Azkun was all too aware of the turmoil in Menish’s mind. He had not intended to cause him pain. Menish had wanted to speak with that old woman so, when Azkun had felt the same mind nearby, he had told Menish where she was. When the young woman had rescued him a second time from the spectres they had all become he knew he could not leave her behind. Menish had thought he had delivered an ultimatum, either she came or Azkun stayed behind with her. He had not intended it so. All he had tried to say was that he would stay behind rather than be parted from her. He had expected Menish to leave him.
As the boat drifted away from the stone dock he peered through the mist at the forlorn figure of the old woman. No one else noticed her particularly. Hrangil and Drinagish huddled near the base of the central mast, plainly uncomfortable with the motion of the boat. Menish had not yet left his post at the far gunwale and the Vorthenki sailors were too busy, or did not care, or both. But Azkun could see more than a vague, shrouded old woman, he could see a broken heart with a yearning purpose.
Althak stood behind him. The Vorthenki seemed confused and Azkun remembered Menish’s assertion that his men would kill the old woman if they knew who she was, and he remembered the pig. Althak had slashed its side with the sword that still hung from his belt.
“This is strange behaviour for him,” he murmured.
“I believe he is ill,” replied Azkun in an effort to explain Menish’s actions and distract Althak from the old woman.
“Yes, the sea always picks Anthorians. They'll be no better until we reach land again.”
“You seem unconcerned about it.” Althak was indeed. His confusion over Menish was slipping away now that he remembered the sea retch that afflicted the King. Althak was, in fact, pleased to be afloat.
“Oh, no. They'll suffer discomfort but no harm. It was, after all, M’Lord’s choice to come by sea.”
“Why must we travel this way then?”
“It's faster. The lands we'd have to travel through by horse are wild and uncertain, and the paths few and poorly known. The only certain route would take us all the way back to Anthor and then south. It would add weeks to the journey. But you're not afflicted yourself?”
“No, I am well.”
“And you're not hungry yet?”
“No. I will not eat.”
Althak nodded as if he understood.
“You're a strange one,” he turned and appeared to notice Tenari for the first time. “What happened? Why do you want her with you?” He was almost reproachful in his question, as if he felt sorry for the old woman.
Azkun told him, trying to keep the trembling from his voice when he spoke of the spectres. The Vorthenki nodded slowly.
“I've never heard of such a thing.” He smiled suddenly. “You're full of surprises. How do your dragons explain this?”
“I do not know. Perhaps… perhaps the dragons wished her to come with us.”
“Perhaps.” he stepped back and looked at Tenari. She ignored him. Her vacant gaze was for Azkun alone, as if he held her in a trance. Her height and colouring made her clearly not Vorthenki. Thick, black hair framed an elfin face with clear, dark eyes. When she moved her head the droplets of mist in her hair sparkled like jewels. Something about her mouth suggested solemnity or sadness but in her eyes there was nothing.
When Azkun looked at her his perception failed him. He could see no thoughts behind her eyes. At first she seemed as dead as the wooden hulk of the ship, a blank wall, a nothingness. But, when he stretched his perception to its limits, he caught something. It was not a mind, an echo of a mind perhaps. Like a gap in the emptiness, a distant cry of anguish or mirth, he did not know which. It slipped too quickly from his grasp.
“A bath and a clean robe would not go amiss, but she's quite pretty. She has an Anthorian look about her, although their women are usually more muscled. She is slender like a young Vorthenki maid.” He turned and asked Azkun suddenly, “Do you speak any Vorthenki?”
“No,” Azkun wondered why he asked. He was still puzzling over his glimpse at her mind.
“Then the old woman’s ravings meant nothing to you. I suppose you don't even know this one’s name.”
“Tenari? I heard her call that.”
“Yes. She also tried to tell M’Lord that she was her mother, but she has a more interesting tale. I heard it last night in my kinsman’s house.” He paused, waiting to see if Azkun was interested.
“Who do you speak of? Tenari or… or the old woman?”
“Oh, Tenari, of course. The old one is the woman belonging to the fisherman who found her. But I've omitted part of my tale. Tenari is new to this village. She was found by one of the local fisherman the day before yesterday.”
“Found? Where? In the sea?”
“No. She was found on the rocks by the mouth of the Chasm. It seems that you're not the only one to leave that place. I was told the fisherman saw a dragon in the sky.”
“She was flamed?”
“Not as far as is known. But, Azkun, I inquired carefully the day and time she was found. She must have left the Chasm at the same time you did. Isn't that strange? It would seem that the dragon that was seen was the same one that flamed you. We saw it fly off towards the sea.”
“The same moment. The same moment I left the Chasm, so did she.” He peered at her carefully, almost suspiciously, as if she embodied the numb terror of the Chasm. But no, she had rescued him twice from terror. She also was a victim of the Chasm, and more so. For in her the numbness remained. Her mind, if it was there at all, had not yet broken free as had her body. Perhaps she had not been flamed, perhaps that was what was wrong with her.
“Does the fact mean something more to you? I thought it merely odd.”
“Surely it means something, but I do not know what.”
“And she doesn't speak. That too I learned last night. But you seem already aware of this.”
“She was not flamed. She still has the Chasm in her mind.”
“No doubt she will not eat either. Our provisions will last well.” His grin returned.
As they passed out of the harbour the fog drew back like a curtain. A breeze filled the sails, the sailors cheered their craft on and, with much creaking of ropes and timber, it gained speed.
With the fog gone Azkun could see the lie of the land around him, or rather, the lie of the sea. He had not considered that so much water could exist in one place. It stretched to the eastern horizon without so much as an island to relieve the vastness. It went on forever. On the south side rose tall cliffs, stark and cold, like the mountains that had refused him help. They were grey and treeless with patches of white scattered across their higher faces.
About midday Azkun, remembering Althak’s stories of dragons, searched the cliffs for them but there were none. When the cliffs changed their direction and veered away to the south he felt a sudden unease. At first he attributed this to the tossing of the sea. The wind changed with the line of the cliffs and the sea became choppy. He noticed Tenari sometimes broke her blank gaze from him and glanced away south.
Althak returned from talking with one of the sailors with the explanation. He pointed out a gap in the cliffs, difficult to see from this angle. It was, when noticed, like a black mouth yawning open to swallow its prey. The cliffs were high, even when diminished by distance they dwarfed the boat. It was the mouth of the Chasm.
Azkun found he had caught Tenari by the arm. She did not protest. Her gaze was fixed on him again. She was his anchor in terror and there was the Chasm. Azkun was almost surprised that the others did not turn to ghosts, he had expected it. It did not matter. Tenari was here. Her solidity, even when not contrasted against spectres, was real. Did she remember the Chasm? Her glances towards the mouth indicated that she did. But her mind remained blank.
During the afternoon Althak introduced him to Shelim, one of the few sailors who spoke Relanese. The man showed a calm respect for Althak, not the frantic bowing manner of Astae. Althak had discovered that Shelim knew his cousin Akarth, and they had other connections in common. Azkun noticed that Althak did not tell Shelim about the Chasm or the dragon and he remembered what Menish had said to Grath concerning secrecy. He was not sure if he agreed with this policy but, until he knew more, he would keep silent.
Rather than speak of himself he plied Shelim with questions. How did the boat move? Where did the wind come from? Shelim was delighted to talk of the sea, as was Althak, and they passed the afternoon happily. Occasionally Shelim would dart a glance at Tenari, unsure of her, but Althak had told him that she was simple so he asked no more questions of her.
Azkun learned much about the ship. He asked about the man who always stood in the stern and was told that this was Awan, the master of the ship. He was a man of vast girth, which he put to good use at the heavy tiller he held. For much of the time there was little for the sailors to do, and they occupied themselves with minor tasks, games, or sleeping. Sometimes they would climb below the deck to the hold. Azkun wondered what was down there and Shelim informed him that most of their cargo was stacked there. It was, he said, a foul place, smelling of the fat used to waterproof the ship. Azkun noticed that the sailors rarely stayed down there long. It was mostly packed with salt cod.
While there were many leisure hours, there were moments when every hand was needed. Awan would suddenly begin bawling orders over the swish and splash of the sea and Shelim would leave them for a while. There seemed to be a number of vital tasks to be performed at a moment’s notice. Sometimes it was no more than tightening some of the ropes or turning the sail slightly, but every now and then Awan’s hoarse voice would bring all the sailors to their stations. They would position themselves by various ropes and tackles, waiting for Awan’s next call. When it came a kind of organised chaos would break loose. Awan would heave on the tiller, ropes would be loosened, others tightened. The great spar of the mainsail would be hauled down at one end, the other end rising high above the top of the mast, and pulled across the deck. This operation resulted in the mainsail facing the other side of the boat. Azkun did not see the point of this until Althak explained the necessity of tacking to make the best use of the wind.
When night fell they were once again sailing along the shoreline. They had crossed a large bay and the cliffs had come marching back from their southern detour. Azkun had another moment of uneasiness when he saw the sun sinking. Would the night bring back the spectres? But, as the darkness gathered, lamps were lit and hung from the masts. Their cheery yellow glow raised his spirits and he held Tenari’s hand in his own. She was a comfort even when there were no spectres.
Althak offered Tenari food when the sailors ate. The Anthorians had no appetite and he knew better than to offer food to Azkun. But she ignored him as he had expected. He shrugged and ate it himself.
The next day Azkun detected another unease in the sailors. They were vaguely anxious about something. Their course still followed the coastline but he noticed that they had moved a long way off from it. The cliffs were only just visible on the horizon. Shelim had spoken of storms but Azkun could see no sign of the dark clouds he had described.
He soon forgot about this when Shelim and another sailor named Omoth began playing a game with small, flat pebbles. They were painted one side white and the other red. Shelim made a grim reference to this being ‘the blood and the bone’ but otherwise the game was cheerful enough. They took turns casting the pebbles onto the deck, having first guessed the number of red and white faces that would show. There was something else too, involving the passing of copper coins from one man to the other.
It was late afternoon when the lookout, one of the sailors perched on the main mast, cried out in the Vorthenki tongue. The undercurrent of anxiety rose. Awan called a question to the lookout and his reply pushed the crew into a frenzy.
“Pirates,” Althak informed him. “They hunt ships,” he added, choosing words he knew Azkun would understand. “They seek to kill us and take Awan’s cargo.” He grinned and Azkun realised he did not share the anxiety of the crew. “They will die in the attempt.”
Azkun felt darkness at his words. To kill us? To seek for us the darkness of the pig? There was blood in Althak’s words, and across the deck he saw Drinagish and Hrangil emerge from their afflictions with eagerness. Already Menish was talking with Awan. Azkun shivered at their savagery, but he had no answer of his own to the pirates.
The other ship had not been visible from the deck when the lookout had called his warning, but it approached with alarming speed. It was smaller than their own vessel and it was driven by a large, square sail. The pirates enjoyed a more favourable wind than themselves at present; that and their small size would have been sufficient to give them the advantage of speed. But, as they approached, Azkun could see a row of oars rising and dipping rhythmically along the one visible side. It made the pirate ship seem like a many-legged insect crawling towards them across the water.
The Anthorians had shed their heavy cloaks and coats by now. Drinagish was still adjusting his battle jerkin but Menish and Hrangil were ready. Their short, curved swords were drawn and the small, round shields they carried were fixed to their wrists. They moved in odd little dance movements, preparing their limbs for battle.
Althak had left Azkun’s side. He had spent some time talking with Awan and Menish, no doubt planning how they would repel the pirates. He had also made an announcement to the Vorthenki sailors that Azkun could not understand, and checked what weapons they had. Now he stood clad in his fighting gear, a gleaming breastplate, greaves and winged helm.
The pirates were approaching. Moving just across the surface of the water the shape of a ram could be seen. It was a black, metal thing that glistened wetly with evil, seeking their fragile wooden hull. It was impossible that it could miss them now. He could feel the malice from the pirates as they heaved on their oars. A desperate ferocity lay in their hearts, it was so like what he could see in his own friends now, and he had no answer to it. No solution.
“Azkun, get down!” shouted Menish. “Brace yourself against the gunwale. There may be a shock. And keep your head down!”
He obeyed mutely. The waves of passion from the pirates whirled in his brain. Tenari echoed his movement as he crouched against the still solid hull of the ship and waited for the sickening crunch that would sink them.
Although the pirates had appeared to be almost upon them, the waiting went on forever. He looked around. Had they somehow escaped? But a hush had fallen over their ship. Menish crouched against a barrel, he was still waiting. Althak stood in the centre of the deck, his legs looked like iron pillars, in no danger of toppling. The sailors waited tensely, clutching swords and knives. Azkun could feel each man’s jaw clenched as he watched the pirates race towards them. The tenseness crept into his mind, blotting out even the malice of the pirates. He crouched, waiting, waiting…
“Now!” shouted Althak. He spoke Vorthenki but there could be no misunderstanding. Awan hurled himself against the tiller, the sailors sprang at the familiar ropes, the main spar swept across the deck and the ship lurched and leaned. Azkun was thrown against the gunwale, but there was no real shock. Looking up he saw the other ship slipping harmlessly past them.
“Get down!” Althak yelled at him. Even as he ducked his head a hail of stones and spears clattered onto the deck. An arrow thudded into the planks by his feet.
Near his head a grappling iron caught on the gunwale and was pulled tight. Several others, better thrown, wrapped themselves around the top of the main mast. Azkun gasped as he felt a wave of anger from the pirates. Their attempt to ram had failed, but their attempt to board would not.
“Fire! Fire in the sail!” cried Omoth. A flaming arrow had caught in the main sail. Shelim and the others rushed to pull it down.
In the midst of the confusion a blood-curdling yell cut through the air. Two pirates landed on the deck. They had swung across the lines from the grappling hooks on the mast. Azkun shrank back against the gunwale and clutched Tenari. They looked like Althak. Tall, yellow-haired men with bronze armour. One of them wore no helmet and carried an axe rather than a sword.
What followed was a blur in Azkun’s mind. He watched, horrified, as Althak charged the pirates, slashing one across the neck and knocking the other off his feet with his shield. Two more thrusts with his sword finished them.
More pirates leapt onto the decks. The Anthorians flew at them, slicing at them with their curved swords. Azkun felt their injuries as if they were his own. He screamed and thrashed as one caught in a fit. But, most of all, he felt the blackness of death as he had never felt it before. It was a mercy when Menish crashed his shield down on his head, knocking him senseless.
It had been several years since Menish was involved in anything but training fights, but he had been pleased to find he had not yet lost his skill. His sword moved as if it were part of his arm, his feet shifted and turned like a dancer, indeed the Anthorian folk dances usually enacted swordplay. The Vorthenki pirates had the advantage of size, but Menish had fought big Vorthenki brutes many times. They were slow, relying on weight and armour to crush their opponents.
He shifted his weight as a heavy sword crashed down beside him, and slipped his own sword under the guard of the pirate’s shield. The man let out a gurgling moan, but Menish was gone before he fell. He sliced another pirate’s hamstrings from behind before the man could make another lunge at Hrangil. They relied too much on that armour, Menish had made a study of all the possible weak points and there were many.
Another sword flashed towards him but he deflected it with his shield. The Anthorian shields were smaller, but they were also lighter. His own sword flashed up and he opened his attacker’s throat. The Anthorian swords were lighter too, and sharp as razors.
In the midst of the whirl and confusion of the fight there was a corner of Menish’s mind that was quiet and still. This, he had always felt, had preserved his hazardous life for so long. It was this corner that noticed that the deck was becoming slippery with blood. He could not afford to miss his footing, He also noticed that Awan and two of the sailors at the stern were under attack and were trying to fight with their short knives.
He spared some thought for Drinagish. As far as he knew this was his first real fight. He had killed his share of prey while hunting, but killing men is different.
Menish's present opponent, a young man with hardly a beard yet, probably no older than Drinagish, let his guard down and Menish slipped his sword into his chest. He did not have a breastplate and it cost him his life.
Menish pulled himself clear of the fight and, climbing a pile of barrels, leapt down onto the two pirates attacking Awan. It took exactly three sword strokes to lay them on the deck with their lifeblood pumping from their veins. He snatched their swords from them and tossed them to Awan. The man hesitated, it was not lucky to use the swords of the fallen.
“It is not lucky to stand and have your head removed!”
Awan nodded and took the swords, passing one to Omoth beside him. Menish hoped they would not get themselves killed.
As Menish returned to the main fight his path took him past Azkun and Tenari. A grappling hook had lodged in the gunwale beside them and one of the pirates was using it to climb aboard. His hand already grasped the edge of the gunwale. Menish’s sword thudded twice on the hand, a scream sounded followed by a splash.
Azkun had screamed, not the pirate. It took a moment for this to register to Menish, and in that time a Vorthenki was upon him. This one was a more skilful fighter. Menish could find no way past his great bronze shield. Like many Vorthenki shields it had a heavy boss in its centre and an evil spike protruding from the boss. It leered at Menish, pressing him back to the gunwale, the Vorthenki sword lunging at him from the other side. A blow caught him on his metal cap, it glanced off but left his vision blurred. He shook his head trying to clear it. The Vorthenki advanced, stopped and toppled like a tree. Althak pulled his sword from between the man’s shoulder blades.
Azkun screamed again. He was thrashing about the deck like a madman. Why had they not put him and Tenari below deck? He had not thought of it, he was not familiar with ships. So far the pirates had been too busy to notice them, but that would hardly continue with Azkun in that state. Menish knocked him senseless with the edge of his shield and returned to the fight.
It quickly became clear that the pirates had chosen the wrong ship to attack. Against poorly armed sailors they would have done well, but Menish and his men were heavily armed and well trained. With the sailors they both outnumbered and outclassed the pirates. Only one had shown any skill, and Althak had dispatched him before he could kill Menish. They began a poorly organised retreat to their own ship, which quickly became a rout. In such situations their heavy armour was a serious hindrance to them, and it was difficult for them to fight while fleeing. Only a few made it back to the other ship and Althak and Drinagish pursued these. Menish himself was short of breath by this time and Hrangil was immobilised with a leg wound.
Bodies sprawled over the deck and the blood was growing sticky as it cooled. The sailors had already begun to strip the bodies and dump them overboard by the time Althak and Drinagish returned.
They were not without injury. Drinagish had taken a blow on the chest, his jerkin had protected him but he professed himself sore. He was, in fact, delighted to have an injury that showed he had played his part. Althak was covered in blood but little of it was his own. He had a cut on his forearm and another over one eye, which he claimed, was more annoying than painful. Two of the sailors were dead but none of the others were seriously hurt. Shelim had grazed his knuckles throwing the body of a pirate over the side, the other sailors considered this amusing.
Menish felt as he always did after a battle, revolted by the smell of blood and weary of killing. He set about bandaging Hrangil’s leg.
“M’Lord,” said Althak. “There are five slaves who had no part in the fighting. Two of them speak Relanese.”
“Bring them aboard. We can leave them where we next land. We'll sink the pirate ship.” Althak returned to the other ship.
“Do you still think he is Gilish?” he asked Hrangil. His friend shook his head sadly.
“Gilish would have fought.”
Menish noticed three men come aboard. They were ill clothed and wore the dejected, soulless look common to Vorthenki slaves. They stood in line, waiting to be told what to do. Althak followed them.
“There are two others, but they won't come.” He smiled awkwardly. “I believe they think me another pirate. Perhaps a sight of you would convince them that they're rescued.”
Menish tied Hrangil’s bandage and crossed the deck to the gunwale. Small comfort he would be to them. He was as bloody as Althak. The Vorthenki leapt the gap between the two ships and landed on the other deck, a feat Menish had no intention of attempting. From his position he could see two figures, a woman and a small boy. They clung to each other in fear. The boy was not more than eight or nine years old; the woman’s age was difficult to estimate. She could be the boy’s mother or his grandmother. They were not Vorthenki, they were too small in stature, even allowing for youth in one case and sex in the other. The woman’s hair was white.
From their bearing it was obvious that they had not always been slaves. The boy’s eyes flashed with hatred at Althak when he approached. A born slave does not hate. The woman turned her head towards the Vorthenki but did not meet his gaze, as if he were beneath her.
There was something odd about the woman that Menish recognised but could not quite place. She reminded him of someone. The way she moved her head, the way her hand rested protectively on the boy’s head. It eluded him for the moment.
Menish called to them in the Relanese tongue, for it was plain that these were the two that Althak had spoken of.
“You need not fear. You are rescued. I am Menish of Anthor. You are no longer in the hands of pirates. I wish you to accompany this man back to this ship. We will not leave that one afloat.”
They were plainly still afraid. The woman called back.
“Are you really from Anthor? We are far from that land.”
“Woman, will you cross? I don't wish to pass the afternoon proving my identity.”
“We must, Mother. They'll sink us otherwise. He's no Vorthenki.” But the woman was still frightened. Above the sound of the waves Menish heard her say, “I can't.”
“You must, Mother.” The boy tugged at her arm, and involuntarily she stepped forward. There was something about the way she moved, the way she lifted her hand to maintain her balance.
“Althak! She's blind!”