dark face.
“Big, ain’t it?” said Bourninund.
Wen hawked into the sea.
“As ever, the master of understatement,” said Shorn.
“Why beat fancy with words when one will suffice?” said the dark warrior.
As they approached Renir noticed he could make out features on the boat (island, he thought to himself. More island than boat.) There were cliffs, the brown of the Seafarer’s remarkable trees, and an inlet. It was a bay, and beached (for want of a better work — Renir thought he might have to invent a new word for what he was seeing) there were five boats, similar in size and construction to the one he sail on. Trees grew proudly upwards, but also sideways, on the deck (land? He wondered. It was the only word he knew which would suffice). People walked down to the lower ground from the main deck of the ship, all dressed as brightly as Orosh and his crew. They stood, outlined against the sky, watching their approach.
Renir remembered Drun’s caution, and looked around for the old priest, but he was facing the other way, as though this new phenomenon was of less interest to him than their wake. Renir unconsciously fingered his axe, then realising what he was doing put his hands to his sides, hoping none of the crew had noticed. Whatever threat they faced, whatever it was that troubled Drun, he could not face it alone, and with Orosh standing beside them, there was little he could do to draw the priest’s attention to the matter.
“Farewell Bay, friend Renir. That is where we bid farewell to the old ones. The birthing bay is on the far side, always facing the east.”
I can’t say I wondered, thought Renir, but saying goodbye to the old ones sounded somewhat ominous. He raised an eyebrow to Shorn, but the mercenary shook his head carefully, closing his eyes for a moment as if to shut off the subject.
If Orosh wanted to speak, he would let him.
“But they come to greet us here…?” asked Renir, mindful of stepping on a strange people’s beliefs. With Drun’s warning fresh in his mind and none of the other men seeming willing to take the lead, he felt obliged to engage the captain of this boat if no one else would. It wouldn’t be seemly to let him ramble on alone.
“Yes, sometimes we land here, when we come from the west. Fewer boats are built each year, though. Much is lost with the passing of the tides.”
Orosh seemed unaccountably sad as they drew closer, and Shorn took Renir’s elbow and led him to one side. Orosh did not seem to notice that Renir was no longer with him, but continued to calm the seas with his stare.
Diandom loomed closer, until they beached. Renir would have sprawled, but Shorn was braced and held him firm.
”Watch my lead,” the mercenary whispered, as Orosh leapt over the side to the deck, or land, or whatever it was that Renir could not decide.
“Drun warned me…”
“I know,” Shorn interrupted, and followed the crew down.
There was nothing for it. Renir followed his friends, Drun bringing up the rear. Arrayed before them were more than fifty Feewar, each as grim as the next. Not a one wore a welcoming smile. Renir loosened his fingers and watched Shorn for any sign that he was worried out of the corner of his eye.
“So, the student and the master return,” said a gargantuan man, stepping in front of the gathering crowd. “I thought I told you never to come back.”
Shorn’s sigh was audible. Wen made no move, but muttered under his breath, “Blasted Seafarers. Their memories are too long by half.”
“We asked for passage, and were granted it. Old wrongs hold no weight here, and we claim passage. You cannot harm us, Dainar.”
“Oathbreaker! There will be no right of passage for you! Hold them!” he cried, and weapons were in hands faster than Renir would have believe possible, had his own as not appeared before his eyes, held unwavering, facing the Seafarers, anger evident in each one’s eyes.
“We wish no blood shed, Dainar, just passage. Much water has washed the shore since then,” Shorn told the man.
Dainar’s chins merely wobbled, the only sign he had heard.
“You will face the court. Now, drop your weapons.”
Renir dropped his instantly, then picked it up with a sheepish grin and a scowl from Wen.
“I thought it would not be so easy. You will face the court, or you will die.” He motioned with one stubby hand, and unseen before, Seafarers bearing bows, which Renir had never seen, rose from the trees above.
“Bows are forbidden!” cried Shorn in surprise.
“Much has changed since you broke your oath, warrior. The old ways are drowning, and a new way shows itself to us. Now, drop your weapons or die where you stand.”
“Drop them,” said Wen. “We will find another way to win our battles. Some times, force of arms is not the way. They will not kill us.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Shorn, disgust evident in his gruff voice.
“I like this not one whit,” spat Bourninund, kneeling and placing his short swords on the living deck. “Not one whit.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Bourninund,” Drun spoke for the first time. “I think they mean to keep us alive a while longer. I will do what I can.”
“We have no choice, either way,” said Shorn. “If we fight we will never make it back to land. And we cannot run. We need them on our side, or we might as well throw ourselves into the sea and take our chances with the fishes.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think I want to do that. Not again,” said Drun, and folded his arms across his chest to wait.
Chapter Thirty-Five
They were fed well. Fish stew, mushrooms, which grew on the bark of the Ulian, and seeds. Sometimes there were mussels, which lived on the base of the boat — one of their captors, Gian, told them they dived and harvested the mussels. The seafarers could hold their breath for longer than most ordinary men, but Renir saw no gills. They were, after all, just men.
“Grilled fish, today. I wonder, they must have metal aboard, or else what would they hold their fires on, and what do you think they burn? I’m sure they wouldn’t burn their precious trees.”
Shorn barked a laugh. “Yes, they have metal. But are you sure you want to know what they burn?”
“Now you’ve said that, I’m not sure at all. Hertha always said my curiosity would get me in hot water. What do they burn then?”
Drun noticed the hesitation when Renir spoke of Hertha, but he said nothing. It was not his place to intrude, although, he had to admit to himself, that did not often stop him.
“Their waste. Nothing is thrown out on a seafarer’s boat. They dry it and burn it. Also, you’ve be surprised what grows on a seafarer’s boat.”
Renir gagged, his face paling even here, in the shadows of their cell.
“Oh, don’t worry, it burns hot and adds no flavour. Besides, you should be thankful. They don’t often cook. Usually they eat their food raw. If anything, we’re eating better than they are tonight.”
“I’d rather eat what their eating, if that’s the case, and thank you very much for spoiling my stew.”
“You’ll soon learn to eat what your given, lad,” said Bourninund, patting Renir gently on the shoulder. “A fighting man can’t afford to be choosy. Besides, it would just make you soft.”
“Shush,” whispered Wen. “They are coming.”
Renir could hear nothing at first, but slowly became aware of soft footfalls approaching along the corridor to the cells. He had been able to make out little of the boat on his way to incarceration, but it seemed they had been led to the south side of the boat — through what he could only describe as a village. There had been houses along the way, and crops of mushrooms growing, as though the seafarers were imitating a landfarer farm. He made out a
