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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.
