The Light of Heaven

gorge, he pushed on aft, and rolled a blackened corpse away from the companionway leading down below the quarterdeck. The sound as it peeled away from the wood was the most repulsive thing Farrow had ever heard.

The darkness was almost total — but for blades of light stabbing through between cracked timbers — and the stench was thick enough to swim in.

'Lanterns,' Farrow said in a choked voice, and a sailor fumbled to light a small oil lamp. In a few moments, waxy light illuminated the narrow passageway, and Farrow led them on to the day room.

The Captain's inner sanctum was almost as badly damaged as the passageway. The air stank of wood smoke and roasted meat, and the walls and ceiling were black. At least there was more light here, coming in through the stern ports.

Farrow searched quickly; he didn't want to be in this place any longer than was absolutely necessary. A small chest contained a pouch of Pontaine coins — which Farrow shoved into his shirt while his back was to the other men — but nothing else of interest or importance. He examined what was left of a rough desk, and found a locked drawer. Forcing it open with his dagger, he found a sheaf of scrolls, papers and tablets in an oilskin pouch, tied with a leather thong.

'This is what we want.'

Returning to the quarterdeck, the two groups met at the mainmast.

'We've got what we come for,' Farrow said. 'Any survivors?'

'None. Whatever happened here it was devilry,' Kale replied looked about nervously.

Farrow emitted a nervous laugh. 'That's as may be, but it didn't finish the ship. We'll take her in tow, at least until the Captain decides what to do with — '

'Mister Farrow!' It was a sailor on the larboard side. 'I think there's a man alive here!'

Farrow and the others ran over to where the sailor was peering into a water-barrel.

A very bedraggled-looking man was looking blearily back up at them. His skin was puffy and cracked, his hair seared off down to the scalp.

'If you call this alive,' Farrow whispered, unable to keep the horror and revulsion out of his voice.

The survivor smelled blood in the darkness; old blood long since hardened into the wood that he could feel against his cheek and chest. Then the redness of his vision parted, letting in the sight of the dark wooden planking, and he realised he was scenting the salt air of the sea with every deep shuddering breath he took.

He opened his eyes to see two tall masts stretching dizzily away from him, and a number of weather-beaten unshaven faces looking down. None of them were faces he recognised, and he thanked the Lord of All for that. He snatched at a proffered ladle, and took a sip of water.

'Welcome aboard,' a large man in a Captain's garb said. The man loomed over him, and he felt that his eyes were squeezing every memory out of his mind, examining them.

'Thank — ' The word scraped in his throat, and he coughed and swallowed. 'Thank you. Where am I? What ship?'

'You are aboard the trader Vigilant, out of Sarcre, on our way for Allantia. I'm Captain Wylde. We found your ship adrift. You appear to be the only survivor.'

He tried to look as if he cared that the others were dead. Maybe he would care, if he could forget what had happened to him. If he could forget both the pain, and the stench of his own flesh burning.

He thought as carefully as he could about what to tell them. It would mostly have to be truth, as he found that he could barely think at all. 'I was a soldier, a guard, on the Belle. Our ship was hit and then there was lightning… I was on fire… I ran… I thought the water would put out the fire!' He collapsed into sobs.

'You've certainly had a lucky escape,' Wylde agreed. 'Well, we lost a man in the storm, so we've a berth for you. You'll have to work, though.'

'Anything.'

'All right, I'll have the clerk add you to the muster-book.'

'Thank you, again.'

'That's all right, Mister — ' Wylde frowned. 'Your name, sir?'

'Kord,' Travis Crowe said hesitantly.

Wylde looked at him for a moment, as if sensing the lie. 'All right, Mister Kord. Farrow will show you to a hammock. Get some rest and some food. We'll speak again shortly, after I've had time to read your Captain's book.'

By dusk, the storm that had surrounded the eye had eased off and they were now far enough away from the Stormwall to resume their course to Allantia. When Wylde finally retired to his quarters he felt satisfied that all would be well. The further he got his ship away from the Stormwall, the happier he became.

The Vigilant heeled slowly eastwards and the Belle followed meekly, under tow. Wylde wondered idly what his newest recruit — this man who called himself Kord — would think of the rescue of his ship.

Exhausted beyond words, Crowe slept well. He finally awoke to the clinking of tin mugs and plates as the day watch broke their fast. Crowe swung himself out of the hammock and slipped upstairs to begin his first watch.

He emerged onto the deck, and immediately felt the wind knocked from him. The ship riding under tow was an impossibility. The Belle could never have survived the fire, let alone the storm. Yet there she was, riding low in the waves, taunting him. Then he remembered something else his rescuers had said, about reading the Captain's book. Still weak, his legs and arms aching, Crowe leaned on the rail and let his head drop in resignation.

'Crowe?' someone said. For a moment he thought it was a memory, and he was just remembering a voice, but then a hand tapped him on the shoulder and turned him around. 'Travis Crowe?' The sailor asking the question didn't look familiar, but Crowe had spent enough time in Freiport and Allantia that it was always possible that this was someone he had propped up a bar with, or fought alongside.

He turned away again, quickly. 'You must be seeing things, mate — '

'It is you! I'd know your voice anywhere!' Crowe cursed under his breath, and turned back. He glanced left and right, checking to see how many other eyes were looking in his direction. He needed to silence this fool as quickly as possible, and grabbed a short knife that was stuck into a barrel near his hand. It was meant for cutting rope and net, but would cut a throat as easily. He lunged for the other sailor, but the man darted backwards, shouting: 'Murderer!'

That drew more direct looks from other members of the crew, and a couple of the onboard mercenary guards stepped forward. 'What's this?' one asked.

'I don't even know you,' Crowe said to the sailor.

'You murdered my brother, Crowe,' the man snarled. 'You don't remember me, do you? But I remember you.' He looked at one of the mercenaries. 'Fetch the Captain. He'll want to know we have a murderer on board.' Both mercenaries exchanged a nod, then one went below. The other grabbed Crowe by the shoulder, and Crowe let the knife slide back on to the top of the barrel before anyone noticed he had it. They would be jumpy now, and trying to silence his accuser would just guarantee that he would be overpowered and hanged from a yard-arm.

'This man has mistaken me for someone else,' Crowe said. He gently touched the scarring on his left cheek, which still stung and tingled. 'If my own face was in one piece things would be different.'

'Your voice is still in one piece,' the other sailor snapped. He jabbed a rabbit-punch into Crowe's gut. The punch was slow enough that Crowe could have dodged it, but instead he simply tensed and took it. It was a weak hit, but it would make the other man look bad, so Crowe doubled over as if it had hurt more than it did. By this time Captain Wylde had appeared on deck.

'What's going on here?' Wylde demanded. 'Mister Kord? Mister Dass?' Crowe came alert at the name of Dass. He did remember a Jonen Dass from a year or so back. He had gone into business with Crowe, smuggling goods through Freiport. He had tried to keep Crowe's share of the profits, but Crowe was better with a blade than Jonen Dass had been.

Sailor Dass didn't miss the look of recognition on Crowe's features, and jabbed an accusing finger at him. 'He knows my name, Cap'n!'