

Brann was puzzled. ‘Why then? So they can be protected from harm?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Well-treated slaves are better staying with the masters they have. The alternative is to risk worse with someone else. If the attack is by pirates, the alternative is worse. So, in such times, they fight beside the crew and, when it is over, return to the benches. At sea, this is accepted.’

Brann considered this. ‘I count sixty rowers, and about twenty-five or so crew. Once the fighting is over, could the slaves not…?’

‘I know, chief. Could they not overpower their masters?’ He shrugged. ‘They need each other. And you have seen these warriors: weapons are their life. If the slaves did overcome them, it would be at terrible cost. And they would always be fugitives, hunted by those who would fear other slaves encouraged to follow suit. So why risk it? Anyway, after fifteen years at the oars, a galley slave is freed. They reckon you have deserved it if you live that long. The longer you row, the closer you are to that.’

Brann’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why did your father take such a risk to escape?’

The boy stared over the sea once again. ‘A valid question, chief. His circumstances changed. His ship was taken by pirates. Several slaves were tortured and thrown overboard to show the consequence of defiance. So he reasoned his situation had worsened. Yes, he had little more than two years of his fifteen left, but pirates tend not to adhere to that arrangement. They work their slaves till they drop. They can always pick up more. A small group saw an opportunity. It was a slight chance, but desperation drove them. He made it; all but one of the others did not. But they were under a death sentence anyway.’

He flexed his shoulders and arched his back against the effects of sitting still. ‘So, the chains. Do you see the two long chains that run fore to aft – front to back? In emergencies, the crew can unfasten those chains at one end and pull them through to the other. Each set of rowers can then pull out the chain that runs under their bench, linking their individual chains. They are completely unfettered in seconds. And, you will notice that the long chains running up the aisle not only run through the rings on each bench’s chain. They pass through several metal rings that secure hasps set into the aisle. Those hasps are for hatches into compartments containing weapons for the slaves. So, when the long chains are pulled free to let loose the slaves, they also give access to the weapons. The slaves can be unchained and armed in moments.’

Brann’s face clouded as a thought struck him. ‘These men don’t seem to be pirates, yet they have taken us as slaves. Surely they are pirates.’

‘Not all who take slaves are pirates. In the Empire, and the southern lands still more dusty, slaves are a part of life. They are traded and valued just as a horse or a sword or a house would be. These men here are seafarers, chief, and northerners mostly. They will be engaged by a slave-trader to fetch him goods to sell. On another day they would be transporting passengers or goods to a market or to a buyer’s estate.’

A warrior strolled down the aisle, checking the chains had not become tangled and kicking the occasional one. Brann looked at the legs of the men nearest him. ‘So, if I understand this properly, they can remove an individual rower by unlocking his manacles, or all three on a bench by unclipping them from the main chain along the aisle. So it can work for all of them or just one at a time, or almost any number in between.’

The boy almost smiled. ‘You seem to understand. But still I see confusion in your eyes.’

Brann nodded. ‘If there is such a special relationship that the slaves can be released and even armed if need be, why chain them up at all?’

‘Trust extends only so far, chief.’ The eyes burned with pale fire into his. ‘A wise man leaves as little to chance as possible.’ He shrugged. ‘And, in any case, it is expected. They are slaves. As, now, are we.’

Brann grunted. ‘Thank you for reminding me. For someone who is of few words, you speak at great length.’

‘I speak when I can offer something of value. Otherwise, I prefer to listen. Thus I learn what may be valuable. And you know more of your situation, which is no bad thing.’ His expression never yet wavered. ‘And it passed the time.’

Brann snorted, irritated by the reminder of his predicament. ‘At the moment, passing time is like passing water. I don’t particularly want to have to do either but, if the need arises, I’ll let you know.’

He was fixed with a curious stare, the head tilted to the side. ‘I would make the most of being able to pass time, chief. At the moment, it is the only one of the two for which you control the opportunity to do it.’

His childish pomposity was brutally exposed for what it was by simple logic. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was kind of you to explain it all.’

‘Kind?’ It was only one word, but his tone was such that a speech could not have better conveyed the boy’s confusion. ‘You asked questions, I answered.’

Brann felt his mouth turn into a half-smile, as if it were an awkward movement. ‘One last answer, then: your name.’

‘One last answer for now. I feel you will have more questions over time. My father named me Gerens.’

‘And mine, Brann.’

‘Right you are, chief.’ The boy clasped his hand in a formality that was as comforting as it was incongruous in their situation. ‘I feel it is good to meet you.’

A voice boomed above them, making them both jump. The fat warrior, Boar, stood over them.

‘Up, maggots,’ he roared, rattling the chain so violently that several of them flinched – a reaction that seemed to please the oaf. ‘Those who can walk, get to the stern. That’s the bit at the back. Your food is there. Those who can’t walk will be dragged by those who can.’ He sniggered at what obviously passed for humour in his warped mind and thumped back up the aisle, leaving them to follow in whatever manner they could manage.

The sorry little group began to rise, some slower than others as cramped legs objected to movement. As they did so, the boat lurched, causing them to fall against each other. Brann was knocked from his feet and fell painfully against the end of a bench. He banged solidly against a sleeping rower, a burly bald man with an incongruously bushy black beard, but the man’s slumber was so deep – or he cared so little about a slip of a boy falling against him – that he merely wriggled into a different position without waking.

As he did so, a hard object poked into Brann. Instinctively, the boy’s hand slid forward and found the handle of a knife, tucked discreetly into the waistband of the man’s breeches. Before he could think, he had grasped the bone handle, pulling it smoothly with him as he rose, and secreting it within his sleeve while he pretended to hold his stomach in pain. By the time he did think about what he had done, and about the unbelievable folly of doing so, it was too late to undo it.

Two of the boys were helping up the one they had earlier comforted while he had been retching, and the rest of the group had managed to stand and were waiting until all were ready to move off. Brann mingled with them as they shuffled forwards, using their tangle of chained limbs to conceal his movements as he slipped the blade into his own belt under his tunic, not so much out of a desire to keep the knife but more for reasons of keeping it better hidden until he could secretly dispose of it. His heart pounded as he came dangerously close to panic. He cursed his idiocy and tugged his tunic down, even though it was already more than adequately covering the incriminating object. With each pace, he could feel the metal digging into him and, with each dig, his stomach lurched and churned with tense fear.

He cursed himself. Why had he done something so stupid? Why? He had taken the knife automatically, his hand moving before his mind considered the idea. If it were found on him, the best he could hope for would be that his death would be quick. The rower he had taken it from had been courting that risk also but, whatever his reason for doing so, it was immaterial now – the risk had passed to Brann. Yet he could not get rid of it at the moment without being caught. He would just have to remain alert for an opportunity… and he prayed that moment would come soon.

They reached the rear of the ship. A steep stairway led up in front of them to the raised area and two closed doors faced the group, one set either side of the steps. Before them a small table bore bread, cheese and water. The boys hurriedly grabbed some of each, and forced it down. With the exception of Gerens, who wolfed it down with all of the relish but none of the manners normally reserved for a finely prepared banquet, not one of them had much of an appetite, but they had no idea when they would next eat. So they ate.

Boar clambered clumsily down from the area above. ‘Through the door,’ his voice boomed. The boy at the front of the group reached for the nearest latch.

It was hard to believe Boar could shout any louder – but he did. ‘The other door, fool! If you step into the Captain’s cabin, you’ll spend the last two seconds of your life thinking about your mistake. Now move before you die of stupidity.’

The sorry group passed through the other door, discovering another steep set of stairs – almost a ladder – leading down below deck level. They found that the chain linking them was just long enough, if they were careful, to allow them all to climb down one by one.

‘Keep moving, maggots,’ Boar said, his voice relatively quieter but no less bullying.

The boys shuffled along a short corridor dimly lit by a single lamp, passing doorless portals that let them glimpse the rooms inside and, Brann realised, would allow any occupants to exit rapidly if necessary. No light burned in the first room they passed, but Brann was just able to make out the figures of those warriors not on deck who were grabbing, like the slaves above, the chance to sleep. The next room seemed to be used as both a kitchen and storeroom and, like the first, was in darkness. Dim light did come, however, from the room that lay straight ahead, which seemed to be their destination.

Boar confirmed it. ‘Straight ahead, maggots. Keep going. Welcome to your new home.’

They stumbled towards the room, steadying themselves against the walls that were conveniently close on either side. As they neared the doorway, Brann could see two rows of faces, all belonging to boys of around his age, lined along the walls to each side of a long narrow area, staring at the newcomers. Boar shoved them roughly towards the room.

‘In you go, maggots,’ he growled gleefully. ‘We’ll get you chained up with your new friends. You couldn’t ask for better quarters – it’s clean, dry and there’s even a latrine.’ He indicated a bucket beside the door. ‘If you’re good, we might even empty it now and again.’ He sniggered, once again finding himself highly amusing, although Brann suspected that this was not the first time he had produced this particular witticism. The whole procedure bore the hallmarks of a routine that the fat oaf thoroughly enjoyed.

As the boys started to file into the room, an eldritch screech burst from a room to their right. They stopped in terror. Like the others, Brann’s attention had been drawn by disconsolate curiosity to the room that was to be their temporary home to such an extent that he had not noticed this other room, let alone its occupant.

The scream started again but, this time, words could be made out. ‘Bring him to me! Bring him now!’

The man with the L-shaped scar stepped from the room. ‘Hold them there, Boar,’ he said. His order was unnecessary: the captives were rooted in terror, each hoping desperately he was not the subject of the ear-splitting demand.

The voice started again. ‘The little one. The little one at the back.’

Brann’s breathing froze and his chest constricted in fear. The tall man nodded to Boar. ‘You heard Our Lady,’ he said simply.

‘Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,’ Boar said, the whine of his deferential tone a stark contrast to his previous bullying bluster. He knelt and hurriedly released Brann’s manacle.

The Captain waved Brann forward. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way into the room as Boar resumed ushering the remainder of the group to their original destination. Gerens cast a look in Brann’s direction, his eyebrows raised. Brann knew that the boy was as mystified as he, and shrugged in reply. His initial fear had subsided greatly, mainly due to his emotionally dulled state of mind and the belief that his situation could not, conceivably, deteriorate to any great extent. Maybe he was taking Gerens’s implacable logic to heart.

The room was more shadows than light. Two candles flickered shapes on the walls, a worrying hazard on a ship, Brann thought, where all other light was provided by oil lanterns that were sturdily constructed and designed to avoid spillages. The Captain was standing beside what appeared to be a pile of rags. Assuming this to be the source of the voice, Brann continued towards it and stopped several feet short, unsure what to do.

The words did, indeed, come from the rags. ‘Come closer, boy,’ it said. It was the voice of an old woman and now had, to his surprise, a gentle tone, almost kindly. The most astonishing thing about it was not the dramatic drop in volume, however, but how normal it sounded. He had expected a mysterious whisper or, at least, a demented growl. Certainly not something that sounded like a benevolent grandmother.

‘I don’t always screech, you know. Terrible sore on the throat, so it is.’ She laughed, softly. ‘But it surely catches people’s attention, so it does. It catches their attention. And it does me no harm to have a certain reputation. I like to keep them on their toes, so I do. Unpredictable tends to work well in my profession. Mad and mysterious, that’s me.’ She laughed again, almost a giggle this time. ‘Just you remember that, little one, when they ask you what I said. And they will ask you, so they will. So tell them I was mad and mysterious. Mysterious and mad. And terrifying. Terrifying is good, so it is.’

She coughed, a dry, dusty old sound. ‘Come closer again, boy. I will not bite. No teeth, see: makes it difficult, so it does.’ She laughed again.

Brann shuffled forward, beginning to make out her wizened face: sunken, watery eyes amid protruding cheekbones and creases upon creases. White hair hung limply, held in place by a thin gold chain that dangled an assortment of charms across her forehead; they jingled musically at the slightest movement.

His foot brushed against something, causing a slight rattling sound. The Captain had been standing, silent and still, while she spoke but, at the noise from the floor, he flinched with a sharp intake of breath.

The old lady was, however, more calm. ‘Mind the bones, boy, mind the bones,’ she said equably.

Brann looked down with a nervous jerk to see a selection of small rune-engraved bones (animal or human, he did not know – did not want to know) lying scattered on the floor. One of the candles had been placed to cast light on the area, but he had been so intent on the woman’s face as he walked forward that he had stumbled right into the macabre relics.

He drew back in horror. Stories abounded about the folly of incurring the wrath of women like this. Call them what you will – seeresses, witches, wisewomen, earthmothers, oracles – it did not do to cross them. No one knew for sure if tales of mysterious retribution held some truth or were exaggerated fancy but, by the same token, no one was willing to take the risk of testing the theory. To anger them was a bad idea, but to touch, and therefore sully, the individual tools of any of these women, whether it be bones, animal entrails, embers of a fire, sacred stones or any one of myriad other objects, dead or alive, that were their means of divining anything – from the future, the weather or the chances of crops failing or cows calving to the prospects of armies triumphing or women conceiving – was sacrilege.

And he had just stood on top of them.

But the old woman did not cast a spell. She did not fly at him with talon-like nails scratching at his eyes. She did not even scream.

She chuckled.

‘Calm down, child, calm down.’ The charms strung across her forehead tinkled delicately as she leant forward and gathered the bones from the floor in one long-fingered, sinew-ridged bony hand with a quick and well-practised sweep of the other. ‘My fault, so it is, my fault. Forgot they were there when I called you nearer, silly me. Not to worry: not in use just now, are they? No, no, just bits of creatures that long since ceased to need their outer shell in this world, so they are. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Her eyes grew distant, her voice low and heavy. ‘When they are in use, though, it is different. Then, they are alive; alive and so very powerful.’ She opened her hand to reveal the bones and stroked her fingertips across them. ‘Oh yes, so very powerful.’ The hand snapped shut, and her head jerked up, as if she had abruptly awakened from a dream. Her eyes focused on his once more and her voice grew gentle again. ‘No harm done, is there, little dear? No need to fret, no need at all.’ She laughed softly.

Brann was unsure how to feel. He had seen his home set ablaze with his family inside and his brother brutally slain just feet from him; he had been dragged away from everything and everyone he had ever known; he was a slave bound for a future that only the gods could predict in a place he could not envisage; his immediate future was to live, cramped with others like him, beneath the decks of a slave ship under the total authority of a bullying oaf; and now, in a dingy, musty, gloom-laden room, watched by the most quietly menacing man he had ever met, he had trampled all over the sacred bones of an ancient crone who was held in fear and reverence by the battle-scarred crew who shared a ship with her. And her response? To sweep aside those relics as if she were a grandmother brushing away crumbs on a table.

Yes, indeed, he had no idea how to think. He continued to feel nothing. His head was light, and he swayed slightly as he stood, arms hanging limply by his sides, staring blankly at her.

She patted the now-clear floor in front of her, a soft sound. Disturbed dust swirled in the faint candlelight.

‘Here, sit,’ she said, her voice as gentle as the tap on the floor. ‘Sit, before you fall.’

He realised as she said it that his head was spinning more than he had realised, or cared. He stepped forward slightly to the indicated spot, his movements clumsy and his senses deadened, feeling as if time, for him, were moving slower than for those around him.

She patted the floor again, twice. He sat, cross-legged like a child, so close to her that his knees brushed her robes.

‘Look at me, boy. Look at me.’

He lifted his eyes to hers and was locked into her gaze. His consciousness seemed to be drawn by her and his mind felt as blank as his emotions. He was aware of her eyes but, beyond that, he saw no more: not the Captain, watching silently; not the dancing flames of the candles; not her robes, many and smoke-thin; not the skin stretched across her face, as fragile-seeming as her clothing; only her dark, dark eyes.

He was aware of her voice but gone was the creaking and groaning of the ship, the calls and footsteps from above, the coughing and whimpering from the neighbouring room, even the faint sound of his own shallow breathing. All he could hear, all there was to him, was her soft, mellow, soothing voice.

‘A melancholy right into your bones, you have. Much have you seen, so you have, that should never have passed before such young eyes, and much will you go through again, of a weight a babe should never have to shoulder. But you must release, so you should, you must release – the smallest kettle or the largest volcano must obey the same laws: neither can be sealed, for the force within will only grow and the release will be worse and not of your choosing. So let it out, boy, let it out or it will fill every part of you, and it will leave room for naught else within you. It will destroy you and those you hold close.’

She stared at him in silence, waiting impassively for the emotion to burst from him.

But it did not. A solitary tear gathered at the lip of one eye before slowly drawing a silver line down his cheek. His face, as blank as before, looked back at her, his gaze still locked with hers.

She sighed heavily, and shook her head slightly. ‘It is deeper than I feared. As deep, perhaps, as that consuming you, my Captain. So many questions waiting to be asked, pain like a thousand blades, a yearning that tears you asunder but, for now, nothing but emptiness of the soul. Not today will it be filled, for better or worse. Not today and not tomorrow.’ She sighed again, a mournful sound. ‘So sad, in one so unprepared.’

A shadow of a smile drifted across her lips. ‘One answer, though, there is. One answer to a question not yet asked. Know this: not your fault, no, it is not your fault. Remember that, my dear, remember that you could have changed nothing. When fate draws a map, man must follow it, so he must. Man has no choice but to follow it.’

She took his hand in both of hers, stroking the back of it gently. ‘Have peace, now, little one, have peace. Go, now; eat and sleep. Best thing for you, so it is. When in doubt, return to the basics of life. Eat and sleep.’

Still clasping him in her grasp, she reached with her other hand and, with surprisingly soft fingertips, gently wiped the tear from his cheek.

She froze. Tensing, with a sharp hiss, she gripped his hand so violently that his attention was snapped away from her eyes. He looked questioningly at the Captain who, silently and intently, nodded Brann’s attention back to the old lady.

Slowly, almost tentatively, she drew her hand away from his face and lifted it to her mouth. The moisture on her fingertip glistened in the candlelight with a magical air. She touched the single tear to her lips and, tentatively, brushed her tongue against it.

A scream of pain wrenched itself from her. With her back arched, her body jerked upwards. Her eyelids fluttered erratically, her pupils rolled up, and she began to moan, a low drone that filled the room with an uneasy dread.

The Captain nudged Brann with the toe of one boot. He looked up. ‘Listen carefully, boy,’ he cautioned. ‘What she says, you will hear once, and once only. When she returns to us, she will know nothing of what passes her lips. So listen carefully.’

Brann returned his attention to the old woman. She was mumbling without pause, a stream of incomprehensible sounds that ran into each other. At best, what she was uttering was a monotone of gibberish. What was there for him to listen carefully to?

Her grip on his hand redoubled, and the moaning stopped. She became still, eerily still. Her eyes opened, wide and unblinking, and she stared directly at him. There was silence. Bran realised that he had stopped breathing, and forced himself to draw in air. His hand was in considerable pain, but he dared not do anything that might disturb her.

She spoke, her voice that of a young woman, clear and strong.

‘Paths you will travel, in many a realm,

You’ll be blind to the journey, trust to Fate at the helm,

But you’ll know you are standing in Destiny’s hall

When heroes and kings come to call.’

Her eyes rolled up once more but, this time, her lids shut peacefully. Her grip eased and her hand slipped from his. With a long, dry sigh, the tension seemed to flood from her and she relaxed, almost sagged, where she sat.

She opened her eyes, and saw Brann massaging his aching hand. Taking it gently in both of hers, she lifted it gently to her lips and kissed it softly.

‘Apologies for the pain, my dear, many apologies,’ she said so softly that he had to strain to make out the words. ‘I know not what I am doing at my special times. I have no memory of my words or actions, no memory. I have only an echo of the memory, a picture in smoke, and the more I try to grasp it, the more it fades.

‘But it does leave me with a feeling, so it does. Like a tracker with the indent of a footprint, after the foot has passed. I cannot see the person, but I see clues to the person in the footprint, so I do, I see clues in the footprint. And what I see is your fate lying heavy on your shoulders. Yes, heavy it will lie.’

Brann felt himself sagging as despair plunged down upon him. She took his hand again. ‘I know, young one, I know. You have faced so much in a short time, and you are living so much more. Destiny has a habit of arriving slowly. When it comes, you think it is suddenly bursting through the door, but most times it has been building, and making you stronger all the while.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Do not despair. When fate visits you, your shoulders will have grown stronger to bear it.’

Her hand drifted down and brushed against the knife hidden under his clothes. He tensed in fear, but she merely smiled quietly, and her eyes narrowed in amusement as they met his.

‘You already show me a hint of the man you will need to be. Be careful, and it will serve you well, so it will, it will serve you well. Be complacent and, well… you live in a dangerous world, so you do. We all act sometimes without knowing why; only in later times do we see the significance. Do not be over-hasty to rid yourself of that which may be the saviour of your life. That is all I will say.’ She traced a finger down his cheek. ‘Take care, little one, take care. It would please me to see you prosper. Yes indeed, it would please me.’

She patted his hand: a simple but surprisingly reassuring gesture. ‘Now I must rest, so I must. And so should you. Go now.’

She lay back on cushions that had gone unnoticed in the gloom, her features disappearing into deep shadows where the clutter blocked the candles’ meagre reach. The Captain gestured to Brann to stand up. Despite a stiffness in his legs, he did so quickly and followed the tall man, who had started from the room without a word. In the corridor, they found Boar. The Captain headed for the ladder leading to the deck and, without turning, said, ‘Put him in with the rest. Make sure he has food and drink.’ Boar barely had time to acknowledge the order before he was up the ladder and out of sight.

‘You heard the man,’ Boar rasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Brann stumbled into the small hold, realising how exhausted he was. Boar gestured towards a space beside Gerens, where Brann would originally have been installed had his progress not been interrupted.

Boar grunted, ‘Better late than never.’ He smirked as his gaze passed around the small room, crammed with pale and harrowed faces. ‘You’re mine, now. Don’t you forget it. Especially you, late boy.’ His foot flicked out and nudged Brann’s side to indicate the object of the comment. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas about being special just because the old crone shared her ramblings with you. You’re all the same, now: all maggots under my boot.’ He used that very boot to emphasise the point again, but this time it thudded into Brann’s ribs in a full-blooded kick. The boy cried out before he could stop himself, and curled up, praying that the fat bully would go away.

But Boar was still speaking, enjoying lording it over his captive audience. ‘Remember, you are our pay-day. So eat and drink when it’s given to you, and keep yourselves clean. I don’t want to go home to my wife with my pay short just because any of you fall sick.’

Brann was unsure which was the worse thought: the idea of what it must be like for some woman to be married to such an obnoxious oaf, or the image of the sort of woman who could place Boar in a state of fear.

Boar reached into a heavy canvas bag and produced a loaf and a hunk of cheese. Breaking off part of the bread, he threw it and the cheese into Brann’s lap, before picking up a wooden bowl. He leant back out of the doorway to fill it from a barrel of fresh water that stood in the short corridor.

Setting the bowl down beside Brann, he grunted. ‘Make the most of the bread and cheese. Fresh food don’t come your way very often at sea. But you maggots weren’t the only things we brought back from our fun ashore.’

He turned away and snorted hugely in amusement, the noise lasting the length of his passage to the ladder. The sound would normally have blunted Brann’s appetite, but not today. The appearance of the food in his lap had awakened a hunger that had been lying dormant until now, but had re-emerged with a vengeance. He picked up the cheese but, as he chewed it, his arm drooped and the food fell and rolled against Gerens’s leg. Gerens turned to see Brann slumped, deep in slumber and snoring gently.

Gerens carefully wrapped the remaining cheese in as clean a rag as he could find and picked up the bowl of water. Lifting Brann’s head upright, he touched the rim of the bowl to his lips. In a reflex action, Brann drank.

A boy close by sniggered, nudging the lad beside him. ‘Look,’ he snorted gleefully. ‘He’s trying to get him to wet himself.’

Without looking up, Gerens said darkly, ‘I am trying to keep him in health. But if you favour sport of that sort, wait until you sleep yourself and I will see what I can arrange.’

The laughing stopped. The boy looked at Gerens. ‘Why do you help him?’

Gerens shrugged. ‘I feel like I should. So I do.’ His stare swept onto the boy. ‘Are you saying I should not?’ The boy shook his head, but Gerens had already turned back to Brann and helped him to two further swallows. In a lower voice, he spoke again. ‘That will do, chief. Enough to keep you going. Any more, and those fools will have their entertainment.’

As he put down the bowl, Brann mumbled in his sleep. It was almost incoherent, but Gerens could just make it out. ‘Thank you, mother.’

With a hint of a smile, the boy replied softly, ‘Thank the gods you did not say that loudly enough for the others to hear. I do not know which of us would have suffered more if you had.’

On deck, hours later, the slow, steady drumbeat was muffled, for sound carried further at night and it was not generally wise at sea to advertise one’s presence unnecessarily. It also helped any of the crew who were managing to rest, to do so.

The night was clear, the stars sharp, the large moon bright enough to give visibility to the horizon, the sea peaceful and – most relevantly – the breeze gentle, so the oars were needed to maintain their progress, albeit at a reduced rate. Every third bench was rowing, while the others slept; the remaining slaves would follow suit in two further shifts, so that all would be able to rest for the majority of the night.

On the raised deck at the stern, Boar broke wind violently. ‘There,’ he declared. ‘That’s what I think of those maggots in the hold.’

The steersman grunted, glad he was upwind of the foul oaf, who smelt badly enough without the aid of flatulence. ‘That’s what you think of everything, Boar.’

The fat man spat over the side. ‘Nah, these are the worst ever. We’ll be lucky to clear our wages this trip. And there’s one wee runt thinks he’s better than us, away chatting to the old witch below. He’ll be the first I break, wait and see. He’s no better than Boar, that’s what he’ll learn.’ He spat again.

‘Would it not be better to keep them healthy, Boar? You know, keep them looking good for the market,’ the steersman suggested. ‘More money for us. Better idea, no?’

Another voice spoke from the shadows. ‘And a better idea to show more respect for Our Lady. Would that maybe help, Boar?’

Had there been more light, it would have been clearly visible that the colour had drained from Boar’s face. The steersman, without being able to see it, knew it to be so nonetheless, and smiled his amusement.

Boar spluttered. ‘Yes, Captain. Good idea. I mean, sorry, Captain.’ He regained his composure, such as it ever was. ‘Got to catch some sleep, Captain. Better go below. G’night.’

‘Another good idea, Boar,’ the Captain said evenly. ‘Good night.’

Boar stomped off. The deck was silent again, but for the soft drumbeat and the creaks and splashes of the oars. The steersman broke the silence. ‘Why do you keep him, Captain? Few skills, too many weaknesses, potential for trouble. You know that if you want his throat cut and him dumped over the side there will be no shortage of volunteers.’

The tall, black-clad figure looked at the veteran warrior. The man was one of his oldest companions and an astute reader of men, although this assessment of Boar had hardly taxed his talents in that respect.

‘I know, Cannick, I know.’ He sighed. ‘And you know he is not the sort I would normally choose, had I the choice. But also you know that circumstances do not, these days, allow me to be over-particular. And you know men well enough to understand we have been lucky with the standard that fate has, mostly, given us.’

Cannick spat over the side. ‘We have been lucky, Einarr.’ The Captain did not stir at the use of his name. ‘From the first campaigns I fought with your father as young mercenaries who needed only the promise of gold and excitement to turn our faces towards lands we had never even heard named before, to the time when your grandfather’s death called your father back home, I served with men good and bad. Sometimes the bad are the ones you want more at your back in a fight; some of the worst have saved my life. But some of the best have stood by me when the worst have run, and your father was the best of those. When disease robbed me of my family and someone else’s war took my home, I had nothing. I was freed by the worst of fates to determine my own path, and I could have gone anywhere. But the path I chose was to your father’s home, because all have their benefits, but the best have the benefits that sit most comfortably on your shoulders.

‘These men you have here, you have indeed been lucky to find signing up with you. All are true, most are good men and all will stand by you. All except one. He is as rotten as I have come across, but we are in a dirty business. Everyone in this business expects to get his hands dirty, but there’s always a need for someone who will shove his hands in shit without a second thought.’

The Captain sighed. ‘We have indeed been lucky with them, Cannick. You and Our Lady downstairs are the only ones I trust with my name, but these men I trust with my life. They are capable in combat and are generally a good bunch of lads, caught, like us, in something we’d rather not have to be a part of, had we the luxury of choice. Which is why I wonder why we need a man like Boar. He is different from the rest of us: he belongs in this life. If truth be told, he enjoys it.’

‘You are right, old friend,’ the veteran warrior agreed, his gaze lingering on the moonlit horizon. ‘And that is exactly why he has his uses at the moment – because he belongs in this life. We are in it, whether we like it or not, and we need men like him to make it work until we can be rid of it. But you are right: he does enjoy it… too much. His use will continue until fate decrees that it should stop. He will push someone too far one day, he will become too much for someone, and it will be surprising how quickly his advantages become less important to us. In the meantime, though, you need to treat him as you would a fighting dog – keep him on a short leash and watch him carefully until the times arise when he is of use. Do you know what I mean?’ Cannick smiled again, but this time grimly. ‘But I do hope I am around to see it when the gods decide he has outlived his usefulness.’

The Captain looked at him. ‘As usual, you are right. But, as for the last, who will be their tool, I know not. I only know it will not be me. I will kill a man in battle without hesitation, but I will not end a man’s life merely because I do not like him. However, when his end comes, I am sure it will be of his own making and we will not need to prompt it. He is good enough at that himself. And, when it does happen, I will trust that the gods have indeed decreed it, and who am I to judge against their decision?’

‘Who indeed, boy, who indeed?’ Cannick said softly as the tall dark figure descended the ladder and made his way forward to check with the lookout, as he did every night at this time, before retiring to bed.

The Captain reached the prow and held himself steady beside the warrior on duty. The ship reared up at the front into an ornate figurehead of a blue-painted dragon, rearing in silent fury to the height of two men and half as much again. On the back of the head was a small platform that was only a few feet higher than the raised area at the stern; but even just a few feet made a difference in the distance a man could see over the waves.

The lookout was expecting the visit. ‘Just one thing, Captain,’ he reported, pointing. ‘A ship to port, keeping close to the horizon.’ He pointed almost due east, back towards the land. ‘It has been there a while. I would have called you if it had got any closer, but it has kept its distance and I knew you would be coming by at this time anyway. It’s closer to the coast so it may just be a fishing boat. Thought I’d better mention it, though.’

It was not unusual to see other ships at sea – this was a well-used area, after all – and it normally sufficed to keep a wary eye on other vessels until they passed out of sight. ‘That’s fine. Watch it closely. Have me wakened if it does get closer before dawn. And pass on that order to your relief.’

The Captain returned to the stern, stopping at the base of the ladder. ‘Steersman, one degree towards the east. There’s a ship out there, to the west. See if it has matched our change of course when the sun comes up, after you have rested.’

‘I can see the shape, now you point it out,’ Cannick confirmed. ‘Thank the gods for the light nights; in a few months we wouldn’t have known it was there at all.’ He squinted. ‘Couldn’t have said it was a ship, right enough. Lookout has good eyes.’

The Captain paused as he opened the door to his cabin. ‘We may all have cause to be thankful for that before long. Pass on the orders when you are relieved. And if any of the men come up on deck, send them back below and tell them I said they should get as much rest as possible. Best to be ready.’

He was in his bed in moments; the advice on rest applied to him, too. But sleep did not come as quickly. He lay, his eyes fastened on the ceiling but seeing nothing but the faces of an old woman and a frightened boy. And a phrase rang, over and over, echoing in his mind: ‘When heroes and kings come to call…’

In a dark, damp, crowded room below the Captain’s cabin, a boy, confused, battered in body and mind, numb shock his only defence against unbridled terror and despair, slept the deep, dreamless sleep brought only by utter physical exhaustion.

But had he known the day that lay ahead of him when he woke, his eyes may never have closed in sleep at all.