clothier, with rolls of cloth hanging under an awning. The bones of some gigantic fish held the roof of one dwelling open, again covered in some canvas like material — perhaps a gathering hall, or a theatre of sorts, he could not tell. Their strange trees grew out of each other, some tall, some short, but evidence of human hands in what should have been the chaos of nature in the way they grew. Tunnels between the mighty trunks were evident, as were pathways and groves. Flowers grew in the canopies above, and seabirds nested. Perhaps they farmed eggs, and slaughtered the birds when they got old, as one would a chicken. He saw no other evidence of life, save the Seafarers themselves, who came to watch them paraded on their way to captivity, ushered on by men bearing bows and, unless Renir missed his mark, arrows tipped with razor sharp teeth. No doubt these, too, came from some deep sea beast he had never had the misfortune to cross.
He had heard tales of such creatures, from the Leviathans that prowled the sea under the lands, to the seawolves, whose teeth grew as long as daggers. It was said if just a scratch was received from a seawolf’s teeth, that it would bleed, an unstaunchable flow until the victim bled to death. They were just some of the tales he heard tell — like the many-armed sea snail, puffershrooms, gransalds and wailing fish, he even heard tell of fish that could fly, and mount the land, people that could breath underwater but who had fins instead of hands and feet…tales of the sea were endless, and old fishermen were fools for them, but he was beginning to think that perhaps there was a shred of truth in the old tales.
In the dim light outside their cells Renir was aware that the footfalls had halted, and that there was a woman, quietly watching them. The bar outside the door was lifted, and a stunningly attractive woman entered. The men all straightened their backs and puffed their chests out, apart from Shorn who sniffed and shook his head.
“I should have known you’d want to come and gloat,” he said, his eyes blazing with the anger that had fuelled him for so long.
“What, no kiss, no lover’s whispers for your wife?”
Renir dribbled some stew onto his shirt. Wife? What other secrets do we keep from each other, even now, so far along the road?
“You’re not my wife, Shiandra, and you never were. I told you then as I tell you now, we were not wed, and I would not wed you. Now, slither back to your cave and leave us to court, I will plead our case there, but I won’t plead to you.”
Faced with such ire Shiandra merely smiled sweetly and pouted. “I wanted you then, but if you will not hold to your oath, then perhaps you should face the justice of the sea. But I am more forgiving than the ocean, Shorn. I would take you back. You only have to ask.”
“You always were a hard bargainer, Shiandra,” said Wen, through gritted teeth. “Give her what she wants, Shorn, and be done with it.”
“Never!” Shorn leapt from his cot and took her round the neck. Renir leapt too, and took hold of Shorn’s arm, trying to free the woman — whether she was the reason for their captivity or not, Renir could see that throttling her would not get them out alive. Bourninund joined him, holding Shorn around the chest, while Renir struggled with the mercenary’s vice-like grip — it was like wrestling a bull. The strength in Shorn’s good arm was phenomenal, his grip like granite.
“Stop!” cried Drun, seeing that they could not break Shorn’s grip. Shiandra was turning blue, scratching futility at Shorn’s iron grip, soft choking sounds coming from her throat.
Where Renir and Bourninund could not move him, the power in Drun’s age cracked voice could.
Shorn pushed the woman away from him in disgust. She gagged and rubbed her throat, once sweet eyes now filled with murderous intent. Her voice still raw from being strangled, nevertheless she managed to speak.
“I will see you meat for the seawolves, my love. Meat.” This last she spat, and turned on her heel. She pulled the bar back down across their door, and the last sound as she stormed away was her laboured breathing, gradually fading. Only when she had gone did he hear Shorn’s breathing, heavy with rage. Bourninund carefully let him go, backing away. Sometimes there was no telling what Shorn’s rage would make him do, but he merely threw himself down on the cot and buried his head in his hands.
Renir left him alone for a long time, wondering how long it would be prudent to let him stew, his curiosity, and his sense of self preservation, growing in him all the time. Eventually, he could stand to wait no longer.
“What was all that about then?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Renir. Let me alone.”
“We need to know, Shorn,” said Bourninund solicitously. “We need to make it out of here alive, and I’m not just saying that because I like my skin. We have a job to do, and we can’t very well do it inside a seawolf’s stomach.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about, and I won’t,” Shorn said through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with fury.
Wen sighed. “If you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll tell them.”
“It’s not their business, Wen,” said Shorn, more calmly than could be expected from someone with such a furious face — even in the murk of their cells his scar glowed white with hot anger.
“We can have no secrets, now. Least of all those that might kill us.”
“Oh, I doubt very much they’ll kill you. It’s me that’s going to die in the sea.”He grinned at Drun, “Is this what you had in mind for me, priest? To die where I was forged? In the cold heart of the ocean?”
“It might happen, it might not,” said Drun mystically, and closed his eyes, as if the topic of Shorn’s impending death were of little import.
Shorn stared at him for a moment, disbelief on his face. “Is that all you have to say?!”
“Leave him be, Shorn. Focus your anger on getting us out of here, preferably on a boat,” Wen put a hand on Shorn’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off irritably.
“I’ll tell them, then, as you’re in such a mood.”
“Do as you like, Wen, but don’t drag me into it.” And with his last words on the subject Shorn turned to face the wall with an ill-natured huff.
Wen made himself comfortable and told them the tale.
“There are many things I am sure you don’t know about Shorn, and many things I could not say about him. His life until we met was one of flight, endless flight from those who pursue you now. He told me, and if he wasn’t such a sullen groat he could tell you himself, that he left his childhood home, the Island Archive, when he was ten years old, but what he didn’t tell you is that it was the Seafarer’s that took him onto their boat all those years ago.”
Renir settled himself. He loved a good tale, and any chance to learn more about the mercenary whose fate was tied to his own was welcome.
“I was already on the boat, ship or island — I’ve yet to find the words to describe the Seafarer’s vessels. When we met, the only two landfarers on the ship, we were drawn together, perhaps because no matter how welcoming the Seafarers were on the outside, deep down we knew that we were outsiders…however long we stayed aboard this vessel we would never truly be welcomed into their arms. We stayed under polite sufferance, and we both knew it. When Shorn discovered what I was, he begged me to train him. I had sworn never to raise a weapon again, but I could no more stand against his will than you all. He is a whirlpool, drawing those close to him into his fate. He tugs, and we dance on his strings. I have only just come to realise this, but had I known it then, I am not sure it would have changed anything. He is a vortex, and all those he touches are changed in the passing, as I was.
“I held out for a year, but the constant badgering of the young can wear the sturdiest of men down, and to my chagrin and eternal shame, I gave in. I began teaching Shorn, teaching him the only art I had ever known, and soon I discovered that he would be an artist with the palette I gave him, painting pictures in blood and bone. But I didn’t know that to begin with, and once I had taught him for too long, too long to stop, he had nearly surpassed me — and he was still so young. I could no more stop than kill myself. I have always been weak.”
This he said so sadly that Renir found himself wondering at the depths of shame that drove a man such as Wen. He was discovering that the weapons’ master was more than just a blade and arm. Perhaps he would be an asset yet…or perhaps his shame would be undoing, as Shorn’s rage might be his.
As if reading his mind, Wen said, “Shorn hid it well, but he was consumed with rage within. He hid it well,“ he repeated sadly. “He was calm in all his training. Never did he let on what he would become — a mercenary, a killer such as had not been seen since ages past. If only I had known…but then, perhaps the crucible of war has moulded
