The Bone Ships, page 31
“Stingplates, all over the beach, Shipwife.” The whispered reply.
“Are you poisoned?” Meas again.
“Nay, Shipwife. Just a single sting.”
“Careful down the beach.” Meas whispered.
Those pulling Joron’s boat up the shingle slowed.
“Look to your feet,” he said. Looking down he saw, as his eyes adjusted to the meagre light of Skearith’s Blind Eye, that his foot was by a stingplate. The circular, gelid body was full of air that, when stepped on, would be pushed out into its ten stinging arms, sending them up and out to inject venom into the leg of whatever stood on it. These were only the flowers of the stingplate, the plant lived beneath the beach. A full sting was enough to kill an adult human, they may stagger on a little before collapsing, but not far. Then the stingplate would send tendrils up through the sand or shingle to digest the flesh. Fortunately, a single sting would not kill, though it was still painful. “Two of you go ahead with wyrmpikes,” said Joron. “Puncture any plates between us and the jungle edge.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the quiet reply, and they made their way more carefully up the beach, dragging the boat with them.
At the forest’s edge Meas and her group already had the mast of their boat down and were hiding the hull under a mass of dead foliage.
“Do we attack tonight?” said Joron to Meas. She stared into the forest, and as if in challenge a chorus of calls and songs and growls came back.
“No,” she said. “The gion forest this far south is no place to be at night. Howlers, loppers, fellscram and tunir all haunt it.”
“And they sleep in the day?”
“No, but we have more chance of seeing them at least.” In the darkness he could not tell whether she joked or not.
“What of the gullaime? It needs the windspire.”
“If it has survived this long, Twiner, I am sure it will make it through one more night.” Meas pointed towards where the crews were covering the boats. “Leave it with them. I will have the crews get what sleep they can. You and I will walk further round the headland, see if we can get a better look at the tower.”
“What about the tide?”
“There is no tide down here. I do not know why, but it is one worry less for us. Just the wildlife and stingplates to look out for.”
“A pleasant evening walk then.”
“Ey,” said Meas, “but one on which we will take Anzir and Narza just in case.”
They set off along the beach, leaving instructions to those behind to set no fires but get what rest they could. Anzir and Narza walked in front of Meas and Joron, occasionally stabbing at the ground to puncture stingplates.
“Should we not walk at the edge of the forest, Shipwife?” said Joron.
“Why?”
“So we are not seen.”
“Possibly, though if those on the tower are at all alert they will have seen us come in, and if they are not then I do not think they will be watching this beach too closely. And it is best to keep away from the forest this late too, even with Narza and Anzir to guard us.”
“Is it so dangerous?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is the tunir that worry me most.”
“I have never heard or seen—”
Meas touched his arm, pointed down the beach and in a loud whisper said. “Narza, Anzir, stay still.” Joron peered into the night.
The beach stretched away, grey against the black of the sea and the ever-shifting line where waves washed against the shore. The forest of gion, so bright and colourful in the day, was a drab monochrome. Joron found himself thinking how the beach was a strange place, neither land nor sea, an in between where it was easy to believe the legions of the Hag may emerge from the water to do her dark bidding. Above the island, partly obscured by the jagged soaring black peaks of Skearith’s Spine, Skearith’s Bones shone, smears of colour across the night sky, as lonely and cold as they were beautiful.
Then he saw why they had stopped, and a fear unlike any other, a deep primal fear, settled below his stomach. He did not know what he looked at, only that it was wrong and that no other creature he had seen – on sea or land – had made him feel this way. It was as if a piece of the night had detached itself from the sky and landed on the beach. What it did there Joron could not make out, nor could he tell how far it was from them or quite how big it was. It moved, only ever so slightly, but in a way he found utterly disquieting.
“What is it?”
“That, Joron, is a tunir. For years none were seen, but they have returned, and quite recently by all accounts. I have tangled with them before. It is best we stay quiet and hope it moves on.”
Narza was drawing back the arm which held her wyrmpike as if readying to throw. “Narza!” Meas’s voice, though quiet, was imperative. Narza froze. “I will need your skills on the morran, so do not waste your life on something that will likely kill us all if we attract it. And if it comes this way you will need that wyrmpike.” Narza’s arm slowly fell, though she kept the pike couched, pointing forward.
The tunir lifted itself from the beach, its lumpy body elongating, and from the mass of wet looking black fur stretched out three legs. Joron could make out no eyes or ears or mouth, and the way the legs moved was wrong, like the tunir had no bones or joints. The creature moved away up the beach, its legs rising and falling with an unnatural speed and rhythm that made the gorge rise in Joron’s throat.
“I have never seen the like,” he whispered.
“Now you know why we stay out of the forest at night.”
“And right glad of that I am, Shipwife.”
They continued along the beach without further incident, avoiding or spearing stingplates, and when they saw, or smelled, the corpses of beasts poisoned by the flowers they gave them a wide berth, reckoning they would not want to meet whatever fed on them at this hour.
Further on, a small river ran out of the jungle to spread its watery fingers over the shingle, and the air became full of tiny flies with painful – and unavoidable – bites. When Joron complained about them Meas told him to be thankful; the flies probably kept away the tunir.
At the end of the beach Meas raised her nearglass to scan the headland above them, adjusting the focus with deft fingers. Eventually she swore, passed Joron the glass and pointed towards the dark mass of Skearith’s Spine.
“You’ll find our island’s tower on this line,” she said. “Look for the glow of the fires against it and tell me what you see.”
He lifted the nearglass to his eye. The world jumped towards him. At first he saw nothing but blurred darkness. Then he found himself staring into Skearith’s Blind Eye and almost lost himself in its milky beauty, the way the Eye’s scars created shapes, the illusion of valleys and mountains far above in the sky. He brought the field of view down, finding land and moving along it until he saw the subtle orange glow of fire. It took him time to make out what he saw, but eventually his mind put it together: a squat, square tower of mud bricks, at least three storeys marked by faintly glowing windows. Shadows moved against the walls, like figures of giants, as the women and men guarding the tower passed in front of the fires around it.
“Did you not say it was a flimsy tower, Shipwife?” he said, bringing down the nearglass and handing it back.
“It was,” she said, “but it is three years since I have been this way and it seems Arkannis Isle’s raiders have been busy. It will be harder to assault than I thought. When we return to the boats we will need to dismast the larger flukeboat; we’ll need the rope from the rigging. And I think we will need all the women and men we have to take that place.” She stared out to sea. “It is a pity we cannot contact Tide Child and bring ashore some bows. A couple of the underdeck bows would put enough holes in those walls to get us in.” She placed the nearglass in her coat. “But we shall have to make do with what the Hag has given us.”
“We should ask Coughlin,” said Joron. “He may be a gangster but I watched him drill the crew. He has been seaguard at some point, I am sure of it.”
“Ey. He may have an idea of how best to proceed.”
“Or he may think it too difficult and refuse to help.”
Meas shook her head. “Not now – while he thinks he has a score to settle with Cahanny and I remain his best way of doing that. Besides…” She let the word die away.
“Besides?”
“Have you seen him since he knew he would be leading his men to fight on land?”
“I have seen he wears armour.”
“I do not talk of how he looks, Joron; I talk of how he is. I think he wants to fight. I think something in him wants to prove himself to me.”
“Let us hope he does not want to stick a knife in your back.”
Meas laughed.
“Narza,” she said, “what happens to those who try and stick a knife in my back?”
For the first time since Joron had met her Narza raised her head so her face was not hidden by the curtain of dark hair. Her eyes were almost completely black.
“Those who try to betray the shipwife die,” she said simply.
And as Joron met her gaze, he did not doubt for one second that what she said was true.
It’s to the Northstorm we’ve got to go,
Chase keyshans through the ice and snow.
Half the crew to Hag have flown –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
My Berncast mother she wrote to me,
My darling girl come home from sea.
Half the crew to Hag have flown –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down. you vein flowers, go down.
Oh it’s one more pull and that will do,
For we’re the childer to kick her through.
Traditional rowing song
29
Onwards and Upwards
In the morning Joron strapped the inert body of the gullaime to his back and gathered his crew. Anzir stood by him, Farys to her side with Karring and Old Briaret. He had ten. Meas had changed her mind at the last minute about who she would send, and Hasrin was with him. Joron did not like it it, but no matter how the ex-deckkeeper might sneer under her breath at him he knew he would have no real trouble from her, as the rest of his band were loyal to Meas.
Meas had gone ahead with Coughlin. There had been talk, back on Tide Child, of splitting Coughlin’s men between them, but now she had seen the tower Meas had decided to take them all. Meas and Joron were both sure Coughlin had once been seaguard, and as such would have knowledge of siegecraft – not that Meas was completely ignorant of such things, but she was not foolish enough to turn away expertise when it was on hand.
Joron peered into the thick forest, and the thought that the tunir may be somewhere in there made him shudder.
“How do we find the windspire, D’keeper?” said Farys. How indeed? Joron did not know the island, had no maps of it, and this was the time of year when the colourful forest was at its peak, growing so fast he imagined he could hear roots squirming through the soil.
“Meas said it is on the highest point of the island, so we will head upwards, and the Mother will guide us, I am sure.”
“Arse!” Black Orris fluttered down, landing on Farys’s shoulder and dipping his head twice. Beady black eyes considered Joron, eyes that reminded him of Narza. Then the bird dipped its head once more and began to preen the feathers of its wings.
“Was the bird not with Mevans?”
“Black Orris has brought us his luck, D’keeper,” said Farys. Around her heads nodded, women and men looked a little brighter. “Maybe the Maiden’s bird will guide us, though she’s as like to trick as to triumph, ey?”
“Indeed, Farys.” Joron stretched his shoulders, getting the ropes of the gullaime’s harness comfortable. “Who among you knows the land well?” None answered, and Joron almost kicked himself. He may as well have accused them of being stonebound – no deckchild would admit to that. “Are there those here who Meas trusts to hunt when her ship needs food?” A man, Cruist, stood forward. His left ear was misshapen, almost non-existent.
“Meas sometimes sends me. My father was a hunter, though I am not like him; I am of the sea.”
“I do not doubt it, Cruist,” said Joron. “I have seen you fly up the rigging like a bird.” The man nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. A woman from Tide Child’s original crew, Ganrid, stepped forward. Behind her was her brother, a small, stooped man called Folis who Joron had never heard speak. Ganrid, Joron was sure, could have been one of the Bern, but her brother was judged imperfect and that had tainted her. Or maybe she chose not to leave him – Joron had never thought to ask.
“Sometimes, when my brother and I were unable to find a ship, we have made our money hunting.”
“Good,” said Joron. “Then you, your brother and Cruist will go ahead and alert us to any danger.” For a moment he had an image of the creature he and Meas had seen on the beach last night, and it was all he could do to keep speaking. “Meas says there are many dangers on these isles, so keep yourself alert. The rest of us will follow. Farys, take two and watch our rear. I want nothing coming upon us unaware.The rest of you, string your bows and have your curnows ready.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the replies.
And so they moved into the forest. Violently purple leaves as big as shipwings fought for the light of Skearith’s Eye, and it filtered through them, hitting the pink leaves of the varisk lower in the canopy so they were covered in an ever-changing patchwork of pink, blue and purple light, as if bruises crawled across their flesh. Curnows rose and fell, cutting back the foliage to make a path – a path that swiftly closed behind them. From the front, they were warned of other plants: hurss, with poisonous spines, hierthrews, which, if disturbed, catapulted out barbed spines that were almost impossible to remove from the flesh and would then fester and sour, sending the afflicted mad with poison and pain. Add to this biting flies and small but fierce Gorrus birds, likely to dive out of their burrows and slash with clawed feet, and it was a slower and harder climb than Joron would have liked. Sometimes they had to take detours around impenetrable thickets, and once some trick of the light had Joron thinking he saw the black, light-absorbing shape of a tunir above them in the gion, but it was only a hole in the canopy. Still, it took a moment for the beating of his heart to slow and he paused. He felt overwhelmed, paralysed. Where to go? What to order? What if he got them lost? What if they went in circles?
Then Black Orris took to the air in a whirr of wing and feather, distracting Joron from his burgeoning panic. He breathed out, following Black Orris with his eyes. In the fleshy gloom of the forest he saw a bow. Saw a nocked arrow. Saw a hand draw back a bowstring…
And then he was shouting.
“Down! Get down!” throwing himself face first into the litter of broken vegetation. The arrow streaked out of the undergrowth. Others came, singing through the air, clattering against gion and varisk, and at least one found a target – Joron well knew the sound of flesh being punctured now. A short scream followed, then there was roaring, and women and men running towards them. They were barely dressed, skin painted in the same blues, pinks and purples as the vegetation, faces stretched by fury, clubs and curnows held high. A man threw himself at Joron, bringing down a curnow. Joron, face down on the ground, could do nothing but roll. To avoid crushing the gullaime on his back he was only able to roll on to his side, and in doing so trapped his own curnow beneath himself.
He thought of the quick-release move Meas had taught him.
“When you really need the skill, Deckkeeper, I am sure you will get it right.”
But that was no use now.
I have let you down, Shipwife, he thought. What a way to die.
The curnow was intercepted by Anzir, who snapped out her small shield, smashing the blade to the side, and thrust with her own sword, driving the blade into the attacker’s chest. A woman came at Anzir from behind. Farys leaped on her, a small bone dagger in her hand which she drove into the woman’s neck. Joron pulled himself to his feet. All around him there was struggling, fighting, screaming, shouting. He pulled one of the primed crossbows from where it hung on his jacket, shot an attacker in the back, reloaded it and shot another in the head. He unhooked his blade. It felt like he walked through a terrible dream. A man came at him – naked, painted, furious – and as he swung his curnow, the muscle memory of all those long hours on deck took over. He dodged to the side and took a step back, and the curnow whistled past his shoulder. Joron slashed sideways, letting the weighted end of his blade pull it round, and it bit deep into his opponent’s side. For a moment the man looked surprised, then he fell to the ground, holding the gaping wound and screaming for the Mother to help him.
Then they were alone again – their attackers had melted back into the forest, leaving five of their dead. Only one of Joron’s party was down: the man hit by the arrow, Ganrid’s brother, Folis. Joron went to where his sither knelt over him. The arrow had punctured his arm, and he had also taken a blow to the chest. Air bubbled through blood. Ganrid held her brother’s hand tightly, speaking soothing words to him.
She turned to Joron.
“He fought well, D’keeper, even with the arrow in him,” she said quietly. Joron knelt. Folis did not appear frightened or in pain, but his eyes looked very far away, and he surely heard the Hag’s call. Joron took his other hand, and Folis’s face took on a puzzled look.
“D’keeper,” he said, a breath of air leaving him.
“Your sither is right: you fought well.” Joron was not sure whether Folis heard him or not. “I will make sure the shipwife knows how well you fought.”
“Are you poisoned?” Meas again.
“Nay, Shipwife. Just a single sting.”
“Careful down the beach.” Meas whispered.
Those pulling Joron’s boat up the shingle slowed.
“Look to your feet,” he said. Looking down he saw, as his eyes adjusted to the meagre light of Skearith’s Blind Eye, that his foot was by a stingplate. The circular, gelid body was full of air that, when stepped on, would be pushed out into its ten stinging arms, sending them up and out to inject venom into the leg of whatever stood on it. These were only the flowers of the stingplate, the plant lived beneath the beach. A full sting was enough to kill an adult human, they may stagger on a little before collapsing, but not far. Then the stingplate would send tendrils up through the sand or shingle to digest the flesh. Fortunately, a single sting would not kill, though it was still painful. “Two of you go ahead with wyrmpikes,” said Joron. “Puncture any plates between us and the jungle edge.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the quiet reply, and they made their way more carefully up the beach, dragging the boat with them.
At the forest’s edge Meas and her group already had the mast of their boat down and were hiding the hull under a mass of dead foliage.
“Do we attack tonight?” said Joron to Meas. She stared into the forest, and as if in challenge a chorus of calls and songs and growls came back.
“No,” she said. “The gion forest this far south is no place to be at night. Howlers, loppers, fellscram and tunir all haunt it.”
“And they sleep in the day?”
“No, but we have more chance of seeing them at least.” In the darkness he could not tell whether she joked or not.
“What of the gullaime? It needs the windspire.”
“If it has survived this long, Twiner, I am sure it will make it through one more night.” Meas pointed towards where the crews were covering the boats. “Leave it with them. I will have the crews get what sleep they can. You and I will walk further round the headland, see if we can get a better look at the tower.”
“What about the tide?”
“There is no tide down here. I do not know why, but it is one worry less for us. Just the wildlife and stingplates to look out for.”
“A pleasant evening walk then.”
“Ey,” said Meas, “but one on which we will take Anzir and Narza just in case.”
They set off along the beach, leaving instructions to those behind to set no fires but get what rest they could. Anzir and Narza walked in front of Meas and Joron, occasionally stabbing at the ground to puncture stingplates.
“Should we not walk at the edge of the forest, Shipwife?” said Joron.
“Why?”
“So we are not seen.”
“Possibly, though if those on the tower are at all alert they will have seen us come in, and if they are not then I do not think they will be watching this beach too closely. And it is best to keep away from the forest this late too, even with Narza and Anzir to guard us.”
“Is it so dangerous?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is the tunir that worry me most.”
“I have never heard or seen—”
Meas touched his arm, pointed down the beach and in a loud whisper said. “Narza, Anzir, stay still.” Joron peered into the night.
The beach stretched away, grey against the black of the sea and the ever-shifting line where waves washed against the shore. The forest of gion, so bright and colourful in the day, was a drab monochrome. Joron found himself thinking how the beach was a strange place, neither land nor sea, an in between where it was easy to believe the legions of the Hag may emerge from the water to do her dark bidding. Above the island, partly obscured by the jagged soaring black peaks of Skearith’s Spine, Skearith’s Bones shone, smears of colour across the night sky, as lonely and cold as they were beautiful.
Then he saw why they had stopped, and a fear unlike any other, a deep primal fear, settled below his stomach. He did not know what he looked at, only that it was wrong and that no other creature he had seen – on sea or land – had made him feel this way. It was as if a piece of the night had detached itself from the sky and landed on the beach. What it did there Joron could not make out, nor could he tell how far it was from them or quite how big it was. It moved, only ever so slightly, but in a way he found utterly disquieting.
“What is it?”
“That, Joron, is a tunir. For years none were seen, but they have returned, and quite recently by all accounts. I have tangled with them before. It is best we stay quiet and hope it moves on.”
Narza was drawing back the arm which held her wyrmpike as if readying to throw. “Narza!” Meas’s voice, though quiet, was imperative. Narza froze. “I will need your skills on the morran, so do not waste your life on something that will likely kill us all if we attract it. And if it comes this way you will need that wyrmpike.” Narza’s arm slowly fell, though she kept the pike couched, pointing forward.
The tunir lifted itself from the beach, its lumpy body elongating, and from the mass of wet looking black fur stretched out three legs. Joron could make out no eyes or ears or mouth, and the way the legs moved was wrong, like the tunir had no bones or joints. The creature moved away up the beach, its legs rising and falling with an unnatural speed and rhythm that made the gorge rise in Joron’s throat.
“I have never seen the like,” he whispered.
“Now you know why we stay out of the forest at night.”
“And right glad of that I am, Shipwife.”
They continued along the beach without further incident, avoiding or spearing stingplates, and when they saw, or smelled, the corpses of beasts poisoned by the flowers they gave them a wide berth, reckoning they would not want to meet whatever fed on them at this hour.
Further on, a small river ran out of the jungle to spread its watery fingers over the shingle, and the air became full of tiny flies with painful – and unavoidable – bites. When Joron complained about them Meas told him to be thankful; the flies probably kept away the tunir.
At the end of the beach Meas raised her nearglass to scan the headland above them, adjusting the focus with deft fingers. Eventually she swore, passed Joron the glass and pointed towards the dark mass of Skearith’s Spine.
“You’ll find our island’s tower on this line,” she said. “Look for the glow of the fires against it and tell me what you see.”
He lifted the nearglass to his eye. The world jumped towards him. At first he saw nothing but blurred darkness. Then he found himself staring into Skearith’s Blind Eye and almost lost himself in its milky beauty, the way the Eye’s scars created shapes, the illusion of valleys and mountains far above in the sky. He brought the field of view down, finding land and moving along it until he saw the subtle orange glow of fire. It took him time to make out what he saw, but eventually his mind put it together: a squat, square tower of mud bricks, at least three storeys marked by faintly glowing windows. Shadows moved against the walls, like figures of giants, as the women and men guarding the tower passed in front of the fires around it.
“Did you not say it was a flimsy tower, Shipwife?” he said, bringing down the nearglass and handing it back.
“It was,” she said, “but it is three years since I have been this way and it seems Arkannis Isle’s raiders have been busy. It will be harder to assault than I thought. When we return to the boats we will need to dismast the larger flukeboat; we’ll need the rope from the rigging. And I think we will need all the women and men we have to take that place.” She stared out to sea. “It is a pity we cannot contact Tide Child and bring ashore some bows. A couple of the underdeck bows would put enough holes in those walls to get us in.” She placed the nearglass in her coat. “But we shall have to make do with what the Hag has given us.”
“We should ask Coughlin,” said Joron. “He may be a gangster but I watched him drill the crew. He has been seaguard at some point, I am sure of it.”
“Ey. He may have an idea of how best to proceed.”
“Or he may think it too difficult and refuse to help.”
Meas shook her head. “Not now – while he thinks he has a score to settle with Cahanny and I remain his best way of doing that. Besides…” She let the word die away.
“Besides?”
“Have you seen him since he knew he would be leading his men to fight on land?”
“I have seen he wears armour.”
“I do not talk of how he looks, Joron; I talk of how he is. I think he wants to fight. I think something in him wants to prove himself to me.”
“Let us hope he does not want to stick a knife in your back.”
Meas laughed.
“Narza,” she said, “what happens to those who try and stick a knife in my back?”
For the first time since Joron had met her Narza raised her head so her face was not hidden by the curtain of dark hair. Her eyes were almost completely black.
“Those who try to betray the shipwife die,” she said simply.
And as Joron met her gaze, he did not doubt for one second that what she said was true.
It’s to the Northstorm we’ve got to go,
Chase keyshans through the ice and snow.
Half the crew to Hag have flown –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
My Berncast mother she wrote to me,
My darling girl come home from sea.
Half the crew to Hag have flown –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down. you vein flowers, go down.
Oh it’s one more pull and that will do,
For we’re the childer to kick her through.
Traditional rowing song
29
Onwards and Upwards
In the morning Joron strapped the inert body of the gullaime to his back and gathered his crew. Anzir stood by him, Farys to her side with Karring and Old Briaret. He had ten. Meas had changed her mind at the last minute about who she would send, and Hasrin was with him. Joron did not like it it, but no matter how the ex-deckkeeper might sneer under her breath at him he knew he would have no real trouble from her, as the rest of his band were loyal to Meas.
Meas had gone ahead with Coughlin. There had been talk, back on Tide Child, of splitting Coughlin’s men between them, but now she had seen the tower Meas had decided to take them all. Meas and Joron were both sure Coughlin had once been seaguard, and as such would have knowledge of siegecraft – not that Meas was completely ignorant of such things, but she was not foolish enough to turn away expertise when it was on hand.
Joron peered into the thick forest, and the thought that the tunir may be somewhere in there made him shudder.
“How do we find the windspire, D’keeper?” said Farys. How indeed? Joron did not know the island, had no maps of it, and this was the time of year when the colourful forest was at its peak, growing so fast he imagined he could hear roots squirming through the soil.
“Meas said it is on the highest point of the island, so we will head upwards, and the Mother will guide us, I am sure.”
“Arse!” Black Orris fluttered down, landing on Farys’s shoulder and dipping his head twice. Beady black eyes considered Joron, eyes that reminded him of Narza. Then the bird dipped its head once more and began to preen the feathers of its wings.
“Was the bird not with Mevans?”
“Black Orris has brought us his luck, D’keeper,” said Farys. Around her heads nodded, women and men looked a little brighter. “Maybe the Maiden’s bird will guide us, though she’s as like to trick as to triumph, ey?”
“Indeed, Farys.” Joron stretched his shoulders, getting the ropes of the gullaime’s harness comfortable. “Who among you knows the land well?” None answered, and Joron almost kicked himself. He may as well have accused them of being stonebound – no deckchild would admit to that. “Are there those here who Meas trusts to hunt when her ship needs food?” A man, Cruist, stood forward. His left ear was misshapen, almost non-existent.
“Meas sometimes sends me. My father was a hunter, though I am not like him; I am of the sea.”
“I do not doubt it, Cruist,” said Joron. “I have seen you fly up the rigging like a bird.” The man nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. A woman from Tide Child’s original crew, Ganrid, stepped forward. Behind her was her brother, a small, stooped man called Folis who Joron had never heard speak. Ganrid, Joron was sure, could have been one of the Bern, but her brother was judged imperfect and that had tainted her. Or maybe she chose not to leave him – Joron had never thought to ask.
“Sometimes, when my brother and I were unable to find a ship, we have made our money hunting.”
“Good,” said Joron. “Then you, your brother and Cruist will go ahead and alert us to any danger.” For a moment he had an image of the creature he and Meas had seen on the beach last night, and it was all he could do to keep speaking. “Meas says there are many dangers on these isles, so keep yourself alert. The rest of us will follow. Farys, take two and watch our rear. I want nothing coming upon us unaware.The rest of you, string your bows and have your curnows ready.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the replies.
And so they moved into the forest. Violently purple leaves as big as shipwings fought for the light of Skearith’s Eye, and it filtered through them, hitting the pink leaves of the varisk lower in the canopy so they were covered in an ever-changing patchwork of pink, blue and purple light, as if bruises crawled across their flesh. Curnows rose and fell, cutting back the foliage to make a path – a path that swiftly closed behind them. From the front, they were warned of other plants: hurss, with poisonous spines, hierthrews, which, if disturbed, catapulted out barbed spines that were almost impossible to remove from the flesh and would then fester and sour, sending the afflicted mad with poison and pain. Add to this biting flies and small but fierce Gorrus birds, likely to dive out of their burrows and slash with clawed feet, and it was a slower and harder climb than Joron would have liked. Sometimes they had to take detours around impenetrable thickets, and once some trick of the light had Joron thinking he saw the black, light-absorbing shape of a tunir above them in the gion, but it was only a hole in the canopy. Still, it took a moment for the beating of his heart to slow and he paused. He felt overwhelmed, paralysed. Where to go? What to order? What if he got them lost? What if they went in circles?
Then Black Orris took to the air in a whirr of wing and feather, distracting Joron from his burgeoning panic. He breathed out, following Black Orris with his eyes. In the fleshy gloom of the forest he saw a bow. Saw a nocked arrow. Saw a hand draw back a bowstring…
And then he was shouting.
“Down! Get down!” throwing himself face first into the litter of broken vegetation. The arrow streaked out of the undergrowth. Others came, singing through the air, clattering against gion and varisk, and at least one found a target – Joron well knew the sound of flesh being punctured now. A short scream followed, then there was roaring, and women and men running towards them. They were barely dressed, skin painted in the same blues, pinks and purples as the vegetation, faces stretched by fury, clubs and curnows held high. A man threw himself at Joron, bringing down a curnow. Joron, face down on the ground, could do nothing but roll. To avoid crushing the gullaime on his back he was only able to roll on to his side, and in doing so trapped his own curnow beneath himself.
He thought of the quick-release move Meas had taught him.
“When you really need the skill, Deckkeeper, I am sure you will get it right.”
But that was no use now.
I have let you down, Shipwife, he thought. What a way to die.
The curnow was intercepted by Anzir, who snapped out her small shield, smashing the blade to the side, and thrust with her own sword, driving the blade into the attacker’s chest. A woman came at Anzir from behind. Farys leaped on her, a small bone dagger in her hand which she drove into the woman’s neck. Joron pulled himself to his feet. All around him there was struggling, fighting, screaming, shouting. He pulled one of the primed crossbows from where it hung on his jacket, shot an attacker in the back, reloaded it and shot another in the head. He unhooked his blade. It felt like he walked through a terrible dream. A man came at him – naked, painted, furious – and as he swung his curnow, the muscle memory of all those long hours on deck took over. He dodged to the side and took a step back, and the curnow whistled past his shoulder. Joron slashed sideways, letting the weighted end of his blade pull it round, and it bit deep into his opponent’s side. For a moment the man looked surprised, then he fell to the ground, holding the gaping wound and screaming for the Mother to help him.
Then they were alone again – their attackers had melted back into the forest, leaving five of their dead. Only one of Joron’s party was down: the man hit by the arrow, Ganrid’s brother, Folis. Joron went to where his sither knelt over him. The arrow had punctured his arm, and he had also taken a blow to the chest. Air bubbled through blood. Ganrid held her brother’s hand tightly, speaking soothing words to him.
She turned to Joron.
“He fought well, D’keeper, even with the arrow in him,” she said quietly. Joron knelt. Folis did not appear frightened or in pain, but his eyes looked very far away, and he surely heard the Hag’s call. Joron took his other hand, and Folis’s face took on a puzzled look.
“D’keeper,” he said, a breath of air leaving him.
“Your sither is right: you fought well.” Joron was not sure whether Folis heard him or not. “I will make sure the shipwife knows how well you fought.”
