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!”
Chapter 9: Keashil
The boy froze for a moment then he stepped protectively in front of his mother.
“Stay away from her,” he snarled at Althak, holding a long knife he had snatched from the body of a pirate. Althak was three times his size and fully armed. The boy had pluck.
“Come, lad. I've no wish to harm her. But we must carry her across to the other ship.” He smiled at them kindly. It was painfully obvious that the boy had seen his mother abused. He held his ground but his knees were shaking. Althak crouched down beside him so that their eyes were on a level.
“I'll make a bargain with you,” he said gently, a faint gleam in his eye. “I'll give you my own sword,” he drew it and presented the hilt to the boy, “which leaves me unarmed. I even put down my shield, see? Now you may guard me and see that no harm comes to your mother. I must, however, pick her up and carry her.”
The boy was astonished to receive the sword. His hands could barely grip it so he posed no danger to Althak. But the significance of the Vorthenki’s gesture was not lost. It was a token of trust, of responsibility. The boy nodded slowly.
“I will guard you then.”
“Woman,” said Althak, turning to her, “I'm afraid I'm filthy with battle but I must carry you to the other ship. I'm sure footed so you need not fear, besides I risk the wrath of your son should anything happen to us.”
“Do what you must,” she said resignedly.
Althak lifted her, she was almost like a doll against his big frame, and carried her across to the other ship. He set her down by Menish, placing her hand on the gunwale so that she could steady herself against the roll of the ship.
Menish felt heavy and weary now that the battle was over, he was still breathing heavily. The sea retch began to stir again in his stomach.
Nevertheless this woman kindled his interest. She had spoken Relanese and her manner showed that she was no common slave. But she looked as ragged as a beggar. Her robe was torn and dirty, Althak had left his own contribution there, and her face was lined with care. Her hair might once have been yellow or brown but now it was quite white. In contrast her mouth was as firm as iron. A determination to survive was written across it.
Yet what caught Menish’s attention most were her eyes. Menish had seen blindness before, it was a thing the Relanese and the Vorthenki sometimes did as a punishment. But these eyes were whole and, at first, appeared quite normal. They were blue eyes, not the piercing blue of the Vorthenki but a milder colour. And there was no spark of life in them. They were flat, dull things that did not return his gaze.
“You're safe now.”
Her head turned in that odd, twitching motion that the blind sometimes affect, for they must use their ears to find the position of the speaker.
“You are the King? Are we alone?”
Menish was surprised at her second question, but he replied that none was near enough to overhear them for the present.
“Then tell me the secret name of Gilish.”
“The secret name? That's not a thing for women to know.”
“Nevertheless I know it. If you are truly the King you too will know it. If you don't then I'll know if you are false.”
It was a secret, something he had been told at his initiation long ago. Something he was to share with none save other initiates, something he no longer valued. He admired her quickness of mind. A true initiate would not claim he was king of Anthor unless it were true.
“He is known as the Two Handed.”
“And why is he called so?”
“Because he brought both good from one hand and evil from the other.” She seemed to relax a little.
“Thank you, Sire. I'm sure you understand my caution.”
Althak returned with the boy and set him down beside his mother. Her hand reached unerringly for his head. The boy’s eyes were alight, unlike his mother’s, as he clutched Althak’s sword.
“Mother, are you unharmed?” he demanded.
“Yes, Olcish. This is, indeed, the King of Anthor.” Her voice shook as she spoke. “We are rescued.” Tears brimmed in her sightless eyes, but she held herself rigidly in check. Denying herself an unseemly display of relief.
Olcish turned to Althak and offered him back his sword. “Please excuse me, I misjudged you.”
“One cannot excuse valour, my lad,” Althak said as he sheathed the sword. “But look to your mother. She has need of you. M’Lord,” he turned to Menish, “they both look half starved-”
“Yes, of course, Althak. I've questions to ask but they must wait. Provide them with food and drink and see if we have better clothing for them. See to the other slaves too, they'll be no better off.”
Althak led them away and Menish, left alone for a moment, watched them carefully. They were a pathetic pair, a small boy and a blind woman, especially beside Althak in his armour. He turned and looked at the still unconscious form of Azkun. Tenari sat beside him, staring at him blankly. He wondered how many more misfits he would acquire on this journey.
Omoth and Shelim carried a small barrel of seal fat over to the pirate vessel and poured it over a mound of sailcloth they had piled on the deck.
When all was ready they unfurled their own sails, the burned ones had been replaced, and cut the lines securing the two ships. Omoth tossed a flaming torch onto the pirate’s deck. The sailcloth burst into flame and fire licked all over the deck where the seal fat had run. The crackling and snapping of the flames could be heard over the sound of the waves.
The two ships drew apart, one borne swiftly across the water by a good wind, the other burning, its flames fanned by that same wind. Menish watched it for a long while. It served as a beacon, a warning to other pirates.
